The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  Talcott Reserves had grown more slowly than he anticipated, and he wasn’t able to pull out as much money as usual. He was obligated to leave a sufficient amount of cash in the New York account for those clients who might want to take some profits. An amount that would have been adequate if he’d had the additional time he needed to recoup the early losses.

  And that’s exactly what would have happened if someone hadn’t egged on his four biggest investors, who began sniffing around and then all showed up at his offices last week demanding their money. Of which there wasn’t nearly enough on hand. What was, in all his previous endeavors, a sufficient reserve was suddenly not sufficient at all.

  Betty, his fetching secretary, poured each of the investors a glass of twenty-year-old scotch while he happily wrote hefty checks against a balance that couldn’t cover them. Then he walked the men out, joking about how sorry they were going to be to lose the forecasted Talcott Reserves profits and chitchatting about the trips they all needed to take to the Caribbean or Monaco for respite from the winter weather. As soon as the men disappeared behind the elevator doors, he nonchalantly picked up his coat, told Betty he would be back in an hour, and left. For good.

  Now they’re all looking for him: the investors, the banks, the police, and, needless to say, Katherine, the unfortunate jilted lover. In truth, except for the financial losses, his situation is exactly the same as it was when he walked away from Everard Sureties or any of his other businesses. He’s a master at eluding the law and reinventing himself. He’ll just disappear and start a new enterprise somewhere else. He’s done it before, and no one has caught him yet.

  Although he won’t have the ease of unlimited funds, he has more than enough for the setup, and there are many possibilities: the gem scam involving tourists and fake jewels, veneer salting involving bricks covered with a thin layer of gold, a wire swindle involving fake bookies and casinos. But he’s partial to the type of scheme he’s had so much success with. It worked for Wesson Investments and Everard Sureties and Talcott Reserves, the latter’s failure having nothing to do with him or his management skills—just some jerk with an ax to grind. All he needs to do is find the right setup to make it work again.

  He watches a little girl, wearing a ragged coat far too large for her, lift her mouth to the sky and stick out her tongue to catch the snow that has started to fall. Her mother tugs on her arm, forcing her forward, and the child begins to cry. The mother lifts her, snaps her onto her hip, and proceeds briskly down the sidewalk. Rushing home to make a paltry dinner of potatoes and a few scraps of meat? To a tiny apartment and a husband who has a lousy job and drinks too much? A life he escaped and has no plans to return to.

  This time he’ll go for something tangible. Not cash or stocks. Diamonds are an option, as is gold, but these are too common and don’t interest him. Perhaps paintings? He’s learned a little about art from both Katherine and Paulien, and it would be fun to develop yet another area of expertise. He’ll create a company that buys up fine art and then sell shares of its future value. He can already see himself whispering in a few select ears that art is an investment far more solid than putting money in the stock market or in a bank: its value always goes up.

  He’ll rent a warehouse and fill it with art, invite prospective customers to verify the many major pieces he has there. But even at bargain-basement prices, that much artwork will be excessively expensive. Below him, a couple of men stagger down the street, obviously drunk, probably from that bootleg whiskey that rips out stomach linings and leaves the poor bastards blind. He stares after them. What if the paintings are fake?

  Forged art costs far less than real art, a fraction. He flips on a few electric lights and draws the curtains, enclosing his elegant suite in a cozy glow. It could work. He’ll hire quality forgers—there are more than enough hungry artists to choose from—purchase supplies, rent spaces for work, storage, offices. He strides through the rooms, consumed by the energy a new idea always brings.

  He’ll go to Paris, scope out the prospects. Everyone in Paris thinks they know and appreciate good art, although few actually do. Paris is perfect, and his French is impeccable. He sits in an oversize wing chair, rests his feet on the ottoman, and lights a cigarette.

