Portrait of an Unknown Woman (Gabriel Allon #22) (11)

“We’ll talk after dinner, if you don’t mind.”

“Is there a problem?”

He turned abruptly. “Why do you ask?”

“There usually is one where Julian is concerned.” Chiara regarded him carefully for a moment. “And you seem upset about something.”

He decided, with no small amount of guilt, that the wisest course of action was to blame his edgy mood on Raphael. “Your son failed to notice my return home because he was hypnotized by that computer game of his.”

“I gave him permission.”

“Why?”

“Because it took him all of five minutes to finish his math homework. His teachers think he’s gifted. They want him to begin working with a specialist.”

“He certainly didn’t get it from me.”

“Nor from me.” Chiara offered him a glass of the wine. “There’s a package in your studio. It looks as though it might be from your girlfriend Anna Rolfe.” She smiled coolly. “Listen to a bit of music and relax. You’ll feel better.”

“I feel just fine.”

Gabriel accepted the wine with his left hand and withdrew to the master bathroom suite, where he subjected the injured extremity to a thorough examination by the light of Chiara’s vanity. The sharp pain produced by a gentle probe indicated at least a hairline fracture to the fifth metacarpal. Significant swelling was plainly evident, but as yet there was no visible bruising. At a bare minimum, immediate immobilization and icing were required. Given the circumstances, however, neither was possible, leaving Gabriel no treatment option other than alcohol and pain reliever.

He took down a bottle of ibuprofen from the medicine chest, shook several emerald capsules into his palm, and swallowed them with a mouthful of the Brunello. Repairing to his studio, he found the package. It had been sent to him by the publicity department of Deutsche Grammophon. Inside was a two-CD survey of Mozart’s five remarkable violin concertos, notable for the fact that the soloist had recorded the pieces with the same instrument upon which they had been composed.

Gabriel placed the first disc onto the tray of his CD player, tapped the play button, and went to his easel. There he gazed upon a beautiful young woman draped nude across a brocade-covered couch, her melancholy gaze fixed upon the viewer—in this case, the artist who had painted her. Is there a problem? No, he thought as his hand throbbed with pain. No problem at all.



Gabriel managed to listen to the first two concertos before Chiara summoned him to the dining room. The meal arrayed upon the table looked as though it had been staged for a photo shoot by Bon Appétit—the risotto, the platter of roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil, and, of course, the thick veal shanks drenched in a rich sauce of tomato and herbs and wine. As always, they were fork tender, allowing Gabriel to eat with one hand, keeping the other cradled protectively in his lap. The Brunello-and-Advil therapy had worked its magic; he was only vaguely aware of the pain. He was certain, however, it would return with a vengeance the instant the drug wore off, probably sometime around three in the morning.

Chiara’s eyes shone with candlelight as she guided the conversation. Diplomatically she raised the subject of Raphael’s mathematical prowess, which in turn led to a discussion of how his gifts might be put to good use. Irene, the family environmentalist, suggested that her brother consider pursuing a career as a climate scientist.

“Why?” probed Gabriel.

“Did you read the new UN report about global warming?”

“Did you?”

“We talked about it at school. Signora Antonelli says Venice will soon be underwater because the Greenland ice sheet is melting. She says none of it would have happened if the Americans hadn’t withdrawn from the Paris Agreement.”

“That’s debatable.”

“She also says it’s too late to prevent a significant increase in global temperatures.”

“She’s right about that.”

“Why did the Americans withdraw?”

“The man who was president at the time thought global warming was a hoax.”

“Who would believe such a thing?”

“It’s a rather common affliction among Americans of the far right. But let’s talk about something pleasant, shall we?”

It was Raphael who chose the subject. “What does woke mean?”

Gabriel directed his gaze toward his son and, to the best of his ability, answered. “It’s a word that emerged from the Black community in the United States. If someone is woke, it means they care about issues involving racial intolerance and societal injustice.”

“Are you woke?”

“Evidently.”

“I think I’m woke, too.”

“I’d keep it to myself, if I were you.”

At the conclusion of the meal, the children volunteered to clear away the plates and serving dishes, a feat they accomplished with minimal conflict and no breakage. Chiara poured the last of the wine into their glasses and held hers to the light of the candles.

“Where shall we begin?” she asked. “Your meeting with Julian or the new tattoo on your right hand?”

“It’s not a tattoo.”

“That’s a relief. What is it?”

Gabriel removed his hand from his lap and laid it carefully on the tablecloth.