“The only good thing to come out of this,” said Anna, “is that we can transfer the original frame back onto the masterpiece.”
“But what shall we do with him?” asked Arabella, gesturing toward the impostor. The butler gave a discreet cough. “You have a suggestion, Andrews?” inquired Arabella. “If so, let’s hear it.”
“No, m’lady,” Andrews replied, “but I thought you would want to know that your other guest is proceeding up the drive.”
“The man clearly has a gift for timing,” said Arabella, as she quickly checked her hair in the mirror. “Andrews,” she said, reverting to her normal role, “has the Wellington Room been prepared for Mr. Nakamura?”
“Yes, m’lady. And Dr. Petrescu will be in the Van Gogh room.”
“How appropriate,” said Arabella, turning to face Anna, “that he should spend his last night with you.”
Anna was relieved to see Arabella so quickly back into her stride and had a feeling that she might prove a genuine foil for Nakamura.
The butler opened the front door and walked down the steps at a pace that would ensure he reached the gravel just as the Toyota Lexus came to a halt. Andrews opened the back door of the limousine to allow Mr. Nakamura to step out. He was clutching a small square package.
“The Japanese always arrive bearing a gift,” whispered Anna, “but under no circumstances should you open it in their presence.”
“That’s all very well,” said Arabella, “but I haven’t got anything for him.”
“He won’t expect something in return. You have invited him to be a guest in your house, and that is the greatest compliment you can pay any Japanese.”
“That’s a relief,” said Arabella, as Mr. Nakamura appeared at the front door.
“Lady Arabella,” he said, bowing low, “it is a great honor to be invited to your magnificent home.”
“You honor my home, Mr. Nakamura,” said Arabella, hoping she’d said the correct thing.
The Japanese man bowed even lower, and when he rose came face-to-face with Lawrence’s portrait of Wellington.
“How appropriate,” he said. “Did the great man not dine at Wentworth Hall the night before he sailed for Waterloo?”
“Indeed he did,” said Arabella, “and you will sleep in the same bed that the Iron Duke slept in on that historic occasion.”
Nakamura turned to Anna and bowed. “How nice to see you again, Dr. Petrescu.”
“And you too, Nakamura-san,” said Anna. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
“Yes, thank you. We even landed on time, for a change,” said Nakamura, who didn’t move as his eyes roamed around the room. “You will please correct me, Anna, should I make a mistake. It is clear that the room is devoted to the English school. Gains borough?” he queried, as he admired the full-length portrait of Catherine, Lady Wentworth. Anna nodded, before Nakamura moved on “Landseer, Morland, Romney, Stubbs, but then, I am stumped—is that the correct expression?”
“It most certainly is,” confirmed Arabella, “although our American cousins wouldn’t begin to understand its significance. And you were stumped by Lely.”
“Ah, Sir Peter, and what a fine-looking woman—” he paused “—a family trait,” he said, turning to face his host.
“And I can see, Mr. Nakamura, that your family trait is flattery,” teased Arabella.
Nakamura burst out laughing. “With the risk of being taken to task a second time, Lady Arabella, if every room is the equal of this, it may prove necessary for me to cancel my meeting with those dullards from Corus Steel.” Nakamura’s eyes continued to sweep the room, “Wheatley, Lawrence, West, and Wilkie,” he said, before his gaze ended up on the portrait propped up against the wall.
Nakamura offered no opinion for some time. “Quite magnificent,” he finally said. “The work of an inspired hand—” he paused “—but not the hand of Van Gogh.”
“How can you be so sure, Nakamura-san?” asked Anna.
“Because the wrong ear is bandaged,” replied Nakamura.
“But everyone knows that Van Gogh cut off his left ear,” said Anna.
Nakamura turned and smiled at Anna. “And you know only too well,” he added, “that Van Gogh painted the original while looking in a mirror, which is why the bandage ended up on the wrong ear.”
“I do hope that someone is going to explain all this to me later,” said Arabella as she led her guests through to the drawing room.
