Roman Crazy
Page 28
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Tour over, we headed back downstairs. The studio was back on the first floor, just around the corner from reception, taking up the entire rest of the floor. A spacious, open-concept room that appeared to have every conservationist tool imaginable. Solvents, clamps, sprayers, the specialized lightbulbs to ensure that the artificial light didn’t damage the pieces more than they already were.
There was a time in my life where I lived in a studio just like this, where I dreamed of a life after college making my living in a studio like this.
“You okay? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I squeezed her arm and smiled. “I might.”
Beneath a large glass dome sat the vase. It was beautifully preserved and unfortunately, the conservator was right, not in nearly as bad a shape as I hoped.
Hoped as in, I hoped it was in a terrible mess and would not only take me forever to restore it—thus giving me more time in the same building with Marcello in the hopes that I could make him not so much hate me anymore—but show off some of my restoration skills.
The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Here it is!” she pronounced, uncovering a table with a single vase, in way better condition than I was expecting. It needed work, don’t get me wrong, but thoughts of working endless hours, late into the night, stopping only to take a quick break to eat the tortellini that Marcello brought because he knew how hard I was working . . . yeah, no.
Men’s voices carried through the glass walls, and my heart raced. My face must have shown what I was thinking, because she gave me a knowing look. “He’s not here. Probably not all week. And before you think it has something to do with you, it doesn’t. He had a few days already scheduled off. Something about his parents and going back to—”
“Pienza,” I finished, pushing away my disappointment. “That’s where he’s from. And it’s fine actually, it’s probably best that he’s not here. It might make me more nervous if both of you were watching me work.”
“Honey, I’m not watching you. Maria is, she’s the main conservator,” she said, pointing over my shoulder. I turned to see the tiniest person with the most enormous hair I’d ever seen who was looking at me like I had absolutely no business being here. “Maria Salvatore consults with us on a lot of our restoration work. She technically works for the Montmartini Museum, but anytime we’re working with a historical site—which is always, here—we bring in someone who can make sure we’re doing it the right way. I’m heading back over to the site, tons of work to do to get ready for the opening this weekend. Have fun!”
“Bye,” I whispered, nervous now that I was alone. With Maria. And a vase.
“So, you are Avery,” she said, walking in a circle around me, something I’d only ever seen in movies or on bad CW shows.
“I am. You’re Maria, right? So glad to meet you. I can’t tell you how thrilled that I—”
“Have you worked on pottery from this time period before?”
I gulped. “Eighteenth century? I have. It’s been awhile, but—”
“And this piece here, see how the neck has been broken? How would you repair?” She eyed me carefully. I took my time examining the vase, inspecting the entirety. It had snapped along the stem, but it looked to be a fairly clean break. The vase itself was beautiful. Wide bottom, long tapered neck, graceful and sturdy. A household piece, put to good use. It could have held water, but based on the faded but still discernable greenish-brown leaf patterns along the base, I’d guess it’d held olive oil.
“Has it been inspected yet for old glue?”
“Old glue?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded, gesturing to a hairline crack just below the current break. “This was mended before.”
“That was also my assessment,” she agreed. “The glue has been removed; what would your next step be?”
“Sand it, prepare it for cement. I’d use a two-part heavy-duty epoxy, archival clear of course, then polish and prime it. Looks like you haven’t lost much in terms of color saturation, so I’d likely leave that alone, except for color matching along the seam, which will be small to minimize additional coloring.”
These were words and phrases I hadn’t spoken in years, and yet they were as familiar to my tongue as unleaded, please and Coke with no ice.
I held my breath as she studied me once more, no doubt weighing what I’d said with her instinct. Finally, she nodded.
“Then by all means, Ms. Bardot, let’s get to work.”
It wasn’t until I stopped for a lunch break that I realized that I hadn’t corrected her when she’d used my maiden name.
* * *
MY GOODNESS WAS THAT FUN. I wished desperately that there had been more to work on, more smashed bits of pottery dug up from beneath that bank they were all working so hard on, but by the end of the day I’d finished the vase. Oh sure, I’d stop by the next day to make sure the paint I’d used dried correctly, that there weren’t any last little bits of sanding to finish it off, but it was done. Maria checked in many, many, many times to make sure I wasn’t breaking her ancient vase, but in the end she seemed pleased with my work. I think. It was hard to say, based on the fact that she didn’t smile or frown, just nodded and said that’ll do.
And I never even saw Marcello. But no matter, I was seeing Rome.
