The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  “Don’t you worry about me. I’ve got all kinds of things up my sleeve. We’ll hear good news soon; I’m sure of it.”

  She certainly hoped so.

  They kissed, and she wrapped herself tightly around Oliver, her head on his shoulder, before falling fast asleep.

  Clara could hardly wait to get home after her illustration class the next day, to see if Mr. Bianchi had left a message for her. If he accepted her offer, she’d get paid not only for the advertisements but also for the interior design of the car. She’d be able to add “industrial designer” to her title, charge a princely sum. Maybe even convince Mr. Lorette to let her teach the subject. Her head swam with the possibilities.

  As she burst through the doors of Grand Central onto Forty-Second Street, she spied a familiar figure leaning against one of the lampposts, inhaling a cigarette.

  She marched over. “How’s Grand Central’s most famous Armenian painter doing these days?”

  He lifted her off the ground in an enormous hug. “My dear Clara, there you are!”

  He set her down on the pavement with a thud, and she stumbled briefly before finding her footing. “Enough, Levon. Shake hands like a normal person, will you?”

  “You’re a vision. We must walk together.”

  She’d planned on taking a taxi, one of the perks of having a constant stream of income. Last year, she would have taken the subway to spare the expense, but now it was no longer a second thought. She considered asking Levon to join her in the cab, but it was a brilliant May day. A walk would do her good, and whatever Mr. Bianchi had to say could wait. Better to make him wait, probably. They turned onto Fifth Avenue.

  Usually, maneuvering along Fifth Avenue this time of day was a matter of dodging tourists and pedestrians coming the other way, not to mention human cannonballs careening out of doorways with no regard for the regular flow of foot traffic. But walking with Levon was much like being one of Moses’s followers, she suspected. His mass, his posture, caused the river of humanity to flow around him. He moved in a straight line, which meant she did as well.

  “How is your illustration class going this term?” he asked.

  “Some are brilliant, others less so. But I had a very productive meeting with the head of Studebaker cars yesterday.”

  She recapped the meeting, keeping her excitement in check, in case Mr. Bianchi didn’t follow through.

  He grinned down at her. “Fantastic, my girl. I hope you don’t forget me when you’re the toast of the town.”

  But something in him was off. Levon’s strides were hurried, as if he wanted to get away from her. She regretted reveling in her enthusiasm, her success. A year ago, he’d been the hero of the school and had used his influence to help her. She shouldn’t crow. “Tell me, what are you working on these days?”

  “I’m a whirling dervish in the studio. No one can stop me.” The usual bravado came out forced.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He made an exasperated sound, like a horse fluttering its lips. When he spoke, the words were so soft she had to strain to hear them over the din of the streets. “That photograph, the one of my mother and me. I can’t seem to get the painting of it right. I finish one and then immediately start on another.”

  “Can I come see?”

  His face darkened. “No. I don’t let anyone come to my studio anymore. I’m not ready.”

  She remembered how she’d been stymied until Oliver had lent a hand. “You’re stuck. Maybe I can help.”

  “You’ll have me put a bottle of soda in my mother’s hand, is that your answer?”

  “Don’t be petty. You’re a great artist. Are you sleeping?” The dark circles under his eyes told her what she knew already.

  “Not really. I can’t finish it; it will never be right, and I’ll keep going on and on and I’ll never be able to afford bread and tea again.”

  They were both propelled by childhood memories of hardship, Levon’s far more ghastly than her own. Which was probably why she had been able to overcome the fear of failure, while Levon was succumbing to it. “There’s plenty of work out there; times are good. Don’t do this to yourself. Is Nadine a help?”

  “She went off and got engaged to a stockbroker. I don’t blame her. How’s your lapdog?”

  For a second, she was unsure what he was talking about. “Stop. That’s not kind. Oliver is a sweetheart.” They passed a bench, set back from the street in a shady spot. “Do you mind if we sit for a moment?”

  He sank onto the wooden bench like a puppet released from its strings.

  She angled toward him, one arm draped over the back of the bench. “Your work is strong, Levon. Why not let others see it? What if they think it’s wonderful?”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “It’s worth the risk, trust me.”

  “You wouldn’t know.”

  She did her best to maintain an even tone. “What do you mean by that?”

  “What I do, I do from my heart. What you do, well . . . it’s business.”

  She remembered their debate that night in the Village, in front of the students. There was no reason for him to have changed his mind. Not Levon. “Oh, for God’s sake. I won’t apologize for my success. I won’t apologize for my ambition. Why fight me on this?”

  He tensed with a catlike ferocity. For a moment, she thought he was going to leap into the middle of the street, end it all under the wheels of a passing car.

  Instead, his head dropped onto her shoulder. “I’m done for, Clara.”

  She bent her arm around him, averting her eyes from curious stares of passersby. What a sight they must make, a pietà of giants, all long limbs and wide shoulders, the man silently weeping.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  June 1929

  As she’d hoped, Mr. Bianchi offered Clara the chance to reinterpret the interior of the Dictator, as well as take the lead on the advertising campaign. She immersed herself in the job, stopping by the factory twice more, staying up all night sketching out dashboard designs and advertisement ideas. Even though her schedule was packed, Clara made a point of stopping by Levon’s studio every few days, dropping off some bread and cheese or soup, waiting until he’d eaten it all before heading back out. From what she could tell, he still hadn’t made much progress on the paintings, but she made a point of not speaking about art, either his or her own.