52
KRANTZ RETURNED TO the shop at 2 P.M., but there was no sign of the proprietor. “He’ll be back at any moment,” the assistant assured her without conviction.
“Any moment” turned out to be thirty minutes, by which time the assistant was nowhere to be seen. When the owner did eventually show up, Krantz was pleased to see that he was carrying a bulky plastic bag. Without a word being spoken, Krantz followed him to the back of the shop and into his office. Not until he’d closed the door did a large grin appear on his fleshy lips.
The proprietor placed the carrier bag on his desk. He paused for a moment, then pulled out the red outfit Krantz had requested.
“She may be a little taller than you,” he said with a half apology, “but I can supply a needle and thread at no extra charge.” He began to laugh but ceased when his customer didn’t respond.
Krantz held the uniform up against her shoulders. The previous owner was at least three or four inches taller than Krantz but only a few pounds heavier; nothing—as the proprietor had suggested—that a needle and thread wouldn’t remedy.
“And the passport?” asked Krantz.
Once again the proprietor’s hand dipped into the carrier bag, and, like a conjuror producing a rabbit out of a hat, he offered up a Soviet passport. He handed over the prize to Krantz and said, “She has a three-day layover, so she probably won’t discover that it’s missing until Friday.”
“It will have served its purpose long before then,” Krantz said, as she began to turn the pages of the official document.
Sasha Prestakavich, she discovered, was three years younger than her, and eight centimeters taller with no distinguishing marks. A problem that a pair of high-heeled shoes would solve, unless an overzealous official decided to carry out a strip search and came across the recent wound on her right shoulder.
When Krantz reached the page where Sasha Prestakavich’s photo had once been, the proprietor was unable to disguise a satisfied smirk. For his next trick, he produced from under the counter a Polaroid camera.
“Smile,” he said. She didn’t.
A few seconds later an image spewed out. A pair of scissors appeared next, and the proprietor began to cut the photograph down to a size that would comply with the little dotted rectangle on page three of the passport. Next, a dollop of glue to fix the new holder in place. His final act was to drop a needle and thread into the carrier bag. Krantz was beginning to realize that this was not the first occasion he had supplied such a service. She placed the uniform and the passport back in the carrier bag, before handing over eight hundred dollars.
The proprietor checked the wad of notes carefully.
“You said a thousand,” he protested.
“You were thirty minutes late,” Krantz reminded him, as she picked up the bag and turned to leave.
“Do come and visit us again,” suggested the proprietor as she retreated, “whenever you’re passing through.”
Krantz didn’t bother to explain to him why, in her profession, she never saw anyone twice, unless it was to make sure they couldn’t see her a third time.
Once she was back on the street, she only had to walk for a couple of blocks before she came across the next shop she required. She purchased a pair of plain, black high-heeled shoes—not her style, but they would serve their purpose. She paid the bill in rubles and left the shop carrying two bags.
Krantz next hailed a taxi, gave the driver an address, and told him the exact entrance where she wished to be dropped off. When the cab drew up by a side door ma
rked STAFF ONLY, Krantz paid the fare, entered the building, and went straight to the ladies’ room. She locked herself in a cubicle, where she spent the next forty minutes. With the aid of the needle and thread supplied by the proprietor, she raised the hemline of the skirt by a couple of inches and made a couple of tucks in the waist, which wouldn’t be visible under the jacket. She then stripped off all her outer garments before trying on the uniform—not a perfect fit, but fortunately the company she was proposing to work for was not known for its sartorial elegance. Next she replaced her sneakers with the recently acquired high heels, before dropping her own clothes into the carrier bag.
When she finally left the ladies’ room, she went in search of her new employers. Her walk was a little unsteady, but then she wasn’t used to high heels. Krantz’s eyes settled on another woman who was dressed in an identical uniform. She walked across to the counter and asked, “Have you got a spare seat on any of our London flights?”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” she replied. “Can I see your passport?” Krantz handed over the recently acquired document. The company’s representative looked up Sasha Prestakavich’s details on the company database. According to their records, she was on a three-day layover. “That seems to be in order,” she eventually said, and handed her a crew pass. “Be sure that you’re among the last to check in, just in case we have any latecomers.”
