rix_scaedu: (Default)
This carries on from Fresco.


“Domestic frescos are so rare,” Professor Verita explained.  “People who had enough money sponsored works in churches or on civic projects, for the prestige.  They only spent this sort of money at home if they entertained a lot for business or politics.  Frankly,” he gave an expressive shrug and hand gesture, “I’ll be doing well to limit the involvement of the History and Art faculties to this.  It doesn’t help,” he added darkly, “That in the late 1800s anyone who had money plastered over their frescos and redecorated in white and gold.”

“We can hope,” added one of the earnest young people, a red haired girl in jeans and a checked shirt, “That no-one used a sledge hammer here, the way they did in the Palazzo Borghese in Fossi Piceno.  If the picture is intact we could learn a lot about the man who built this house.”  She smiled at Rodolfo and Astanthe as if she were offering them a treat.

“I already know as much as I need to about the mind of the man who built this house,” Rodolfo said suppressingly, “He built his foyer to be a killing zone with a false door to give the illusion of an easier way out of the trap.”

“Rubia!”  Professor Verita spoke sharply to the student, “Don’t repeat that to anyone yet.  Don Rodolfo,” he turned back to the engaged couple, “I don’t doubt your expertise on the subject of-,” he stopped, looking for a polite word.

“Ambushes,” supplied Rodolfo with a feral grin.

“Ambushes,” the professor graciously accepted the help, “But do you want to get more of my colleagues involved?”

“More?”  Rodolpho looked around the room sceptically.

“These are a few of my own students plus some curating experts,” Professor Verita said dismissively.  “I’m talking about more professors from different schools.”  He paused, “Pure historians, political scientists, anyone at all with a theory on Pietro IV and condottori will want to come and look.  Some of them,” he gave his words significance, “Can pull rank on me.”

“As the owners without let or hindrance,” Rodolfo smiled, “We can pull rank on all of you.  Why don’t we talk terms?”

“Of course, Don Rodolfo.”  Professor Verita smiled amiably.  “I am happy to do so.”

“Rodolfo,” Astanthe tugged at his sleeve, “Can we talk for a moment in the next room, first.”

He looked down at her, a little surprised.  “Of course, my dear.”  He looked back at the other man.  “Professor, excuse us for a moment please.”

“Of course.”  The professor smiled indulgently.

A few moments later in the ballroom next door Rodolfo asked, “Well?  The professor may feel you’ve given him the advantage by pulling me away just as we were about to start negotiations.”

“Tell him I wanted to make sure they’re going to bring their equipment in through the front door and not through my kitchen.  Brush it off as my foible if you have to.”  She looked apologetic and added softly, “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve made you lose face in front of the professor but,” her voice firmed, “I’ve listened to a few years’ of Skein’s dinner table conversation now.  He says that the public museums and art galleries always try to get the householder to pay all their expenses in cases like this.”  Rodolfo’s face sharpened with interest.  “We want the top layer of plaster to come off to see how much of the fresco is still there and if it can be made presentable we’ll want it restored in situ, right?”

“I agree,” he nodded, “I don’t think we should pay for the time of the professor’s PhD students or for any other professors who come to research their theories.”

“On the other hand,” she suggested, “We don’t charge them rent, they don’t take over my kitchen, plus they stock the bathroom they use and clean it.”

“And we set their working hours,” Rodolfo grinned, “Not on weekends, not after five in the evening and not before nine in the morning.”

“And not this Friday at all!”  Astanthe grabbed his lapels and pulled on them, then kissed him firmly when he leant forward in response.

“Definitely not.”  He kissed her back for a few moments then they broke apart and he offered her his arm.  “Shall we?”

She took it and smiled up at him, “Definitely.”

They swept back into the dining room.  “Professor.”  Rodolfo’s voice echoed in the room and everyone looked at him.  “Interesting acoustics,” he muttered in an aside to Astanthe and then said to the Professor who was walking over to them, “Let’s start with your working hours.”




rix_scaedu: (Default)
This carries on from Fresco.


“Domestic frescos are so rare,” Professor Verita explained.  “People who had enough money sponsored works in churches or on civic projects, for the prestige.  They only spent this sort of money at home if they entertained a lot for business or politics.  Frankly,” he gave an expressive shrug and hand gesture, “I’ll be doing well to limit the involvement of the History and Art faculties to this.  It doesn’t help,” he added darkly, “That in the late 1800s anyone who had money plastered over their frescos and redecorated in white and gold.”

“We can hope,” added one of the earnest young people, a red haired girl in jeans and a checked shirt, “That no-one used a sledge hammer here, the way they did in the Palazzo Borghese in Fossi Piceno.  If the picture is intact we could learn a lot about the man who built this house.”  She smiled at Rodolfo and Astanthe as if she were offering them a treat.

