The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  Vivienne misses the champagne that would have flowed had they been at a Paris opening, involuntarily wrinkling her nose at the overly sweet ginger ale she’s forced to sip because of the crazy American Prohibition. She lights a cigarette and watches Dr. Bradley bustle about the room. He’s striking in his tuxedo, his broad shoulders held straight and proud, impervious to the dampness. He’s gracious and charming to all, clearly proud of his paintings. Ada is nowhere to be seen.

  Dr. Bradley introduces Vivienne to Celeste Lee, an art critic for the Philadelphia Investigator, then draws the two of them toward The Joy of Life.

  “Le Bonheur de vivre,” he says to Celeste. “Come see my friend Henri at his best.”

  Vivienne watches as Celeste, her stride long and confident, walks to the picture. A positive review by a journalist of her prominence could set the tone for everyone else’s.

  The Joy of Life is nearly six feet high and eight feet wide, overpowering the regular-size paintings that flank it, sucking all their light. It’s a wild and raucous scene of over a dozen nudes dancing and indulging in erotic pleasures, set against a background of luscious greens, oranges, and yellows, a slice of blue water receding into the background.

  Celeste steps closer, takes a half-dozen steps back, then comes forward again and looks intently at the picture without moving for a good two or three minutes. “Bold,” she finally says, her eyes still glued to Matisse’s work. “The color, the action, the curves. The landscape like a stage . . .”

  This sounds promising. The Joy of Life has been ridiculed as impenetrable, its colors garish and tasteless, its subject matter too sensual, perhaps even homoerotic, its perspective amateurish. It’s none of these things. It’s a brilliant work. A bridge from Van Gogh’s and Monet’s plein air brushstrokes to Cézanne’s mediation between nature and the painted surface.

  “Paradise.” Celeste removes a small notebook from her pocketbook and begins to scribble. “Arcadia on the canvas,” she touches a spot between her breasts, “and in here.” Then her eyes shift to the paintings to its left and right. Derain, Utrillo, Modigliani, Soutine’s Woman in Blue. She approaches the Soutine.

  Celeste stands at least two feet farther from the painting than she did from The Joy of Life. “Soutine,” she says as she reads the signature. “New to me. To you, too?” she asks Dr. Bradley.

  He nods but doesn’t say anything. Soutine isn’t easy to appreciate; Vivienne’s father was never fond of his work and neither is she. The woman in the picture is frightening, with her distorted, arthritic hands and unfocused black eyes. But given time, it’s possible to detect intent in her awkward stance, a sense of moving through tragedy, triumphing over it, strength. This gives a hint of beauty to her homeliness. Although Vivienne still doesn’t like it.

  A slender man with a thick mane of dark hair follows his jutting chin toward them. “Bradley,” he says crisply. “Celeste.”

  “Hi, boss,” Celeste says.

  Dr. Bradley ignores him.

  Vivienne immediately understands that this is the infamous Thomas Quinton. He’s the owner and publisher of the Philadelphia Investigator, the largest newspaper in the city, and he sits on the board of directors at the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Some say the has more power than the mayor—referring to him as Mr. Mayor—others say he has more than the governor.

  According to Dr. Bradley, Quinton loathes him. Vivienne assumed this was an exaggeration, but the man is scowling at Dr. Bradley with such undisguised contempt that it’s clear there has been no overstatement. Ada was to marry Thomas Quinton, but when she met Dr. Bradley, she called off their engagement. This apparently broke Quinton’s heart—he’s never married—and fostered the long-running enmity between the two men. Although it’s unkind, Vivienne finds it hard to imagine Ada at the center of a passionate love triangle. But she acknowledges that Ada’s delicate and feminine prettiness could appeal to a certain type of man.

  The four of them silently examine the canvas, and then Quinton says, “You can’t tell me you actually like this painting, Bradley.”

  “I most certainly can.” He pulls himself to his full height, which is substantial, and adds in his most patronizing tone, “Appreciating art and the artist isn’t necessarily about liking a painting, it’s about understanding the artist’s intent, how he uses his skills and tools to achieve his vision.”