  Today she’d brought an apple and some cold chicken drumsticks, wrapped in brown paper. A lazy heat had settled over the city in the past couple of days, and she didn’t want to have to turn on Levon’s stove. Striped awnings kept her own apartment cool, but she knew his top-floor studio would be sweltering.

  She knocked twice before letting herself in with the spare key, which she’d pilfered after he’d refused to answer the door one day. She’d had to pound away until he finally let her in, looking morose and surly. This week had shown signs of improvement: He’d had other visitors one day, and on the others, she’d found him reading a book or newspaper instead of indulging in his melancholy.

  “Here. Eat this before it spoils.” She laid the bag on the table as she unpinned her hat.

  Levon wore a white undershirt and blue serge trousers. He reached for his shirt, which lay over a chair, sweeping it about him like a cape and tucking one arm through.

  “You don’t have to do that for me. It’s too hot for long sleeves.”

  “I’d never be so gauche as to eat in front of a lady with my arms bare. I may have been raised in a dirt hut, but even peasants have standards.”

  She laughed. “You’re about as far from a peasant as any man I know. You’re a secret member of the aristocracy, no? Russian, perhaps? I’ve always suspected that accent wasn’t quite right.”

  “If only. My father was a cobbler, not a duke.” He sighed, hiding a smile.

  “What was he like?” Sh
e’d found that getting him to reminisce often lightened his mood. Which was especially odd, as most of his memories were sad, bordering on grim.

  “Simple, but strict. He fled before the worst of the persecution began. I remember once, a few months after my father was gone, a Turk tried to steal from one of my neighbor’s homes. In the darkness, he hit his eye on a nail, blinding himself, and was caught. The Turk went to court and insisted that my neighbor was responsible for his accident, and the judge agreed. They pinned him down and gouged out his eye as well.”

  When he ranted like this, it was best to stay neutral. “How biblical.”

  Levon burst into peals of laughter. “That is why I adore you, my Clara. You are not afraid of anything. You don’t cower like the rest of them.”

  “What happened to your father? Did you ever find out?”

  “He started a new family in the States. When my sister and I finally came here, she wanted to try to find him. But what was the point? He had left us behind in that morass. I wanted nothing to do with him.”

  “How did you manage, when you first got here?” If she could remind him of his resiliency, maybe he would break free from these doldrums, return to the passionate man she’d first met.

  “I found work in an art store. I’ve always drawn, even when I was young. I made paints from whatever I could find, pear juice and peels, from egg yolks. You’re the same way, no?”

  “I suppose.”

  He lurched over to the painting of his mother. “What if I can never finish it?”

  She stood behind him. Sections of the canvas shone like porcelain, from the application of multiple coats of paint, followed by scraping and sanding until only a reflective layer remained. While arduous, the technique worked—the finish showed depth that she’d seen before only in the work of Vermeer.

  “Who says you have to finish it, anyway? Why not keep on painting for as long as you like?”

  “You’re saying that so that I do the opposite, right? That I fight back and say that I must finish it.”

  He was impossible. “Do whatever you must, Levon. It’s too hot to argue with you today. Let’s go out.”

  “Where?”

  She opened her leather satchel and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “The Heckscher Building. Three society ladies are creating a museum of modern art there later this year, and I was asked to stop by and give my opinion on some works they’re considering.”

  “Which artists?”

  “Cézanne, Gauguin, Seurat, and Van Gogh.” She handed over the list.

  He scanned it voraciously. “So many.”

  “They’re aiming for a hundred artworks. Can you imagine? We can see them firsthand, right here in New York, and they already have a dozen at the gallery. It’s an exciting prospect. You should come.”

  “What exactly are you doing for them?”

  “Mr. Lorette told them I’d take a look at the space, offer my thoughts on the light. That sort of thing.”

  “Why didn’t he ask me?”

  Good. The old, competitive Levon was seeping through. She tried not to smile. “Because you’ve been a miserable wretch the past month and he was probably afraid to approach you. Like almost everyone else at the school.”

  “But not you.”

  “No. Not me.”

  In the gallery space, a woman in her sixties, with a frizz of caramel-colored hair poking out from under a hat, greeted Clara and Levon as they entered.

  “I’m Miss Lillie Bliss; you must be Miss Darden. I do love your covers. Such an air of whimsy to them.”

  “Thank you. May I introduce you to Mr. Zakarian, also of the Grand Central School of Art, and a painter.”

  “Pleasure.”

  Miss Bliss turned back to Clara and began rattling on about frames, shipping fees, and storage. Clara already regretted bringing Levon, who sulked quietly behind her like a fretful bear. She wished Miss Bliss had at least recognized his name.

  A slight man with crooked teeth and a high forehead approached.

  “Ah, Felix. You’ve arrived.” Miss Bliss greeted him warmly.

