He kissed her hard on the lips, then threw back his head in exultation. Snowflakes stuck to his eyebrows and moustache. He let out a loud, braying laugh that cut through the night and reverberated off the walls of the hospice before being carried away on the gusting wind.
“You know what it is, don’t you?” he shouted, in joy. “You know what it is?”
But he didn’t have to tell her. She knew. It was the power of time starting afresh, of life beginning anew. The clock that had stopped, nearly five hundred years before, had started again. The hands that had been frozen in place were ticking. He lifted her off her feet and swung her around, laughing. And though he was holding her so tight she could barely catch her breath, she laughed, too. Cyril, and a couple trudging into the hospice, looked on in amazement. Who would have thought that in a place like this, where death and sorrow reigned, mortality itself could have been so celebrated and embraced? And when her feet touched the ground again, Kathryn—no, Caterina now, Caterina for as long as she lived—felt the pieces of the broken mirror crunching under the sole of her shoe.
Chapter 47
For a January day in Florence, it was unseasonably sunny and bright. As David approached the Piazza della Signoria, he could see not only tourists but locals, too, out enjoying the clear skies and brisk air. Several vendors tried to sell him maps and souvenirs, and one even offered to be his personal tour guide.
But he already knew the best guide in town. An Italienisch M?dchen, as Herr Linz had put it in the notebook David had stolen from the Chateau Perdu. He had read it in its entirety on the flight back to Italy. Filled with elaborate sketches and directives, it was the monster’s plan for the greatest art museum in the history of the world, to be built one day—no surprise—in his hometown and namesake of Linz. But far from being a tribute to mankind’s noblest endeavors, the Führermuseum was to be a grandiose testament to Hitler’s own ruthless ambitions. With its five-hundred-foot-long fa?ade and rows of towering columns, it was designed to trumpet the victory of the Reich and show off its master’s hoard of stolen trophies. Everything, apart from his greatest, and most secret, acquisition—La Medusa—was to be on display.
But as David now knew—from Sant’Angelo’s lips—its like would never be seen again. The glass was gone, its magic was done. For those who had fallen under its spell, the spell was over. What was left in its place was simply life—ordinary life, starting up again where it had left off … though clean and unencumbered.
And that was enough. Sarah was fine and healthy. It was as if the disease had never struck. Dr. Ross wanted to make a casebook study of her, and he’d even stopped by the house to plead his cause. But Gary had put a stop to that in no uncertain terms. “Sorry, Doc,” he’d told him as David stood silently by, “but we’ve had all we can stand of hospitals. No offense, but we hope we never see you again.”
Dr. Ross had understood and taken it well. And when he’d gotten back in his car and driven off, Gary had turned to David on the front lawn. Putting a firm hand on his shoulder, he’d said, in a voice filled with gratitude, “I don’t suppose you’re ever going to tell me what really went on that night, are you?”
“It’s a long story,” David said, “and you wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”
Gary nodded slowly, and said, “You’re right.” Then, glancing at David’s hair, he said, “You know, it’s starting to come in brown again.”
“It’s a big relief.”
“I’m sure that girl you told me about—Olivia Levi?—will be relieved, too. That Andy Warhol look wasn’t working for you.”
David had been well aware of that, and to spare her a heart attack when he surprised her in the piazza, he had put on a hat.
Right now, she was off near the loggia, shepherding a group of seniors to the base of the Perseus. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear what she was saying about it, but he could see her standing on the steps, arms waving with a flourish as the gray-haired men and women on the tour huddled close to catch every word.
By the time he’d crept up to the rear of the group, he could hear her asking them if anyone knew the story of Perseus and the Gorgon.
A professorial type in front said, “Perseus was tricked into promising the head of the Medusa as a wedding gift. But one look in the Medusa’s eyes could turn a man to stone. He had to call upon the gods for help.”
Several others in the group nodded their appreciation of his expertise and, emboldened, he went on. “Hermes gave him a sword, and Athena gave him a polished shield, so he could catch the creature’s reflection. By looking only in the shield, he was able to kill the Gorgon without looking directly into her eyes.”
Olivia, wearing the purple iris on her lapel, applauded. “And the man who made this magnificent statue? Who can tell me that?”