  “I don’t want any part of this man’s vision,” Quinton declares.

  “Soutine is showing us life as he sees it,” Dr. Bradley continues with a supercilious toss of his large head. “As he’s experienced it. Felt it.”

  “But why do we have to look through his eyes?” Celeste asks. “What if we don’t want to see that kind of suffering?”

  “Because using just light and color and line and space, he’s brought the pathos of this woman’s world into full expression, into an emotion you can feel just by looking at it.”

  “And that one.” Quinton points at The Joy of Life. “Matisse shouldn’t be allowed to call himself an artist if he doesn’t know the difference between foreground and background.”

  There’s disdain in Quinton’s eyes, sympathy in Celeste’s. Celeste touches Dr. Bradley’s shoulder and walks over to a waiter holding a tray of canapés. Quinton is in lockstep, whispering in her ear. Unfortunately it’s Quinton’s newspaper, and he’s the one who decides what will and won’t get printed in Celeste’s review.

  “Thomas Quinton is a narrow-minded piece of sod who believes only the work of dead artists has merit,” Dr. Bradley sputters. “He’s a Neanderthal, but the rest of the people here aren’t. He’s on the wrong side of this.”

  “Soutine isn’t for everyone,” Vivienne says.

  “But what about Matisse? Cézanne? Picasso?” Dr. Bradley demands. “These artists are the toast of avant-garde Paris. And the citizens of Philadelphia will surely see why.”

  “Maybe they just need more time,” she suggests. “Like Schoenberg.”

  Dr. Bradley’s shoulders stiffen. “If that’s the situation, they don’t deserve more time.”

  “These rabid modernists lack subtlety, delicacy, or finesse.” The North American.

  “Debased art.” The Public Ledger.

  “Nonsensical clumps of nonsensical color.” City Paper.

  “Could have been done by a child.” Daily News.

  “Most unpleasant to contemplate.” The Post.

  But it’s Celeste Lee’s review in the Investigator that stings the most. Although she focuses mostly on Soutine, her condemnation of many of the other artists is equally strong. She talks of “seemingly incomprehensible masses of paint” and declares many of the paintings to be “portraits of the dregs of humanity created by the dregs of humanity.”

  There’s no mention of her admiration for The Joy of Life. The work of Mr. Mayor’s red pencil, Dr. Bradley is sure. And Vivienne agrees. She saw Celeste’s reaction to the painting, how Celeste touched her heart, obviously touched in her soul.

  People often reject what’s new and different, but it’s the depth of the antipathy that makes these responses so disappointing. Vivienne expected better. These are connoisseurs in a major American city, after all, people whose job it is to study and write about art. And this is what they think? “Nonsensical clumps of nonsensical color?” They are the ones without sense.

  She feels for Dr. Bradley, who, like any poor boy made good, was looking forward to the respect of his hometown. But he overestimated the artistic sensibilities of the inhabitants of the City of Brotherly Love, and she can see that he’s more upset than he’s willing to admit. It’s ignorance and intolerance, to be sure, but Philadelphia is his home, and Vivienne suspects he’s also ashamed of his city.

  9

  Paulien, 1920

  Paulien was supposed to spend the summer traveling with her family to their usual haunts: the apartment in Portofino on the Italian Riviera; the Bären in Saint Moritz; a month in Paris at Le Meurice, hotel to kings and sultans and maharajas with whom her fat
her dined and often did business. Instead she stayed in London with George.

  When her father heard of her plan, he threatened to come to England to bring her home. Although her mother maintained that he just wanted everyone to be on holiday together, Paulien guessed it was because he still hadn’t forgiven her for turning down Maxence Van de Velde, his closest business associate’s homely son, and he probably never would. But she’d been seventeen years old at the time and more than capable of making her own decisions.

  Papa had tried to bribe her into accepting Maxence’s marriage proposal with promises of lavish wedding gifts, including a new home. When she turned it all down, he resorted to threats of disinheriting, of putting her brothers in control of the Mertens collection instead of giving it to her. She didn’t believe he would follow through on either—which he didn’t—so she stuck to her guns, and now she was over the moon that she had.

