The Art Gallery

The old man sat with a large portfolio of sketch paper and a small wooden box of charcoals, pastels, and knives on the bench next to him. 

His beard and hair were thin and white with age. His clothes were out of style and mismatched but appeared to be clean and well kept. James, the manager at the Musee Classico's Portland franchise, thought the old man looked familiar but couldn't quite place him. His eyes were lively and dark, his nose long and thin, his cheekbones sharply defined over hollowed cheeks. Indeed, despite the loose hair he seemed to be all sharp edges. James decided after a few fruitless minutes of rummaging around in his brain that it was just that he looked like so many of the homeless vets in the city these days. The old man was working the charcoal and paper furiously, every few minutes checking the painting on the wall: The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne. 

James had first noticed the striking young woman who appeared to be his companion or assistant before he began watching the old man. Daughter? Her hair was red and clipped short, buzzed at the temples. Her eyes were green and seemed to quite literally sparkle. She wore no makeup and was dressed in what looked to James like motorcycle leathers though he admittedly knew little of motorcycles or motorcycle-appropriate apparel. Old school bikers were a rare sight on the road since everything had gone electric. Gas-powered Harleys had become the avocation of wealthy collectors and the mechanically inclined. Biker? Mountain climber? Deep sea diver? She might just as well be an astronaut for all he knew. She wore an expensive-looking smart-watch on her left wrist which she consulted once again. The young woman looked up and noticed him. She smiled; a smile James thought might be the most beautiful thing he had seen in his entire life. He looked down, overwhelmed, and embarrassed that he had been caught staring at her. 

When he looked back the young woman smiled her beautiful smile again, more broadly this time. The joke - whatever it is - is on me, James thought. The combination of loneliness and curiosity - he wanted very much to see the old man's sketch and he wanted very much to talk to this woman - was too much for him to resist. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and walked over to the old man and the young woman.

"Good morning," he said.

"Good morning," the young woman said. The old man continued sketching.

"My name is James, I'm the manager here." He decided to take a chance. "I see your father likes the da Vinci."

"The Virgin and Child with Saint Anne," the young woman said.

James nodded. "It's here at the Portland gallery for the summer series on the Renaissance, of course." He paused. "I feel so lucky sometimes. I get to spend my days in the presence of genius, for want of a better description. Hard to say I have a favorite but… It really is incredible, isn't it? We haven't had a da Vinci here in Portland for at least seven years."

The old man stopped for a moment and looked at James, considering him, then nodded and returned to his furious sketching.

Franchising fine art had been the brainchild of Elko Noke, back in the mid-21st century. Noke had become bar trivia as the answer to the question, Who was the first trillionaire in human history? Like most of the super rich, he was often described as quirky. Eccentric. Visionary. That is, when he wasn't being described as heartless, a thief, and a cheat. He collected rare, first edition books, antique cuckoo clocks, and gasoline-powered F1 race cars which he drove on his own private race course. He devoted his later years to what may have been his ultimate eccentricity; the franchising of art galleries and monetizing fine art by bringing it to the people rather than requiring people to go to museums. By the early 22nd century there were art galleries under the Musee Classico brand in every large city in almost every country in the world. 

So it was that the good people of Portland, Maine could see the works of the great masters simply by taking the trolley down to the port side. For a nominal fee, of course. At times like these that seemed a bargain at any cost, given the risk in travel to Europe, where the so-called Geneva Epidemic had savaged the continent for nearly three decades. The Portland gallery - like most of the Musee Classico franchises - made more coin from the gift shop (the Van Gogh self-portrait t-shirt with the caption "I can't hear you!" was a perennial best-seller) and the in-store Starfish coffee shops than it did from admissions.

The young woman looked at the old man and then back at James. "Yes, it's one of his favorites, too. I'm his… granddaughter, actually." She smiled her beautiful smile again. James knew how ridiculous the thought was but he couldn't help thinking he was falling deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with this woman. "My name is Brigid," she said. She tilted her head just slightly to one side and asked, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like a young George Clooney?"

"Who?" James answered. 

"George Clooney," Brigid said. "Sorry. A rather esoteric reference, I'm afraid. He was a 21st century actor and activist. And quite good looking."

James felt himself blushing. "I'll have to look him up." Trying to think of something to keep the conversation going, he said, "That's an impressive looking smart-watch you have there; I don't think I've seen anything like it."

"Oh this," Brigid said, tugging at the sleeve of her shirt to cover it. "Yes, it's a new model. It's a, um, I'm in a beta test group. I'd tell you more but," she smiled, "then I'd have to kill you. And we wouldn't want that, would we?" She laughed. 

"Well, no," James said. He turned to the old man. "We're very happy to have you here, today."

The old man glanced only briefly at James before returning to his work.

"He doesn't speak English," Brigid said. Brigid spoke rapidly to the old man in what James recognized as Italian. Once again the old man looked at James, this time just long enough to say "Grazie" before continuing with his sketch.

"His name is… Piero," Brigid said.

