“And you live there with your boyfriend, Jacob Dekker?”
“Yes, how did you know that?”
“We got in touch with Jacob after you were admitted to the hospital. It took us a day to find him because, according to the landlord, you are not officially renting the apartment, a woman named Renee de Vries is. She gave us your names.”
Zelda swore under her breath. She had promised Renee that she would not get in touch with the landlord under any circumstances. Technically, Renee wasn’t allowed to sub-rent her studio for more than three months at a time and didn’t want him to know about Zelda’s year-long lease. She hoped there wouldn’t be repercussions for the young artist or herself. She loved that apartment.
“Jacob returned from Cologne yesterday,” Officer Vos added. “The nurse tells me he was here all night and only left to go home to sleep about an hour before you woke up.”
Zelda felt tears welling up in her eyes. Jacob came back as soon as he heard. She couldn’t wait to see him.
She started to pick up the phone next to her bed when Officer Vos said, “You can call him in a minute. We are almost done.”
Officer Landhuis took back the lead. “So you found your neighbor in the elevator and rode up with her to the fifth floor. Then what?”
“I carried her to her apartment and laid her out on her couch.” Zelda’s voice was more assured now. Simply knowing Jacob was here was such a relief. And talking about that night was bringing it all back. “Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t all there if you know what I mean. She asked for an insulin pen. I went to her kitchen and got her one out of the refrigerator. She shot up and sort of fell back onto the couch in a trance. I sat next to her for a few minutes. I thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she asked for orange juice. I went to the kitchen and poured a glass for her.”
Zelda hesitated, momentarily not trusting her memories. “There was something odd. I noticed it when I walked back to the living room.” She stopped talking and frowned. What was it again that caught her attention? She closed her eyes and willed her thoughts to clear.
The officers waited patiently for a moment, then the woman asked, “Zelda, what was unusual? Was it a photograph? Or a letter? Was someone else there, perhaps hiding in the room?”
“Wait! It was a painting. No, two paintings that were the same—that was it.”
“She had two pictures hanging on her wall that were similar?” Officer Vos asked in confirmation.
Zelda blushed. Her memories were all jumbled together and she didn’t know if she trusted them or not. “I know it’s not odd that she was painting, I mean, she is an artist. It was the paintings themselves. They were identical. Or almost.”
Vos nodded encouragingly. “Okay. So she was making two versions of the same painting. Do you know if she was preparing for an exhibition?” Her tone made clear she didn’t find Zelda’s observation strange or out of place, especially in an artist’s studio space.
“You’re going to think I am crazy, but the paintings looked just like Jackson Pollock’s Study Number 5. It was stolen from the Amstel Modern last week. That’s why they caught my eye.”
After a long pause, Officer Landhuis asked, “Are you saying that your neighbor was painting two copies of a painting that was stolen from an exhibition at the Amstel Modern?”
“No! Listen to me.” Zelda’s head felt as if it were about to burst. “There were two copies of the Pollock in her living room. The one hanging on her wall was finished and perfect. The second one, the painting on her easel, was almost finished. It was like she was making a copy of the one hanging on the wall, the original Pollock.”
Both officers looked up at Zelda in surprise. “So let me get this straight. You think you saw a painting stolen from your employer in your neighbor’s studio. And that she was making a copy of it?” Landhuis asked.
“Yes! I mean, no.” Zelda realized she was accusing Gabriella of stealing and forging a Pollock and wanted to backtrack before she got her friend into real trouble. She still didn’t know what Gabriella was doing or why the original Pollock was in her living room. “Yes, I saw two paintings that seemed quite similar to the one that was stolen, but I don’t know for certain either was actually painted by Pollock. I didn’t have a chance to examine them thoroughly, and I’m not an expert. Why would they be? I mean, Gabriella is a successful artist in her own right.”
The officers both seemed puzzled by her change in attitude. “Do you believe Gabriella was involved with the Amstel Modern robbery?” Landhuis asked.
“God, no. She’s as apolitical as they come. I doubt she would ever take part in a protest action.”
“Why do you think the theft was a protest action?”
“I thought that’s what the news was saying, that the Robber Hood gang are trying to get museums to secure their collections better? At least, that’s what my coworkers think.”
Both officers stared at her, expressionless. Officer Vos finally asked, “Ah, yes, your coworkers. We understand you were one of the research assistants for the exhibition that just opened in the Amstel Modern. And that you were responsible for writing the texts about the American modernists, including the stolen Pollock. Is that correct?”
“Yes,” Zelda responded, unsure why they were asking about her work.
“And in the course of your research, did you look at the Pollock often?”
“Of course! I helped write the text boards and biographies of all the American artists in the Conversations exhibition. I guess I got to know all the artwork fairly well.”
The officers exchanged cryptic glances before Vos said, “Zelda, your doctors warned us your memories would be unreliable. I believe you did see two paintings similar to one stolen from your employer, but unless we have reason to believe Gabriella is an art thief or forger, I think we should set this aside for now. Why don’t we talk about the Pollocks again once your memory has improved? We’re here today because we want to find the person who hurt you. Can you tell us what happened after you brought Gabriella her insulin pen?”