“I already know as much as I need to about the mind of the man who built this house,” Rodolfo said suppressingly, “He built his foyer to be a killing zone with a false door to give the illusion of an easier way out of the trap.”

“Rubia!”  Professor Verita spoke sharply to the student, “Don’t repeat that to anyone yet.  Don Rodolfo,” he turned back to the engaged couple, “I don’t doubt your expertise on the subject of-,” he stopped, looking for a polite word.

“Ambushes,” supplied Rodolfo with a feral grin.

“Ambushes,” the professor graciously accepted the help, “But do you want to get more of my colleagues involved?”

“More?”  Rodolpho looked around the room sceptically.

“These are a few of my own students plus some curating experts,” Professor Verita said dismissively.  “I’m talking about more professors from different schools.”  He paused, “Pure historians, political scientists, anyone at all with a theory on Pietro IV and condottori will want to come and look.  Some of them,” he gave his words significance, “Can pull rank on me.”

“As the owners without let or hindrance,” Rodolfo smiled, “We can pull rank on all of you.  Why don’t we talk terms?”

“Of course, Don Rodolfo.”  Professor Verita smiled amiably.  “I am happy to do so.”

“Rodolfo,” Astanthe tugged at his sleeve, “Can we talk for a moment in the next room, first.”

He looked down at her, a little surprised.  “Of course, my dear.”  He looked back at the other man.  “Professor, excuse us for a moment please.”

“Of course.”  The professor smiled indulgently.

A few moments later in the ballroom next door Rodolfo asked, “Well?  The professor may feel you’ve given him the advantage by pulling me away just as we were about to start negotiations.”

“Tell him I wanted to make sure they’re going to bring their equipment in through the front door and not through my kitchen.  Brush it off as my foible if you have to.”  She looked apologetic and added softly, “I’m sorry if you feel I’ve made you lose face in front of the professor but,” her voice firmed, “I’ve listened to a few years’ of Skein’s dinner table conversation now.  He says that the public museums and art galleries always try to get the householder to pay all their expenses in cases like this.”  Rodolfo’s face sharpened with interest.  “We want the top layer of plaster to come off to see how much of the fresco is still there and if it can be made presentable we’ll want it restored in situ, right?”

“I agree,” he nodded, “I don’t think we should pay for the time of the professor’s PhD students or for any other professors who come to research their theories.”

“On the other hand,” she suggested, “We don’t charge them rent, they don’t take over my kitchen, plus they stock the bathroom they use and clean it.”

“And we set their working hours,” Rodolfo grinned, “Not on weekends, not after five in the evening and not before nine in the morning.”

“And not this Friday at all!”  Astanthe grabbed his lapels and pulled on them, then kissed him firmly when he leant forward in response.

“Definitely not.”  He kissed her back for a few moments then they broke apart and he offered her his arm.  “Shall we?”

She took it and smiled up at him, “Definitely.”

They swept back into the dining room.  “Professor.”  Rodolfo’s voice echoed in the room and everyone looked at him.  “Interesting acoustics,” he muttered in an aside to Astanthe and then said to the Professor who was walking over to them, “Let’s start with your working hours.”




Fresco

Oct. 11th, 2011 10:44 am
rix_scaedu: (Default)
This follows on from House Inspection.


It was less than a week before the wedding.  The priest and one of the side chapels in Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola were booked.  The reception and its catering were organised and various people who worked for Count Bartolo were running around like chickens with their heads cut off to make it all happen but not Otello Borodino.  He and Tito Masaccio were looking after the Signorella, Don Rodolfo’s bride, and keeping her out of trouble.  What could be a problem?  Here they were so she could keep an eye on what the plumbers, electricians, gas fitters, painters and security door hangers were doing to her new house.  Perfectly sensible.  Perfectly reasonable.  Except now she wanted to call her brother-in-law, the foreign one, and have him come to the house.  Otello was calling Don Rodolfo.

The phone rang and Don Rodolfo answered.  “Rodolfo here.”  He was always efficient if not brusque on the phone.  “What is it?”
“Borodino, Don Rodolfo.  It’s about the Signorella.”

“What about her?  Is she all right?”  Borodino had never heard his superior express emotion over the phone before.

“She’s fine, Don Rodolfo,” he assured the other man, “And she’s right here.  She wants to have her brother-in-law, Skein, come to the house.”  You could tell the brother-in-law was a foreigner, his name was so strange.

“Put her on the phone, please.”  Don Rodolfo was sounding himself again.

“Yes, Don Rodolfo,” Borodino held out the phone to the Signorella, “He wants to talk to you, Signorella.”

