Excerpt
Prologue
May 30, 1588
Church of Santo Tomé
Toledo, Kingdom of Spain
Father Andrés Núñez approached the artist quietly, wary to disturb him, yet having little choice in the matter. The Church of Santo Tomé was silent save for the dabbing of the painter's brush on the large canvas. The artist worked rapidly, moving his brush back and forth between the palate of colored oil pigments in his hand and the canvas in front of him, working like a man possessed.
Núñez shuffled his feet over the stone floor, trying to announce his presence. The sound had no effect. The painter was oblivious, wholly absorbed in his work. Numerous candles illuminated the small space. In the light, Núñez noticed a chisel near the painter's feet. Fine dust covered the toes of the man's boots, almost as if he had been carving stone in addition to applying paint.
Why was he here? Not now, or this late at night… but here at all?
Núñez resigned himself to waiting, biding his time by scanning the painting. The wall-mounted canvas was as tall as three men, and nearly as wide. He had to lean back to take it all in, starting at the top, where Christ and the heavenly host waited to receive the soul of the artwork's subject, the burial of Don Gonzalo Ruíz de Toledo, the former count of the nearby town of Orgaz. In the lower half of the painting, the Count of Orgaz was being laid to rest by Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine, surrounded by a community of mourners.
The figures were all tall and slender, their faces elongated in a way that, in the hands of a lesser artist, would be grotesque. But under the skill of this man, each and every one of them was utterly divine, from the saints in the upper half of the canvas, to the earthly figures attending the burial in the lower.
The painting was, even to Núñez's untrained eye, a work of spiritual and artistic perfection.
And it was complete—or at least he thought it had been, until the painter arrived again this evening just after dusk, demanding one of the younger priests let him in to make some changes. The artist was quirky in this way, always wanting to alter and fix things. A perfectionist. Two years ago, before Núñez commissioned the painting, others had warned him that, in exchange for the painter's genius, one must accept his eccentricity.
Two years later, Núñez understood what they meant. Among other quirks, the painter had a habit of constantly repainting and retouching his work. Even so, tonight's visit was particularly unusual. The painting had officially been completed months ago.
But now, Father Núñez and the painter were in the middle of a lawsuit over how much the painting was worth. There were two different values given by experts, and, of course, the painter wanted to be paid the higher value, while Núñez and the Church of Santo Tomé could barely afford the lower.
Which was why this was so awkward.
Núñez's eyes flicked here and there over the canvas, looking for some imperfection that might have been missed, a reason for the painter's unexpected reappearance. He found none. The work was a masterpiece. He couldn't imagine what more needed to be done.
And yet, the artist continued. Finishing work on the sleeve of Saint Stephen's elaborately embroidered dalmatic, he dragged a nearby pew to the base of the painting and stood to reach a higher section. In that moment, Núñez could have interrupted, asking the painter if this was all really necessary. Or even appropriate, given their ongoing… legal situation. Was the painter going to expect even more money now? How did one put a value on something so sublime?
But Núñez didn't say a word. He was enraptured by simply watching the man work.
The painter stretched upward, his brushstrokes applying new form to the set of keys dangling from the figure of Saint Peter, who waited in silvery clouds to hear Christ's judgment on the Count's ascending soul. Would the gates to Heaven be unlocked to Orgaz? The painting didn't say. Given the presence of the heavenly host, it seemed likely.
The Count of Orgaz had been a great benefactor in his day, so much so that—according to legend—Saints Stephen and Augustine appeared here, in this very church, to assist in his entombment.
Finally, the painter climbed down and stepped back until he and Núñez stood nearly shoulder to shoulder. That was when the priest realized the painter was aware of his presence.
Perhaps he's been aware of me all along, Núñez thought. Perhaps I should say something now.
In that moment, however, as they stared together at the heavenly masterpiece hanging on the wall before them, Father Núñez knew there was nothing to say. Despite their differences, and the unfortunate matter of the lawsuit between them, the priest and the painter stood silently together in the presence of perfection.
Finally, the artist, Doménikos Theotokópoulos—known throughout Toledo simply as El Greco, the Greek—turned to address him.
"Now it is finished."
Núñez couldn't form words. He simply nodded.
El Greco gathered his paints and brushes, blew out the candles, and walked halfway to the church's main doors. Then he turned, as if in afterthought.
"I ended our lawsuit today. I informed the Council of the Archdiocese I would accept the lower assessment for this commission. I hope that is satisfactory."
"Y-yes…" Núñez stammered in disbelief. "That is most gracious, señor. B-but why…?"
El Greco departed Santo Tomé without another word. Father Núñez stood alone with the painter's vision of Heaven, offering a silent prayer of thanks for what could only be the miracle of God's intervention.