The Lost Canvas

The Lost Canvas

Prologue

Millions of years ago, in the middle of the Mediterranean and

deep within the earth’s crust, tectonic plates collided. Like a

swimmer progressing into ocean waves, the African plate dove far

beneath its Eurasian cousin. Ancient sea floors were forced upward,

and in separate processes, first formed the Alps, the Dolomites, and

the Apennines, a spiny chain running south on a peninsula. The

ground buckled, and rocks piled high. Deep below, temperatures

rose, and pressures built, turning limestone to marble. Combining

forces created an endless cache of supplies, a geological canvas abiding

for engineers, artisans, and builders who would come to be in the

Birthplace of the Renaissance.

Millennia passed, rains fell, and the winds danced among the

mountain peaks and the Adriatic Sea. Erosion moved sediment between

the two, forming protected valleys with gentle slopes. A harmonious

balance of geology, sunshine, and weather—a combination

conducive for making grapes in a most excellent terroir but also

superb for figs, olives, and dates. People inhabited the land, raising

animals and cultivating plants, creating picturesque landscapes with

rows, orchards, vineyards, gardens, and farms that exemplified the

most beautiful and astute husbandry practices on the earth.

With generations of effort, from Rome and Florence and out

into the countryside, customs accumulated, and like the raising of

healthy children, understanding and wisdom grew. Learned techniques

became repetitive, and the people passed down their stories

and skills, establishing continuity meant for preservation. From the

Ancient to the Renaissance to the Baroque and then the Romantic,

creativity evolved and flourished.

The beauty and wonder of the art, architecture, science, and ways

of law established by the Italians, a source of utmost pride, gave good

reason to hold on to traditions and craftsmanship still revered across

the world today. To maintain a certain way of life and family solidarity,

villas and farmhouses were all built to endure, ensuring a legacy

created by their own hands. And from the art of spoken and written

words sprang many a good story, such as the one that follows.

Chapter 1

Katie Bauer took the front steps out of the historic hotel and,

like most days, jaywalked across the street to Travis Park. The

green space, an oasis in downtown San Antonio, drew local lunch

crowds, students, and even occasional tourists. With sweltering Texas

temperatures fading, the day bright as the calendar months reached

toward another year, live oaks stretched across old grounds of the

Alamo mission. Situated on a wooden bench, Katie took an apple

from her big tote and searched for other options. Should I eat the peanut

butter crackers or the apple first? As she pondered that, her phone

buzzed. Digging around in the bag again, she located it, glancing at

the caller ID before answering.

“Mr. Pickett. I was just wondering about you.” Before he answered,

Katie collected her things, and rose from the bench, tossing

the half-eaten fruit into a nearby trash bin.

Forgoing small talk, Mr. Pickett went straight to business. “I have

something for you.”

“I’m on my way.” Katie exited the park and, glancing up at the St.

Anthony, shielded her eyes from the sun. This side of the art nouveau

hotel was partially shaded, steel floor-to-ceiling arched windows set into

its north wall. Graceful and sinuous, like turn-of-the-century French

models, they provided a clear view into the interior of the Peacock Alley

lounge. Transparent windowpanes revealed gold and green carpets,

velvet furnishings, period chandeliers, and sconces, their fixtures fusing

structure with ornament. She focused, however, on the white plastered

walls, the space and columns in between, that belonged to her.

As curator for the historic hotel, Katie filled the spaces in the

lobby, lounge, and hallways with art. Her roles included marketer, art

historian, buyer, researcher, event planner, exhibit designer, and facilitator

for interactions between guests, art, and artists. In five years

of employment, she had proved her talent at selecting and acquiring

works that transformed the common areas into a true gallery, both

for long-term and temporary exhibits.

In a space like the St. Anthony, interruptions by doors, windows,

and other features presented compositional challenges, but Katie

liked irregular dimensions. Putting all the pieces together, researching,

acquiring, framing, and placing art, she sculpted the brand of the

hotel and sold paintings.