  He will need to buy some genuine paintings first, some by the old masters, some by the post-Impressionist and Abstract artists who are becoming all the rage: Cézanne, Matisse, Picasso. The ones Paulien is so keen on. The purchases will establish his credibility and contacts as well as provide the artwork to display to his marks. The fakes will be stored in an area of the warehouse where the lighting is poor, but their sheer numbers will impress. Brilliant.

  Now, who should he become? He’s been British, American, and Canadian, preferring English language countries even though his gift for languages and accents is remarkable. Australian. That would work. An Aussie, hard to trace. An art collector and businessman, scads of inherited money.

  Australians, like the British, have solid surnames as well as given names, and this appeals to him because they are nothing like the name on his own birth certificate. Lots of Smiths and Joneses and Robinsons. King is a common Australian name, and he likes what it implies, especially paired with a virile first name like Cooper or Ashton or Braxton. Ashton King has a nice ring. He’ll become Ashton King, well-to-do art collector known for his excellent eye.

  He thinks of Paulien Mertens, or more correctly, Vivienne Gregsby. She’s now Edwin Bradley’s highest-ranking employee and lives just outside Philadelphia. He saw her at a performance of the Philadelphia Orchestra last year, then again at the Statler while dining with Katherine’s family. He’s gone to Merion a few times, followed her to the Bradley, and then followed her home. She used to be an artist, was raised by an art collector, and is now working for one. He’s good. So damn good.

  He decides he’ll stick around the States a little longer, shadow Paulien for another few weeks, prepare for their accidental meeting and figure out how to make the best use of her.

  19

  Paulien, 1921–1922

  Paulien was completing her final studio project at the Slade. It was a series of London street scenes in pastels: one from the east-facing window of her flat in the morning; one from the south-facing windows at midday; the third from the west in the late afternoon; and the fourth a north view she worked on at night, dragging her easel to the roof.

  She was trying to create works like Matisse’s and Cézanne’s, full of color and somewhat abstracted and flattened, a different way of seeing the usually gray and cloudy city. The paintings weren’t nearly as good as she had hoped, although her teacher was vaguely encouraging. It would have been fun to have more talent, but becoming a painter wasn’t her ambition. Becoming an extraordinary art collector was.

  “I’ve been thinking that taking over the Mertens collection isn’t going to be enough to keep me busy at first,” she told George as they shared dinner at a bistro near her apartment. “Not until my father is ready to sell some of the traditional artwork so there’s money to start the museum. He seems reluctant—although that’s what we’d always planned—and now that school is almost over, there’s going to be a big hole with nothing to fill it. I need to do something else.”

  “How about being my wife?” George asked, pretending to be wounded. “That’s not filling?”

  She leaned over and kissed him lightly. “That’s a very full future, but I want to be more than my mother with her vapid parties and endless changing of clothes. Something more challenging. More interesting.”

  “I like your mother.”

  “That’s because you both like vapid parties.”

  “Are you calling our wedding vapid?”

  “Maybe not vapid, but you’ve got to admit the preparations are endless—and all the costume changes will be, too.”

  He grazed the inside of her wrist with his lips, and the facets of her engagement ring threw prisms of light. “Do you want to elope, doll? We could do it tomorrow if that�
��s what you’d really like.”

  Paulien did. More than she would let him know. Another year seemed both interminable and unnecessary. But she’d promised him a big party, and she wasn’t going back on her promise, especially when she saw a trace of worry cross his eyes. “No, my darling,” she said. “Let’s do it your way. Let’s do it up right.”

  George leaned back and lifted his wineglass. “To long engagements.”

  They gazed into each other’s eyes, smiling, and resumed their dinner.

  “What about curating?” he asked. “For a museum.”

  “Because I studied studio art, I don’t have the right training. It would be years before I’d be able to do anything interesting . . .”

  “You could go back to school for a degree in art history.”

  “I thought about that. But I want to do something more active, more participatory.”

  “So what are you thinking, my little minx?”