  George was the most exciting man Paulien had ever met. She wasn’t even put off when she discovered he owned a securities company—Everard Sureties Exchange—on the same block as the National Westminster Bank. She’d been surrounded by men in business since she was a child and always imagined herself with a wilder, more artsy type.

  But George wasn’t like her father’s friends and colleagues. He didn’t work incessantly. He didn’t think making money was the most important thing in the world. He laughed all the time—including at himself—and was spontaneous, loving, and generous. And then there was the way he made her feel when they were alone at night.

  At first she’d been nervous, both about having relations and about getting pregnant. Although she’d had three different boyfriends and spent considerable time kissing each of them—one of whom, after six months, she allowed to touch the outside of her corset—she was uninitiated in what George called “the fine art of love.” He was twenty-five, seven years her senior, and much more knowledgeable than she. He was also an excellent teacher.

  Once her friend Bernice showed her how to soak a tiny sponge in quinine and place it correctly, she threw herself into this new and exquisite world with abandon. Now, as Paulien lay in bed, she ran two fingers up the inside of her thigh and pressed them into the place between her legs that George had brought to life. She shivered, then removed her fingers, wanting to keep the hunger for when she was with him.

  She stretched her arms high and wiggled her fingers, allowed the sheet to drop to her waist, and lit a cigarette. George had stolen out in the middle of the night, as he always did, and was at his office, but he’d promised to meet her for lunch.

  Her flat in a townhouse in Belgravia—a white stucco building with lovely terraces in the center of the city—had the benefit of a private back stairway, which they took advantage of. Even though they had been together almost every day since that afternoon at the Princess Louise, the thought of seeing him in a few hours electrified her.

  Everything he did was perfect. The way he charmed her friends. The way he played tennis. The way he was willing to lend a hand or a few pounds to anyone who asked. The way he knew without being told exactly what she wanted—and then made sure she got it. She had found her man. This was for life.

  The past weekend was just one example of his largesse. George had over a hundred employees at Everard Sureties/London—managers, brokers, runners, bookkeepers, secretaries—and at least another fifty at Everard Sureties/Rome. Once a year he threw a party to celebrate them. Their families were invited, and this year he’d rented out an entire wing of the Langham Hotel for the gathering.

  The Langham in London rivaled Le Meurice in grandeur and history—Napoleon spent part of his exile from France there—and bested it on one important account: air-conditioning. It was the only place she knew where you could escape the mugginess of a London August. Or a Parisian one.

  George spared no expense, maintaining that the employees deserved all this and more. Outings to lakes and museums, shows for the children, lavish meals, and an extravagant Saturday evening dinner-dance in the hotel ballroom with a twelve-piece band. Everyone enjoyed the party immensely, and everyone adored Mr. Everard. Especially Paulien.

  She wasn’t particularly interested in business or finance, but after the weekend, her curiosity was piqued. “Tell me exactly what it is, what you do.” They were in her apartment on Sunday evening, having just returned from the Langham. It was hot and muggy, and the windows were thrown open. Still they snuggled close together on the settee, she drinking sherry and he scotch.

  Paulien brushed back the lock of hair that fell into his eye, pressed her finger to the cleft in his chin. “I want to know everything about you.”

  George didn’t demur or claim this wasn’t a girl’s concern; he took her seriously. “It’s actually quite simple,” he said. “Our secret is that we think big.”

  “About trading IRCs?” She knew he was involved in buying and selling international reply coupons, but she wasn’t sure exactly what they were. Something about postage you put inside a letter for the recipient to use when they replied. But she thought it worked only if you were sending mail internationally. She’d never known anyone who used them, but apparently it was a common practice. A politeness.

  “Basically, I buy IRCs for less in one country and redeem them for more in another.”

  “That’s legal?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Why doesn’t everyone do it?”

  “They could if they wanted to. Probably some do, but it’s a matter of scale.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “I have a weakness for an inquisitive girl—especially when she’s fearless about getting to the answer.”

