May the souls of all the faithful departed,

through the mercy of God, rest in peace.

According to my Sunday School teacher, the prayer would help those who had not yet reached heaven and would shorten their time in purgatory. I was pretty sure Brother Francesco was not stuck in purgatory—I didn’t even believe in purgatory—but I said the prayer just the same.

Outside, Piazza San Lorenzo looked normal, a few people strolling, the kiosks open, a tour group taking pictures. How was it that life went on in the face of tragedy? The alleyway to the cloister was open again, everything back to business.

I headed through the alley and pictured Brother Francesco tending the cloister garden. It didn’t seem right that he was not here. It didn’t feel right to go back to the journal either, but what else was I supposed to do?

Continua così, avanti così, I said to myself. Stay the course, go back to your reading.

I started up the library stairs, then turned and looked through the alley to the low stone stairs and the old door to the dormitory, still cordoned off with police tape, and wondered if there had been a break-in. Was I the only one to put the two things together? A broken door. A dead monk.

38

Weeks passed. The night finally came.

I took the painting from the trunk. Wrapped it tightly in Simone’s scarf. Hid it under my jacket. And set off.

It was late and had been raining for days. The sewers had overflowed. There were rats in the streets. Everywhere. Underfoot and foraging for food. Fat and disgusting. The Seine was a frightening sight. Yellow torrents flush with the banks. Threatening to spill. Already there was talk of flooded cellars. Building foundations weakened. Even those of the Eiffel Tower! I imagined the lower-level carpentry shop of the Louvre. Pictured artworks floating in dirty river water.

The meeting was on the far side of Père-Lachaise Cemetery. I tramped through the mud past graves and monuments. Everything covered in mist and fog. Pulled my jacket tighter to protect the painting.

I finally reached the other side and ducked under the remains of an old wall. Emerged on the other side of the cemetery. I was cold and shivering but relieved to be among the living.

It did not take long to find the art forger’s building. The foyer reeked of damp and mold. The stairwell of turpentine. I trudged to the top floor. Knocked on the door four times. Paused. Knocked twice. Our prearranged signal.

Yves Chaudron opened the door. It was the first time I had met him. A man of middle age and middle height though his features were fine. Blue eyes enlarged by spectacles and rimmed red from strain.

The front room of the apartment was in total disarray. Books and clothes on chairs or dropped on the floor. Crumpled newspapers. The turpentine odor was stronger here but mixed with something rotten. Chaudron’s shirt was dirty. His smock slick with paint. I glanced into his kitchen. Dishes stacked and encrusted with food. Roaches everywhere.