by David Grand
Freddy placed the pieces of paper back into the manila envelope, which went back into his coat pocket. The clamor of voices and shuffling feet on the display floor had returned. Freddy could feel the noises shrouding his skin, enveloping it in what felt like a thin sheet of plastic. As the noises escalated in pitch, Freddy’s head began to ache. It was a familiar ache. It was an ache, like a creaking floorboard, that constantly bent its way through his chest and stomach and head. As the ache continued, there was a knock on his office door; whoever it was tried to enter, but found the door locked.
“Hang on a minute,” Freddy groused. He took a few steps to the door and unlatched it. In walked Harvey Brace, a soft-spoken clerk who felt the need to regularly remind his colleagues that he was living with only one functioning lung—as a result of living through a mustard gas attack.
Not a second after Harvey’s body was fully inside Freddy’s office and he had closed the door behind him did the phone ring. Harvey sheepishly looked at the phone. “It’s George,” Harvey said.
Freddy looked at Harvey queerly, then looked at the phone with the same look. He lifted the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”
“Stillman?”
“Yes.”
“Is Harvey there?”
“He’s right beside me.”
“Good. Listen. In light of what happened this morning, in light of what I’ve heard, Stillman, I think it would be best if you had some time to yourself today. To think. Think of what all this is about. Think about how you’re to conduct yourself in this office from now on.”
“I’m sorry, George?”
“Harvey there will take over your paperwork for the time being.”
“I don’t understand, George.”
“There’s nothing to understand, Stillman. You’re taking the afternoon off while Harvey keeps you up to speed.”
“I . . .”
“You don’t want to push this, Freddy. You don’t want to know what I’m thinking. You do what I tell you to do.”
George hung up.
Freddy slowly hung up the receiver and looked at Harvey. “Did he say anything to you?”
Harvey Brace shook his head. “Only to come in here and finish up your paperwork. . . . He’s in a foul mood.” Harvey quietly walked around Freddy to the window and leaned back against the sill.
“What’s he so cranky about?”
“The thing over at the plant this morning. It’s gumming up the works.”
“What happened?”
“Two union leaders were arrested for sabotage.”
“Sabotage?”
“The Department of Investigations says the explosion was a setup by the union.”
“You don’t say.”
“That’s what they say.”
“Will they strike?”
“Well, they took over the plant and threatened to destroy it after their men were arrested.”
“Are they still inside?”
“Yeah, but they cooled down and went back to work.”
“So they still might strike then.”
“They haven’t said as much, but I think that’s what George thinks.” Harvey shrugged his shoulders and looked around Freddy’s office. “I’ll be careful with your things, Freddy. I’ll keep it all in order.”
“That’s fine, Harvey. I’m sure you will.”
“I’ll go see if you’ve got any new orders in your box.” Before Harvey turned to go, he opened the blind. “I don’t see so good in this light,” he said, and then walked around Freddy and onto the display floor.
Freddy meanwhile didn’t move. He was flustered by what he saw. Across the air shaft, Janice Gould’s apartment was empty. The painting of the young man was gone, the bureau and all that was on top of it was gone, the navy-blue curtains that had once hung in the window were gone. The apartment was empty. He had no idea what this could mean, if it meant anything, but whatever it did mean didn’t settle well in his stomach.
Freddy placed his briefcase on top of his desk, opened it up, and put in it the binoculars he kept in his desk drawer, as well as a few other personal belongings—among them an old broken pocket watch that was his father’s, a brooch that was his mother’s, and a tiepin Evelyn had bought for him for their tenth anniversary. He neatly slid all these things away into a sleeve within his briefcase, shut the lid, and locked them away.
Harvey returned with a stack of papers and placed them on Freddy’s desk. “Like I said, I’ll keep everything in order.”
“Thanks.” Freddy put on his coat and hat, wrapped himself up in his scarf. “See you,” he said to Harvey.
And with his briefcase in hand he walked out onto the display floor. He didn’t look around to see if anyone was looking. He could hear the lull in the conversations, in the work, but he didn’t care. He walked to the elevator and rode down to the lobby. He pulled the collar of his overcoat up, pulled his hat down so it fit snugly onto his head, and walked back out into the bustle of Central Boulevard.
A dark cloud of bobbing hats uniformly drifted over the shaded sidewalk, through strips of ineffectual winter sunlight breaking eastward across the City’s narrow streets. Freddy crowded into the flow of bodies and, with each step, braced himself against the gusts of strong headwinds. The gales channeling through the canyon of buildings had grown even stronger since he was outside, and with the increased wind, the cold grew more bitter. As he fought his way down toward a warm yellow glow emanating from the island’s southern tip, he felt as though he were part of a massive funeral procession prematurely mourning the loss of his own life. He kept feeling as though he were about to be blown off his feet and flung into the air. He kept imagining himself effortlessly hovering just above street level, going unnoticed.
Hunched and frozen, Freddy walked for almost an hour. By the time he reached the run-down townhouses of the Franklin Field section of South End, his pale face had turned blistering red and his windblown tears had left a thin crust of salt running down his cheeks like a wayward meander. He had walked thirty-three blocks in all when he entered Cuccio’s Bakery on Dunleavy Street.
