The Center of the World

by Thomas van Essen

  Turner half-smiled at the horror that was written on my face. “It is always so,” he said. “One of the great rewards of my art is that I am the only one to see the living painting. Paint is cruel. That is why I do so much work on Varnishing Day at the Academy. I know that many say I do it for show or out of laziness, but I do it so that the public can, for a moment, see my work as I do. A painting is like a woman. Never quite the same pitch of perfection as in the first blush of youth.”

  I studied the drawing more closely. I had been captured in three-quarters profile. The outline of the room was visible in the background. The light came both from the fire behind me and the windows toward which I was facing. I have always been dissatisfied with my face. I confess that I have spent hours in front of a glass looking at it, trying to see who I was and trying to comprehend what others, especially you, dear David, could find attractive in a countenance that seems entirely wanting in grace and balance. I have always felt that my chin is too weak and that my eyes lack character. As I looked at Turner’s sketch I saw myself for the first time and understood that I had hardly known myself before. And although some part of me had vanished as the painting dried, there was still more of my character on view than I usually allowed myself to acknowledge. Turner understood the man who lived below the appearances and I wondered, David (and I write these words with great sorrow), if you have ever seen me half so clearly. In Turner’s sketch I could see all those doubts and fears about my future and my mode of living that you are so kind as to ignore.

  “This is wonderful,” I said. “But it is nothing that I would give to my mother, if I could. It would break her heart.”

  “She would see that?”

  “She is not an educated woman. But she has an understanding heart, a mother’s heart. That is, in some sense, her only possession now that my father is gone. So yes—she might not be able to tell you why the drawing gives her sorrow, but she would certainly feel it.”

  “And you?” he asked, his voice quite serious.

  “It is the truth,” I said. “You have captured those fears and doubts which I hide from myself and from the world. You have not made me more handsome than I am, but you have honored my face by depicting it as it is. I don’t think the mirror has ever reflected me so faithfully.”

  We were both silent for a space. I handed the sketch pad back to Turner. He studied his work for a moment, and then he began to put his paints and pencils away. “I am not done with this yet,” he said, “but perhaps you shall have it someday. You see more in it than I do, and I honor you for your vision.”

  “I would be most appreciative,” I said. “But only if it suits you.”

  “We shall see,” he said. “You and I, we will have much to talk about in the days to come. But now look—the sun is breaking through the clouds. I must be off to see what can be salvaged from the morning’s light. Until dinner.”

  . 21 .

  SUSAN WAS STILL INVOLVED in a conversation that didn’t seem to need me, so I spoke to a few more people and probably had another glass of wine before I wound up in a corner talking to Ruth Carpenter. She was married to Bob, who works in my office, but she was at the party alone because Bob was off in Paris trying to find himself.

  What happened next was my fault, but it felt as inevitable to me as Paris’s approach to Helen. It was really just a combination of alcohol and the sense that I was worth maybe thirty million dollars. Fuck you, Mossbacher, I remember thinking, I don’t need you; I don’t need anything but my painting. I felt full of strength and possibility; it was time for me to break the bonds that had been holding me back from the world of pleasure and fulfillment that was rightly mine. And Ruth was drunk too, and sad. The whole thing was so pathetic in a middle-aged suburban way that I still cringe when I think about it.

  Ruth is an attractive woman, maybe a few years younger than I am, but once I figured out that she was available, I saw things in her that I don’t think her husband saw when they were first married. It’s hard for me to explain, and difficult to remember because of all the wine. Although I can’t say that I mistook her for Helen or even that I saw some Helen in her, her lips were ripe and inviting and her bosom seemed like paradise. That sounds awful, I know, but that’s the way it felt.

  She talked about how unhappy she was; she talked about what a jerk Bob was being, how she thought he might be having an affair, how unjust it all was. I think I was the one who suggested we go outside for air.

  The Millers have a big yard with nice flowerbeds and a pond out back, so it was okay to go out and look at them. We wandered away from the crowd around the patio. There was a little bench tucked away in a corner of the yard, in front of the pond, which had big gold and silver fish swimming around in it. I think it was Ruth who wanted to sit down and look at the fish. She said it was pretentious of the Millers to have a koi pond. I said the fish were interesting and it was a nice place to sit. She agreed it was a nice place to sit and looked at me. That’s when we started kissing.

  It was pathetic. I had been given an extraordinary gift, a vision of Helen. I had seen the truth, and yet the best I could do to make it real in my life was a drunken embrace with a woman I didn’t particularly care for. As I kissed her, however, the thought of Helen’s smooth shoulders lent a sense of urgency to my tongue and guided my hand to the clasp of her brassiere.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I want to go home. From the look of things, neither of you should be driving, so unless you want to come with me, and it’s fine with me if you don’t, I’ll tell the Millers to call a cab.”

  Ruth and I had jumped apart at the sound of Susan’s voice, and I was aware of Ruth trying to stuff her blouse back into her slacks. When I saw the pale flash of skin at her midriff I became nauseous. All thoughts of Helen vanished.

