The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  “It’s all about him and Zelda,” Gertrude declares. “A woman who only wants to marry a rich man, and an alcoholic man waiting around to get rich—now who does that sound like to you?”

  “Perhaps,” Vivienne says. “But I think it’s more than that. A morality tale about love and decadence, don’t you think? It seems like he’s showing us there’s no running from the past. That it always follows you.” She winces as she articulates this thought. “That you need to come to terms with it before you can move into your future.”

  “Hmmm.” Gertrude’s eyes narrow. “So there’s something you’re running from? Something from the past that’s got its snares into you? That won’t let go until you beat it back?”

  Vivienne shrugs. “Why should I be any different from anyone else?”

  Gertrude gives her a look that implies she’ll return to this topic at another time. “So is that why you’re with Bradley? Is he going to help you shed your past? Or maybe protect you from it?”

  “I’m not ‘with him,’ as you well know,” Vivienne says. “I work for him. It’s a good job.”

  “There’s more to it than that. He’s got some kind of hold on you.”

  “He’s my boss, and being here is an oppor—”

  “Horseshit,” Gertrude declares. “He fawns all over you and you let him. What does he have that you want so much? Money? Art? Not to mention that he’s way too old for you—and as sexless as a rock.”

  “You make him sound so appealing. Which in many ways he is.”

  “Really? Are you going to claim that’s why you’re having an affair with him?”

  “Edwin and I are not having an affair.”

  “So you say.” Gertrude shoots her a peevish frown. “But what I want to know is why you’re lowering yourself to his level.”

  “Lowering myself? Given Edwin’s many accomplishments, I’d say that he’s the one who’s lowering himself to mine.”

  “Aha!” Gertrude’s eyes glint. “If you’re not having an affair, how could he be lowering himself?”

  “You’re twisting my words.”

  “Just because he’s managed to buy himself into prominence doesn’t mean he’s accomplished.”

  “Are you kidding? That man is a visionary. He started out with nothing. Became a doctor, a chemist, a successful business—”

  “How about the way he treats people?”

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, people are more complicated than they seem. I bet you don’t know that Edwin gives his factory workers, mostly Negroes, two hours off every day—paid, I might add—five days a week, to learn about art, do you? That he’s a big supporter of rights for—”

  “You should be with Henri.”

  “He’s married.”

  “So is Edwin.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Henri’s in desperate need of a companion,” Gertrude interrupts. “Fulfilling his greatness is more important than giving Negroes art lessons, wouldn’t you say? And what you get from Henri will be far better than anything you believe you’re going to get from an old man like Bradley. Mark my words, in the end you’ll get nothing from him. You should take up with Matisse.”

  “Henri’s older than I am, too.”

  “Not nearly as much—and no one would ever say he’s sexless.”

  Vivienne thinks back to the soft give of Henri’s lips, to the trail of kisses down her neck.

  “Do you find him attractive?”

  “I’m guessing any woman he flirts with finds him attractive. And that number has got to be in the hundreds, probably thousands.”

  “True.” Gertrude chortles. “But you’d be perfect for him—and maybe he could help you with that past you’re running from.”

  “I’m not running from anything.”

  “The wife’s not as important as she used to be. They’re hardly ever in the same city at the same time anymore.”

  “That doesn’t—”

  “He told me you have the soul of an artist, the mind of an intellectual, and the face of an angel.”

  “I’m sure I’m not the only woman he’s described that way,” Vivienne says. The great Henri Matisse said that about her? Henri said that about her. She concentrates on carefully slicing her chicken to avoid looking at Gertrude.

  Gertrude barks a loud laugh, clearly enjoying both Vivienne’s discomfort and what that discomfort confirms. “He wants you, he told me so. I’ve known him a long time, and I can see how lonely he is. I worry it’s going to affect his work—you wouldn’t want that to happen, now would you? He needs stimulation, companionship, a muse.”

