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After a quick shower and a change of clothes, Lynne hit the streets of Venice. She
had an hour to kill before she was to meet Father Pietro.
She located the church and circled it cautiously. It was large and solid and brown.
She was mildly disappointed that it was so plain, but that was testament to its age.
She liked the way the square around the church was lined with cafés, their tables
set out on the cobblestones for outdoor dining.
“It’s safe to go in, you know. They won’t eat tourists.”
Lynne jumped in spite of herself and turned to face the speaker. His broad accent,
somewhere from Midwest America, labeled him a tourist. Her breath caught in
surprise. The young man grinning at her was pretty. Pretty in a Renaissance painting
way with brown curls falling to his shoulders and a faint beard, little more than
stubble, keeping him from being beautiful. His brown eyes were warm but he peered
at her oddly, as if he were short-sighted. She smiled back, not even thinking to
erect the barriers she usually presented to inopportune strangers.
“Actually, I’m not really a tourist. I was casing out my new workplace for the next
three months.” She nodded towards the church.
Her new acquaintance raised an eyebrow. “Are you a nun on a work term then? We
have something in common!”
“How delightful! You’re a nun, too?” Lynne tilted her head to regard him. His laugh
was light and pleasant.
“I meant, that I work in the chiesa as well. I’m a restorer of wood, back from my
evening walk to clear my head of solvents and lacquers.
My name is Paul Sinclair.” He extended a hand and Lynne shook it.
“Lynne Carver. I work for FameGen.”
“Oh.” Paul’s face lost its animated expression.
“What does ‘Oh’ mean? You don’t approve of my job?”
“I neither approve nor disapprove. I am, however, reminded of the pilgrims to the
Holy Land shelling out their precious coins to buy a vial of the Virgin’s tears or Mary’
s milk. And what is it they say about the fragments of the True Cross? Put all the
pieces together and you can build Noah’s ark? I guess I don’t approve of bilking the
public, even if it is sanctioned by the Church.”
“Sanctioned, paid for and expedited, Mr. Sinclair. May I point out that FameGen is
not ascertaining the authenticity of the relics brought here? That has been done to
the Church’s satisfaction hundreds of years ago. What I am doing is isolating DNA
from the relics and making copies of this DNA. FameGen will then put it into acrylic
pendants and the various churches will sell them. All we guarantee is that the buyer
has some DNA with the same genetic code as DNA extracted from what is believed
to be the foot of St. Catherine of Siena. There’s no snake oil salesmanship going on
here.”
Paul smiled at her vehemence. “It just seems tawdry, Ms Carver. Remember when
they sold copies of Elvis’s and Michael Jackson’s DNA? In the first case it was DNA
but not Elvis’s, and in the second, it wasn’t even human!”
Lynne ignored his attempt to joke. “That didn’t involve FameGen. Don’t get me
wrong, this isn’t my idea of a career-building move. I have a three-month contract
to get this up and running. Once I make and store the DNA for the company, they
can duplicate more DNA back in their labs without my help. What they needed for
this job was a reputable molecular biologist to handle the precious relics under the
eyes of their guardians and make sure nothing gets lost or mixed up. FameGen will
call it their Replicas Sanctas line.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to meet Father
Pietro now, if you will excuse me.”
“Certainly, but allow me to walk you in. I have to get back to work, too.” Paul made
a courtly gesture towards the massive church doors.
“You got that move from Father Pietro, didn’t you?” Lynne asked as she passed him.
“He’s my idol,” Paul answered without a trace of sarcasm. The church was cool
inside. Light still came in through the leaded windows and there were candles lit at
different stations throughout the church.
“Where’s the relic?” Lynne asked Paul. There was no sign of Father Pietro and she
wanted to get a look at her first job.
“This way,” Paul indicated. As he passed by the last pew, he banged his hip on a
wooden carving that stuck out slightly.
“Are you okay?” asked Lynne. If she had done that, there would be a big purple
bruise on her hip the next day.
“Yep. I don’t see very well in this light. I have retinitis pigmentosa,” Paul remarked
casually as he maneuvered past the offending pew.
“Oh. That’s hereditary, isn’t it?” Lynne wished she could bite back the question but
Paul did not seem to take offense.
“Yes, I’ll be blind in a few years. I have very poor night vision and little side vision. It’
s like looking down a tunnel. I do most of my work by touch and smell, to prepare
myself for when it does happen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve learned to appreciate sight all the more. Here’s your foot.”
Leslie Brown © 2009
had an hour to kill before she was to meet Father Pietro.