Mrs. Cuccio, a dark grandmotherly woman, stood behind the counter. Upon seeing Freddy, she made a face. “This is the last time, mister,” she said. “No more after this, I swear it.” She crossed herself as she looked up to the relief of crosses laid into the tin ceiling of her shop. Freddy removed his wallet from his pocket and placed a dollar bill on the counter. Mrs. Cuccio reached out reluctantly and took the money. “The last time,” she said less emphatically, and then turned away. She pulled down a pink box from a shelf and filled it with some miniature éclairs, an assortment of cookies, a charlotte russe. She bound the box with twine and put on her coat, and while Freddy watched from the store window, she walked outside into the wind and across the quiet tree-lined street, where she rang the bell of the apartment building on the first floor. A few moments passed, the front door of the apartment building opened, and there, standing in the foyer, Freddy could see Evelyn’s long narrow face and brunette curls; he could see her cheeks turn rosy the second they met the cold air, and he watched as she smiled warmly at the sight of Mrs. Cuccio’s pink box. He looked on as Mrs. Cuccio delivered Freddy’s gift and his message. She told Evelyn that she had been thinking of her and the baby, and thought she might like to have some sweets in the house. Evelyn thanked her, gently touched the top of Mrs. Cuccio’s hand with her hand, and then slipped into the darkness of the hallway.
Before Mrs. Cuccio could walk back to the shop, Freddy opened the door and walked down Dunleavy Street, back to Central Boulevard, where he rejoined the crush of bodies and walked uptown with the cold needling wind now to his back.
Chapter 10
Byron Sands, a handsome young black man dressed in a brand-new suit and coat, leaned over the steering column of his truck as the seven-story passenger ship, the Bethlehem, majestically inched its way through the glistening ice and chop of the harbor toward South End Pier #17. He watched as the ship’s enor
mous hawsers descended from holes in the bow and the stern into the small hands of men ready to set them on their bollards. When the ship was secured, the gangplank lowered and hundreds of well-heeled men and women bundled in fur and overcoats lazily perambulated down to the landing. As the first passengers reached the parking lot, Byron stepped out of the truck with a sign reading “Professor Tarkhov.” Dozens of passengers and porters passed, and then, out of a small crowd, a short stocky middle-aged man with a thick graying beard and wireless spectacles approached him with four ghostly-white porters in tow, pushing a number of large wooden crates and some luggage.
“I am Tarkhov,” the man announced to Byron in a heavy Russian accent. His eyes were tired and bloodshot and looked a little wary. “And exactly who are you?” The question came out like an accusation.
“Me?” Byron lowered the sign to his waist, looking a little confused.
“Who sent you, please?” the professor asked sternly, his eyes squinting as he looked up into Byron’s thin dark face.
Taken aback by Tarkhov’s gruffness, Byron hesitated before answering. “Mr. Tersi, sir.”
Tarkhov coldly stared at Byron for a moment longer.
“Mr. Tersi,” Byron repeated more convincingly, “he told me to come collect you and drive you to the estate.”
Byron could see the young porters talking to each other as they looked over his getup, at his spit-shined shoes and his leather gloves.
“Dr. Gamburg is waiting for you up there, sir,” Byron said, as if he were trying to coax a child into a bath. He lowered his head a little, turned his back on the porters, then said into Tarkhov’s ear, “I ain’t here to steal nothin’ from you, sir, if that’s what you’re thinking. I just come to give you a ride.”
Tarkhov, continuing to look uncertain, turned his head from Byron to the porters. “Please, gentlemen, in the truck there. Very very gently.”
“Yes, sir,” the lead porter said with a smug smile on his face for Byron. The men began loading the truck under the professor’s supervision, and once they were done, Tarkhov clumsily climbed onto the bed and meticulously made sure each crate and piece of luggage was stable and properly tied down.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” he said when they were through. He then climbed into the passenger seat of the truck and slammed the door.
Byron, who had been leaning against the side of the truck while the porters worked, reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins. With a smug smile that matched the one the porter had given him earlier, he held the money up in the air on the palm of his glove and waited. The lead porter walked up to him, and with a scowl grabbed the coins from Byron’s hand. Without thanking him, the lead porter turned with the others back to the ship.
“We must drive very slowly,” Tarkhov said to Byron as Byron joined the professor in the cab of the truck.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very slowly and carefully,” Tarkhov said with the same seriousness he had greeted Byron. “It is my life,” he said. “My family’s life,” he emphasized, “in the back of your truck. Do you understand?”
“I’ll get you and everything there safe and sound,” Byron promised. He pulled out the choke and turned the engine over.
“Good,” Tarkhov said, looking around him, around the docks, as if he were looking for someone. “It’s been such a long journey with many worries,” he said aloud, talking to himself. “From Leningrad to Moscow to Leningrad to Helsinki, across the Baltic, the bad weather in the North Atlantic, gathering paintings in London . . . I tell you . . .”