  “I’m not the muse type. I’ve got my job, and now I’ve got a book to write. Why would I give that up to have an affair with a married man who’s a notorious playboy?”

  “Just don’t forget that you’re not a straitlaced American,” Gertrude cautions. “Or that he’s Henri Matisse.”

  Over the Paris winter, Vivienne and Edwin are busy working together on the book, buying art, developing new curricula, preparing for the Bradley’s future. She’s the perfect assistant: conscientious, supportive, a boost to his ego. If it weren’t for his suspicions about Henri, she’s sure he would be close to naming her as his successor.

  One afternoon when they’re working in the living room of Edwin’s suite, which the hotel has turned into an office for him, Edwin receives a letter from Bill Glackens. Bill says he’s heard rumors that both the University of Pennsylvania and the Philadelphia Museum of Art, along with Thomas Quinton, have been pressuring the district attorney general’s office to pursue the lawsuit.

  “I’m going to get them, and get them good!” Edwin declares.

  Vivienne tries to pacify him, but he’ll have none of it. “They’re all going to be sorry they tried to mess with me!”

  She waits.

  “A ruse,” he tells her. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and now I’m going to do it. When we get home, I’ll have them all running around over nothing! Make fools of the whole pack of them.”

  “A ruse?” This didn’t sound good.

  “I’m going to tell Penn I’m bequeathing the collection to them when I die. And then when the university does something to annoy me—which I’m certain it will—I’ll reverse myself and claim the museum is the beneficiary. And when the PMA backstabs me, I’ll make it even more insulting and announce that I’m leaving it to you.”

  “Me?” she repeats, as if the idea had never crossed her mind. “You can’t leave the collection to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have the credentials or—”

  “That will make it all the more insulting,” he says triumphantly. “Not a school or a museum. Not a relative or even a man. Just some girl. An Englishgirl, to boot. And who knows what you might do with it? You could move the whole kit and caboodle to London.” Then he adds, “Only you and I know what an excellent choice you actually are.”

  A very promising development.

  Yet for all his hypothetical trust in her, he continues to come to the sessions with Henri. For the most part, Henri behaves himself, although it’s clear his frustration is growing. He’s luminous and fascinating, and the way he thinks about art is almost as amazing as the art he creates. Vivienne is completely smitten. Edwin watches them warily, subtly and not so subtly inserting himself between them.

  On the day before their last interview, Edwin’s art dealer Paul Guillaume insists that Edwin accompany him to Arles. An estate is being sold off by heritors in need of quick cash, and it includes some Derains, Vlamincks, and Renoirs. Edwin is reluctant to leave Vivienne alone with Henri, but his wish to obtain the paintings at a good price bests his jealousy.

  “What is this nonsense Gertrude tells me?” Henri demands as soon as she arrives for the interview.

  “And hello to you, too, Monsieur Matisse. May I come in so that the entire city isn’t privy to this inquisition?”

  “I am not at all certain that you should,” he replies pe
tulantly.

  “And anyway,” she adds, “I’m here to work, not to discuss my personal life.”

  He leads her into his colorful sitting room and motions her into the settee. “Is it true?”

  “You sound just like your friend Gertrude with your enigmatic questions. What exactly are you talking about?”

  He sits down next to her. “If you are aware I am speaking about your personal life, than you know what I am asking.”

  She can’t help laughing. “Edwin and I are not having an affair. Never have. Never will.”

  “Gertrude doesn’t believe you, and I am not sure that I do either. I see how he watches you, how he responds to me when you and I are together. Why would you get involved in such a thing?”

  “I told you, I’m not.”

  Henri scowls. “He is too old for you.”

  “You’re not all that much younger than he is.”

  “I am younger, but chronological age is irrelevant.” Henri points to his heart. “In here is what matters. Bradley was an old man on the day he was born, and I have always been—and always will be—young.”

