Chapter Two
Back to the Renaissance
Ally Wilmarth and I have stopped outside of Boston to recharge the LEAF. We’re making the ninety-minute trip from Arkham into the city for the day. It’s a chilly spring morning with an overcast sky and a light breeze.
Although I’ve known her for less than a year, Ally has become a good friend. I met her at Miskatonic University, where she’s working on her master’s degree in literature and folklore. She is one of those people who is fiercely loyal but who will also call you on your stuff. She tends to speak what’s on her mind. Generally, that’s good.
She’s wearing dark brown corduroy pants and a beige sweater. A scarf is looped around her long neck—she knows my LEAF doesn’t do the best job of keeping passengers warm. Her light brown hair is pulled back, and she’s wearing a felted hat.
“I never really thought of you as an art lover,” says Ally. “At least not an art museum lover. I’m surprised you wanted to go to the Museum of Fine Arts.”
“That’s true,” I say, nodding. “I don’t normally have art museums on my priority list. When we were in Italy, though, we went to quite a few. Brian told me a bit about the Renaissance style of painting and sculpture. Some of the pieces we saw in Rome were amazing.”
“You must mean the religious pieces. Like at the Sistine Chapel? The Last Supper? The Lamentation of Christ?”
She’s naming off some of the pieces that we did see in Italy. They were spectacular.
“But when I think of the Renaissance,” she continues, “what I mostly think of are the endless portraits. I can’t imagine you wanting to see an exhibit of portraits.”
She’s right, but there’s one portrait that I do want to see. It’s called Portrait of Veronica Conti. Brian is on a mailing list from the Museum of Fine Arts, and they’re hosting a traveling exhibit called Masters of the Italian Renaissance. They sent him a flyer for the exhibit.
As I unplug the LEAF from the charger, I reach inside my jacket pocket. “Take a look,” I say, handing Ally the flyer.
She whistles and says, “Holy cow. It’s Howie.”
Well, it has Veronica Conti, too, but the portrait features her Italian greyhound, and it looks just like Howie. Same color, same size. The dog seems to be smiling.
“You still really miss him, don’t you?” asks Ally as we get back into the car.
“Not as much as I did, but when this picture popped into Brian’s stack of junk mail, it seemed like I should come to the museum to say goodbye. It feels like he sent me a postcard from Italy and that I should come to Boston and read it.”
“You are a silly man. Wonderful, but silly at the same time. I’m sure we’ll have fun in the city today, even if we get bored at the MFA. Remember, you promised we’d go by Emerson College so I could see the Majestic Theatre. It’s haunted, and I want to check it out. Plenty of students have reported ghosts. Oh, and let’s have some cocktails afterwards.”
❖
It’s Friday, midmorning, and the Museum of Fine Arts isn’t crowded. I don’t teach on Fridays this term, and Ally only had one early-morning class. We’ve made it to Boston in good time, and the LEAF is charging in an EV spot close to the museum. As we walk up the steps, there are banners proclaiming Masters of the Italian Renaissance. It must be one of their showpiece exhibits for the spring.
We get our tickets and start to explore. Visiting art museums, even with a friend, is a solitary pastime. You might point at a painting and whisper a few words about it, but otherwise you’re by yourself.
The large gallery at MFA is filled with some nice paintings. I’m glad it’s not all portraits, as Ally suggested it might be. Instead there are a variety of subjects from the period. Portraits, yes, but also impressive landscapes and devotional works of art. We find out that the exhibit is part of a famous collection and was specifically designed to tour the United States. Many of the great masters are included.
Ally points out Michelangelo’s Doni Tondo on loan from the Uffizi in Florence. It was painted in the early 1500s and depicts Mary, Jesus, and Joseph in a family scene. Ally whispers, “What’s going on with the nudes?”
I hadn’t noticed them, but it does seem weird. In the background of the picture, behind Jesus, are five nude figures. They seem to be staring off into space. I shrug. If there’s a hidden meaning here, I’m not getting it.