  “I certainly have and am eager to offer my strong opinions and have you shoot them down.” The words came out in staccato stabs.

  “Miss Darden, Mr. Zakarian. You must know Felix Hornsby.”

  Of course. Oliver had pointed him out to Clara during a cocktail party as one of the city’s most distinguished, and successful, art dealers. His unremarkable presence, more like that of a plumber who’d come to fix the sink, caught her off guard at this second sighting.

  Clara held out her hand. “Mr. Hornsby. We have a mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Alston Smith.” Oliver’s mother had recently purchased several Steichen photographs from Mr. Hornsby for the Newport house.

  As expected, the man regarded her with a great deal more interest now. Connections, always connections.

  Miss Bliss waved her gloved hand. “Such a small world, we art lovers. Everyone, please follow me. I just received a special piece from France, and you’ll be the first to see it.”

  In the next room, two assistants lifted a frame out of a wooden crate with care. They all leaned over to examine it.

  A Van Gogh.

  “This is Madame Ginoux,” said Miss Bliss. “What do you think?”

  In the painting, an older woman in white, wearing a mint-green scarf and matching cuffs, rested one elbow on a table. Her craggy closed fist supported her cheek, and she seemed both amused and sad. The strong eyebrows and coal-black eyes reminded Clara of Levon’s mother’s portrait. But this woman had not been abandoned. Her face showed resilience and a fading beauty. It was not a plea for rescue.

  Clara took in the clarity of the painting like a drunk to whiskey. This is the woman she wanted to be in forty years. She wasn’t a beauty, or at least hadn’t been spruced up to be prettier than she was, the way the famous portraitists of the time tended to do. She was hardy, wary, and tender.

  “If you like this, you really should visit Levon’s studio.” Clara addressed Mr. Hornsby directly, avoiding Levon’s openmouthed stare. Daring him to defy her boldness. “His work is exquisite.”

  Mr. Hornsby nodded. “I’ve heard many good things about you, Mr. Zakarian. I remember your work in the Grand Central Art Galleries last year.” He slapped Levon on the back.

  Levon didn’t bellow or storm out as she feared he might. Instead, he remained strangely mute as they wandered through the rooms, while the rest advised Miss Bliss on lighting and paint color.

  After the tour, Levon made his excuses and left without waiting for her.

  Here she was, giving him the opportunity of a lifetime, and he’d blown it. What bothered her most was that his work was terrific—she hadn’t embellished her admiration.

  “Mr. Hornsby, I’d like to invite you to see Mr. Zakarian’s studio.”

  Mr. Hornsby looked confused. “Wouldn’t he normally invite me himself?”

  “He would, but he was in a rush to get back and paint. Why don’t we meet there tomorrow at one?”

  She’d drag Levon with her into the blinding glare of success, in spite of his moods and lack of any social niceties. Just as Levon had unknowingly inspired her at the May Ball, she would prop up Levon for as long as she could stand him, offer him access to her contacts and her sway. His works deserved to be seen and sold, she was sure of that, and perhaps one sale, or even an encouraging word from someone like Felix Hornsby, would lift him out of the darkness that pulled him back to the pain of his past.

  He’d be furious. But she didn’t care.

  * * *

  Clara let herself in with the key to Levon’s studio and looked about. The weather hadn’t cooperated one bit. Dark storm clouds brewed beyond the slanted windows, rendering the place more like a vault than an airy artist’s loft. But she’d have to make do. Mr. Hornsby would be there any mome
nt, and she wanted him out by the time Levon returned from teaching his class at two.

  A lightning bolt cracked like a warning as she arranged the easels in a U-shape before turning to the dozens of paintings leaning against the walls. She examined each canvas carefully before deciding either to place it on an easel or prop it on top of any empty shelf or mantel, as close to eye level as possible. Levon’s breadth of talent astounded her. So many different ideas, wrangled and rewrangled, resulted in a powerful array of images. Except his imitation Picassos, which she tucked out of view in the small bedroom.

  Clara stepped back and surveyed her efforts. Not bad at all. But where was Mr. Hornsby?

  She waited, hopeful at first, but after forty-five minutes, she began to panic. Her plan was to amaze him with the artwork, get him to agree to represent Levon, and then show him the door so she had time to right the room. She’d tell Levon the good news when he returned from teaching.

  But time was getting tight.

  A fierce bang on the studio door brought her to her feet. She sprang for the latch. Mr. Hornsby stood on the other side, rain dripping off his hat and down his shoulders.

  “I couldn’t get in. I’ve been waiting downstairs for five minutes. I was about to leave when someone came down and let me in.”

  “I’m sorry.” She must not have heard the buzzer over the chain saw of rain slamming on the roof. “Please, I’ll get you a towel.”

  She ran to fetch one from Levon’s tiny bathroom, where a delicate child’s brush balanced on the edge of a pedestal sink, strands of black hair entwined in the bristles. The unexpected intimacy brought tears to her eyes. For all she knew, he’d brought it with him from his homeland, carried it all that way. The image of a young Levon running it through his thick mane in an effort to appear presentable, in the midst of so much turmoil, pained her. The fact that Levon, as a grown man, used it still was unbearably sad.