Taking a left on Travis Street, she hurried down the block. Going

right at the light to cross onto Jefferson, Katie maneuvered through

the city with ease. She passed other historic hotels and churches built

just after the Texas Revolution and skipped down a flight of stone

steps onto the riverwalk to avoid street traffic. The Paseo Del Rio,

a fifteen-mile-long network of landscaped walkways and bridges,

framed the banks of the San Antonio River.

A gift of life certainly derived from a generous deity; the river

originated from a great underground aquifer. Central to the city’s

deep cultural origins, indigenous people had thrived along the waterway

for thousands of years.

After the Age of Discovery, with water more valuable than gold,

explorers established a series of missions, expanding Spanish New

World influence. Franciscan priests, backed by the Catholic Church

and royal financing and accompanied by master carpenters, masons,

and blacksmiths, taught the trades to Pueblo Indians, building five

missions along the river, all a few miles apart. Each included a chapel,

protective walls, and indoor living quarters.

Native Americans in the area, made weary by vicious Apache

and Comanche attacks from the north and weakened by European

diseases, traded their idols for saints, accommodating more Spanish

conversions to further the colonization of the local peoples. In a symbiotic

relationship, the Crown expanded Spanish civilization while

the natives welcomed the benefits of shelter and food in exchange for

defending the northern frontier for the Spanish empire. Excepting a

historical blink with the French, the Spanish flag flew across the land

for over three centuries until Mexico took over for more than a decade.

Latin influence made permanent marks that abounded throughout

the river city, with red clay rooftops, stucco facades, and archways

decorated with intricate painted tiles. Mariachi bands added to

the ambience, making local cuisine taste even better. Situated below

street level, the pathway provided locals and visitors a scenic route for

navigating the city.

At the bottom of the steps, Katie slowed while people, umbrellaed

by giant cypresses, ambled along the winding stone walks to consider

restaurants or shopping. The water was cool and green, dotted with

occasional groups of ducks. They swam across the surface, making upside-

down V patterns in their gentle wakes. Paddlings, Katie thought.

This was a trivia game she liked to play in her head. The correct

terms for groups of animals. A group of birds could be called a flock, but

paddlings are more specific and correct to ducks. Pigeons, scavenging for

crumbs beneath café tables, fluttered near her feet. A band of pigeons.

Some of the birds here on the riverwalk, ducks in particular,

were celebritized local characters with proper names. Tourists often

stopped to get photos while children threw small pieces of bread

into the water. Katie paused next to two little boys and pointed out

into the river. “Look. See the duck with the funny neck? Her name

is Georgine.”

“That one right there?” The smaller child pointed. Georgine

dove under, headfirst, orange feet flapping at the surface.

“Yes! That’s her!”

The boy’s parents smiled at Katie. “Thank you! Say thank you to

the nice lady,” they said.

Walking away, Katie waved.

San Antonio was a big, small town. Friendly Texans here, in all

shapes, sizes, and colors, was an actual thing. This was Katie’s town, for

which she possessed a fierce and loyal pride. It mattered to her that visitors

went home with good things to say about the city and the locals.

Popping back up on Presa Street, she arrived at La Villita, a

shopping village just beyond the riverbank with a three-hundred-year

history, a cornerstone to the city’s foundation. The “little village”

was a cultural hub and home to shops of local artisans and craftsmen.

Katie ducked into her favorite gallery. An old-fashioned bell on the

big wooden door announced her arrival.

“Mr. Pickett?” As she entered the estate gallery, a sense of reverence

enveloped her. As if she were stepping into a cathedral, she spoke

a little quieter and walked a little softer. On paneled walls were private,

collective sums from the past. Lifetime collections, some eclectic

and others homogenous, defined years, interests, and meticulous considerations

by their owners. These assemblages, biographies of souls,

represented histories of personal evolution. She studied a small oil

of sailboats anchored in a bay. Most likely the Mediterranean. She

picked it up and turned it over. Nonmitered stretcher bars on the back

of the canvas told her the painting was European. Looking closer,

she noticed a faded address, Sorrento, Italy. Maybe the owner’s residence

or a frame shop? Or that of a gallery? The hardware was somewhat

grimy, and the gilded frame was hand carved. She turned it back

around to study the front. The signature must be on here somewhere.