The smaller galleries of the exhibit are more interesting to me. Each focuses on one artist or one theme and are better at capturing my attention. One of the small galleries features several paintings by Sandro Botticelli. In Italy, we saw his most famous works, The Birth of Venus and La Primavera, but this traveling exhibit has some of his smaller pieces. Botticelli was known for his bright, clear colors, and the exhibit talks about how he was able to achieve these effects using the limited paint pigments of the day. Modern restoration of his paintings is difficult because of the variety of substances he used to create the bright colors. Ally and I talk about the trade-offs that an art restoration project must make to keep the original alive for modern viewers.
We’re coming to the end of the tour, and I haven’t seen Howie yet. I’m a little disappointed. The exhibit has been lovely, and generally interesting, but I had a particular motive in coming. We walk past the short hallway to the restrooms and approach the doorway to the last gallery. That’s when I see the portrait.
It’s larger than life. It fills the whole end wall of the final small gallery. In fact, it’s so large, there are only two items in the room: the painting and a display case. The subject of the portrait is quite imposing. I try to imagine what it would have been like to show up at Veronica Conti’s estate and be left in a parlor to wait. With this portrait looming over the fireplace, I might have lost my nerve and gone home. She’s staring straight out at her visitors.
“Not the friendliest looking, is she?” Ally says. “And it doesn’t really look like she should be in her bedroom, either.”
Ally’s right. I hadn’t noticed. The background objects of the picture look like they should be from her dressing room or bedroom. A table with toiletries. A low couch. The hint of a bed on the far left. But Veronica’s not dressed for the bedroom. She’s in a deep green dress with a low neckline. Garnet earrings and an oversized garnet brooch don’t add any femininity to the portrait. It looks like she’s ready to take care of business.
Then I see Howie. At the bottom of the portrait, on the right, is her Italian greyhound. He’s looking down and across the bottom of the portrait. Stylistically, it gives movement to the painting. I see how it works. First, you follow the curve of the draperies to her dressing table. Then the angle of the dressing table points to the dog. Then the gaze of the dog takes you across the bottom and out of the painting again. It’s like a spiral of activity around the central gaze of Veronica Conti. Perhaps she liked to see herself at the center of a busy life.
The traveling exhibition adds to this conceit by giving Howie (the dog in the portrait, I mean) something to actually look at. He’s looking down at a display case to the left of the painting. Ally and I approach the case, and Ally gives a little gasp. “Oh my. They’re the things from the painting. Can you imagine how rare they must be?”
I see what she means. In the painting, Veronica Conti’s dressing table is depicted with small personal objects. The case displays the actual items. It’s astounding to think that the painting and the objects could have been preserved together for over five hundred years.
The case contains a hand mirror, some combs, a bottle—likely for perfume—and a vase, which holds flowers in the portrait. It also contains what is described as a talisman, sitting on a small stand. Even in the painting, the talisman is broken; it’s missing a section. The display tag says it’s most likely from the ruins at Pompeii. When I read the word Pompeii, a little thrill prickles at the back of my neck. For some reason, I look over my shoulder and see Howie looking down at me from the portrait. At this angle, he’s looking right into my eyes, smiling.
It’s a wonderful display, and Ally and I spend about fifteen minutes looking at it from every angle.
Ally and I leave the exhibit and head for the museum shop. She’s hoping to get a book about the Renaissance, and I’m hoping they have a catalog or a postcard that features the portrait of Veronica Conti and her dog. We browse for a bit, and she picks out a few things to buy. As Ally gets in line to pay, I say to her, “Could you check out for us? I’ll catch up with you in a minute. I need to use the restroom.”
I hand Ally the two postcards that I want to purchase and turn back to the hall where the restrooms are. Over my shoulder, I say, “Lunch after this, right? I’ll pay you back then.”
“No worries,” she says. “But don’t be long; I’m hungry. I’ll wait for you on the steps.”
❖
We’ve stopped to eat at a Mexican grill near the Museum of Fine Arts. It’s warmed up at midday, and the sky is clearing. Patches of blue show through the clouds.
Over tacos and a shared quesadilla, Ally has been telling me about progress she’s making on her master’s thesis.
“Then I’ll tie in the story about the deadly viper and the mermaid,” she says. She’s looking at me intently, as though daring me to comment.
