“We do,” Richard talks on, oblivious to it all. “For instance, sometimes clients don’t want the market to know they’re selling. They want it kept quiet for all sorts of reasons. Business problems, taxes, ex-spouses.” He glances at her sidewise and permits himself a fleeting smile. “So they’ll call us and ask us if we have a buyer for an x or a y or a z. Which we pretty much always do.”
They arrive at the main receiving dock, and there he swiftly matches the scrawled labels on two monster pine cases to his sheaf of paperwork, then hails one of the scores of nearby art handlers and tells him to take the containers to Old Masters’ reception area – it’s humidified there, he tells Fernanda – and uncrate them both.
“So, Fernanda.” Richard turns to her. “This is your job. Basically, before any new pictures are brought upstairs you’ll need to make sure they haven’t been damaged in transit or anything appalling like that.” He widens his eyes in mock-horror. “If everything’s all right, you’ll measure them, describe them completely on this inventory sheet” – he hands her his clipboard – “adding in whatever information relates to conditional problems – you know, scratches, tears, things like that – plus the eventual date of sale. After that, you’ll take six photos. Fronts and backs: three of each. And that’s all there is to your job. We’ll come down to have a look eventually. Which is when my work begins.”
She can see the prospect thrills him. Rather the way the Madonna and Child someone has just carried by has affected her.
So what does she think? That there may be far too many babies here.
Which will be distracting for a while. And hard.
But still, to be here every day.
At her age. At all.
She sees Richard’s happy face. It’s a mirror of her own.
“Show me where to start.”
A mere six weeks later, Fernanda is startled and delighted to learn that she’s been promoted. She’s a junior cataloguer now, like Richard, because her predecessor, he’s confided, a retiring young woman with a Master’s in art history from Yale and a distant relationship to the editor of Vanity Fair, has suffered what Frannie’s generation would have called – in a whisper – a nervous breakdown.
For a bit, she’s a little guilt-ridden about that. Here she is, taking over the poor girl’s desk (a larger desk, too!) answering her phone, reading her emails. But then, this new position is so much more challenging than her, granted, brief, apprenticeship as a measurer of pictures and tracker-down of shipping receipts. She whispers an apology to the poor young woman and struggles to ignore the guilt.
But there is another unsettling thing.
On those days when she needs to go to the hushed and airless confines of the Frick art reference library for research – but only at the Frick – she repeatedly comes across these horrifying pictures of Hell. Grinning monstrosities with multiple heads. Serfs being roasted alive. Severed legs in curly-toed shoes protruding like carrots from scalding iron pots. Even worse, she comes upon them in the strangest ways. She’ll have requested a folder on Fragonard, for instance, and the wrong one will be delivered to her table – a wrong folder full of malformed hellishness, and nothing like Fragonard. Or she’ll be flipping through some otherwise innocent and fascinating Netherlandish catalogue, and there, in among its pages like a spider, will be a nightmarish Bosch.
And yet, her job is so exciting. For instance, her promotion allows her to sit in on the weekly meetings with Richard, Courtney, Christina Kim, and Peregrine and the rest of the department’s upper echelon: the inner group that reviews new consignments and touches, in its meeting, on things like quality and condition and the selection of appropriate restorers – different ones for different eras, and even for particular artists, it seems. Who knew, Fernanda thinks? This is where they revise initial estimates, discussing them endlessly, with careful compromises being made between low-to-realistic ballparks for buyers, and bank-account-fattening ballparks for sellers. It’s where Peregrine Middleditch, her “boss” (a preening Englishman and Berger’s longtime senior specialist in Old Masters) encourages his colleagues to comment on the works that will comprise their upcoming sales. It’s a discussion that sometimes leads to strident, scholarly clashes that echo up and down the decorous halls. This is when long-dead authorities like Berenson, Knoedler, Duveen, Cortissoz, and Newhouse are regularly invoked by the young Franco Corsini, their expert in Quattrocento painting or by Jacques Lacombe, who knows French 18th-century painters considerably better than he knows the English language. Hanne Hein, Berger’s expert in Netherlandish pictures, whose specialty is still lifes and whose subspecialty is withering sarcasm inevitably has something to say, and the upshot of it all is that Fernanda has had to become fully conversant with Google. (She Googled “The Hair House, St. Louis” one day. It wasn’t listed. And once, she Googled “handsome single men”.)