“Oh, good,” she gave him a happy smile as she took the phone, “Hello, Rodolfo.”  She listened while Rodolfo spoke then said, “When the electrician was replacing one of the power points in the dining room’s outside wall the plaster cracked and some fell off.  There’s an older layer underneath that seems to have a picture on it.”  She paused to listen again.  “You will?  That’s fantastic!  Okay, I’ll put you back on to him.”  She held out the phone to Borodino.  “He wants to talk to you again.”

Borodino took the phone back.  “Yes, Don Rodolfo?”

“I’m going to arrange for Professor Alessandro Verita from the University to come and look at the wall.  Let him in when he arrives.  He might bring a few people with him.”

“Yes Don Rodolfo.”  The connection cut from the other end and Borodino hung up.

When Rodolfo arrived that afternoon to supervise the locksmiths he found his little Starflower waiting for him in the foyer almost dancing with excitement.  “It’s a proper fresco.”  She flung her arms around him and kissed him, which was always nice.  “I wanted to be the one to tell you.  The only thing is,” she looked pensive, “We probably won’t be able to use the dining room for months.  They want to look in here and all the public rooms too.”

“They?  I’d better talk to Professor Verita, hadn’t I?”  The two of them walked hand in hand through the house to the dining room.

Which had about a dozen people in it measuring, taking samples of plaster and setting up scaffolding in one corner of the room.

Rodolfo strode over to the professor, a dark haired man fifteen years his senior and tapped him on the shoulder.  Without waiting for other man to finish talking to the three earnest young people in front of him or turn Rodolfo said, “I asked you to look at a piece of painting, professor.  Why does my house now have an infestation of,” he looked around, “University students?”

Fresco

Oct. 11th, 2011 10:44 am
rix_scaedu: (Default)
This follows on from House Inspection.


It was less than a week before the wedding.  The priest and one of the side chapels in Basilica di Sant’Erasmo da Specola were booked.  The reception and its catering were organised and various people who worked for Count Bartolo were running around like chickens with their heads cut off to make it all happen but not Otello Borodino.  He and Tito Masaccio were looking after the Signorella, Don Rodolfo’s bride, and keeping her out of trouble.  What could be a problem?  Here they were so she could keep an eye on what the plumbers, electricians, gas fitters, painters and security door hangers were doing to her new house.  Perfectly sensible.  Perfectly reasonable.  Except now she wanted to call her brother-in-law, the foreign one, and have him come to the house.  Otello was calling Don Rodolfo.

The phone rang and Don Rodolfo answered.  “Rodolfo here.”  He was always efficient if not brusque on the phone.  “What is it?”
“Borodino, Don Rodolfo.  It’s about the Signorella.”

“What about her?  Is she all right?”  Borodino had never heard his superior express emotion over the phone before.

“She’s fine, Don Rodolfo,” he assured the other man, “And she’s right here.  She wants to have her brother-in-law, Skein, come to the house.”  You could tell the brother-in-law was a foreigner, his name was so strange.

“Put her on the phone, please.”  Don Rodolfo was sounding himself again.

“Yes, Don Rodolfo,” Borodino held out the phone to the Signorella, “He wants to talk to you, Signorella.”

“Oh, good,” she gave him a happy smile as she took the phone, “Hello, Rodolfo.”  She listened while Rodolfo spoke then said, “When the electrician was replacing one of the power points in the dining room’s outside wall the plaster cracked and some fell off.  There’s an older layer underneath that seems to have a picture on it.”  She paused to listen again.  “You will?  That’s fantastic!  Okay, I’ll put you back on to him.”  She held out the phone to Borodino.  “He wants to talk to you again.”

Borodino took the phone back.  “Yes, Don Rodolfo?”

“I’m going to arrange for Professor Alessandro Verita from the University to come and look at the wall.  Let him in when he arrives.  He might bring a few people with him.”

“Yes Don Rodolfo.”  The connection cut from the other end and Borodino hung up.

When Rodolfo arrived that afternoon to supervise the locksmiths he found his little Starflower waiting for him in the foyer almost dancing with excitement.  “It’s a proper fresco.”  She flung her arms around him and kissed him, which was always nice.  “I wanted to be the one to tell you.  The only thing is,” she looked pensive, “We probably won’t be able to use the dining room for months.  They want to look in here and all the public rooms too.”

“They?  I’d better talk to Professor Verita, hadn’t I?”  The two of them walked hand in hand through the house to the dining room.

Which had about a dozen people in it measuring, taking samples of plaster and setting up scaffolding in one corner of the room.

Rodolfo strode over to the professor, a dark haired man fifteen years his senior and tapped him on the shoulder.  Without waiting for other man to finish talking to the three earnest young people in front of him or turn Rodolfo said, “I asked you to look at a piece of painting, professor.  Why does my house now have an infestation of,” he looked around, “University students?”

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