Masterpiece

by Elise Broach

  “Yeah,” James said, satisfied. Marvin gulped, wondering how it was going to feel to copy a masterpiece. Or try to copy a masterpiece.

  Not long after Karl and James’s conversation, Christina appeared with Denny, who was carrying something wrapped in a large white cloth.

  Denny’s eyes sparkled. “Hello, friends,” he greeted them. “And now, what you’ve been waiting for . . .”

  He carefully removed the cloth and set Fortitude in the middle of the table.

  Marvin inched forward for a better look. He caught his breath.

  The lines were as strong and fine and lovely as he remembered. The girl gripped the lion fearlessly. The lion reared up in her arms.

  James’s voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “Is it worth a lot of money?”

  Christina nodded. “We paid close to seven hundred thousand dollars for Justice. Dürer’s Virtues date from the early 1500s, which makes them rare and even more valuable than most of the Old Master drawings.”

  Denny nodded, his fingers lingering on the drawing’s frame. “The Getty was very lucky to get this one. The small size. The excellent condition. The detail, which is truly exquisite. More than a thousand Dürer drawings survive, but his Virtues are in a class of their own.” He paused. “There’s a romance to them.”

  James looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Justice, for example. It’s a universal ideal. Civilizations depend on it. Wars are fought over it, and people die for it—or the lack of it.”

  Christina reached for the dusty volume of Dürer prints and thumbed through it quickly. “There’s a wonderful Plutarch quote. Do you know who that is, James? Philosopher and historian in ancient Greece.” She scanned the pages. “Here: Justice is the first of virtues, for unsupported by justice, valor is good for nothing; and if all men were just, there would be no need for valor.”

  “What’s valor?” asked James.

  “Bravery,” Karl said. “Courage.”

  “Or fortitude,” Denny added thoughtfully. “So Plutarch is saying: If everyone were fair, you wouldn’t need anyone to be brave.”

  Christina nodded. “The Greeks thought the four cardinal virtues were related to one another. It was impossible to master one without mastering all of them.”

  Denny smiled. “Now Nietzsche, on the other hand”—he turned to James—“famous German philosopher, thought the opposite. He believed the virtues were incompatible. He said you couldn’t be wise and brave, for instance.”

  Marvin crawled back under the shadow of James’s collar to contemplate this. It had been brave to show himself to James at the beginning of this whole adventure, after he had made the drawing. But it hadn’t been very wise, probably. He thought of Dürer’s four drawings: Justice, Fortitude, Temperance, Prudence. If you had to choose one virtue, which would be the most important? Was it better to be wise or brave? Reasonable or fair? Marvin decided that the answer to that question might depend on your situation.

  “Are you ready, James?” Denny asked. He raked his fingers through his gray hair and smiled encouragingly.

  “I guess,” James said. Marvin thought he didn’t sound ready at all. Karl walked around the table to stand next to him, studying the drawing.

  “Don’t worry, James,” Christina said. “It’s more important to be relaxed than to make an exact copy. The key to a good forgery is that sense of ease . . . making the lines smooth and fluid, not halting. Do you know what I mean?”

  She crouched next to James, and Marvin immediately scooted farther under the collar, remembering the last time she’d caught sight of him. He could smell her mild, soapy scent, and he noticed again how lovely she was, with her smooth cheeks and shining hair.

  Denny said softly, “Every drawing tells a story. It talks to you.”

  Together, they all gazed at Fortitude. Clutching the jacket fabric, Marvin noticed the tension in the girl’s sturdy body, the way the lion seemed to both lunge and recoil at the same time.

  A breathless hush settled over the room. The noise of rush-hour traffic on the street below seemed miles and miles away. Marvin felt as if they’d all been hypnotized.

  Finally, Denny spoke. “Dürer’s paintings can sometimes seem quite cold,” he commented, still transfixed. “But not his drawings. His drawings are full of humanity.”

  Christina paused. “But there’s always something held back. It’s almost as if he couldn’t bear to expose his tender imagination.”