With a consensus arrived at, bruised egos can subside into the business of separating their salable wheat from the less-salable chaff. The chaff – nice, but commonplace – goes straight to less-important sale dates, while the big-money wheat gets lots of additional research, meaning, more often than not, that Fernanda has to go to the Met, or increasingly uneasily, back to the Frick.
Old Masters are seldom signed, Fernanda has learned, which makes both her research and authentication really critical. Much to her surprise, outside experts are regularly invited to offer their opinions on questionable works. (Well, then, she sometimes wonders, are Berger’s experts really experts?)
One of her thornier jobs is the summarizing of each meeting, an onerous chore that not only involves the careful elision of personal insults and f-words from the minutes, but also the contacting of scholars, dealers, and potential buyers to arrange for things like private viewings. She’s mainly a secretary. Yes, she knows that, Fernanda tells Stanley. But it’s so much better than being a receptionist (she smiles a private smile) and really, the job is so exciting. She feels herself becoming smarter day by day.
Although there is one Old Masters bit she find hard to absorb: that a painting can be very, very old – four hundred-plus years old, maybe – and not be valuable at all.
Fernanda had always assumed that age, by itself, was enough. But Richard has explained – and Courtney has, too – that there’s so much more mediocre and bad art out there, much more than good art. Let alone excellent art. It was as true in the Renaissance era as it is today. It’s a difficult concept to get used to.
That age means nothing?
Except in women.
Every day at work now, she looks at scores of emails with photos of paintings attached; paintings people have purchased or inherited and want Berger’s to appraise; paintings they hope to sell. Some, she learns from Richard or Christina or online, are out-and-out fakes – the original is hanging in the Louvre – so these she can confidently dismiss with the polite boilerplate the department calls the “kiss-off” letter. Others are too poorly photographed, or aren’t accompanied by enough information, or by any at all, and to these she replies with “the other letter”, the one requesting additional material.
A few of these images have excited Fernanda enough that she’s brought them to the attention of a senior cataloguer, where, more often than not, it’s been nicely explained that her “masterpiece” is one of many known copies. Or it’s been on the market too recently to resell. Or even, in one instance, that it’s the work of an infamous forger. Of the three thousand known paintings by Corot, she’s been told, ten thousand are in the United States. And that’s just Corot, who painted in the relatively recent nineteenth century. Imagine (as the endlessly-patient Courtney has made clear) imagine how many fakes are out there from the sixteenth century. Or the seventeenth. She finds it all truly humbling. After such “teaching moments”, Fernanda has often drooped back to her desk and meekly reapplied herself to the challenge of distilling, from the hundreds of reference books at Berger’s and from the pixels of grainy, poorly focused attachments, which –
if any – of these thousands of submissions is salable, let alone valuable. Most especially, which of these won’t leave her standing, hot with embarrassment, at the desk of the Quattrocento expert or the Holbein woman.
So it isn’t all that long, actually, before she begins to think she’s developing the tiniest “eye” for the none-too-fine line dividing the good from the ghastly. Mainly because it’s too damned awful to be pitied for trying to explain why an obvious reproduction seemed so incredibly convincing on a computer screen.
