Page 77
She looked back at him blankly. ‘I wouldn’t know about that. I am who I am, and frankly I don’t believe I’ve changed much since my early teens. I’ve always known what I want but I’ve also known that, in this country, men will stand in the way.’
His frown deepened. ‘Hush, child. Maybe don’t share your modern ideas too loudly.’
‘Why? It can’t get much worse.’
‘What do you mean?’ Now he sounded concerned.
She shook her head. She mustn’t. ‘Oh, no nothing. I’m just frustrated. I’ve always wanted to be involved in the world of art, but no one’s going to let me do that. My place is here, standing by this bar, or as a mother, a wife. The closest I get to the world I dream of is dusting the artwork or cleaning the floors in the cathedral.’
‘How sad you sound, dear Valentina.’ He was still frowning, but she saw genuine kindness in his eyes.
She found a smile. ‘Forgive me.’
‘You must be missing your husband to be so maudlin. I heard Lawrenz is away in France?’
Valentina had to use every bit of her self-control to suppress what would have been a sarcastic laugh. ‘No, I’m used to him being away,’ she said. ‘No, Carmel. This is simply the voice of someone whose dreams have been dashed.’
‘Oh dear.’ He patted her hand. ‘Then perhaps it’s up to Danjel to fulfil them on your behalf,’ he said, so condescending and clueless that she had to turn away.
‘I hope so,’ she muttered, taking the time to school her expression to neutral before turning back to face the man she knew meant well. It wasn’t his fault, but nor was he helping change things.
‘Well,’ Carmel said, ‘lovely coffee as always, thank you.’ He put some coins on the bar. ‘When are you back at the cathedral?’
‘Er, tomorrow. I want to make sure it’s spotless for Queen Elizabeth’s visit, just in case she does come to see it.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The possibility is exciting… and real. All the right people have suggested it. I have a very good feeling she will visit the cathedral. And the preparations around the city are looking marvellous. In fact some of the British officials are already arriving. There was one art specialist in yesterday.’
‘That’s eager,’ she said.
‘You know England for its pomp and ceremony.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, he has a special interest in our Caravaggios.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Make sure he doesn’t smuggle one out under his jacket,’ he said.
She laughed because she was expected to; the Caravaggio in the oratory would need an army just to take it down, let alone carry it outside.
‘Stay well, Valentina. I’ll see you soon. Keep making your delicious coffee.’
She waved a hand and smiled, but her thoughts were bleak:
Yes, that’s about all I’m good for.
The next day Valentina was back in the old clothes and apron that she wore for cleaning, and back in her favourite place, the oratory. She’d moved on to the tombstone of Ferdinando Vargas y Castro today and was using a small ball of cotton to get deep into the grooves, cleaning out centuries of dust and grime, because it didn’t look as though anyone else had ever paid such close attention to these tombs. She made a decision then and there that if it took her lifetime, she would attend to every single tomb in the cathedral in this manner. It likely would take her lifetime, she thought, given there were more than four hundred important, wealthy men buried beneath her feet.
‘Always on our knees to men,’ she muttered rather grimly, and then shook away the thought. She did this out of love. Unlike how Lawrenz expected her to serve him – at home, at work, in his bed, she served these dead men by choice. Today, she’d rolled up a towel to help cushion her knees against the granite.
She heard a door open. To her knowledge, she was the only ‘member of staff’ – if she could call herself that – in the cathedral presently, but it was the main door, so presumably this was a visitor. She avoided all interaction with strangers or tourists, who tended to ask impossible questions and wanted to engage in conversation that she didn’t have time for or the inclination to get drawn into.
She bent back down to the tomb, hoping that the intruder would head down the nave; there was much to feel awed by deeper in the cathedral. She worked quietly, like a mouse at a tiny piece of food, using her tiny cotton tip to nibble away at the dust of so many years.
A moment later, Valentina heard another sound, much closer this time. A man’s cough, she thought, dismayed that he seemed to be entering the oratory. Why here? she wanted to demand of him. Don’t you know this is my space, my private time?
The man coughed again, but she continued working, head bowed even as she sensed he’d drawn level with her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that he was looking at the enormous painting.
It impressed her that he’d seemingly ignored the rest of the cathedral and had come to the quietest spot, where one image dominated. Maybe he was another lover of Caravaggio. That gave her a ping of inward pleasure; she was not alone. There were art lovers around the world who shared her fascination, and she was the one they’d all envy if they knew she existed. Due to her work, she was in the presence of Caravaggio’s mastery twice a week, while they had to travel, incur expense, only to have limited time with the painting that mesmerised. Such was Caravaggio’s way, she thought to herself, getting lost in her mind, almost forgetting about the visitor.
Peter had entered the cathedral, thrilled to be without an escort and with the single indulgent purpose of being with Caravaggio again.
Alone.
His luck was holding. There was no one around as he walked in – no clergy, no distant voices, no tourists or school excursions. Good grief, he thought. I’m going to have The Beheading of Saint John all to myself for the first time in my life. Just me and Caravaggio. He enjoyed the way that sounded, like a jaunty song title or a book about a special journey.