She located the church and circled it cautiously. It was large and solid and brown.
She was mildly disappointed that it was so plain, but that was testament to its age.
She liked the way the square around the church was lined with cafés, their tables
set out on the cobblestones for outdoor dining.
“It’s safe to go in, you know. They won’t eat tourists.”
Lynne jumped in spite of herself and turned to face the speaker. His broad accent,
somewhere from Midwest America, labeled him a tourist. Her breath caught in
surprise. The young man grinning at her was pretty. Pretty in a Renaissance painting
way with brown curls falling to his shoulders and a faint beard, little more than
stubble, keeping him from being beautiful. His brown eyes were warm but he peered
at her oddly, as if he were short-sighted. She smiled back, not even thinking to
erect the barriers she usually presented to inopportune strangers.
“Actually, I’m not really a tourist. I was casing out my new workplace for the next
three months.” She nodded towards the church.
Her new acquaintance raised an eyebrow. “Are you a nun on a work term then? We
have something in common!”
“How delightful! You’re a nun, too?” Lynne tilted her head to regard him. His laugh
was light and pleasant.
“I meant, that I work in the chiesa as well. I’m a restorer of wood, back from my
evening walk to clear my head of solvents and lacquers.
My name is Paul Sinclair.” He extended a hand and Lynne shook it.
“Lynne Carver. I work for FameGen.”
“Oh.” Paul’s face lost its animated expression.
“What does ‘Oh’ mean? You don’t approve of my job?”
“I neither approve nor disapprove. I am, however, reminded of the pilgrims to the
Holy Land shelling out their precious coins to buy a vial of the Virgin’s tears or Mary’
s milk. And what is it they say about the fragments of the True Cross? Put all the
pieces together and you can build Noah’s ark? I guess I don’t approve of bilking the
public, even if it is sanctioned by the Church.”
“Sanctioned, paid for and expedited, Mr. Sinclair. May I point out that FameGen is
not ascertaining the authenticity of the relics brought here? That has been done to
the Church’s satisfaction hundreds of years ago. What I am doing is isolating DNA
from the relics and making copies of this DNA. FameGen will then put it into acrylic
pendants and the various churches will sell them. All we guarantee is that the buyer
has some DNA with the same genetic code as DNA extracted from what is believed
to be the foot of St. Catherine of Siena. There’s no snake oil salesmanship going on
here.”
Paul smiled at her vehemence. “It just seems tawdry, Ms Carver. Remember when
they sold copies of Elvis’s and Michael Jackson’s DNA? In the first case it was DNA
but not Elvis’s, and in the second, it wasn’t even human!”
Lynne ignored his attempt to joke. “That didn’t involve FameGen. Don’t get me
wrong, this isn’t my idea of a career-building move. I have a three-month contract
to get this up and running. Once I make and store the DNA for the company, they
can duplicate more DNA back in their labs without my help. What they needed for
this job was a reputable molecular biologist to handle the precious relics under the
eyes of their guardians and make sure nothing gets lost or mixed up. FameGen will
call it their Replicas Sanctas line.” She glanced at her watch. “I have to meet Father
Pietro now, if you will excuse me.”
“Certainly, but allow me to walk you in. I have to get back to work, too.” Paul made
a courtly gesture towards the massive church doors.
“You got that move from Father Pietro, didn’t you?” Lynne asked as she passed him.
“He’s my idol,” Paul answered without a trace of sarcasm. The church was cool
inside. Light still came in through the leaded windows and there were candles lit at
different stations throughout the church.
“Where’s the relic?” Lynne asked Paul. There was no sign of Father Pietro and she
wanted to get a look at her first job.
“This way,” Paul indicated. As he passed by the last pew, he banged his hip on a
wooden carving that stuck out slightly.
“Are you okay?” asked Lynne. If she had done that, there would be a big purple
bruise on her hip the next day.
“Yep. I don’t see very well in this light. I have retinitis pigmentosa,” Paul remarked
casually as he maneuvered past the offending pew.
“Oh. That’s hereditary, isn’t it?” Lynne wished she could bite back the question but
Paul did not seem to take offense.
“Yes, I’ll be blind in a few years. I have very poor night vision and little side vision. It’
s like looking down a tunnel. I do most of my work by touch and smell, to prepare
myself for when it does happen.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’ve learned to appreciate sight all the more. Here’s your foot.”
Leslie Brown © 2009
Excerpt From
"The Relics of Venice"
by Leslie Brown
"The Relics of Venice"
by Leslie Brown
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