  “Gosh, I’m really sorry,” I said to no one in particular, “I’ve had way too much to drink.” Ruth looked up at me and burst into tears. She ran off toward the house with Susan in close pursuit. Susan wanted to make sure that Ruth didn’t try to drive home. It was a good thing she did, because, Susan told me later, Ruth threw a fit like something out of a bad television show. Joe Miller had to pry the keys out of her hand, and his wife had to sit with her as she sobbed hysterically in the extra bedroom. I’m glad I never found out what Ruth said about me.

  I stood outside by the pond for a few minutes, listening to all the commotion in the house. It’s all fuzzy because of the alcohol, but I thought I could make out Ruth’s wails and a low chorus of voices who all seemed to be saying I was an asshole. I felt bile rise toward the back of my throat. I thought about my father, and what a sad and lonely drunk he’d been in his final days. Helen wouldn’t come to me, no matter how hard I tried to conjure her up. It was only when I realized that she had deserted me that I began to weep.

  . 22 .

  BRYCE PUT THE LAST page of the manuscript down and looked at Gina with admiration. “Extraordinary,” was all he could muster. He thumbed back through the pages and read aloud, his voice hushed and reverential: “ ‘I could see that it was a painting of her and could guess that Turner had painted it, because there were Greek columns in it and sunlight.’ ” He looked up again. “We are vouchsafed few such moments; it is as if a window to the past has opened up and I am able to see what no one has seen before. He is an ass, of course. But still.”

  After they spent an hour or so talking about the implications of the document, and considering next steps, Bryce changed the subject. “I’d like to take the opportunity of your being here to introduce you to another aspect of the work of Madison Partners.

  “Not everything we do is glamorous. Not everything we do, for want of a better word, is clean.” Bryce regarded her very seriously for a moment. “Nothing that I am about to propose, when rightly considered, is unethical, although it might, I suppose, appear that way. As I think about your future with the firm—and I am being perfectly frank here—I need to know how far you will extend yourself for beauty. Sometimes t
his work is not for the faint of heart. Are you willing to take the next step with me?”

  “I don’t know, of course, what you’re talking about. But I have moved halfway around the world on your behalf. And although I didn’t think it worth mentioning, the bookseller in Kirdford was not made aware of the existence of the document you’ve just read within the register book she sold me, if you’re concerned that I might be too scrupulous.” Gina paused for a moment as she searched for the right word. “But I think you have no reason to question my gratitude or my devotion to you and your work.”

  Bryce nodded. “I recently received a call,” he said, “from a professor of my acquaintance at Princeton. Someone had asked him a ‘hypothetical question’ about the value of a Turner on the open market. I have a number of such contacts in the academic world. People find things—in flea markets, in their attics. They suspect them to be of value. They make inquiries at the local college or university. The fact of the inquiry is made known to me. Considerations are exchanged. Most often it is nothing more than a bad copy of a mediocre painting or some amateur working in the style of so and so, but occasionally it is something worthwhile. Sometimes it is possible to intercept the work on its way to the open market. Such transactions can be highly profitable.”

  “Does that mean we steal them?” she asked. Bryce was pleased at her use of “we,” but proceeded with caution nonetheless.

  “The question is a fair one, but premature. First we find out if the object in question is worth acquiring. Only then do we consider the means. Most often I find a way to purchase it in such a way that the owner feels they have gotten more for a piece of worthless junk than they could have expected, while I have acquired something world-class for a trifle. It is, as they say, a win-win.”

  “And when you can’t?”

  Bryce shrugged. “It depends on the context. What is at stake. The moral and the practical risks. My sense of the greater good. Are you still with me?”

  Gina nodded.

  “You will work with our usual people. You will need to wear comfortable shoes; it’s not all first-class air travel. But come, you must be exhausted. We will make arrangements in the morning.”

  Two days later, having spent two depressing and exhausting evenings at her mother’s house, Gina found herself sitting in a booth at a diner on Route 1, just outside Princeton. She had never met a private detective before and she had been hoping for something more interesting than George.

  He was in his mid-forties, thinning light brown hair, an unfortunate mustache, and thick aviator-style glasses. He looked her over carefully. It was not, she felt, the sexually charged gaze that she associated with men of his sort; rather, it was a perfectly neutral professional scrutiny. He had told her how she was to dress on the telephone, and she had followed his instructions as best she could: old running shoes, a loose-fitting shirt under a sweatshirt, unremarkable jeans. “If you’re a good-looking woman,” he’d said, “don’t make a big deal of it. And no perfume or fancy smelling soap. You are coming to New Jersey to break into someone’s house and nobody should notice that you’ve been here.”

  He waited until the waitress had taken her order. “You can follow instructions. The last one seemed to think she was coming to an opening. A white shirt, tight black pants, and a black jacket. But you’ll do. Listen: the guy’s not very interesting, but who is?”