And, of course, she’s come to hate the Frick. Hell is living in its stacks, and it isn’t that Fernanda is afraid to see those Hells so much as that, shamefully, they fascinate her: the teeth, the claws, the body parts, the roasting flesh, the savage, jolly, evil of it all. They’ve been infesting her dreams and unnerving her, when she’s been trying to ignore, for just a bit, her bargain and the passage of weeks. This is why, perhaps a little too often, she asks the gofer in her old job to go there in her stead. Or she looks online, if she can. A newbie might miss something, however, and Fernanda worries about that, because if a Berger’s catalogue description states a picture’s by a 17th-century master and it’s been poorly researched, well … there would be serious questions. Major paintings lacking a history – even spectacular paintings (especially spectacular paintings) – trail dubiousness behind them like the slime of those many Netherlandish still-life snails. There are dealers and consultants who, for a fee, are more than willing to challenge a work’s authenticity. And Fernanda Turner would be to blame. For the first time, Fernanda appreciates the miracle of her own rediscovered Poussin.
One evening after work and a helpful espresso at a coffee bar, Fernanda asks Marcia over to her new apartment.
“Wow, this is an awesome place,” she enthuses, racing to the living- room window. “What an awesome view!”
Fernanda engulfs her in a hug.
“I know. I know. I’m still getting used to it. But I’m so happy to see you here.” She hangs up Marcia’s jacket. “I hope you don’t mind. I’ve invited a woman from work to come over tonight, too. I’m turning a page, I’ve decided, and I may need a whole lot of help.”
“Oh, no. I don’t mind at all.” Marcia beams. “That’s just great. And you know I love meeting new people. That’s how you and I became friends, after all.”
Fernanda drops into a chair so that Marcia doesn’t have to crane her neck just to talk. It’s touching to her that Marcia thinks of her as a friend. Given her freakish situation, Fernanda can’t be real friends with anyone, because real friendship – the kind that involves feelings and secrets, the kind that builds permanent ties – can’t be a part of this life. It’s so hard.
“And what a lucky day that was for me,” she replies, taking her ‘friend’s’ childlike hand. “Oh, wait. There’s the bell. That must be Courtney.”
She opens the door, not to the auction-house executive this evening, but to the ex-suburban housewife in her jeans, leather jacket, and an offhand silk scarf.
“What a fantastic place!” Courtney exclaims. “I don’t know anyone in real life – anyone other than clients, I mean – who actually lives in a penthouse.”
“Well, I have you to thank for it, Court.”
“Oh, I think not!” Courtney laughs, and turns to see Marcia returning from the bedroom with one of Fernanda’s own scarves around her neck.
“Marcia Welliver, my ex-neighbor, meet Courtney Bamber, a great friend from Berger’s.”
“Hi Courtney. I love your scarf,” Marcia says. “Can I borrow this, Fernanda? I have a date tomorrow night and it would be so perfect with my new black jacket.”
“Everything I have is yours,” Fernanda laughs. “Except my shoes. You know they wouldn’t fit.”
“But listen. While I was in the bedroom, I couldn’t help noticing that picture on your dresser.”
Her smile fades.
“What picture, Marcia?”
“That couple in the sixties’ clothes? They’re adorable, especially the woman. I thought she looked a little bit like you!”
“Well, no wonder,” she says easily. “That’s my mother. They’re my parents, actually.”
She’s become such a good liar.
“Your father was kind of cute.”
“Yes, he was. Once.”
“Ooh, let me have a look, too!” Courtney disappears into the bedroom.
“What a fabulous bedroom. Look at your closet space,” she calls back. And this bathroom.” They hear doors open and close, then there’s a silence. “You know, Marcia,” she calls out, “you must be gifted with special powers. I never would have seen the resemblance between Fernanda and her mom. This woman is so much smaller, and … more matronly,” she adds tactfully. “But still, there’s something around the eyes. Something … wounded, sort of? I don’t know.”
“Genes are mysterious, aren’t they?” Fernanda busily uncorks some wine.
“For sure,” Courtney says, emerging from the bedroom. “Your dad is cute, though.”
“I know. My girlfriends always said so.”
“But what a spectacular place this is. Congratulations! And wait! I have to see your view.”
They move together to the window as Fernanda exhales in relief. She’s got to put that picture away.
“Listen, ladies,” she says, handing each one a glass and motioning them over to the sofa as she drapes herself over a club chair. “You know that I’m new to the city, and I guess you know by now that like every other single woman here, I’m looking for a man. Seriously looking. For a soulmate, actually. Although aren’t we all?” Fernanda sips her wine.