  Marvin understood that feeling. It was as though, in his subjects, Dürer saw something unbearably fragile and beautiful, and he had to steel himself to protect it from the heartless world.

  After a minute, Christina turned back to James, her voice coaxing and gentle. “All right, James, take as long as you need. We’ll check back in an hour or so, okay? Here’s the brown ink.” She slid a small glass jar across the table and carefully positioned one of the manuscript pages next to it.

  “Oh, and let me clean off your pen. We can’t have any trace of your old ink on it.” She opened the flat case and lifted James’s pen from its snug resting spot, motioning Denny toward a bottle of clear fluid on her desk. “Denny, pass me that, will you?”

  Christina poured the solution onto a handkerchief and dabbed the metal nib of the fountain pen. Then she placed the pen back in its case, turning to James expectantly. “Okay?”

  Karl bent to hug him. “What do you say, buddy? All set?”

  “Yes,” James answered. This time, Marvin noticed, his voice didn’t waver at all.

  “Good man,” Denny declared.

  And with that, the three adults left the room.

  More Than a Copy

  When they were gone, James immediately tugged back his jacket cuff, looking for Marvin. When he didn’t see him, he checked under his collar. “There you are, little guy,” he said, relieved. “Do you think you can do it? The real drawing is right here. Look at it.” He plucked Marvin from his nylon perch and gingerly lowered him to the table.

  Marvin crawled over to the frame, climbing onto the glass of the original. He memorized the way the two figures leaned into each other, the shape they made on the page. He remembered what Karl and Christina had said of his earlier drawing, that the image was too squashed. He would do better this time.

  “Did you hear what Christina said about that guy Dürer?” James asked. “All that stuff about the way he drew? Maybe that will help you make your picture look more like his, you know?”

  He shook the jar of ink, then unscrewed the cap and set it down next to the blank paper. Inside was a glossy, mud-colored puddle, shot through with glints of reddish gold.

  Marvin took a deep breath. He crept to the edge of the cap. He plunged his front legs into the ink, then slowly backed over to the manuscript page and began to draw.

  It felt as if time stopped. Marvin was so focused on the work that he lost a sense of everything around him, including James. The walls of the room seemed to disappear. The table floated away. There was only the page and the ink and Fortitude.

  He worked quickly, making fluid, delicate strokes. The girl took shape before him, with her strong back, her muscular arms. The lion collided with her in a sinewy, angry mass.

  Marvin moved back and forth between the original and his own drawing, checking proportions and scrutinizing the smallest details: the lace trim of the girl’s gown, the plume of the lion’s tail. The center of the paper blossomed in a dense cross-hatching of fine brown lines.

  James said nothing, watching wide-eyed from inches away.

  Marvin drew and drew. His eyes burned from concentrating on the drawing, his legs ached.

  “It’s been an hour,” James whispered at one point. “They’ll be back soon.”

  Finally, exhausted, Marvin wiped off his front feet and collapsed on the edge of the paper to survey his work.

  “Oh!” James gasped.

  His face split in a huge, wondering grin. “You did it.”

  Marvin looked at his d
rawing. It was tiny and beautiful, bursting with energy and life. In every contour, in the least of its details, it was Fortitude.

  He knew in his heart that he could do no better. He hoped it would be good enough.

  There was a quiet knock at the door. “James?” They heard Christina in the hallway. James looked questioningly at Marvin. Marvin ran across the table and onto James’s wrist, ducking under his sleeve.

  “I’m—um, I’m finished,” James called.

  Christina, Denny, and Karl filed slowly into the room.

  They walked silently to the table and surrounded James, staring at Marvin’s drawing. For a moment, the room was so still it seemed frozen.

  Christina spoke first. “Do you know what Dürer said?” she asked, and Marvin could hear the emotion in her voice. “The treasure secretly gathered in your heart will become evident through your creative work.” She paused. “This drawing is beautiful, James. It’s more than a copy. You’ve made it Dürer’s, but also your own.”