“I’m sorry, Ally. I haven’t been listening, have I?”
“It would appear not,” she says. “What’s up? What are you thinking about?”
“I was wondering. Do you know anything about ancient medallions?”
“Well, that’s an unexpected question.” Ally smiles, intrigued by the change in topic. “I guess I do know something about them. They figure into many myths and folktales. Do you know what period? Do you know what the medallion was created for?”
I shrug.
“I need a little more to go on.”
I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out something that’s traveled back with me from Italy, back from early Pompeii: the fragment of the medallion I found.
“I see,” says Ally. “Yes, it does look old, although it’s not worn at the edges. Where did you find it?”
I explain the day Brian and I spent in Pompeii and how the dream of Howie led me to find the piece of medallion.
“So about two thousand years, then, if it was entombed with the rest of Pompeii. If this fragment is part of a larger, round piece, I would say it’s not a medallion. Medallions were generally used as jewelry in ancient times. This would be a bit big and heavy for wearing, except ceremoniously. Don’t you think it would be over three inches in diameter?” Ally picks up the piece and examines its broken edges. “It does look like bronze, and that material existed in the period of Pompeii and before. The broken edges look recent, though. They almost look fresh.” She thinks another minute. “I would call it a talisman or an amulet, although it’s perhaps too big for an amulet. Often people wore amulets.”
“So what’s the difference between a medallion, an amulet, and a talisman? Other than size, I mean.”
“A medallion is a prize or an award. Think of it as something given when you win a race or complete a major achievement. An Olympic medal would be a good example of a medallion, and both words share the same root. Amulets and talismans, on the other hand, are magical in nature.”
Ally’s an expert on folklore, so I’m not surprised she knows about these ancient items. “An amulet was generally created to ward off evil spirits, bad fortune, danger, or disease. You would have a shaman, a witch, or perhaps an alchemist create it for you.”
“And a talisman?”
“They’re supposed to bring you magical powers and good luck. Generally, a talisman is created by the person intending to use it. You would forge or carve your object, then energize it with symbols and prayers, or possibly incantations. A talisman is generally carried on your person, although a small one might be worn. You’ve probably heard of the great Seal of Solomon? That’s a talisman or possibly a ring referred to in the Old Testament that supposedly gave King Solomon great magical powers. This one does have symbols on it,” she remarks, turning the fragment over in her hand. “Or at least I can see the edges of some markings or writing. Would you like me to take a picture of it? I could have someone in Archeology take a look and see if they can identify it for you.”
“That would be great.”
Ally snaps a couple of pictures with her phone. “A more contemporary example of talismans would be the anting-anting of the Philippines.”
Ally’s turned into a pure mythology professor now. She’s going to make a great one, too. Nobody can remember all this arcane stuff like she can.
“The anting-anting talismans precede Spanish colonization of the Philippines but became famous during that time. Using specific prayers that are called oraciones, they would imbue their talismans with a variety of occult powers. The talisman charged with a pamako prayer would allow you to paralyze your attacker. The tagabulag prayer would make you invisible. The tagaliwas would make you spear-proof or bulletproof. The anting-anting are true talismans from the standpoint that the wearer must charge and recharge them. In spring, during the full moon of the Ostara cycle, you would imbue your talisman with the desired oraciones. Some adherents even ink or tattoo the oraciones onto their skin to bind the talisman, symbolically, to their body.”
Ally stops for a breath and then plunges in for the big finish. “Today in the Philippines, antings are sold in the markets in the way we might sell alternative medicine remedies here in America. They have anting-anting talismans to cure a variety of ailments and to protect you against accidental harm. There are even charms that will make you irresistible to women or bring you great good fortune.”
I’m nodding. “Great good fortune.”
❖
The return trip from Boston is uneventful. Ally and I take turns driving, and the weather continues to stay mostly clear. It’s nearly dusk when we reach Arkham, and Brian has texted to see if Ally and I would like to have dinner. Neither of us generally pass up one of Brian’s home-cooked meals.