Zelda glared at Officer Vos, wishing she wouldn’t use such a condescending tone. As much as she wanted to argue with the officers and make them understand why they should take her seriously, she wasn’t entirely certain she believed it herself. Gabriella’s paintings were often colorful and loose, so what if her shattered memory intertwined the Pollock, robbery, and her attack? But why did she want to call the police? A stab of pain overwhelmed her, almost as if her brain was telling her to take a break from thinking. Zelda shut her eyes tightly until it subsided.
“Zelda, can you tell us what happened next? Or should we come back tomorrow?” Officer Landhuis asked.
“No, it’s fine. Let’s get this over with.” Zelda took a deep breath and concentrated on that fateful night. “I brought Gabriella the orange juice and helped her drink it. She seemed to feel a bit better. Then she wanted a chocolate bar. After I got her one, I used the bathroom. When I was inside, a man knocked on Gabriella’s door and entered her apartment. I heard him walk into the living room, and he started yelling, which I assumed was because Gabriella was passed out on the couch.”
“What did he say, Zelda?”
“I don’t know. He wasn’t speaking in English. I think it was Croatian.”
“Okay, then what?”
“When I opened the bathroom door, I saw an older man with bushy white hair standing there, swinging something at my head. The next thing I know, I’m here.”
“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
“I guess so? I mean, I remember his eyes. They were a dark brown. And his hair was long. And white.”
The officers asked a few more questions, but Zelda couldn’t remember much more and got frustrated.
Officer Vos finally said, “I think you need to rest now. When you feel better, give us a call, and we can talk more.” When she pulled out a business card, Zelda grabbed her arm.
“Wait, how did you find me?”
“Emergency services received an anonymous call that a woman in Gabriella’s apartment needed medical attention. Gabriella’s door was partially open when the first responders arrived. The trail of blood indicated you had been attacked in the bathroom, just as you remember, then dragged through the living room and into the kitchen, presumably out of the assailant’s way,” Officer Landhuis stated matter-of-factly.
Zelda could feel her stomach convulsing. Doctor Maring, who was standing in one corner listening, rushed forward with a garbage can. Zelda threw up bile, retching horribly as she thought of the trail of blood her body had left behind.
“I think you should go now, officers,” the doctor said, nodding toward the door.
“No, wait…” Zelda tried sitting up. The sudden movement made her howl. “Please, what if he comes back? What should I do if he visits Gabriella again?”
“I don’t think you will be seeing either one of them anytime soon.”
“Why not?” Zelda asked, fearing the worst. “Did he hurt Gabriella, too?”
“We don’t know. Gabriella vanished along with all her personal effects and artwork. The only thing left inside her apartment was you.”
22 What Day Is It?
September 5, 2018
Zelda hugged Jacob as hard as she could. Deep in her heart, she already knew she was important to him, but the fact he had rushed back from Cologne to be by her side made her feel so loved that she was afraid her heart might burst.
When she released her grip, Jacob stroked her cheek. “Oh, Zelda, I am so glad you are going to be okay. I was so worried. The doctors didn’t know what to think…” He looked away and wiped away a tear before adding in a whisper, “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m not planning on leaving you anytime soon.” Since regaining consciousness four days earlier, each reunion was an emotional affair. They kissed again so passionately neither heard the nurse enter.
“Okay, lovebirds, break it up. It’s time for Zelda’s breakfast.”
The nurse brought a tray of runny scrambled eggs, a banana, and yogurt over to her. “Do you want one, too?” she asked Jacob, grinning widely.
He took a look at the plate and grimaced. “No, I think I’ll pass. Thanks,” he said, then winked at the nurse. He’d gotten to know the hospital staff pretty well this past week, perhaps better than Zelda had.
After the nurse left, he pulled a chair close to Zelda’s bed. He watched her eat for a moment, then folded his hands into a steeple under his chin. He did that whenever he was afraid to tell her something. Zelda set her fork down.
“My boss called again.” He looked up at her expectantly, obviously wondering if she was going to freak out or not.
“Oh, I didn’t know he’d been calling you. Is everything okay?” Zelda kept her tone level.
“Yeah, it’s just I have an important project meeting Friday afternoon that he doesn’t want me to miss. I’m supposed to be presenting the last three months of research and my preliminary findings to the grant committee,” Jacob said apologetically.
“What day is it today?”
“Wednesday.”
“Oh, darling, you have to go. Please. I would feel terrible if your project didn’t get its full funding.”
“Really?” Jacob cocked his head and squinted his eyes.
“Of course!” Zelda laughed and touched his arm. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Jacob considered her words. “I could get the night train Friday night and be back early Saturday morning. I’ll ask the doctor what she thinks. I want to be here when you’re released.”
“I can’t sit up without my head exploding. Trust me. I’ll still be here Saturday. Besides, the bigwigs might want you to wine and dine them. Don’t rush back here on my account. Securing your funding is more important.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
“I am!” She took his hand and kissed it. “Now go call your boss.”
Jacob seemed so relieved. She loved him so much, and she would hate to hold him back from doing what he enjoyed most. And considering how long it had taken him to find this job, she would never forgive herself if he lost it because of her.
