The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  She held up the spray can and rag. “Cleaning.”

  He shook his head. “There are people who do that already. Jesus.”

  Doris made a face. “That rag is disgusting.”

  “I know, right? And I’m only halfway done.”

  “Why you want to touch anything out there is beyond me,” said Doris. “You’ll catch some kind of bug.”

  “The plague, probably,” added Totto. “Why are you cleaning the booth? The better it looks, the more people will show up, asking questions, which means more work for us.”

  Terrence shushed him. “Maybe by then, you’ll have learned the answers to some of the questions, instead of passing the buck to me all the time.” A weary look crossed his face. “Uh-oh. Here she comes.”

  Virginia watched as a woman dressed in a black-and-white Chanel suit clicked over to Terrence’s window. She looked like any other Upper East Side matron, except for the fact that an enormous parrot perched on her right shoulder, while another, slightly smaller one, balanced on the top of her pillbox hat.

  “Do you know anything about birds?” the woman asked Terrence with a clipped English accent. The larger bird stretched out one wing, and Virginia marveled at the gradation in color of the feathers, which started out teal near the chest and progressed to a deep sapphire blue at the tip.

  He nodded. “There are approximately 372 different species of parrot.”

  “Thank you.” She turned and walked away, the shoulder with the parrot slightly lower than the other.

  Virginia stared in amazement. “Who was that?”

  “The Bird Lady,” answered Terrence. “Stops by once a week, I toss out some random fact, and off she goes.”

  “Who is she? Why does she do that?”

  “Makes her happy, I guess. Trust me, she’s on the low end of weird characters we encounter.”

  “Wow. You must see a lot.” Virginia let herself back into the booth and put the cleaning supplies away. “Between all of you, you could write a book about this place. Terrence has been here since the forties, right? How long for the rest of you?”

  Winston whistled. “I’m next, here for twenty years. Then Doris, how long have you been here, you lovely woman, you?”

  Doris’s caustic side disappeared; she even batted her eyelashes at Winston. “Seventeen, you old flirt, you.” She dropped the charm and pointed at Totto. “He’s the newbie.”

  “No. She’s the newbie.” Totto pointed at Virginia.

  As Doris and Totto launched into the inevitable bickering, Virginia pulled out her handbook but couldn’t concentrate. After all her worrying, Dennis hadn’t shown up at all. Maybe he’d had a tough day at work, fighting to build his new skyscraper, or maybe he’d had to go down to court. A pucker of disappointment rose in her.

  The Bird Lady had stationed herself at the top of the West Balcony. Other than from a few small children who stopped and stared, she garnered hardly any notice. The birds’ feathers were a jolt of color against the faded afternoon light and reminded Virginia of the painting she’d found at the art school. When she’d gotten home last night, she’d tucked the painting inside an old art portfolio of Ruby’s to keep it safe. This weekend, she’d take it to a frame shop.

  Those blues. The painting. With a rush, she remembered where she’d seen it before.

  The auction catalog. The Sotheby Parke Bernet auction catalog Betsy had had with her when they’d met for drinks. She was certain of it.

  Before heading home, Virginia stopped off at the auction house. The girl behind the counter didn’t look up until Virginia cleared her throat. Ever since her marriage had fallen apart, Virginia had felt invisible. As if without the magic ring on her left hand, she was no longer worthy of attention. Ridiculous, she knew.

  “I was hoping I could get a copy of your most recent auction catalog, please.”

  The girl handed one over.

  “Thank you so much. Have a great day.” Try killing them with kindness. The girl remained mute and unseeing. Like a robot. Virginia was tempted to reach her hand over and slap the girl upside the head. All that rancor between Doris and Totto had gotten to her.

  Back at the apartment, she went into her bedroom and compared the photo of the painting in the catalog with the one she’d found in the old art school. The similarity was uncanny. Yet hers was made using watercolors, while the one in the catalog was an oil painting.

  A thumping noise from down the hallway broke her concentration.

  “Ruby?”

  Another thump, more metallic this time, and then the sound of a door slamming.