  Beneath the jacket cuff, Marvin shuddered with joy.

  “It’s amazing,” Denny said, shaking his head. “Truly amazing. I wouldn’t have believed it possible if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  “Do you hear that, buddy?” Karl threw back his head and laughed, as if happiness were bubbling up inside of him and forcing its way out. “You’re wowing the experts now. I’d call this a masterpiece.”

  James blushed a deep, bright pink, biting his lip. He turned to Christina. “Do you think other people will believe it’s the real thing?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Christina said firmly. “I know so.”

  “So what do we do now?” Karl asked.

  “You don’t do anything,” Christina said, smiling at him. “But I have a great deal to do. I have to arrange for a burglary.”

  Karl’s eyes twinkled at James. “Something tells me a masterpiece is about to be stolen.”

  The Fight

  Christina said it would take at least a week to work out the details of the burglary. She’d cleared her plans with the museum’s director, the FBI’s stolen-art unit, and the New York City police—“That took some convincing, I can tell you,” she said—but there were still certain details to be resolved. Denny was working on getting clearance from the Getty, even though the real Fortitude wouldn’t be at risk.

  “Nothing will happen until next week at the earliest,” Christina told James as he and Karl prepared to leave. Marvin looked longingly at his finished drawing. What if he never saw it again?

  James appeared to be thinking the same thing. He turned to Karl and tugged his father’s shirt. “What if something goes wrong and we never get it back?” he asked.

  Karl looked at Christina. “Well . . .”

  “There’s always that danger,” she said soberly. She crouched next to James and took his hand. Her slender fingers were so close to Marvin that he could have reached out to touch one. Christina had beautiful hands, he thought: graceful but competent, the kind that seemed equally capable of painting a picture or wielding a hammer.

  “I’m sorry, James. I wish I could promise that your drawing will be safe, but I can’t.”

  James was quiet for a minute. “Then I want to come back and see it one more time,” he said finally.

  Marvin felt a wave of relief. Maybe he wouldn’t have to say good-bye to Fortitude just yet. Denny looked at James in surprise, but Christina nodded understandingly.

  “Of course. It will be here in my office till next week. Why don’t you come on Thursday or Friday?”

  “Can we, Dad? Please?”

  Karl hesitated. “I’ll have to ask your mother, James. It’s fine with me, but I don’t know what her plans are.”

  James bit his lip anxiously. “I hope we can come.”

  When they returned to the Pompadays’ apartment, Mr. Pompaday swung open the door before they could even knock.

  “Karl,” he said stiffly, nodding, then beckoned James inside. “Your mother’s waiting for you. She has something to tell you.” His voice crackled with excitement, which was such an unusual tone for Mr. Pompaday that Marvin emerged from James’s coat sleeve, wondering what could possibly have happened.

  “Oh,” James said, looking confused. “Dad wanted to ask her—”

  Karl shook his head at James slightly. “Another time, buddy. I’ll call her tomorrow.” He bent, and pulled James against him, kissing him warmly. “You did a great job today. A great job!”

  “Thanks,” James said shyly.

  Karl took the pen case out from under his arm and lifted the lid. “I’ll just clean off that brown ink for you—” He unseated the pen from its nesting place and stopped.

  Marvin froze. There was no brown ink on the pen, of course. The pen had never been dipped in Christina’s jar of ink.

  Why hadn’t they thought of that? Marvin groaned inside. It would have been so easy to do. Instead, the silver nib was shiningly free of ink, from Christina’s meticulous cleaning hours earlier.

  “Um, that’s okay,” James said quickly, grabbing the pen from Karl. “I already cleaned it off.”

  Karl looked at him strangely. “But how—”

  “When we were at the museum,” James said. He shoved the pen back in the box and slapped down the lid.

  Mr. Pompaday muttered impatiently, “Well, if that’s it, Karl, we’ll say good night. James’s mother—”

  “Sure,” Karl said, studying James with a questioning expression on his face. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, James.” He started to back away, then said quietly, “Love you, buddy.”