Arkham is mostly deserted in the early evening. The Welcome to Arkham sign also reads, Where History Meets Industry. I always smile when I see this, as the town of 12,530 residents is clearly not amid an industrial resurgence. The downtown business district is only five blocks wide and ten blocks long. It’s after closing time for most of the businesses. Driving down Main Street, we pass the city’s one large grocery store and a variety of small shops, including a dress shop, a gift store, a beauty parlor, a florist, a stationery store, and a Radio Shack. The architecture is mixed but leaning toward the antique. The gift store, for instance, appears to be housed in a centuries-old but remodeled stable. A few of the storefronts are empty, giving the accurate appearance of a town on the decline.
At the end of Main Street, we pass Three Rivers Hardware and Lumber. Brian has worked there almost nine years and oversees their lumberyard. He started at Three Rivers after moving to Arkham in his early twenties.
Brian’s small house is outside of town, along River Road. He describes his house as a fixed-up fishing shack, but I would say craftsman mini-bungalow. He’s had it for two years and is remodeling it bit by bit. It has a porch across the front and a simple green metal roof. The siding is of stained cedar shakes and glows a soft amber color. Most everything on the outside is new or refinished. The inside is a different story. He’s updating one room at a time.
Brian’s on the porch when we pull up. Tonight, he’s wearing a ball cap and a rust-colored plaid shirt tucked into his jeans. His hair is getting long. It’s sticking out of his ball cap around his ears and gives his handsome face a more casual look. He greets us warmly.
“How are my favorite travelers?”
Ally gives him a hug. “We had a fun trip to the museum, had a nice luncheon, and even did a bit of sightseeing. Did you know that the Majestic Theatre is haunted?”
Brian laughs before he gives me a kiss. “That’s our Ally. She goes to Boston for culture and comes back with a ghost story. Did you see the ghost?”
“Not me. The theater has quite a history, though. It was built in 1903, and when it was remodeled in the 1980s, many of the tradespeople reported seeing a variety of ghosts.”
“Were the sightings credible?” asks Brian.
“One was particularly interesting.” Ally’s enjoying telling of our short visit to the Cutler Majestic Theatre on the Emerson College campus, one of her requested stops in the city. “The former mayor of Boston died while attending a performance there. One of the workers who saw this ghost recognized his picture and was able to identify him.”
Brian and Ally love to have discussions about the paranormal. She’s a folklorist, and he loves to read urban fantasy fiction. As the science buff, sometimes I feel left out. I leave the two of them happily discussing the Majestic Theatre and its several ghosts while I go into the bedroom that Brian and I share when I sleep over. We’re engaged, but we still have our separate places.
I reach into my left coat pocket and pull out the talisman fragment from Pompeii. It gleams around the edges in the soft lighting of the bedroom. I turn it over and look at the markings that Ally pointed out when we were in the restaurant in Boston.
I reach into my right coat pocket and pull out the larger talisman fragment that I stole from the Masters of the Italian Renaissance. I can’t really believe it. Did I really steal this object from a museum? Why didn’t alarm bells go off? Why didn’t security stop me as I tried to exit? Why didn’t Ally wonder why I was so long in the bathroom? Why, oh why, did I take it?
The answer to that last question comes to me easily, though. I just wish it were a more legitimate reason: Howie wanted me to take it. I could almost hear him speaking to me from the portrait of Veronica Conti: Here’s the rest of it. Here’s the part you’re missing.
And Howie is right. Although separated by four thousand miles, these are definitely two pieces of the same object. The broken edges match perfectly. I easily fit them together. There’s almost a feeling of magnetic pull to them, and once together, it’s hard to pull them apart again.
The front of the talisman is round with smooth ridges. There’s a hole, offset and near the edge, that might have been used as an anchor point for a binding of some sort or for a cord. The back of the piece is full of symbols or pictographic writing. I’m anxious to see what Ally can find out about it.
I’m also completely ashamed at having stolen the artifact from the museum display case. Once again, I think, Could I have really done this?
Curiosity and guilt are powerful inducements, and I decide to confess. Maybe my friends will help me figure out what must be done. Will the museum like having a “whole” talisman, rather than just the fragment? Could we send the talisman back parcel post and avoid questions?