Krantz walked across to the international terminal, and once she’d been checked through customs, hung around in duty-free until she heard the final boarding call for Flight 413 to London. By the time she arrived at the gate, the last three passengers were checking in. Once again her passport was checked against the company database before the gate officer studied his screen and said, “We’ve got seats available in every class, so take your pick.”
“Back row of economy,” Krantz said unhesitatingly.
The gate official looked surprised, but printed out a boarding card and handed the little slip over to her. Krantz walked through the gate, and boarded Aeroflot’s Flight 413 to London.
53
ANNA WALKED SLOWLY down the wide, marble staircase, pausing for a moment at every two or three steps to admire another master. It didn’t matter how often she saw them . . . she heard a noise behind her, and looked back toward the guest corridor to see Andrews coming out of her bedroom. He was carrying a picture under his arm. She smiled as he hurried away in the direction of the backstairs.
Anna continued to study the paintings on her slow progress down the staircase. As she stepped into the hall she gave Catherine, Lady Wentworth another admiring look, before she walked slowly across the black-and-white marbled-square floor toward the drawing room.
The first thing Anna saw as she entered was Andrews placing the Van Gogh on an easel in the center of the room.
“What do you think?” said Arabella, as she took a step back to admire the self-portrait.
“Don’t you feel that Mr. Nakamura might consider it a little . . . ,” ventured Anna, not wishing to offend her host.
“Crude, blatant, obvious? Which word were you searching for, my dear?” asked Arabella, as she turned to face Anna. Anna burst out laughing. “Let’s face it,” said Arabella, “I’m strapped for cash and running out of time, so I don’t have a lot of choice.”
“No one would believe it, looking at you,” said Anna, as she admired the magnificent long rose silk-taffeta gown and diamond necklace Arabella was wearing, making Anna feel somewhat casual in her short black Armani dress.
“It’s kind of you to say so, my dear, but if I had your looks and your figure, I wouldn’t need to cover myself from head to toe with other distractions.”
Anna smiled, admiring the way Arabella had so quickly put her at ease.
“When do you think he’ll make a decision?” asked Arabella, trying not to sound desperate.
“Like all great collectors,” said Anna, “he’ll make up his mind within moments. A scientific survey has recently shown that men decide whether they want to sleep with a woman in about eight seconds.”
“That long?” said Arabella.
“Mr. Nakamura will take about the same time to decide if he wants to own this painting,” she said, looking directly at the Van Gogh.
“Let’s drink to that,” said Arabella.
Andrews stepped forward on cue, proffering a silver tray that held three glasses.
“A glass of champagne, madam?” he inquired.
“Thank you,” said Anna, removing a long-stemmed flute. When Andrews stepped back, her gaze fell on a turquoise and black vase that she had never seen before.
“It’s quite magnificent,” said Anna.
“Mr. Nakamura’s gift,” said Arabella. “Most embarrassing. By the way,” she added, “I do hope I haven’t committed a faux pas by putting it on display while Mr. Nakamura is still a guest in my home.” She paused. “If I have, Andrews can remove it immediately.”
“Certainly not,” said Anna. “Mr. Nakamura will be flattered that you have placed his gift among so many other maestros.”
“Are you sure?” asked Arabella.
“Oh yes. The piece survives, even shines in this room. There is only one certain rule when it comes to real talent,” said Anna. “Any form of art isn’t out of place as long as it’s displayed among its equals. The Raphael on the wall, the diamond necklace you are wearing, the Chippendale table on which you have placed the vase, the Nash fireplace, and the Van Gogh have all been created by masters. Now I have no idea who the craftsman was who made this piece,” continued Anna, still admiring the way the turquoise appeared to be running into the black, like a melting candle, “but I have no doubt that in his own country, he is considered a master.”