  She sighed. A good mother would go and see what was going on, check in. At dinner, she vowed to have a serious talk with the girl. For now, she needed some quiet time alone. She was bone-tired from working an eight-hour day in that tiny booth. Shoving people together like that wasn’t healthy, which was probably why there was so much squabbling.

  She turned back to the catalog. The painting was attributed to Levon Zakarian, an Armenian immigrant who’d taught at the Grand Central School of Art. He’d had some early fame as a pioneer of abstract expressionism before dying young, on April 11, 1931, when he was just twenty-eight years old. The untitled work for auction had been only recently discovered and was estimated to sell for $300,000 to $350,000.

  She’d hoped to see Clara Darden’s name in the catalog, since that was the signature on the drawing on the back of the painting. Still, excitement sizzled through her. The Grand Central School of Art reference directly linked Zakarian, a faculty member there, to the watercolor. Maybe he’d been working on it while teaching, using a piece of scrap paper that Clara Darden had tossed out.

  She checked her watch. The library was open for another half hour, and Virginia didn’t want to wait until tomorrow. Unfortunately, the art section didn’t yield much more on Zakarian, maybe because he’d died young. Nothing on Clara Darden, either.

  The library lights blinked twice: closing time. She’d fix something nice for Ruby, maybe pineapple chicken, and encourage her to sit and chat over dinner. She’d ask her lots of questions about this art collective, really try to engage with her daughter. This little side trip into the world of art history had given Virginia an unexpected burst of energy and deepened her understanding of Ruby’s passion for a darkroom. Maybe this would bring them closer together.

  Virginia didn’t smell the smoke until she turned the key in the lock. Something was burning. Maybe Ruby had started dinner, but that would be a first. No. Something was terribly wrong.

  She shoved the door open. A thick gray fog coiled toward her, like an apparition. Virginia screamed into the apartment, and then there was Ruby, running toward her, covering her mouth with her arm, coughing.

  Virginia pulled Ruby out into the hallway, slamming the door shut.

  “Are you all right?”

  Ruby coughed hard, unable to answer. At least she was standing and breathing. Virginia pulled her down the hallway, pausing in front of the fire alarm to pull the lever. As the neighbors poured out of their doors, Virginia led the charge down the stairs, all ten flights, until they were in the lobby. Firemen burst in, ordering them outside.

  Huddled with the other tenants on the opposite sidewalk, Virginia put her arms around her daughter, partly to keep her warm but also to keep her as close to her as possible.

  “What happened?” Virginia tucked a lock of Ruby’s hair behind her ear, just like she used to do when she was a little girl.

  Ruby could barely get the words out. “I was trying to turn my bathroom into a darkroom.”

  “What?”

  “Dad gave me ten bucks, and I bought the chemicals and a light and some red gel to put over it. I figured I’d make my own safelight. But I must’ve bought the wrong kind of lamp, because the gel caught fire, and before I realized it, the shower curtain next to it was burning.” Ruby bega
n to cry. “I’m sorry. I tried to put it out, but it was smoky and I couldn’t breathe.”

  Virginia reeled. Ruby could have burned down the entire complex. She wanted to shake her. What the hell had she been thinking? But she was too relieved that she’d arrived home in time. “It’ll be fine. The firemen are here now.”

  After they were given the okay to reenter, the firemen told Virginia to check in with her insurance company. The damage was mostly from smoke—nothing structural had been jeopardized—but for now the apartment was uninhabitable.

  Together, they went back upstairs and wandered through the apartment, which smelled like the inside of an ashtray. Ruby’s room was gray with soot, but they tossed some clothes into a garbage bag to take with them. Virginia stuffed what she could into a Samsonite suitcase. Right before shutting it tight, she placed the portfolio with the sketch inside on top of her clothes.

  She fought back tears, not wanting to make Ruby feel worse. This apartment in the East Sixties had been her one extravagance after the divorce. The cost was a little out of her budget, but it had light, big windows, and floors the color of a sandy beach, the complete opposite of their old apartment, with its dark moldings and maze of rooms. Every time she walked through the door, even after a long, miserable day in the information booth, her heart gave a little jump. This was her own place. To begin anew.

