“I was going to ask you the same question.”
Through the open door I watch Diego serve Peter the orange juice in a crystal glass. Peter recoils, remembering that he broke one of these last year. The nuns were on their knees for half an hour collecting shards. I glare at Diego for not remembering.
“Well, then,” Lucio says, “there’s another matter I called you here to discuss. Unfortunately, Nogara’s exhibit needs to be changed.”
Simon explodes. “What? ”
“My curator is gone, Simon. I can’t mount his exhibit without him. In some of the galleries it’s not even clear what’s to be hung where.”
My brother rises from his seat. Almost hysterically he says, “You can’t do that. He gave his life for this.”
I murmur to Simon that after what happened last night, a change or postponement might be a good idea.
Lucio taps a bony forefinger on a budget sheet. “I have four hundred invitations out for opening night. Postponing is out of the question. And as of right now, since Nogara never finished setting up the last few galleries, it isn’t really a matter of changing an exhibit so much as mounting one. Therefore I’d like to discuss the possibility—particularly with you, Alexander—of centering the exhibit around the manuscript rather than the Shroud.”
Simon and I are agog.
“You mean the Diatessaron?” I ask.
“No,” Simon says. “Absolutely not.”
Lucio ignores him. For once, only my opinion counts.
“How would that even be possible?” I ask.
“The restorers are done with the book,” Lucio says. “People want to see the book. We put the book in a case and show it to them. The details would be up to you.”
“Uncle, you can’t fill ten galleries with one manuscript.”
Lucio snorts. “If we remove the binding, we can. Each page can be mounted separately. And we’ve already made some large photographic reproductions for the walls. How many pages in the book? Fifty? One hundred?”
“Uncle, that’s probably the oldest intact binding on any gospel ever discovered.”
Lucio makes a brushing motion with his hand. “The people in the manuscript laboratory know how to manage these things. They’ll do whatever we need.”
Before I can refuse, Simon slams a hand on Lucio’s desk. “No,” he says firmly.
Everything freezes. With a look, I urge Simon to sit. Lucio raises one great, snaking eyebrow.
“Uncle,” Simon says, running a hand through his hair, “forgive me. I’m . . . grieving. But if you need help finishing the exhibit, I can tell you what you need to know. Ugo told me everything.”
“Everything?”
“This is very important to me, Uncle.”
There was a time when these unpredictable eruptions doomed Simon in my uncle’s eyes. They were a Greek trait, Lucio said, not a Roman one. But now he says this is what sets Simon apart. What will launch him places even my uncle has not been.
“I see,” Lucio says. “I’m glad to hear that. Then you’ll need to direct the other curators, because we have much to do in the next five days.”
“Uncle,” I interject, “you realize Simon and I are dealing with a situation of our own right now?”
He shuffles the pages on his desk. “I do. And I’m having Commander Falcone send an officer to guard you and Peter as a precaution.” He turns to Simon. “As for you: you’ll sleep here, under this roof, until the exhibit work is done. Agreed?”