Appeased a bit, but loath to show it, he turns from Fernanda to glare at the painting. As she watches, his expression softens.
“You know, it’s somewhat less awful than I remember it,” he admits.
Charles Raff, natty as ever, but visibly stressed, hurries into the room. He returned last night from a quick trip to South America, where he’s been trying to convince a notorious Argentinian billionaire to consign his prized Velazquez, and the department’s been burning to learn if he was tempted by their low-ish, one-to-three million estimate. With Berger’s absorbing all charges, of course, and not only not charging commission at all, but offering an enhanced hammer price that would net him a hundred and four percent of the total sale. It’s a huge – and risky – concession. And on top of it all, the Velasquez needs to clean well. Right now, unshaven and unfocused, his face showing the strain of his trip, Charles looks to Fernanda like a man who’s just given away the store.
His mind is very much elsewhere, and he barks at her, “So what is it you’ve found?”
Seeing the tondo, he quickly moves toward it.
“Say, this is rather nice, isn’t it?”
Fernanda is diplomatic.
“After we got it in, Charles, we became intrigued by the hair.” Her eyes flick to Peregrine. “Peregrine blacklighted it at the house in Locust Valley, of course, and everything looked fine – or, should I say, everything looked so-so – which is why we took it in as “Follower of Botticelli.” But we think we’ve discovered – she lightly stresses that “we” – some significant overpainting. Initially, in the hair that’s covering the infant’s ear. Just here, as you can see.” She indicates a somewhat coarsely rendered patch of chestnut hair.
The men nod politely and politely bend to look. Charles rocks on his heels, anxious to be gone.
“But then,” she throws a smile toward the impassive Peregrine, “we actually began to think that not just the hair, but several features in this picture may have been, well, ‘strengthened’.”
Charles settles green tortoiseshell glasses on his nose and bends down for a closer look. Peregrine, not to be outdone, extracts a pencil-like flashlight from his inside breast pocket and flicks it on.
“I went over to the Met library to check,” Fernanda goes on, “and it seems there’s absolutely no history of this painting before 1854. But on that date it sold out of the collection of a minor British peer.”
She consults her notes. “Viscount Maturin.”
They regard her expressionlessly and turn back to the tondo.
“Viscount Maturin?” Charles hums the name to himself.
Leaving them to their deliberations, Fernanda moves to a plush-covered bench nearby and busies herself with her notes. She hopes she seems utterly unconcerned.
Peregrine straightens first. In full Churchillian mode, he addresses Charles, who is still studying the picture.
“So, um … Charles? All the hair is unquestionably suspicious, don’t you think? Not only the Christ Child’s hair, but Mary’s, not to mention St. John’s. But the rest of it.… well, I think – if you concur – that we ought to send the picture to Gerard Dutreval at the Met right away. For a look. With an immediate cleaning in mind. Because one thing’s certain, whatever’s been done, we can’t offer it in this condition. I mean, if it’s what I’m thinking it is … He glances over at Fernanda.
Charles looks up.
“I agree.”
“Er, Fernanda,” Peregrine says (she’s no longer “Ms. Turner”) “why don’t you ring up that nice … Mr. Howell, was it? Tell him we’re doing a bit more research and will get back to him with our estimate. Oh, and be sure to ask him if he’ll pay the conservation charges.”
His eyes slide to Charles for approval.
“Tell him we believe it might be very much worth his while.”
Fernanda flinches inwardly. Not only is he about to steal her discovery, but he’s passed the difficult phone call on to her.
She always gets the tough calls: the ones where someone has to tell a shaken consigner that her picture has been damaged in transit; or that it’s turned out to be a good copy of the original; or that it’s a really convincing fake; or that their original estimate has to be revised downwards.
This should be just more of the same. But it won’t.
“And will you let me know what the Met says?” she asks in a soft voice.
Charles, regarding her rather too fondly now, replies, and her hands grow hot in imaginary gloves. Surreptitiously, she shakes them behind her back.
“We absolutely will, Fernanda. You’ll hear from us. Oh … and really good work.”
It’s not really “good work”, yet, though, she thinks, because what if Clary Howell doesn’t agree? What if he’s unwilling to foot the bill for restoration at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for God’s sake? And how much will that be, she wonders? And if it’s excessive, what if he’d just as soon take it home?
Upstairs at her desk again, and with a distinct lack of enthusiasm, Fernanda digs the Howell file out and punches up the numbers on the landline. On the fourth ring he picks up, sounding preoccupied.
“Mr. Howell. It’s Fernanda Turner from Berger’s. I came out to Clifton a while ago with Peregrine Middleditch? Is this a bad time?”
“Fernanda? Oh, I remember.” An awkward pause. “You thought I might be a teacher of library science.”
“I’m so sorry you remember that.” Her forced chuckle turns into an embarrassed cough. It means he must remember her idiotic performance, too. “I never meant to offend you.”
“You didn’t. That was a difficult day, the day you were here. It just stuck in my mind for some reason.”
“Well, now the department has asked me to phone you with some … some mixed news.”
His silence tells her she’s begun this badly.