He pulled out his phone and stood up. “I’ll book a train ticket for the morning. But first, I’ll call my boss. He will be so glad to hear that I’ll be back in time for the meeting.” He kissed her eyebrow and nuzzled her nose with his. “Be right back.”
As soon as he left, she lay back in bed and closed her eyes, no longer interested in her meal.
23 Practice Makes Perfect
September 7, 2018
Gabriella practiced sweeping her hand loosely across the canvas twice before picking up a wide brush and plunging it into the black oil paint. With one fluid motion, she swiped the hairs against her work in progress, pulling the brush swiftly down then up again. It left behind just enough paint to create the swirl she wanted without it being too dense to see the underlying layers.
Gabriella stepped back and eyed her work critically as she compared it to the original Alexander Calder hanging on the wall in front of her. The sketch was a dance of yellow squiggles, blue dots, red dashes, and black swirls. Her first swirl was perfect. Only fifteen more to go.
Calder’s Study Number 9 was as fluid as his kinetic sculptures. He didn’t restrict his movements or try to make each shape precisely the same. That was what she felt when she looked at the original and knew her copy needed to convey the same emotion. It was far more difficult to replicate spontaneity than precision. Luckily, she loved a challenge.
After practicing how to recreate the impulsiveness the piece breathed, it had taken her a day to copy this Calder. She used a hairdryer between layers to dry the paint rapidly and force it to form craquelure, microscopic cracks on the paint’s surface that occur naturally over time.
The black swirls—sixteen giant curlicues spread randomly across the canvas—were the last layer. At least, Calder’s version was random. Before painting the next swirl, Gabriella used a ruler to check the distance between each of the black shapes to ensure her copy was as accurate as could be. She knew Calder didn’t sketch out his ideas on the canvas in pencil first but painted according to feeling and emotion. It was so tempting to save time by penciling in all the black curls at once, but she didn’t want her copy to get tripped up by something as silly as a pencil mark showing through. To any art expert familiar with his loose style, that would be a dead giveaway that they were looking at a forgery.
She dipped her brush into the black paint for the second time just as the doorbell rang. She looked up at the clock hanging over the door. Right on time, she thought.
Moments later, Ivan Novak entered, carrying a large cardboard box. “Hello, my dear. I come bearing gifts,” he said cheerily before kissing her on the cheeks. He set the box of paints down then studied her critically. Gabriella knew he was still worried about her health. And perhaps rightfully so because when she was working on a strict deadline, she had a bad habit of losing track of time. When she was in a creative surge, it wasn’t unusual for her to work for thirty-six hours without a break. Her diabetes always flared up when she was in one of these moods. And locked up in this studio made it even more difficult to remember to stop and eat food as a normal person would.
That was why Ivan asked Anthony to stay with her in Maastricht and assist her with the copies. He was two years younger than her twenty-four years yet almost as talented. She figured working together, they would be able to copy all four pieces before Ivan’s deadline. It was also reassuring to know someone was keeping an eye on her.
Since bringing them down to Maastricht, a thriving city on the Netherlands’ southern border with Germany and Belgium, Ivan had made a point of stopping by every two days. He claimed it was to check on their progress, but Gabriella knew her insulin dip rattled him, and he didn’t trust Anthony completely to take care of her. Ivan had always treated her more like a daughter than
an employee. Considering the terrible shape she was in, Gabriella was grateful for his extra attention even though she knew it meant he spent several hours on the road just to visit her. He’d taken them to one of his studios in Maastricht because it was pretty much as far away as you could get from Amsterdam and still be in the country. The last thing either one of them needed right now was for the police to find her. As soon as they did, they would want to question her extensively. And their deadline was looming. She didn’t have time to sit in a police station. Once they finish the paintings and Ivan moves them to his warehouse, they would think up a plausible story, and she would go to the police herself.
Right now, the police didn’t worry her too much, but Zelda’s condition did. The American was her only non-artist friend, and truth be told, Gabriella enjoyed hanging out with someone she wasn’t in competition with. The stained-glass windows Zelda made were lovely but not interesting or unique enough to be sold in art galleries. To Gabriella’s amazement, that didn’t seem to bother the American. She seemed to enjoy working with glass for the simple pleasure of creating something. Gabriella missed those days and the joy she once felt when turning a blank canvas into a work of art. Nowadays, a finished painting only brought thoughts of euros to mind.
“I’m glad to see this is full,” Ivan called out from the kitchen. Gabriella reckoned he was examining the pantry and refrigerator. “How are you feeling?”
She didn’t need to look at Ivan to know how concerned he was. She could hear it in his voice. “I’m fine, really. Anthony started setting a timer for meals, as you suggested, and we make a point of eating something substantial whenever it goes off. My energy level has balanced out, and I’m able to work through the night without feeling any side effects.”
“Hmm, I’m glad you are eating better, but you should still get a good night’s rest. Do we need to set a timer for bed as well?” Ivan smiled as he spoke, but Gabriella knew he wasn’t joking. “I’ll let Anthony know. Speaking of which, where is he?”
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