  George took a sheet of paper from his pocket and consulted it as he spoke. “His name is Henry Leiden. He’s married twenty-six years, two grown kids. Wife seems to be the brains and the looks in the organization. She works in New York, partner in a midsized law firm. About the time he got in touch with the professor rumors started going around that the marriage was in trouble: he was sleeping with somebody else, so was she, maybe. But they’re still together. He works for something called the Nassau Foundation. Small outfit, staff of about ten. They distribute maybe ten million dollars a year in small grants, mostly in the arts and education. He reads grant applications, travels a bit to tell folks about the foundation. It’s one of those strictly nine-to-five jobs, not too stressful. Pay’s okay for what it is, but no way to be a millionaire. She’s the one that brings in the cash. Summer place upstate; been there and checked it out. Nice lake view, but nothing special.” George’s cell phone rang and he listened for a few moments before putting it back in his pocket.

  “Okay, we’re good to go. She’s in New York and he just got to the office. Finish your coffee.” As they were driving toward Princeton, George handed her a clipboard. “This should be pretty easy: no pets, no alarms, no help. We’re going to park on the street about a block from the house. If anybody sees us they’ll think we’re insurance adjusters. Something about a clipboard—it makes you look official.”

  Hawthorne Avenue was lined with modest split-levels that looked as if they had been built in the fifties or early sixties. Gina had expected something grander from Princeton. She followed George up the driveway to the back. He took a ring of picks from his pocket and crouched down in front of the door. In thirty seconds it was open. He smiled with contempt. “Try not to touch anything and make sure your shoes are clean before we go in there.” He handed her a pair of thin cotton gloves and put on a pair himself.

  The first thing she noticed was the smell; the second was the silence. The smell of burnt toast and coffee was so powerful she thought she would need a shower to get it out of her hair. The odor seemed amplified by the same trick that made the fall of her feet sound like thunder. She could hear the blood pounding in her temples and the air rushing into her nostrils. There was a copy of the Times on the kitchen table: “Iraqi Looters Tear Up Archaeological Sites.” There was a stack of junk mail on the counter. A shopping list stuck to the refrigerator. Just normal people whose lives were being violated. She felt both sorry for them and excited in a way that surprised and disturbed her.

  It was a modest place, like the Wisconsin home of her freshman roommate at Sarah Lawrence. Everything seemed a little worn around the edges, but it looked comfortable enough. She thought about how miserable her mother was in spite of all the money, about how little her own money contributed to happiness.

  George went through the house systematically and with quiet efficiency. “People like this,” he said, “are not very sophisticated—unless looking unsophisticated is part of the act. So we have to look in the obvious places: in closets, under beds, in the attic, leaning against a wall, in the garage.”

  When George went up to the attic, she stayed behind and looked around the bedroom, trying to get a sense of these people by looking at the photographs on the bureau: babies, a boy and a girl playing catch, college kids at a picnic table, wedding pictures, a middle-aged couple having drinks on a wooden dock with blue water in the background. She was a good-looking woman, whereas age had shown more on him. She picked up a picture in which he was looking up from a computer. He was smiling and making an effort, but nothing could disguise the thinning hair, the unhealthy fleshiness of his face, and something defeated around the eyes. He reminded her of the guy her father was trying so desperately not to become.

  Hearing George on the attic stairs, she set the photograph carefully back in its place. She hurried to the unmade bed and looked under it.

  “Anything under there?”

  “Just dust,” she said. “And a sock. And a pair of his underpants. Any luck upstairs?”

  “No.” George bent down and looked under the bed. “You missed the bra,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They had been in the house for less than half an hour. Once they got to the car George called someone on his cell phone and told them he was done. Then he turned to her. “There’s nothing here. You can tell your boss I said so. Just the same old same old. Middle age and all that shit. Some day it will bite you in the ass too. Just you wait. I’ll drive you to the station.”

  . 23 .

  “TIME,” TURNER SAID, “is the great subject.” He handed me a glass of sherry and took one for
himself. “It will do you good.”

  We were up in his studio. The morning light streamed in from the east. There was a great fire in the fireplace. “The passage of the past to the present, of youth to age, of the golden age to the dismal one, the rise of empires and their fall. Most fellows don’t think of it as they paint, but one must, since it takes so damn long to execute a painting and nothing is as it was when you started.

  “Queer how some of those old Italian fellows went about it. Birth of saint in the upper right-hand corner. Pious education upper middle, first miracle upper left, gruesome death front and center, further miracles over on the left. Seems damn clumsy if you ask me, but it has a certain charm. I always try to get a hint of time in one way or another: a ruin or a twisted tree; something about to happen. Otherwise there is no interest. Time is the only thing we care about. How long before we die is the only question.”

  He put his glass down. “But come. Time is passing. This light will only be with us for so long. You are a fine-looking young man, but before long you will be like me and knocking on death’s door.”

  He directed me to get up and stand on a small platform that was in the center of the room. He asked me to take my shirt off.