  She tried Betsy, who lived a few blocks north, but the phone just rang and rang. To be honest, she really didn’t want to deal with Betsy right now, have her see what a mess her life really was. But a hotel was too expensive. She didn’t have that much cash to spare.

  “We’ll have to show up on Betsy’s doorstep and wait for her to get back,” she said out loud, finally.

  Ruby yanked the garbage bag up and over her shoulder. “We have another option.”

  Virginia sighed. “No. We can’t go to your dad’s.”

  “I know that. That’s not what I meant. Trust me, I have a solution, which is only fair, as I’m the one who caused the problem.”

  “Where do we go?”

  “Follow me.”

  * * *

  The taxi pulled up outside the Carlyle Hotel, on Madison and Seventy-Sixth. As the driver hauled their garbage bag and suitcase out of the trunk, Virginia stared up at the handsome terra-cotta tower. “We can’t afford this.”

  “We’re not paying.”

  Ruby grabbed her bag, and Virginia followed her through the revolving doors, unsure whether to be appalled or impressed by her daughter’s confidence. Terrible thoughts popped into her head: Her daughter was a high-priced call girl and this was where she worked. Why else would her daughter be so familiar with a hotel that was way out of their price range?

  Ruby spoke briefly with the bellboy. “Give him your suitcase; they’ll hold our stuff for now.”

  She did as she was told, partly from shock.

  “Let’s stop in at the bar.”

  The sound of the piano drifted out as they approached. Then a voice. A voice Virginia knew too well.

  “Is that your uncle Finn?” She stopped short.

  “Yes. That’s the surprise. He’s in town, and I bet we can stay with him.”

  Virginia racked her brain to figure out how long it had been since she’d seen her baby brother. Since before her diagnosis, so at least five years, although he always called on Christmas from whatever European city he was living in at the time.

  “How long has he been back in the city?”

  “Not long. He called the apartment to say hello, and I swung by here last week.”

  Finn had come to town and met up with her daughter, and no one had bothered to mention it to Virginia. “When were either of you planning to tell me?”

  The music stopped, replaced by applause. “Come on, he’s great. You’ll love this.”

  Virginia had never been inside Bemelmans Bar, although she’d read about the murals painted by the eponymous author and illustrator back in the 1940s, in return for lodging. Whimsical was the word that came to mind: Central Park scenes where elephants ice-skated and giraffes lifted their hats in greeting. The gold-leaf ceiling reflected the glow of the lamps perched on each cocktail table.

  Finn began playing again, a Cole Porter tune that was perfect for his warm tenor. In the dark, Virginia and Ruby slid into two seats at the black granite bar. Finn’s hands tripped along the keys of the Steinway, the long fingers as familiar to Virginia as her own.

  The last time she’d heard him play was on the sturdy, well-worn upright in their parents’ apartment. After years of studying classical piano—Finn had been a quiet, good boy who practiced for three hours a day, like clockwork—he’d transformed at seventeen, wearing white leather pants, staying out until all hours, and driving their parents batty in the process. Virginia had been a sophomore in college at the time, clueless to the chaos. She’d come home one weekend to find her mother and Finn at each other’s throats, him refusing to accept his scholarship to Juilliard, wanting to be a Broadway actor instead, and her mother threatening to throw him out on the streets if he did.

  He’d left, cutting off all contact with their parents. Virginia tried to stay in touch, but he traveled around so much, it was hard to know where to send the letters. He didn’t come back for the funerals, when their parents died within months of each other. A gig in Madrid kept him away, apparently. After Ruby was born, he made more of an effort, and they’d met up for lunch whenever he came into town, but Chester’s sullen disapproval of his lifestyle—by then, Finn was openly gay—left the few family reunions fraught with tension.