“Not exactly a master,” said a voice coming from behind them.
Arabella and Anna turned at the same time to see that Mr. Nakamura had entered the room. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and bow tie that Andrews would have approved of.
“Not a master?” queried Arabella.
“No,” said Nakamura. “In this country, you honor those who ‘achieve greatness,’ to quote your Bard, by making them knights or barons, whereas we in Japan reward such talent with the title ‘national treasure.’ It is appropriate that this piece has found a home in Wentworth Hall because, of the twelve great potters in history, the experts acknowledge that eleven have been Japanese, with the sole exception of a Cornishman, Bernard Leach. You failed to make him a lord or even give him a knighthood, so we declared him to be an honorary national treasure.”
“How immensely civilized,” said Arabella, “as I must confess that recently we have been giving honors to pop stars, footballers, and vulgar millionaires.” Nakamura laughed, as Andrews offered him a glass of champagne. “Are you a national treasure, Mr. Nakamura?” inquired Arabella.
“Certainly not,” replied Nakamura. “My countrymen do not consider vulgar millionaires worthy of such an honor.”
Arabella turned scarlet, while Anna continued to stare at the vase, as if she hadn’t heard the remark. “But am I not right in thinking, Mr. Nakamura, that this particular vase is not symmetrical?”
“Quite brilliant,” replied Nakamura. “You should have been a member of the diplomatic corps, Anna. Not only did you manage to deftly change the subject, but at the same time you raised a question that demands to be answered.”
Nakamura walked straight past the Van Gogh as if he hadn’t noticed it and looked at the vase for some time before he added, “If you ever come across a piece of pottery that is perfect, you can be confident that it was produced by a machine. With pottery, you must seek near perfection. If you look carefully enough, you will always find some slight blemish that serves to remind us that the piece was crafted by a human hand. The longer you have to search, the greater the craftsman, for it was only Giotto who was able to draw the perfect circle.”
“For me, it is perfection,” said Arabella. “I simply love it, and whatever Mr. Fenston manages to pry away from me du
ring the coming years, I shall never allow him to get his hands on my national treasure.”
“Perhaps it won’t be necessary for him to prize anything else away,” said Mr. Nakamura, turning to face the Van Gogh as if he’d seen it for the first time. Arabella held her breath while Anna studied the expression on Nakamura’s face. She couldn’t be sure.
Nakamura glanced at the picture for only a few seconds before he turned to Arabella and said, “There are times when it is a distinct advantage to be a vulgar millionaire, because although one may not aspire to being a national treasure oneself, it does allow one to indulge in collecting other people’s national treasures.”
Anna wanted to cheer but simply raised her glass. Mr. Nakamura returned the compliment, and they both turned to face Arabella. Tears were flooding down her cheeks.
“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.
“Not me,” said Nakamura, “Anna. Because without her courage and fortitude, this whole episode would not have been brought to such a worthwhile conclusion.”
“I agree,” said Arabella, “which is why I shall ask Andrews to return the self-portrait to Anna’s bedroom, so that she can be the last person to fully appreciate the painting before it begins its long journey to Japan.”
“How appropriate,” said Nakamura. “But if Anna were to become the CEO of my foundation, she could see it whenever she wished.”
Anna was about to respond when Andrews reentered the drawing room and announced, “Dinner is served, m’lady.”
“Would you like to go up front, Sasha?” Nina asked, once the captain had instructed the crew to take their seats and prepare for landing. “Then you can disembark immediately after the doors are opened.”
Krantz shook her head. “It’s my first visit to England,” she said nervously, “and I’d prefer to be with you and the rest of the crew.”
“Of course,” said Nina. “And: If you’d like to, you can also join us on the minibus.”
“Thank you,” said Krantz.
Krantz remained in her seat until the last passenger had left the aircraft. She then joined the crew as they disembarked and headed in the direction of the terminal. Krantz never left the chief stewardess’s side during the long walk down endless corridors, while Nina offered her opinion on everything from Putin to Rasputin.
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