Page 111 of The Velvet Hours
Alex’s face still looked grave. “It will depend on Solomon,” he said softly. “He’ll be the only one who can restore it. If it can be done at all.”
***
Poor Solomon was already beside himself worrying about Leo. The doctor was called as Rachel waited by the sick child’s bed. Monsieur Armel brought Solomon into our room, where the book was laid out on our bed.
“Solomon, we have an issue with the Haggadah...” His skin was pale and the strain on his face was evident. “Without the money from these books, we’re not going anywhere.”
Solomon leaned over and appraised the damage.
“It’s as I feared. Consolidation has occurred.”
Monsieur Armel let out an agonizing sound, a grunt that sounded almost like a dying animal. “I needn’t tell you that our passage out of France depends on this book. You realize that more than anyone here.”
“Is there any way we can repair it?”
Solomon was quiet. “It’s not going to be easy, Bernard... I’ll need to seed a gelatin between the pigment and the parchment.” He shook his head. “It will be difficult and time intensive...”
“But do you have the supplies and instruments to even do that?”
Solomon nodded. “I can make an adhesive with gelatin and some wheat starch... Still, it will not be easy. We’ll have to keep our fingers crossed that I can reattach it to the parchment.”
***
As Rachel tended to Leo’s fever, Solomon immediately set himself in motion. He took the small black satchel he had brought with him and removed his instruments. Half of them looked like they belonged to a surgeon, and the other half to a painter: two flat sable brushes, three with rounded tips; several scalpels; cotton swabs; a tweezer, and something else that I didn’t recognize. Later, I would learn it was a spun-glass burnisher for removing threads from illuminated manuscripts.
He took the book and laid it on the towel, and used the tip of hisscalpel to start lifting the corners of the pages to make sure there was no other damage. He no longer looked at it as a casual observer would, but as an expert restorer analyzing the damage with razor-sharp eyes.
We watched transfixed, all of us holding our breath as he began to prepare the necessary adhesive.
“Seeding the gelatin beneath each little flake will take hours and require my full attention,” Solomon informed us. “It is best you leave me so I can concentrate on the work...”
We all understood and were about to leave him to his work when there was a knock on the door. It was the doctor, who had finished examining Leo.
Solomon got up and walked over to speak with him.
But the doctor did not lower his voice when he told Solomon his diagnosis. We all heard it as clear as a bell.
“I’m afraid, Monsieur Weckstein, your son has come down with the measles.”
***
Just when we thought we had experienced the worst-possible blow, we received Leo’s diagnosis. All of the adults knew what this meant. Leo would have to be quarantined, as would Eva, who unlike the rest of us, had not yet had the disease.
“I will speak to the hotel director about making sure all the necessary precautions are taken. But keep him in his room. He has spots in his mouth. I suspect the rash will appear on his chest by tomorrow.”
***
Words escaped us. As Leo’s fever escalated, Rachel kept vigil. She applied cool compresses to his forehead and spoon-fed him broth that the hotel owner’s wife brought up to his room.
***
Alex went out to the pharmacy and bought fever powder. In his satchel, he carried some provisions for a modest dinner. Some bread, cheese, a jar of cornichons, and a few sprigs of parsley, which he said was the only bit of fresh greens he could find.
“You’ve done well,” Monsieur Armel murmured softly. “Better than I expected, and we’ll make do.” He looked exhausted. He had spent the past hour shuttling between negotiating with the hotel owner, who was not as compassionate as his wife, to let the sick child remain quarantined in his room, and keeping Solomon focused on trying to save the Haggadah despite being distracted by the news of his ailing son.
As I was lucky enough to have my own room, Alex suggested we have dinner in my quarters.
The idea was a welcome distraction, and I began to prepare the space. I opened up the windows, allowing the briny sea air to fill the room. It felt good to inhale a fragrance that was both foreign and invigorating. Outside, I could hear the bustling sounds of the city, which felt reassuring. Taxis honked, men shouted to each other on the streets, and I could hear foghorns blaring from the port. It was unfortunate that we could not leave directly from Marseille, but at this point, only a few transatlantic ships would risk taking civilians through the dangerous waters for fear of being torpedoed. And we were informed we had no other choice but to leave on a boat from Lisbon. I looked around the dingy hotel room. The walls, once painted white, now looked like the color of newsprint. The only adornment in the room was a single framed portrait of a woman in a field holding a basket. It amazed me that in only a few weeks’ time, my living arrangements had gone from one extreme to another. I heard Marthe’s throaty laugh in my ear, as if she were there in the room with me, gazing at the completely artless painting on the wall.