"Katie.” Mr. Pickett approached the girl, then, “Katie!”

“Oh!” She took a moment and a deep breath. “You startled me.”

“I’m sorry.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “Nice, isn’t it?

When?”

Nodding, she replaced the little seascape where she had found it.

“Turn of the century, a little before.”

“That’s my girl,” he said, giving her a slight squeeze. Tall and

lanky, Mr. Pickett’s hand wrapped fully around the front and back of

her shoulder. Huge, generous, and kind, they had loved a wife for half

a century, a family, and grandchildren. His wife gone, his children

grown professionals in other places, his affection was mostly reserved

for Kaiser. These days, Kaiser came to the gallery with Mr. Pickett.

Each morning, the two shared a concha, a sweet Mexican bread with

white icing, and a short commute from the bedroom neighborhood

where they lived off Broadway into downtown. Kaiser at his side, Mr.

Pickett rubbed the black Doberman’s ears. Stoic and silent, the big

dog leaned into him. “Wait until you see what I have for you, Katie.”

“You have my attention.” She followed him behind the counter

and into the back of the gallery.

Supporting each other on the far wall of his office, new stacks

of paintings waited, most still wrapped in layers of brown paper. Mr.

Pickett took a large piece from the front of the assortment. Slow and

steady, he removed the painting from its encasement and set it upright

on a large table, giving Katie eye-level perspective.

“This one isn’t part of that estate.” Mr. Pickett gestured toward the

paintings. “It came in by itself. A man from New Braunfels brought it

in. Said it belonged to an aunt, and she had hung it in her house as for

long as he could remember. No idea where she acquired it.”

Katie absorbed the painting with sunset tones in the distance

and earth tones, silver to sage, in the foreground. Mr. Pickett stood

back, arms folded across his chest and waited. An apparent signature,

in darker paint—she didn’t recognize the artist. Spontaneous

brushstrokes flowed across the canvas. Their dark vertical emphatic

marks created textures, and at the top were blue and gold pigments

blending. A fiery half orb in the background drew the eyes

to a horizon, and cool colors rendered faraway hills, with twinkles

in the sky, some of them falling toward the ground. It reminded her

of something smooth by Santo and Johnny. Making her heart beat

one tick faster, the internal music grew louder and more distinct.

Starting at the corners of her eyes, Katie’s entire face broke into a

smile.

“Just what I thought,” Mr. Pickett said.

“Can we?” Katie asked, gesturing toward the back.

“It’s all yours. I haven’t touched it.”

Katie squeezed her hands into fists, just for a few seconds to stop

their jittering. She turned the painting over to begin.

“The frame is European, but I feel like the painting is not. No, it

isn’t. The art is one hundred percent American. Midcentury?”

Neutral, Mr. Pickett shrugged, allowing her to continue.

“It’s figurative, don’t you think?” Katie asked. “There is something

dreamlike about it. Sad and hopeful at the same time.” A

dust cover protected the back, deteriorating and not original. Mr.

Pickett handed her a utility knife, and she set to work. Chiseling

glue and yellowed tape, she worked her way around the edges.

The paper crumbled, revealing not a canvas but a hardboard with

a handwritten inscription. Katie took a quick breath. “Exordium,”

she read. “My Dear Benjamin, Plu que’ hier, moins que demain.

Mary Renata.”

“The quote is in French. What does it mean?”

Katie was already searching on her phone.

“Exordium is Latin. It means ‘beginning,’” Mr. Pickett said, reading

glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. “See what the translator

says for the rest.”

“The beginning”—Katie repeated— “more than yesterday, less

than tomorrow. A gift from Mary Renata to Benjamin. Look here.

There’s a commercial stamp on the board. It says Zecchi.”

Mr. Pickett concurred. Turning the painting over to the front

side, Katie studied the signature. A bold line cut the upper left-hand

corner. “It could be a V. Maybe an M? Does it say Vosta? Mosta?”