  “I love you, too, Dad,” James answered, not looking up.

  Mr. Pompaday closed the door with a thud and herded James toward the living room. There, in the soft glow of the lamplight, Mrs. Pompaday was perched on a chair near the mahogany card table, with Marvin’s first drawing—the little street scene—carefully positioned in front of her.

  “Oh, finally you’re back!” she cried, clapping her hands like cymbals. “James, the most wonderful thing! I invited the Mortons over today to see your cunning little drawing, and what do you think? They want to BUY it!”

  James’s eyes widened. “Really?” he asked.

  She rushed forward and grabbed James’s arm, pulling him to the table. “How much do you think they’ll pay, James? How much?”

  But you won’t sell it, right? Marvin thought. I made that for you.

  James stared at the drawing. “They’ll pay money for it?”

  “I did tell them I’d have to check with you. But James, this could be your first sale as an artist! A real artist! Think of that.”

  “You’ll be making more than that father of yours in no time,” Mr. Pompaday added, chuckling. “Never thought of art as a lucrative profession, myself, but you just may be onto something with these little pictures of yours.”

  Marvin crept forward, trying to see James’s face. It was a birthday present, he thought.

  James blushed, his eyes reflecting his parents’ eager joy. “How much?” he asked.

  “Oh, I want you to guess!” his mother crowed. “No, never mind, you’ll never be able to guess. It’s too much. . . . FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS.”

  She clapped her hands again at James’s shocked expression. “I know, I know! I would never have put such a price on it myself, but it turns out they’ve been looking for a miniature for their downstairs powder room, and this is perfect.”

  For their powder room? Marvin turned to James in disbelief. Say no, he thought. Say you won’t sell it.

  But James smiled—a wide, slow smile of amazement—and said, “Four thousand dollars! That’s awesome! Nobody at school will ever believe it!”

  “Then I’ll tell them yes?” When James nodded, Mrs. Pompaday snatched him against her in a bracelet-jangling hug. “Oh, James! I’m so proud of you. Look what you’ve made of yourself.”

  Marvin inched back under James’s jacket cuff in disgust. Humans! Money was the only thing that
mattered to them. Not beauty. Not friendship.

  Through the dense fabric, he could hear the Pompadays’ muffled voices: Mr. Pompaday still chortling over the Mortons’ offer, Mrs. Pompaday now urging James to take off his jacket and come into the kitchen for supper.

  “I have to put my stuff away,” James said. He walked down the hall to his bedroom, closing the door behind him. Immediately, he peeled off his jacket and searched his arm for Marvin.

  Marvin couldn’t bear to look at him. As soon as James lifted his wrist, Marvin crawled to the underside. When James turned his arm over, Marvin crawled to the other side again, out of sight.

  “What’s wrong with you?” James asked. “Do you want to get down?” He rested his hand on the desktop, and Marvin immediately scurried across it, heading toward the wall.

  “Hey! Where are you going, little guy?” James dropped his hand in front of Marvin, blocking the way. “Do you need to go home? I can take you, like I did last time. It’ll be much faster. Climb up.”

  Furious, Marvin veered around the boy’s outstretched palm and continued toward the wall. He wanted nothing to do with James.

  “What is it?” James persisted. “What’s the matter?” This time he settled his hand gently over Marvin and scooped him up, bringing him close to his face. He looked at him with troubled gray eyes.

  By now, Marvin was seething, not just at James’s heartless sale of his drawing, but at the indignity of being so easily thwarted when he was trying to leave in a huff. He turned his rear end toward James, gathered his legs beneath him, and sank into a small immobile black mound. (This play-dead maneuver was a common beetle strategy in the face of imminent danger. Marvin had never used it before to show his anger, but he was beginning to realize that communication with humans required a large measure of creativity.)

  “You’re mad at me,” James said.

  Marvin didn’t move.

  “But why?” James seemed genuinely bewildered. “Everything was fine at the museum. You were so great. You were amazing. The way you copied that drawing . . . you’re like a genius beetle, do you know that?”