  There’s no denying this—or that it’s one of the things she finds so attractive about him. She compares the delightful messiness of the room with Edwin’s fanatically symmetrical and perfectly aligned ensembles. “It’s not that he’s old, it’s that he’s serious minded. But not all the time. We laugh.”

  “I have known Bradley for far longer than you, and I do not understand why you would want to waste your youth on an old man with no sense of humor and the passion of a rock.”

  “I’m not wasting anything because I’m not doing anything! And anyway, Edwin has many qualities that neither you nor Gertrude know anything—”

  “You naughty girl!” Henri hoots. “I had no idea he was so well endowed.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Nonetheless, a flush rises to her cheeks, and Henri’s hoot turns into full-throated hilarity. It’s irresistible, and soon they’re folded over with laughter in a reenactment of the first time she was at his apartment.

  When they finally calm, he says, “I bet you do not laugh with Edwin like this.”

  She doesn’t answer, because it’s true. Instead she bends to get her notebook.

  He reaches over and lightly presses his forefinger to a spot between her jaw and ear. She pulls her head back, but not quickly enough. She could do this, just a dalliance, just for fun, just because her body wants it. But she’s afraid her feelings for Henri are more than a dalliance—and that she’s just another potential conquest to him. She won’t twice be made a fool.

  “Not only will we laugh together, chérie,” Henri whispers, his breath warm on her throat, “but I have many things to share with you that I know you will enjoy even more.”

  She moves to a chair across from the settee and clears her throat. “I’m working on the chapter about your time at Belle Île with John Peter Russell in the late eighteen nineties. Can you tell me how this affected your style?”

  Henri gives an exaggerated sigh and says, “Russell explained color theory to me, and after that everything changed.”

  “Can you expand on that? Are you talking about his color wheel? Or do you mean his insight that the juxtaposition of a color and its complement makes the intersection sizzle?”

  “You look very beautiful today.” He picks up a sketchbook and a piece of charcoal. “Green suits you.”

  “I’m going back to Philadelphia in a few days. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover before I leave if we’re ever going to get this book done.”

  “Turn your head a touch toward me,” he orders.

  She hesitates, then puts down her notebook and does as he asks. Henri Matisse wants to draw her. What else can she do?

  “You have the coloring of a blond. So mysterious against your dark hair.”

  “Like your odalisques?” Vivienne asks quickly. She shifts in her seat.

  “Do not move!” he cries. “Stay exactly as you are. The light across your right cheek is perfect.”

  The morning sun is warm on her face and shoulder, as is the intensity of his gaze. At first she’s stiff, nervous even, but as in her days as a model, soon her concerns and self-consciousness begin to melt. She loses herself within a piece of silk thrown over the back of the settee; it’s a purplish blue and shimmers like a school of fish in flight, alive and full of motion while remaining perfectly still.

  After what might have been five minutes or fifty, Henri stands and comes toward her. He kneels, brings his eyes level with her. “I want you,” he says.

  Vivienne doesn’t move.

  He smiles, stands, and reaches out his hand to her. She takes it, allows him to pull her up. She’s shaky and her thighbones are so weak she can barely stand. Henri’s eyes don’t leave hers, and neither of them says a word.

  He leads her into his bedroom and they enfold themselves into each other’s arms. This time, Vivienne doesn’t pull away. Instead she helps him undress her, and he helps her undress him. They fit together perfectly, move together perfectly, understand each other’s wants without speaking. Communicating with their mouths and their hands and their bodies. Their locked eyes.

  21

  Vivienne, 1925

  May in Philadelphia isn’t May in Paris, but it’s still delightful, and the Bradley grounds are an eruption of color and new life. Horticulture is Ada’s passion, and while she’s planted the area surrounding the building with magnificent Japanese maples and clusters of painted ferns, what impresses Vivienne most are the southern plants Ada has coaxed into growing in Pennsylvania.