“I kind of disagree, Fernanda,” Marcia says. “I’m not.”
“You’re not?” Fernanda is taken aback. She had assumed that if anyone shared the plight she’d just described, it would be Marcia.
“You’re not?” says Courtney. “How come?”
Unused to being the center of attention, Marcia burrows a little way into the sofa cushions and tugs at the front of the tee she borrowed from Fernanda last month. She’s wearing the shirt as a dress, and her eyes have turned serious, dark.
“I don’t believe there is such a thing.”
“Why not?” Fernanda asks.
“Well, I’ve been around longer than you might think. I’m thirty-eight.” Marcia looks over at Courtney, hoping that she’s floored. But Courtney, for whom thirty-eight is still young, only smiles.
“And I’ve had every kind of relationship there is. I’ve been online, done the bar thing, the dog-in-the-park thing, the Tinder and Grinder stuff, the sexting thing, and God knows, there are more than enough men in banking.” She smiles grimly at Fernanda. “As you’ve seen recently.”
Fernanda grimaces and nods. She’d told Marcia all about her terrible evening with Dan.
“I’ve even been engaged. Twice. Both times to guys who were awesome in bed. But my first fiancé hit me up for a “loan” and cost me half of my savings, and the second one couldn’t keep his hands off my girlfriends. I know I’m not as hot as either of you are, but how many men have I been with, you wonder? Well, I’m sorry, I’ve lost count. What I can tell you, though, and especially you, Fernanda, is that there is no Mr. Right. It’s a big fairy tale. A Hollywood thing. There’s Mr. Nice, maybe, but that’s about it.”
She smiles a little lopsidedly, sits up and drains her glass.
Courtney sets her own on the marble-topped table. It makes the smallest, satisfying, click.
“I’ve been looking a long time, too, and this will sound corny, I know, but there is such a thing as Mr. Right. I know it firsthand.”
“How, Courtney?” asks Fernanda, secretly thrilled.
“Because of my parents. Because of my father, rather – and I hope Sigmund Freud isn’t listening in – but my father was the ideal man: thoughtful, loving, funny: there for all our needs. My mother’s needs, especially.
“Would you believe, he used to hide little presents around the house for
her? Bunches of her favorite lilacs on the mantel, a dress she’d admired that they couldn’t afford, caring things like that. Their whole married life. He’d write funny notes to her on the eggshells in the fridge. He was a hugger, too, and a dish-drier, a good provider – not rich – and if he forgot to bring in the paper one morning or she forgot to get the car inspected, he and my mom didn’t bicker. They laughed it away. Or ignored it. They were happy. Really happy. And the two of them never fought. Oh, and by the way, my mother told my sister they had sex every day until he died. TMI, I know. But still … Oh, and did I forget to mention, he was movie-star handsome, too.”
“Really?” Marcia says wistfully. “All that?”
“Yeah, really. And anyway, they’re the reason I haven’t remarried all these years. Because I was spoiled. By my own father. So I’m still waiting for someone like that. Or something close. For a man who’s really my soulmate. I know he’s out there.”
The room is quiet.
“Well, I’m a believer, too,” Fernanda begins, “but the thing is, I’m just not meeting enough nice men.” (Not fast enough, anyway, she silently amends.) “So I was hoping you guys could help me get started with the online thing. You know, the computer match-ups. Those algorithm sites? Whatever that is. Whatever they are. I figured you guys would know.”
“Hey, I can do that right now,” Courtney says, jumping up. “Where’s your computer?”
Isn’t it wonderful how simple it is to solve someone else’s problems, thinks Fernanda. Not that IT’s anything new.
“Do you have a good picture of yourself?” Marcia seems really into this.
“Gee, I don’t think so,” Fernanda replies.
“Well, then, go right now and change into something. Something sort of sexy-casual,” Courtney suggests, seating herself at the desk, “while I set this thing up for you.”
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