The Restoration Artist Read Free

burned nearby a week ago. We’ve had reports of arms being smuggled in—mortars and other explosives. It’s a tense situation at the moment.”
    “Maybe we should go back, Leo,” Claudine said.
    “Just a minute.” I addressed Vandermey again. “We want to visit the Agios Lazaros church. To look at the fresco.”
    Vandermey nodded. “You shouldn’t have any problems there. But don’t stop in the town. And for God’s sake don’t drive too fast and run down anybody’s donkey or goat or you’ll never get out of here. Let me see your map.” He explained the route. “You have plenty of gasoline?”
    “Almost a full tank. Thanks for your advice.”
    As I drove off I glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the man writing something down in a notebook, perhaps our licence number.
    “I don’t think we should go on,” Claudine said, leaning again over the front seat.
    “He said we wouldn’t have any trouble. We’ve come all this way—it would be a pity to go back now just because somebody’s farm got burned.”
    “Isn’t that serious enough? Or does nothing else matter except that you want to make a painting?”
    I shook my head.
    “We always come second to your painting. I thought this was supposed to be a holiday. For all of us. Isn’t that why we came? Or was that just an excuse?” She sat back and folded her arms, glaring at me. When she was angry her grey eyes burned with a cold light. “In that case, you should have come alone.”
    “It
is
a holiday,” I said. “For all of us. Don’t worry about the local politics. People have been arguing over this island for centuries.”
    “What about the terrorists?”
    “There aren’t any. This isn’t Algeria.”
    Piero, who was scanning the landscape with his binoculars, said, “I like it here. I want to go to the church.” Lowering the glasses, he turned to his mother. “I want to paint too. Like Papa.”
    I glanced at Claudine in the mirror and raised my eyebrows. I knew her judgment wouldn’t allow her to start an argument in which she sided against both of us.
    “Fine,” Claudine said, raising her shoulders in a shrug. “Fine. But I want to be at the hotel in Famagusta in time to go for a swim this afternoon. And I want to eat in a good restaurant tonight, not at some kebab stand.”
    “We can eat calamari!” Piero exclaimed.
    “Not me. I want a first-class restaurant that serves lobster.” In a softer tone she added, “And champagne. Not that terrible retsina we had last night.”
    I smiled at her in the mirror, glad at the change in her voice. “It’s a deal. Lobster and champagne.”
    “And octopus,” Piero said. “It means eight arms.
Octo
.”
    “And an eight-legged octopus,” I said.
    Soon, Pagratis appeared, a poor town consisting of a few two-storey houses and a concrete building with a flag hanging over the entrance. The speed limit sign read “25.” I slowed the car, keeping an eye on the speedometer.
    “There’s nobody here,” Piero said. The town seemed to be deserted.
    Then, a group of men came into view, standing outside a café. They all turned to stare at the car as it passed. Their faces were unsmiling.
    “Drive faster,” Claudine urged, shrinking away from the window, but I resisted the temptation to speed up. Piero twisted in his seat and watched the silent men through the back window until they were out of sight. Claudine kept her eyes straight ahead.
    I let out a sigh of relief as we reached the edge of the townand accelerated on the next stretch of pavement. The road ascended into the hills, now wooded with pine and cedar. I felt my mood lighten.
    “The turn should be coming soon,” Claudine said after a while, her fingers marking the place on the map. “On the right.”
    At the signpost I turned off onto an unpaved road that soon dwindled into a steep rutted track. The car bounced over the furrows, jostling us from side to side, making Piero giggle. I slowed and put the car into first gear as the