  “What about an art gallery? I’d be buying and selling and finding new talent. It’s just what I need to prepare, to get ready to build the collection.” She hesitated. “Would that be all right with you? To have a wife who works?”

  “Of course it would. I’m proud of you for wanting more. And you’ll be wonderful at it.”

  “Nothing too fancy or expensive,” she continued. “No one too established, up-and-coming would be the best. Where art is going, not where it’s been. Where the post-Impressionists are pushing new artists to go.”

  “We can rent space on the edge of a nice neighborhood,” George suggested. “Not too highbrow, not too lowbrow. A place all kinds of people will feel comfortable visiting. Where there aren’t a lot of other galleries. But maybe where there are a lot of artists. Where do the teachers at the Slade live? We could—”

  “No. Not yet. I can’t get ahead of myself. I’m not ready. I’ve got to learn more. I have no idea how to go about setting up a gallery—let alone how to run one.”

  “I could find someone to help you. Someone with experience in the business. I’m sure I must know—”

  “I think I need to work in a gallery first. See all sides of it for myself—the things that turn out well and the things that don’t. Get my hands dirty.” She looked at the paint under her fingernails. “So to speak.”

  He pulled her toward him, kissing her longer and harder than could be considered appropriate in a public place. “You’re the most amazing girl I have ever met.”

  She pushed him away. “Let’s skip dessert.”

  Two weeks after graduation, Paulien had a position at the Whitechapel Gallery in Tower Hamlets. George, naturally, had a friend on the board of directors who was more than happy to find a place for her. Everyone was more than happy to do a favor for George Everard.

  It wasn’t the type of business she had in mind. The Whitechapel was publicly funded, and in that sense it was more like a museum than a gallery. But it had no permanent collection, only temporary exhibitions, the way a private gallery would. And it was turning out to be a grand training ground, especially for learning how to find and nurture artists, which was exactly what Paulien needed to learn. Along with almost everything else.

  Their plan was to marry in August, now only five months away, honeymoon through September, and return to London at the beginning of October. She would work another year or two for Whitechapel and then open Mertens Everard Art.

  Life couldn’t have been more glorious and became even more so after her parents’ visit. On the last evening of their stay, Papa hosted a five-course dinner just for the four of them in his suite at the Langham. Paulien was already bloated from a week of rich food and champagne, but she dressed in the new gown she’d bought with her mother that afternoon, and she and George, so handsome in his tux, glided across the hotel’s ornate lobby and took the elevator to the penthouse.

  Over scotch and cigars, her father presented George with a list of his business associates and friends, including himself, who wished to invest in Everard Sureties. George scanned the names while her father explained the background of each man, each one more successful and influential than the last. Paulien listened with only half an ear to her mother, who was catching her up on a scandalous piece of Brussels gossip that she’d learned from a letter she’d received that afternoon.

  When Paulien looked over at the men, George was shaking his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not a good time,” he was saying. “I have more money than I can make use of at the moment. It’s frustrating, but I can’t seem to find enough Italian runners who can be entrusted with what is essentially a cash business. And without them, I can turn over only a limited number of IRCs.”

  “Having too much money is an uncommon situation for a businessman,” Papa said, trying for a joking tone.

  “As you know, we’re a volume venture,” George explained. “The greater the amount that goes in, the greater the amount that comes out. I could make more money for everyone, including myself, if I could just hire more hands.”

  “Maybe I can help,” her father offered.

  Paulien listened more carefully.

  “I have a number of associates in Rome,” Papa said. “In textiles and other areas as well. How about if I ask them to help you find men who could be trusted with such a job?”

  George’s face lit up. “If you mean it, I’ll take you up on it right this minute.”

  “I absolutely mean it.” He turned and looked at Paulien affectionately. “Why wouldn’t I want to help the man who’s going to marry my beautiful little girl?”