  She missed him and should have made more of an effort. But Finn had pulled back as well, never responding to the letter she wrote telling him about her cancer. No doubt it’d been lost in the transatlantic mail—it wouldn’t be the first time—and by the time their annual Christmas call came around, she was up and about, healthy, and ready to move forward. Her “affliction,” as Chester called her bout with cancer, was over and no longer needed to be brought up.

  After ending with a flourish, Finn stood and made his way through the crowd, shaking hands and flashing a white smile. Like Virginia, he hadn’t thickened with age. Instead, his slim shoulders and hips remained lithe, further emphasized by the elegant line of his tuxedo. He belonged in a black-and-white movie, dancing across a ballroom with some starlet. When he spotted Ruby, he grinned from ear to ear and gave a wave.

  “Surprise!” Ruby gave him a big hug. “Look who’s here.”

  “You. And your mom!” Finn and Virginia embraced. He smelled of cologne and cigarette smoke, and she breathed him in.

  “I didn’t know you were in town until about two minutes ago,” Virginia said.

  Ruby cut in. “Listen, I did something terrible. I almost burned down our apartment building.”

  Finn’s eyes widened in alarm. “You did not!”

  “I did. So now we have to stay with you and Xavier, just for a while, until they clean it up.” Ruby turned to her mother. “Xavier’s his boyfriend. He’s incredible; you’ll love him. Just wait until you see their place.”

  Virginia put a hand on her daughter’s arm. “I’m sorry, Finn. I didn’t know about this and wasn’t sure where to turn, and then Ruby insisted we come here but wouldn’t tell me why—”

  “Stop. Don’t say another word. You’re safe with me, ladies.”

  He chatted briefly with the maître d’ and motioned for them to follow him. A bellboy filed in behind them, bearing Ruby’s garbage bag as if it contained gold coins, and they headed up in an elevator to the top floor. “We’re staying in a friend’s place here. The joys of home combined with the perks of a hotel.” He opened the door.

  Virginia didn’t know where to look. A tiger-skin rug spread-eagled across the living room floor. Bright red walls reflected glints from the oversize chandelier that rose above a snow-white velvet sofa. It was al
l too much, from the lacquered chinoiserie to the disco music blaring on the stereo.

  “Xavier!” yelled Finn. He turned down the volume as a bell-shaped man wearing a hotel robe appeared. Virginia guessed he was about a decade older than Finn and had about thirty pounds on him as well, sporting a head of hair so black it must be dyed and a matching mustache. Virginia blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the idea that this was her brother’s boyfriend.

  “Are we having a party?” Xavier pulled Ruby to him, planting a kiss on her forehead. “Ruby, how lovely to see you again.”

  “Xavier, this is my sister, Virginia.”

  “Oh no!” Xavier covered his mouth with both hands.

  Virginia startled. “‘Oh no’ what?”

  “Your hair!”

  Virginia patted her head. “What about it?”

  “Ignore him, he’s being dramatic.” Finn clinked some ice into a glass at the bar cart. “Tom Collins, anyone?”

  They arranged themselves in the living room, as Ruby recounted the story of the fire to Finn and Xavier.

  “Of course, you must stay here, but only if I can cut your mother’s hair,” announced Xavier.

  Finn nodded. “He advises salons all over the world, but originally he was a hairdresser. You’ll love what he does.”

  “Yes, sure.” Anything to stop them from staring at her. “Tell me how you two met.”

  Finn took Xavier’s hand. “In Monaco. He was consulting for a grand opening of the Hotel Metropole’s hair salon; I was playing at the bar. True love. When I got the gig at Bemelmans, I was excited that the three of you would finally get to meet.”

  “You lead quite the peripatetic life, then.”

  “We do. When I get a gig, we go there; if he gets put in charge of opening a new salon, we go there. From Amsterdam to, well, Xanadu! Now, how long do you need to stay? We’re here for four months, until March.”

  “We’ll definitely be out of your hair by then.” This weekend, Virginia would have time to figure out the insurance for the apartment, arrange for cleaners. The co-op board might write her a warning or something—she wasn’t sure how all that worked—but soon enough it’d all be back to normal.