  She imagines Henri beside her, his arm on hers. They breathe in the lemony fragrance of the creamy magnolias, the liquorish scent of the camellia blossoms, and the almond honey of the powder-puff mimosas. They stroll among the topiaries, the cascading roses, their conversation exhilarating, stimulating. Juxtaposing contrasting colors does make them sizzle. Pure and bright colors do produce passion. But her arm is empty, and she only has herself to talk to.

  In the evenings she lies in bed thinking about him, missing him, wondering how long it will be before she sees him again. She relives their lovemaking, her body more easily aroused now than when she had gone three years without. She’s only twenty-two and needs to be with a man.

  She wonders if she means more to him than his usual conquests do, wonders how much he means to her, then scolds herself for the questions. Henri is a flirt and a playboy.

  Words are easy, flowing glibly from the mouths of men who want far more than they’re telling, willing to give far less than they’re promising. She can’t trust him. Can’t trust herself. She isn’t ready, doesn’t know if she ever will be. The pain of George’s desertion, the fictiveness of all she so foolishly believed, is too raw. And it happened because she fell in love, let herself go, which rendered her incapable of seeing.

  The hearing for the suit to open the Bradley to the public is held on a sweltering day at the Montgomery County Courthouse in Norristown. The gracious building, fronted by Ionic columns and topped by a dome embedded with clocks, looks solid and serious, judicial and fair minded. Inside, however, it gives the opposite impression. The heat wave is stretching into its fifth day, and the air, weighted with moisture, reeks of age and despair. Despite the building’s high ceilings and wide corridors, the temperature has to be hovering in the eighties.

  Vivienne presses a handkerchief to her face as she follows Edwin and his lawyer, Jacob Gusdorff, along a circuitous route through the building. After working with Edwin on the case for months, she’s still disconcerted to be rooting against him. But he’s holding the wrong hand; art is meant to be shared.

  They enter a small, windowless hearing room. A single fan sitting on the judge’s bench pushes the hot air around, cooling no one. Edwin and Jacob settle at their table, and Vivienne takes a seat behind Edwin. Daniel Martin, the assistant district attorney, and his associate are at the matching table across the aisle.

&
nbsp; The judge is overweight and sweating so profusely that Vivienne fears he might be ill. He mops his red face with a damp handkerchief and frowns at the lawyers. “Please begin,” he grumbles. “And please get right to the point.”

  Martin stands. “The Bradley was awarded tax-exempt status because it claimed to provide a service to the good people of Montgomery County,” he begins, his voice coated with disdain. “Unfortunately, Your Honor, this has not been the case.

  “The so-called Bradley School of Art Appreciation is a privately owned building containing a private art collection. Both are controlled by Edwin Bradley, who uses them solely for his own purposes. Dr. Bradley has perpetrated a fraud on the trusting, tax-paying citizens of the great Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and he cannot be allowed to continue this charade!”

  The judge wipes his face again and sluggishly moves his hand through the air. “No theatrics please, Mr. Martin. It’s too damn hot.”

  Martin shoots his cuffs. “Your Honor, the Bradley is not a school, as it contends. It employs teachers without expertise in the field, does not award grades or diplomas, has no consistent curriculum, and uses an arbitrary admission process that has more to do with Dr. Bradley’s whims than with any impartial standard. Our own esteemed University of Pennsylvania would not allow its students to study there, owing—and rightly so—to its inferior staff and lack of accreditation.”

  Martin pauses for effect, and the judge throws him an irritable glance. “But this is only one-half of our complaint,” he resumes. “The Bradley is currently not functioning as a museum either. Only a small number of Dr. Bradley’s friends are allowed to view the collection, and there has not been a single instance in which a person not favored by the doctor has been allowed entrance.

  “It is the commonwealth’s contention that, in order to maintain its tax-exempt status, the Bradley must function as either a school or a museum—if not both. As it fails to conform to the requirements for either, we propose that it be ordered to open its doors to the public for a minimum of six days a week. Either that, or Dr. Bradley must pay taxes on his property like every other law-abiding citizen of this great commonwealth!” He sits down and mops his own face.