“First of all, please don’t worry. All of your pictures are fine. They arrived safely and in perfect condition. All of them. But you know the circular painting? The one we thought was possibly Florentine? The painting of Mary and the infant?”
“Of course I remember. It was one of my wife’s favorites.”
Fernanda hears his pain and, for a second, feels her own sense of loss.
“I liked it too. We all like it here. It’s a very nice picture. But since I’m about to send you our formal receipt and a contract, I thought I’d let you know that we’re doing some significant extra research on it and I’m just calling to say that, when you receive our estimates the one for the Madonna and Child is going to be left blank. We won’t know how to estimate it until we’ve completed our assessment.”
The Poussin all over again.
“You mean it might be a reproduction or something?” There’s a stillness on the phone. “That I might be getting it back? It would be quite all right, you know. To get it back. Even if it turned out to be a fake or something.”
“Oh, no. We’re not suggesting that at all, Mr. Howell.”
She hadn’t intended to scare him. But on the other hand, she didn’t want to raise his hopes. “Frankly, we aren’t sure yet what we’ll find, so we’d like to send it to a conservator, one of the few in the United States with expertise in fifteenth-century Italian paintings. He’s at the Metropolitan Museum. He’ll charge for his work, of course, and it won’t be inexpensive.”
“But you’ll let me know the estimate before he starts?”
“Of course I will. We’d never begin without your permission.”
The worst part is over.
“Fine, then.”
So far, it’s fine. She exhales.
“Basically, we just wanted to alert you so you wouldn’t be puzzled by the paperwork’s lacking an estimate.”
“Well, it’s very good of you to give me a heads-up, Miss Turner. How long do you expect it will take to discover whatever it is you think you need to know?”
“We’re going to try to do this as quickly as possible so as to get it into the same sale as all your
other things. I’ll try to give you updates. And call you first, of course, as we’ve agreed, about the cost of the restoration.”
“I’m planning on coming into the city at the end of the month to see my cardiologist. Maybe I’ll drop by Berger’s. Do you think you might find time to see me?”
A hot, and not altogether surprising, jolt of adrenalin.
It isn’t to visit her that he’s coming, of course. It’s more likely that, at his age, there’s little in his life that’s as interesting as this. Fernanda understands perfectly.
“We’d be so happy to see you, Mr. Howell. Just give us a call when you’re ready. And if you’ll let me know just when you’re coming, I’ll make it a point to be here. You have my card.”
When did she learn to speak auction-house so well?
“I’ll do that. And thanks again for calling.”
As she fits the landline receiver back into its base, she catches sight of a painting out in the corridor: an unsold Sienese St. Jerome. In the foreground, there’s the saint at a worn plank table. Gaunt and nearly naked, he has paused in his writings and, with his old face upturned, has crossed his scrawny arms on his sunken, wasted chest. The man is filled with anguish. He’s alone. Alone.
Did the artist intend to be cruel? Old age is always cruel, and she’s lucky to be here.
Still, Fernanda lays her forehead on her arm and waits for the wave of pain to pass.
Mechanically, then, she gropes about her desktop for some forms, gathers what she finds into a much-too-neat pile, and returns to work.
CHAPTER 16
Sore from another disappointing encounter two nights before, and from the almost-sodomy she barely escaped the night before that, Fernanda’s happy to be spending an evening at home. She might as well cruise the dating websites again, although she’s been increasingly ambivalent about her “research.” One weekend, she spent twenty hours culling, selecting and writing to men, and only four wrote back, one of them the sodomy guy. Of course, she’s been dubious since the evening Marcia and Courtney inducted her into computer match-ups and convinced her to post that quasi-honest profile and the not-too-glamorous photo of herself, smiling insanely. Tonight, for some reason – possibly because lately she’s felt driven to meet as many men as possible as quickly as possible – she’s especially disgusted with herself.
It’s just pointless, she thinks. She’s been online for months, and as of right now, she’s gone out with – she pauses in her scrolling to scratch some numbers on a pad – forty-two respondents. She’s slept with thirty-three. The others were impossible, or – something of a consideration, since she’s become wholly focused on getting pregnant – genetically unsuitable. In three instances – maybe five – the men were kind of scary.
With minimal enthusiasm, Fernanda starts again, automatically deleting “winks”, although she never does that without wondering, really? Are there men so sure of themselves that they actually believe anyone would respond to a wink? A virtual wink, at that? More likely, they’re terrified of rejection, she thinks, an emotion she completely understands. But they must be pretty lazy, too, figuring that they’ll just zip through a lot of women, click “wink”, then wait for a bite. Like fishing with multiple poles and all the wrong bait. They’re cowardly, as well, she thinks.
But it’s possible she’s wrong about men. If she’d only dated more before marrying Stanley – like the girls do today, like she’s doing now – she might have learned something about them. In which case she’s almost positive she’d be less cynical and uncharitable than she knows she’s become. But of course, girls today don’t sleep with (almost) anyone who asks. And while she doesn’t actually enjoy it every time – to be honest, not even every other time – she’s wondering if the bargain with Randi is making her into someone she hadn’t bargained for?