Mr. Pickett peered through a magnifying glass. “I’m going to go

with M. Costa,” he said.

“Mary Costa? Mary Renata Costa?” The painting, done with

brush, also had hints of a knife, with certain sections built up. Though

dynamic and independent, the piece regarded formal structure with

faith in efficacy of action. The meaning in the lines depicted a geometric

genius, assuring that composition balanced chaos.

Katie turned to face Mr. Pickett. They looked at each other, her

shoulders falling just a little. An unknown. Still, the artist possessed

evident training, and Katie knew she would not leave the gallery

without it. Without provenance, however, the hotel would not fund

the purchase. A strict policy—the history of ownership and transmission

of all their in-house art showed authenticity and lack of alteration.

This level of risk management protected both patrons and

the legitimacy and reputation of the hotel. It would be up to her to

run the evidence down with no gaps of any kind.

Mr. Pickett quoted a price, which Katie agreed was fair.

“I can give you some time,” Mr. Pickett told her. “You know I’ll

hold it for you.”

“Thank you, but I want to take it today. Give me a second.” Katie

fumbled with her phone and banking app. To cover the cost, she

transferred from her savings to her checking account. Mr. Pickett slid

the painting back into its protective sleeve.

“I really appreciate this, Mr. Pickett.” Sometimes Katie thought

over these types of pieces. But this one…well, she just knew. She

would run down its history in her own time. Mr. Pickett’s gallery

had a following, and Katie knew he could sell the painting regardless.

“It belongs with you.” The corners of Mr. Pickett’s eyes wrinkled

like thin parchment. “I’m excited to see where this goes. You never

know.”

“You never know,” she repeated, resting her hand on the frame.

“I think Kaiser and I are calling it a day,” he said. “Can we give

you a ride back to the St. Anthony?”

Unless it was raining, Katie walked to and from work. But today

was Friday. The painting was cumbersome, if not heavy, and hectic

traffic convinced her otherwise. “It would be great if you could drop

me home. This,” she said, her hand on the encased art, “isn’t going

back to the hotel. Not just yet.”

“You take Kaiser, and I’ll carry the painting.” Mr. Pickett handed

her a thin leash. Symbolic, it neither held nor guided him. The

big dog stayed Velcroed to their sides. Even in the busy metro area,

Kaiser refused all distractions. Mr. Pickett turned out the lights and

locked the door, and out they went to his older-model white Cadillac

four-door sedan. Kaiser got into position in the front seat. Always on

duty, ears at attention, he surveyed the city from the windshield. Mr.

Pickett and Katie guided the painting through the door. “Let’s put

Mr. Exordium in the back next to you, Katie.”

Pedestrians, commuters, and buses mingled, creating typical afternoon

congestion. Drivers sped up, taking turns overtaking each other between signals.

“Not going to get there any faster. I’ll see you at the next red

light.” Mr. Pickett, maintaining a slow but steady speed, reached over

and patted Kaiser.

On the short trip from La Villita to the Majestic Tower, Katie

checked her cell. There she found a series of texts, the final one

ending in Hello?! Working backward, she read them all, realization

dawning. The charity gala was tonight! She checked the time; it was only

three o’clock. Relief washed over panic—she wasn’t late. She still had

plenty of time. She would throw her hair up and freshen her makeup.

The dress she planned to wear was hanging in her closet, ready to go.

Mr. Pickett pulled up to the front of the Majestic and got out to

help Katie unload the painting.

“Thank you so much.” Katie gave him a genuine hug.

“You’re welcome and tell that young man I said hello.”

“I will, and I’ll talk to you soon,” she said and hurried into the

gated entrance and then toward a big set of elevators set in marble

and trimmed with lacquered and burled wood. She pushed the button

for the smaller, private elevator beside those, and up she went to

the apartment where she lived with her fiancé, Tre Haman.

Chapter 2

Katie and Tre’s building housed the Majestic Theatre in its first

six levels. Built in 1929, the tower boasted a large and elaborate

structure of brick and stone supporting eighteen floors in all. The

entrance on Houston Street included its original, expansive cast-iron

canopy with masculine