The old man gave Brigid the side eye, a look that James took to be displeasure at having his name revealed. James wondered again where he might have seen this mysterious old man.

"May I take a - " James began, as he took a step toward the back of the bench. Brigid moved quickly to block his path.

"It isn't finished," she said. "You must know how artistic types are." She smiled again and James felt awash in sunshine. 

He nodded. "And you? Are you also an artist?"

Brigid shook her head. "Scientist," she said. "Astrophysics." 

"Impressive," James said, realizing she was not only too beautiful for him, she was also too smart. "An astronaut?"

She laughed. "Not exactly," she said. "My work is more closely related to…" She paused and James thought maybe she was searching for terminology a simpleton like himself might understand. "...more related to temporal physics than, um, outer space." Piero looked up at her and nodded, then went back to his work. She placed her hand on the old man's shoulder. "He needs a co-pilot," she said.

And she's a good and kindhearted person on top of everything else, James thought. To say she was the girl of his dreams was an understatement of epic proportions and probably an insult to the very nature of dreams.

Piero put away the charcoal and sighed. He closed up the box and his portfolio and said something in Italian to Brigid.

Brigid consulted her smart-watch. "Time to go," Brigid said to James. "It was nice meeting you." She smiled again and James hoped he could gather enough of his wits and ask her if she had any plans for dinner.

"It was nice meeting you, too," he said. He nodded to Piero and added, "I hope you'll come back some time."

"Oh, we'll be back," Brigid said as she helped the old man to his feet. "Piero has taken a shine to you, I think."

"Tomorrow?" James asked. Too needy? he thought.

Brigid checked her watch again. She shrugged. "We'll see. Piero needs a little more time to finish his work."

"Maybe I could see it, then," James said. "You know. When it's done."

Piero spoke again and Brigid smiled. "He'd like that. Since you're also such a fan of the da Vinci."

The old man looked at James and smiled. James suspected Piero's English was better than he let on. 

"I look forward to it," James said. 

He escorted them to the door and watched them walk down the street until they were out of sight. Why hadn't he asked her out to dinner? What if he never saw her again?

James got to work early the next day and waited and watched the front door to the art gallery all morning but Brigid and Piero did not come back to the Musee Classico then. Or the next day. Or the day after that. James began to wonder if it had actually happened. Perhaps it had been a dream of a fairy tale; of an old magician, a beautiful princess, and the commoner who loved her. 

From afar.

It had been a week to the day when Brigid and Piero returned to the Musee Classico Portland, with a large case James immediately recognized as the type used to transport paintings. Brigid smiled her impossibly beautiful smile. "Good morning," she said and once again James felt awash in sunshine.

"Buongiorno," Piero said.

"Good morning," James answered, thinking, 'That much Italian even I know.' He looked at Brigid and said, "I missed you," and flushed, embarrassed by this revelation, wondering if Brigid could read the obvious subtext. "I mean, it's good to see you again."

"Piero has a mind of his own, and, well, we only have so much time," Brigid offered as an explanation. "He wanted to give you this," she said, indicating the shipping container. "He worked on it all week and finished it yesterday." 

"Thank you," James said to Piero. The old man smiled and nodded.

Brigid handed the container to James. "It's his Virgin and Child with Saint Anne," she said. Piero said something in Italian to her and she checked her smart-watch and answered in Italian. James did not understand a word of it.

"Arrivederci," Piero said, and took Brigid's arm.

"So," James said. "This is goodbye?"

"Till we meet again," Brigid said. "I'm sorry but we really do need to go. I must get Piero back home. We're overdue as it is."

"I understand," James said, not understanding at all. "Are you… Could I call you sometime?"

Brigid smiled her beautiful smile but this time James noted just a touch of sadness. "Look," she said, "I know this is going to sound crazy but, well, I'm…"

"You're married," James said. "Of course you are." To a handsome astronaut prince, James thought.

"No," Brigid said, her green eyes exploding with light and mirth. "I'm, well, you see, I'm not Piero's granddaughter. Exactly. We are related. Distant relatives, I guess you'd say."

"Great granddaughter? Great-great?" James asked.

"Try saying 'great' 64 times," Brigid said.

James looked at the old man then back to Brigid. How many years in a generation?, he wondered. "He doesn't look a day over 900." Great, James thought, she's crazy. My crazy almost girlfriend. 

Brigid said something in Italian to Piero who laughed and clapped his hands. "Grazie, grazie molto," he said.

"Till we meet again," Brigid said. 

"Will we?" James asked. "Meet again?"

"Yes," Brigid said, looking down at her smart-watch. "We will." She looked back at James. "Arrivederci."

"Arrivederci," Piero added.

After they had gone, James opened the container and took out the painting. It was the Virgin and Child with Saint Anne as Brigid had said but there was something different about it; the unfinished work by Leonardo da Vinci had been completed - if that was the best way to describe it - by Piero. It seemed sacrilegious, not to mention the height of ego to believe you could improve on the Renaissance master, and yet James found himself impressed by the old man's work.

Then he saw it.

The unmistakable, coded signature of Leonardo da Vinci.