Until tonight, however, she hadn’t counted up all the men she’s slept with. Is it really thirty-three? In just these few months? And then, if you add in the men she’s met “live” – the near-miss Bens and almost-right Sams …
Oh my God! She needs to see a gynecologist.
Because with all this, all this … it can’t be called anything but screwing around, she ought to be pregnant by now. Especially since Fernanda hasn’t asked any one of all those men to use a condom. Several men have offered, but she’s managed to reassure every one (and truthfully, she’s pretty sure) that there’s nothing at all to worry about; she’s got nothing contagious, not the tiniest STD. She didn’t even know what that stood for until recently. And then, of course, once she’s stroked their backs and nipples and their moist, aching groins and whispered how very much more she loves to feel just them, with nothing at all in between, their anxieties slip through the cracks. So to speak. But maybe now she does have something. And maybe that’s why she isn’t pregnant.
Tomorrow, she’ll ask Courtney to recommend a doctor.
Fernanda pours a glass of wine and carries it back to her new green sofa, stopping along the way to set her cell phone in the speaker. Frank Sinatra, yes. She hopes the neighbors can’t hear.
Settling into the plush down cushions, her eye is caught by a stained throw pillow and, leaning forward for a closer look, she rubs the spot between her fingers and presses the pillow to her nose.
Semen. Whose? Is this disgusting? Will it come out?
And for the first time in weeks, she finds no delight in her pretty, art-filled room. In reality – if this can be called reality – she may have made an impossible deal. She’s got a fortune, yes. A wonderful job, her youth, and all these men. And all this lubricious, electrifying, close-to-nightly sex. But not only isn’t she pregnant (she’d assumed it would be easy), there hasn’t been one single person who’s felt one more bit “right” to her than any other. Not a single man who’s seemed even as right as Stanley Turner did so many years ago.
That night in the casino feels like years ago now. Another life.
Dear God!
Abruptly, Fernanda stands up and as she does, the wine sloshes over her hand, onto the coffee table, spattering the rug.
She has no idea how to contact Randi if she has to. What a moron she must be! She never thought to ask!
Though, wait. Wait. She wills her heartbeat to slow. There’s time yet. She can still make this work. But she needs to have that doctor’s visit first.
CHAPTER 17
Fernanda’s had to wait too long to get this appointment and the wait has made her edgy. Which is probably why she’d arrived far too early today. So now, with half an hour still to go, she’s already thumbed through the stacks of magazines several times in hopes of finding even one that’s new enough that the interesting articles haven’t all been torn out. Or the crossword puzzles partially completed. In pen, too. This is New York, after all.
And it’s so long since she’s been in an office like this. So long that she remembered the tables being full of parenting and baby publications. But this doctor, Courtney’s own, is either really considerate of her menopausal patients or just too chic for Modern Mom, because everything here is either Vogue or New York and, recent or dated, has been read to death.
Fernanda finds a dog-eared New Yorker to distract herself with, but can’t settle down.
Courtney had tried to reassure her: “Really, it’s just an exam and you’ll like her. Believe me, women gynos are so much more sensitive than men. You’ll like her, I promise. And listen, while you’re in the stirrups, at least she’s not going to go blah, blah, blah about her wristwatch collection or trout fishing in Canada. Fernanda meant to laugh, but her mouth was too sticky-dry. The way it is now.
Oh God, how she dreads this exam. Not because she’s as modest as she used to be, certainly, and not because she cares anymore about male or female doctors either, since it’s not as if scores of men haven’t been investigating her vagina lately. (How is she still uncomfortable with that word? Why don’t they call the damn thing a vulva? Too much like that Swedish car, maybe.) Or maybe her unease is
the residue of all those doctor’s visits with Stanley: of dismal waiting rooms, painful tests, and those sickening results. There’s an ice pick in her heart.
“Fernanda, um … Turner?”
The magazine slips from her fingers to the floor and she springs to her feet with a pasted-on smile.
Dr. Korin is nothing like she’d expected. Not only is she a stringy blonde – the small, peppy sort that always wins the doubles championship – but surely, she’s in her late sixties. Around her own age, in fact. Although Fernanda can’t remember ever having known any female physicians. There didn’t use to be any, she thinks. Because women weren’t doctors back then: if they were medical, they were nurses. But this woman doctor looks awfully harried, and maybe just a little sorry, today, about having decided on medical school. Below her eyes, there’s a dark semi-circle of delicate purple, and her eyelids look faintly bruised, and her capable hands – surgeon’s hands, Fernanda notices – are clenching and unclenching like sinewy pistons.
Briskly, Dr. Korin motions her in.
Something near her womb begins to freeze.
“Come sit in my office,” she says. “We’ll talk for a few minutes first.”
It’s such a small office that they’re almost knee to knee. Pamphlets, trade magazines, drug samples, manila folders, papers of every kind litter a small antique desk. The doctor subsides gratefully into a cracked leather chair and sighs. Her hands fall still as she reaches for the clipboard and Fernanda’s history. She silently reads.
Everything she reads is invented.
“I see it’s a long time since you’ve had an examination. Why is that?”
“Oh, I couldn’t say.” (This bit is true.) “I haven’t had any reason to get one, I guess.”
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