  “So explain it to me.”

  He laughed and kissed her again, this time longer and deeper. Paulien sank into it, as she always did, but then pulled herself back. “Don’t distract me when I’m being fearlessly curious,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” George gave her a snappy salute. “You know how you buy IRCs in your country and then whoever you send them to redeems them in their country?”

  “For stamps?”

  “Exactly. The price of an IRC is tied to the price of a first-class stamp—on both sides of the transaction. Usually the cost of postage doesn’t vary that much from one country to another, but when it does, there’s the opportunity to make money in the exchange.”

  “And that’s what it’s like now?”

  “In Italy it is. The country is a mess. Inflation is killing them, so they’ve discounted the price of their stamps—and therefore the price of IRCs. We Brits, on the other hand, are in the midst of a boom, so our postage costs a lot more. What Everard Sureties does is buy the cheaper IRCs in Italy—which is why we have an office in Rome—and exchange them for stamps in London, which are worth four times what they are there. Stamps are like currency, so we sell them at face value, and voilà, an enormous profit.”

  Paulien thought about this. “I still don’t understand why everyone doesn’t do it.”

  “Each transaction, in and of itself, doesn’t make that much money—stamps here cost only a penny apiece. So for an individual to take advantage of this, he’d have to travel between the countries himself, go back and forth to the post offices to buy and redeem the coupons—then sell the stamps. This wouldn’t be worth all that trouble unless he had a lot of money to invest.”

  “And that’s where you come in? You supply the money?”

  “Not the money, the manpower and equipment. The brokers, the runners, the ships, the lorries. A customer buys shares in Everard Sureties—so he’s actually supplying the money—and we do everything else. All he has to do is watch the profits roll in.”

  “What kind of profits?”

  “Gross profit after the transaction is four hundred percent.”

  “Your customers make that kind of money?” she asked, incredulous. “How can that be? It’s like pound notes hanging on trees. Too good to be true.” She paused, stricken by
a wave of doubt, of wariness. How well did she actually know this man? “Is it too good to be true?”

  George threw back his head and laughed delightedly. “Naturally that’s not the actual return—not for them and not for me. After expenses, which are significant, we’re down to about eighty percent net. I guarantee my investors fifteen percent in forty-five days, twenty-five percent in ninety days, and thirty percent in a year. Haven’t missed any of those benchmarks yet.”

  “It was all your idea?” Was there anything this man couldn’t do?

  “The idea’s been around forever,” he said modestly. “What I came up with was the notion of creating a company to take advantage of it.”

  Paulien thought about the awkward position she’d put her father in when she refused Maxence. Although she wasn’t sorry she said no to a loveless marriage, she was sorry she had upset Papa. What if she were to bring him an opportunity like this? “My father might be interested in that kind of investment. He’s got a little money.” She’d never told anyone in London about her family’s wealth. Including George.

  “I can’t take on any new investors right now, doll. Probably not for the foreseeable future. We’re all backed up. Even with our size, we run into problems with logistics. It’s hard to find trustworthy brokers and runners, especially in Rome, and the sheer volume and weight of the actual IRCs is a transportation nightmare.”

  Paulien pulled a pout and fluttered her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner. “Even for me?” she asked coquettishly.

  George lifted her onto his lap and nuzzled her neck. When he kissed her, her disappointment—and everything else—vanished.

  10

  George/Benjamin, 1923

  As he lounges on the deck of his rented yacht, bobbing on the green-blue Mediterranean, champagne glass in one hand, cigar in another, he recognizes he’s a cliché. And he basks in it.

  The caterers are setting up for the party he’s hosting that evening. There are many wealthy vacationers on Majorca this time of year, and he’s asked some of the most distinguished to join him for a sunset cruise off the coast of Palma. Everyone is more than happy to accept an invitation from the mysterious and charming Benjamin F. Talcott, an extremely successful Wall Street broker. They’re hoping for stock tips on the booming American market, and he’s planning to pass on some investment advice to a few. A select few.