by Samuel Fort
Chapter 54: The Museum
He sipped his champagne as he studied the painting, trying to remember where he’d seen it before. Did he own a copy?
His meditations were interrupted by a voice to his right.
“Ben? Ben Mitchell, is that you?”
He turned. Walking toward him was an old man in tuxedo with a yellow silk pocket square. There were some kind of exotic embroidery on the square that looked oddly familiar. The man looked familiar, too.
He smiled. “Yes. I’m sorry, I can’t quite place-”
“Ridley,” said the man, extending his hand. “I’m a friend of Lilian.”
They shook. Ben said, “That name seems familiar. Have we met?”
“Perhaps at another charity event.”
“Ah.”
When the newcomer didn’t offer any further conversation, Ben cleared his throat and said, “So, Ridley, what do you do?”
“Oh, a little of this, a little of that. I spent most of my life as a script writer.”
“Really! Anything I’d know?”
Ridley seemed embarrassed. “Oh, it’s mostly reality stuff.”
Ben frowned. He could understand the other man’s reticence. “I always suspected those shows were scripted,” he said, trying to disguise his distaste. “Do you do any directing?”
“Rarely,” said the man shaking his head. “I really good script doesn’t require a director.”
“Ha! I imagine most directors would disagree.”
“They would. But my opinion is that a director can get in the way of a really good script. No, the more important thing, ultimately, is casting. Cast the right players for the right script, and the direction takes care of itself. Sometimes you just have to give the actors a nudge. That’s all.”
“I see,” said Ben. He didn’t know the first thing about any of it.
“Do you like it?” asked Ridley, nodding toward the painting that Ben had been examining.
“I do. Are you familiar with it?”
“Oh yes. Tower of Babel. It was painted by Pieter Bruegel the Elder around the year 1565. There’s a similar painting by the same artist in Vienna. This one was only found recently.”
Ben looked at the man. “Found?”
“Yes. There is an old hotel near Denver. In the mountains. It’s been deserted for a long time. The thing was falling apart, but someone decided to renovate it recently. They found this in a storeroom beneath a yellow cloth.”
“Amazing,” said Ben, shaking his head. “This was just sitting in an abandoned hotel?”
The old man nodded. “Abandoned, yes.”
Turning back to the painting, Ben said, “It never ceases to amaze me. I mean, the things people find hidden away in attics or in old family chests. I don’t understand how that happens. Someone, somewhere, owned this painting. Why would they just leave it behind?”
The other man shrugged. “Perhaps the rightful owner didn’t know its true value.”
“He – or she - could have had it appraised.”
“Perhaps the owner thought it was a reproduction.”
Ben shook his head. “No, look at the brush strokes. How could this be mistaken for a reproduction?”
“Oh, I don’t know. There are different types of fakes. This isn’t a lithograph, of course. But there are plenty of starving artists who paint reproductions. There always have been.”
Ben grunted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
The old man took a step closer. “In theory, the brush strokes on a copy could be identical to those on the original painting. Tell me, if that were possible, if the brush strokes were identical, and the paint, and the canvas, what would truly separate the original painting from the copy? What would make the original better, if they were absolutely identical?”
Ben pushed out his lower lip and swayed back and forth. “The painter,” he said at last. “The only thing that would separate them would be the painter. One was done by the real master, the other by a forger, or the starving artist, what have you.”
“Even if the paintings are identical? Even, say, at the atomic level?”
“Only one is real.”
Ridley nodded. “Yes, in the end, it’s the painter that matters. It was his vision, after all.”
Ben considered this, shrugged, and nodded.
The old man pivoted and studied the event’s many attendees. “Look at this crowd. All the magnificent dresses and suits, the smiles and handshakes, the jewelry and expensive watches. Would you say all this is real?”
Ben looked in the same direction. “The people are real enough. Their personalities are as fake as a three-dollar bill, though.”
“Oh?”
“Sure. They’re filthy rich. Same as us, I guess. They put on a show, pretending to be smarter or nicer or more cultured than they really are. But you never know what’s really going on in their heads.”
“I do,” said the old man.
“Do you, now? Well, you’ve probably been around the block a few times more than I have. No offense. I married into money. Or rather, married, and then inherited a load from my wife’s father. Basically the same thing. My point is that being rich is rather new to me.”
“Money is overrated, isn’t it?”
“I some ways, yeah. But don’t hold back, Mr. Ridley. You know these people better than me. The rich. What’s going on inside their heads?”
Ridley gave a sad smile. “Nothing.”
Ben laughed. “Yeah. I hear you.”
“No, Ben. I mean nothing at all. They aren’t sentient. They’re airheads. Just like your wife.”
Ben spun toward the man, his amusement turning to anger. “What did you just say about my wife?”
Ridley looked at him.
Ben postured aggressively, moving closer to the man. Ridley didn’t flinch. Unwilling to actually slug a man of such advanced years, Ben leaned toward him and said, “You’d be smart to watch what you say, Mr. Ridley. That attitude might be acceptable in Hollywood, but here-”
“Ben, listen to me.”
“What?” Ben took a step back. He looked around, suddenly hopeful, the hint of a smile on his lips. He surveyed the room, as if searching for something. When he faced Ridley again, he said, “Did Lilian put you up to his? Is this a gag? Am I being tricked?”
Ridley sighed and nodded. “Yes, you are.”