  “And why wouldn’t I want to help the father of the beautiful girl I’m going to marry?” George countered. “I’ll accept whatever monies you’d personally like to invest—and as soon as we find a few more men in Italy, you can tell your friends I’ll welcome their investments as well.”

  20

  Vivienne, 1925

  Edwin’s lawyer’s motion to continue is granted, and the trial is postponed until spring, which allows Vivienne and Edwin to return to Paris in early February. It’s grand to be away from Ada, whose hostile vigilance weighs heavily, and it’s just as grand to be away from the Bradley, whose demands are equally daunting. Although Edwin agreed they would return to their earlier relationship, he’s overly concerned with her comings and goings in ways that befit a lover rather than an employer. But she must step carefully if she’s to convince him that she’s the only one who can bring his plans for the Bradley’s future to fruition.

  She’s not surprised when Edwin tells her he’s coming to the first interview with Henri. Henri is gracious when they arrive, although it’s obvious he’s disappointed. So is she. Henri keeps shooting her meaningful glances, which she dodges as best she can. Becoming Edwin’s heir is more important than flirting with a ladies’ man, but Henri isn’t easy to resist. The three of them spend the afternoon sitting close together, reviewing the outline and pages she’s already written. At one point, Henri throws his arm casually over the back of her chair. She pretends she doesn’t notice.

  It gets even more knotty when Henri shows them some of his new work, most of it from his series of oil-on-canvas paintings of odalisques: Odalisque with a Green Plant and Screen, Odalisque, and Odalisque with Magnolias. Without realizing what she’s doing, she reaches out and touches his shoulder. “They’re magnificent,” she breathes.

  Edwin turns from the paintings and gives her a sharp look.

  Vivienne drops her hand and steps away from Henri. She can feel the heat of him as she can feel the heat of his paintings. Although inspired by the more staid nineteenth-century works depicting maids and concubines of Turkish royalty, these are pure Matisse: a touch of flatness and abstraction, full of color, bursting with eroticism.

  How could anyone not be drawn to such a man? She remembers their kisses, lingers on what might have been, on what still might be. What George awakened cannot be put back to sleep.

  A week later, Gertrude sends a note asking Vivienne to join her for lunch at La Fermette Marbeuf
, one of the finest restaurants in the city. Vivienne has no idea what prompted the invitation, but from the formality and the location she guesses her friend has more than a sociable meal on her mind.

  Gertrude, her face obscured by a massive menu, is already seated when Vivienne enters the famed room with its mirrors and stained glass, its immense ceiling a tapestry of wrought iron supporting painted windows. She’d come here often as a child on visits to Paris, and these windows were always the highlight. As usual, she carefully checks the room before entering, although her apprehension has lessened. It’s been three years, and most people are more concerned with themselves than with the long-ago lapses of others.

  When she reaches the table, Gertrude lowers her menu. “You can’t fool me, Vivienne Gregsby,” she declares. “I want to know what’s going on, and I want to know it now.”

  Vivienne sits and gazes guilelessly at her friend. “What are you talking about?” She throws in a laugh that sounds awkward to her ears—and must to Gertrude’s.

  Gertrude crosses her arms over her chest and looks at Vivienne with her unwavering gaze. “Fess up, sister.”

  Vivienne lights a cigarette. “I don’t know what you want me to confess to.” Gertrude found out about Paulien. Merde.

  “How about that you and Bradley aren’t just boss and assistant anymore?”

  Vivienne is concentrating so hard on acquitting herself in the Paulien situation that it takes her a moment to realize what Gertrude is referring to. “Oh, of course we are.” She laughs. “Why? Do you think I’ve been fired?”

  “You can deny it all you want, but I know something’s going on.” Gertrude gives the hovering waiter a crisp nod. “I don’t want to spoil my appetite, so let’s eat before we talk about it.”

  Two bowls of consommé appear, and they discuss Scott Fitzgerald’s latest novel, The Beautiful and Damned, through that course as well as the oysters and pâté that follow.