Byron didn’t say anything. He just listened to the professor’s murmurings as he backed the truck up, shifted gears, and slowly drove off down the road in the direction of the South End thruway.
When Byron Sands and Professor Tarkhov reached the Martin estate outside the sleepy town of Rainskill Falls, Dr. Gamburg was waiting at the top of the private road leading to the house. A half-dozen art handlers from Leslie’s stood beside him with handcarts.
“Professor Tarkhov,” Dr. Gamburg said eagerly as Tarkhov stepped down from the cab of the truck. “Joseph Gamburg.”
“Yes, very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Tarkhov said unconvincingly as he took the professor’s hand. He looked beyond Dr. Gamburg’s face to the immensity of the Martins’ Tudor mansion.
“I hope you had a pleasant drive.”
“Yes, pleasant.”
“I’m afraid I had a few things to attend to here—otherwise I would have met you myself.”
“It’s quite all right,” Tarkhov said. “The passing countryside was very good company.”
Dr. Gamburg waved the group of art handlers over to the back of the truck and then turned to Byron, who was now standing beside Tarkhov. “Byron, will you please take the professor’s luggage to his room and then come join us in the gallery. We could use your help.”
Byron nodded and then walked to the back of the truck.
“This is quite an impressive home,” Tarkhov said as he followed Dr. Gamburg up a short staircase to the front door.
“It isn’t a palace,” Gamburg said wryly, “but I would venture to say that the Russian royalty would have been more than comfortable in such a home with so much unused space.”
Tarkhov grimaced a little. “Indeed.”
“Yes, well,” Gamburg muttered, “the important thing is that some of that unused space is at our disposal for the time being.”
Tarkhov nodded slightly as they entered the foyer and slowly walked down a long hallway. The hall was carpeted with an Oriental rug that stretched the length of the corridor, on whose walls were hanging a number of portraits of men and women dressed in Puritan robes. There were several Revolutionary War and Union Army officers of various ranks as well as judges, clergymen, businessmen. Interspersed between the portraits were naturalistic landscape paintings of the Westbend River Valley spanning several hundred years of its settlement, and including such figures as trappers and Indians, African slaves and their masters. The forests became noticeably more and more denuded and splintered and stacked into cabins and cords of firewood as the succession of paintings went on. The professor glanced at the artwork with curiosity, but didn’t let his eyes wander too far from Dr. Gamburg.
“Out of all the painters to come out of the Postimpressionist movements,” Dr. Gamburg said as the handlers slowly pushed by them with the artwork, “I can’t tell you enough how moved I am by the work of Rodhinsky.”
“You have seen some of Rodhinsky’s work?”
“Only a few of his very early paintings.”
“I see.”
“But the few paintings that I have seen lead me to believe that his images truly reflect the modern Russian era.”
“Yes, he was, well, he was a visionary.”
“Did you know him?”
“Yes, of course, I knew him.” Tarkhov’s serious demeanor seemed to fade. “Yes, he was a man who was very difficult not to know. He had a very boisterous way about him, to say the least. What’s interesting is that this unbridled personality he was famous for, almost all throughout his career, was so completely contained when he was painting. As a man, he was a bard, a folk hero, an enfant terrible; as a painter, he was an intellectual, an emotional intellectual, yes, but still, a calculating mind, a calculated imagination.”
“But when I’ve looked at his work, I remember feeling a good deal of emotion behind it. It’s abstract, but it has feeling.”
“Yes, yes, of course it does. Especially the later paintings that I have brought with me, the ones most directly meditating on his preoccupations with death and futility.”
“Is it really true that he died the way everyone says he did?”
“That is the legend, yes. Whether it is true or not, no one can say with absolute certainty, but you can see how he died, in his work, this image, most literally in the very last painting he made.”
“The Disappearing Body?”
“You are familiar with this painting?”
“I’ve only heard rumors. Do you mean to say that you have it with you?”
“Yes.”
“How—if you don’t mind me asking—did you manage to get your hands on it? I thought the painting had mysteriously vanished after Rodhinsky’s death.”
“It had.”
“Then how . . .”
Tarkhov smiled and shook his head. “There are certain things that are best not asked or answered in a situation such as this.”
“The collector prefers to remain anonymous—I completely understand. But please, you must show it to me immediately.”
“Yes, of course.”
Dr. Gamburg eagerly led Professor Tarkhov to the end of the hall and into the gallery, where Byron and the handlers were beginning to open the crates. The gallery was set in what had once been a reception hall, with high vaulted ceilings and polished parquet floors. A series of windows ran the length of the room and looked out onto a sculpture garden bordered by a semicircular stand of maples. Running through the center of the hall was a standing partition on which the paintings would be hung, and set at the top of the partition were curved brass fixtures that would light each image. The professor walked over to a crate marked EP 001.
“Byron, please . . .” Dr. Gamburg said as he waved Byron over. “Bring over those tools and open this one over here.”
Byron walked over with a hammer and chisel. With a few motions, he managed to open the crate, and from two slats, he pulled out Rodhinsky’s large painting. With the help of a handler, he hung it on the partition. The other handlers stopped what they were doing and gathered around.