Those first few days after the job was done, armed with my backpack and my trusty guidebook, I explored the little nooks and crannies of my new neighborhood and even a bit beyond, getting lost in this beautiful city. Literally and figuratively. And after Daisy came home from work she’d freshen up and we’d head out for the evening ritual, the passeggiata.
There was a time in my life where I lived in a studio just like this, where I dreamed of a life after college making my living in a studio like this.
“You okay? You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I squeezed her arm and smiled. “I might.”
Beneath a large glass dome sat the vase. It was beautifully preserved and unfortunately, the conservator was right, not in nearly as bad a shape as I hoped.
Hoped as in, I hoped it was in a terrible mess and would not only take me forever to restore it—thus giving me more time in the same building with Marcello in the hopes that I could make him not so much hate me anymore—but show off some of my restoration skills.
The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.
“Here it is!” she pronounced, uncovering a table with a single vase, in way better condition than I was expecting. It needed work, don’t get me wrong, but thoughts of working endless hours, late into the night, stopping only to take a quick break to eat the tortellini that Marcello brought because he knew how hard I was working . . . yeah, no.
Men’s voices carried through the glass walls, and my heart raced. My face must have shown what I was thinking, because she gave me a knowing look. “He’s not here. Probably not all week. And before you think it has something to do with you, it doesn’t. He had a few days already scheduled off. Something about his parents and going back to—”
“Pienza,” I finished, pushing away my disappointment. “That’s where he’s from. And it’s fine actually, it’s probably best that he’s not here. It might make me more nervous if both of you were watching me work.”
“Honey, I’m not watching you. Maria is, she’s the main conservator,” she said, pointing over my shoulder. I turned to see the tiniest person with the most enormous hair I’d ever seen who was looking at me like I had absolutely no business being here. “Maria Salvatore consults with us on a lot of our restoration work. She technically works for the Montmartini Museum, but anytime we’re working with a historical site—which is always, here—we bring in someone who can make sure we’re doing it the right way. I’m heading back over to the site, tons of work to do to get ready for the opening this weekend. Have fun!”
“Bye,” I whispered, nervous now that I was alone. With Maria. And a vase.
“So, you are Avery,” she said, walking in a circle around me, something I’d only ever seen in movies or on bad CW shows.
“I am. You’re Maria, right? So glad to meet you. I can’t tell you how thrilled that I—”
“Have you worked on pottery from this time period before?”
I gulped. “Eighteenth century? I have. It’s been awhile, but—”
“And this piece here, see how the neck has been broken? How would you repair?” She eyed me carefully. I took my time examining the vase, inspecting the entirety. It had snapped along the stem, but it looked to be a fairly clean break. The vase itself was beautiful. Wide bottom, long tapered neck, graceful and sturdy. A household piece, put to good use. It could have held water, but based on the faded but still discernable greenish-brown leaf patterns along the base, I’d guess it’d held olive oil.
“Has it been inspected yet for old glue?”
“Old glue?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I nodded, gesturing to a hairline crack just below the current break. “This was mended before.”
“That was also my assessment,” she agreed. “The glue has been removed; what would your next step be?”
“Sand it, prepare it for cement. I’d use a two-part heavy-duty epoxy, archival clear of course, then polish and prime it. Looks like you haven’t lost much in terms of color saturation, so I’d likely leave that alone, except for color matching along the seam, which will be small to minimize additional coloring.”
These were words and phrases I hadn’t spoken in years, and yet they were as familiar to my tongue as unleaded, please and Coke with no ice.
I held my breath as she studied me once more, no doubt weighing what I’d said with her instinct. Finally, she nodded.
“Then by all means, Ms. Bardot, let’s get to work.”
It wasn’t until I stopped for a lunch break that I realized that I hadn’t corrected her when she’d used my maiden name.
* * *
MY GOODNESS WAS THAT FUN. I wished desperately that there had been more to work on, more smashed bits of pottery dug up from beneath that bank they were all working so hard on, but by the end of the day I’d finished the vase. Oh sure, I’d stop by the next day to make sure the paint I’d used dried correctly, that there weren’t any last little bits of sanding to finish it off, but it was done. Maria checked in many, many, many times to make sure I wasn’t breaking her ancient vase, but in the end she seemed pleased with my work. I think. It was hard to say, based on the fact that she didn’t smile or frown, just nodded and said that’ll do.
And I never even saw Marcello. But no matter, I was seeing Rome.
Those first few days after the job was done, armed with my backpack and my trusty guidebook, I explored the little nooks and crannies of my new neighborhood and even a bit beyond, getting lost in this beautiful city. Literally and figuratively. And after Daisy came home from work she’d freshen up and we’d head out for the evening ritual, the passeggiata.