I enter Brian’s living room with the put-back-together talisman outstretched in one hand.
Ally immediately realizes what I’ve done. A look of shock comes over her face, then an odd sort of smile. “Dr. Mac Mackenzie. You thief! You grave robber! You Indiana Jones wannabe!”
Brian hasn’t seen the talisman either whole or in pieces, so he’s looking quizzically, first at Ally, then at me.
“Your fiancé stole that from the Museum of Fine Arts today. He said he was going to the bathroom and must have snuck back into the gallery and stole that talisman.”
Brian is stunned and silent. Now accused, shame shades my face a bright red. Even my arms are flushing, and suddenly the talisman seems hot in my hand. I put it down on the dining table.
“You’re so funny, Mac,” says Ally. She’s laughing at my red face and hangdog look. “We’ll just take it back. Maybe we’ll find out where the exhibit is headed next and send the talisman there. That would confuse things.”
Ally’s talking calmly, but Brian is still staring, still silent. It occurs to me that he doesn’t think it’s possible that his partner would do such a thing. Not Mac. Not the trustworthy and solid-citizen Mac. I guess he’s right. It felt more like a stranger did this. Not me.
Ally takes more pictures of the talisman now that the symbols and inscriptions can be seen in their entirety. She still wants to see if someone in Archeology can tell us more about it.
Brian has prepared a wonderful dinner for us. He and Ally have baked salmon while I have one of my favorites: grilled cheese sandwiches. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but when you’ve had one that Brian makes with gruyère cheese, smoky peppers, and avocado slices, you may think differently. We all have a fresh green salad and some roasted potato wedges.
“You are going to take the talisman back, right?” Brian is making a statement, not really asking a question. “You should send it in pieces so that the museum can see that their original piece is unchanged. Then you can label the new piece and where you found it.”
“That makes sense,” says Ally. “That way the museum can decide whether the talisman should be shown as a whole or if it should still match the portrait of Veronica Conti. They may even send the second fragment back to Pompeii.”
“I think you should send it back anonymously. Returning it doesn’t mean you won’t get in trouble for taking it in the first place,” says Brian.
Brian and Ally are right, of course. I’ll get the pieces packaged and sent tomorrow. Maybe the museum will get them before they notice the theft. What was I thinking? What was Howie thinking?
After dinner and kitchen cleanup, we’re sitting around Brian’s woodstove, enjoying its warmth. The outside temperature has dropped quite a bit, and the light and warmth from the fire provide a backdrop for good conversation. We’ve left the talisman sitting on the dining table in Brian’s kitchen.
“What do you think of tiling the back wall?” asks Brian, pointing. He’s talking about the wall behind his woodstove. It’s his current improvement project..
“Do you like the slate better? Or the tile?”
He has samples stacked against the Sheetrock behind the stove.
“The slate is amazing. Would you do the whole wall?” I ask.
“That’s a good question. The slate is expensive. Even with my discount, covering the whole wall would cost a lot.”
As we’re talking, a funny noise comes from around the corner of the living area: a sizzling. It sounds like Brian left something cooking on the stove. The sound is so slight you barely hear it. Then it fades again, into nothingness.
Then we hear a pop!
“Did you leave something on the stove?” asks Ally.
We all get up and turn our attention to the kitchen alcove in Brian’s small house. The stove is empty, but a slight smoky cloud is hanging over the dining table.
Then—a dazzling blue flash.
We’re momentarily stunned. I blink several times, grateful that I can start making out things around me again.
“What the heck,” says Brian. He’s looking at the dining table in the middle of his kitchen. A cloud of black smoke is rising from it. The smoke’s coming from a blackened, charred area in the center. It’s the talisman! It’s glowing. It’s burned through a table runner and part of Brian’s wooden table.
As we approach, I notice two things. First, the talisman’s hot, like it’s been newly forged. The side with the symbols and writing is on top, and the etching is clear and perfect. Second, it’s mended itself completely. There is no hint of separate pieces, no faint lines or cracks. It’s as if it’s been newly cast.
Brian and I are too stunned to speak.
Ally whistles. “I guess we’re not sending it back to the museum, after all.”