The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  “So, ah, so did I.” Being this close to her, feeling the heat coming off her body, smelling her familiar scent of lavender and something intrinsically Paulien, is intoxicating. Debilitating.

  She looks at him sharply, raises an eyebrow.

  “And here you are,” he says in his southwestern drawl. He needs to get back into his Tex persona. Tex is too much of a hillbilly ever to be flustered. “Looking damn purdy, too.” He lifts his Stetson, then puts it back on and pulls the brim down to hide his face.

  “Texas?”

  “Tex Carver, ma’am. From the great state of Oklahoma. Nice to make your acquaintance.” He drops the cowboy accent. “You look great.”

  “I heard Ashton King wrapped up his game.”

  “I’m giving it up.”

  “So why the costume?”

  “Protection, as you well know.”

  She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms, but he can tell she’s glad to see him, even if she’s trying to hide it. As he’s learning, there really is nothing like your first love.

  “I’m happy everything worked out,” he says. “But I’m sorry about what you had to go through.”

  She lowers her eyes. “I suppose I need to thank you.”

  “No, no, you don’t. I did what anyone would do.”

  “Not what George Everard would do.”

  He reaches over and touches her hand. “I’m not that man anymore, something’s changed. Everything’s changed.”

  “Like you’re now an American? Let me guess, you made a fortune in oil?”

  He has to smile. “I’ve come to tell you that I love you. For real. That I want to be with you. That I’m sorry for everything that happened, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

  Her laughter is full and loud and turns his stomach to jelly. “Now where have I heard that before?”

  Paulien grudgingly consents to see him once a week. Just as in Philadelphia, they agree to be circumspect and that there will be no physical contact. He’s willing to agree to anything if it means he can be near her. Which is different from Philadelphia, when all he wanted was to get his hands on the Bradley collection. Occasionally he experiences an odd twinge, a murky vagueness in his stomach, the desire to bow his head and hide away. Each time, he wonders if this is what shame feels like. But no. The rich French food just disagrees with him.

  A couple of months after they start their weekly dates, he takes her to a jazz club. Although it’s clear she’s crazy in love with him, she maintains her reserve, stepping away from him whenever she comes too close to those feelings. He’s making progress, but he doesn’t know how to persuade her to let go of the past, to accept him for the new man he is, to accept his devotion as genuine. Despite all that happened to her in the United States, she often talks wistfully about it, and he hopes she’ll get a kick out of the American feel of the club.

  As soon as they enter, her face lights up. “A mind reader,” she says.

  They order drinks, listen to the music, and smoke a few cigarettes, chatting idly. He clears his throat. “I want to tell you something about me that no one else knows.”

  “Don’t I already know lots of things about you that no one else knows?”

  “I want to come completely clean.”

  She stiffens.

  “My real name is Clem Knipper,” he says quickly. “I grew up in an coal-mining town in Kentucky.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Not kidding.”

  “Clem?” She presses a hand over her mouth. “Knipper?” Then she starts to laugh.

  “Right,” he says, slightly offended. “That’s why nobody knows. And that’s why I wanted you to.”

  “So this is the reason you always choose such manly names,” she sputters. “That’s hilarious.”

  He frowns. It’s not that hilarious. “I’m telling you this so you’ll see that there’s nothing I won’t share with you. That I love you so much that I’m willing to stand naked before you.”

  She stops laughing and appraises him thoughtfully. “That’s so poetic.”

  “I didn’t mean it to be poetic, I meant it to be true.”

  Later that night, she agrees to close up her apartment for a few months and come to Monaco with him. On a trial basis. Separate residences. No touching.

  He puts Paulien up in a suite in the best hotel in Monte Carlo, and he takes another down the hall. He can’t bring her to the house, where the Bradley paintings are, until she’s finally committed to him, and he doesn’t want to be that far away from her. It’s five kilometers to the house. She adores the sun and the warmth and the sand under her toes, the perfection of the blue-green sea, and he woos her for all he’s worth.

  He sees that his ardor and sincerity move her, knows she wants to let go of her concerns. She’s so close to believing him, to believing in him, to believing in them. But she can’t seem to take that final leap. He needs to make her feel the same way she did when she cared for him so much that everything he did was perfect. He has a replica made of the engagement ring he gave her on the train to Brussels, ten years ago Christmas, and suggests a walk on the beach.

  It’s a perfect day, the sky that deep Mediterranean blue, the sea azure and clear, lazy clouds billow overhead. Paulien throws her arms up in the air, wiggles her fingers and does a little dance. “I love it here!”

  He grabs her around the waist and twirls her in circles, although he’s still not supposed to touch her like this. “So stay here. Forever. Marry me.” He places her down on the sand and pulls the ring box from his pocket. It’s nothing like the last time he offered her a tiny jewelry box. Then he was gloating over how he had tricked her into begging him for exactly what he wanted. Now he’s terrified of rejection.

  She opens the box, stares at the ring, stares back up at him, at the box again, her expression inscrutable.

  He doesn’t move. “Happy or sad?” he finally asks.

  She throws herself at him, clings to him, covers his face with kisses.

  “I take it that means you’re happy?”

  “Yes,” she cries. “Let’s stay here forever.”

  “You love me?” He needs to hear her say it.

  “Oh, you stupid fool. Of course I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

  An eruption of joy like nothing he’s ever felt before, far better than executing a successful con. He can’t believe he actually thinks this, but he doesn’t care. She loves him. She always has. Just as he’s always loved her. She wants to stay here, with him.

  A remnant of his usual restraint cautions him not to take her to the house. He assumes she knows he has the Bradley paintings, yet their presence is proof positive that he stole them. Which she could use against him. But that was his old way of thinking, before he understood what it was like to be in love. She’s agreed to marry him, to be with him forever, and he wants her in his house, their house. They kiss, deeply, passionately, and he takes her home.

  As he hoped, Paulien is enthralled. She adores the open rooms, the terraces, the views, and the privacy. Best of all, she’s ecstatic to be reunited with her colonnade seven, thrilled that he managed to wrest so many others from Quinton’s clutches. They roam the house, hand in hand, taking in the artworks, her old friends and Ashton King’s new ones. She wants to stay the longest in the dining room with Music Lesson. She sits at the table, starts to cry.

  “It’s yours again,” he says, wrapping his arms around her. “This one and every other one in the house. Give anything you want to your father. We’ve got all the money you’ll need to create the collection you always dreamed of.”

  She kisses him deeply, warmly, lovingly. Then they go into the bedroom and make love the way they did a decade ago.

  46

  Vivienne, 1930

  Vivienne gives it a month or two. She writes to her family and Gertrude explaining that she needs time alone with the sea and the sun. Time to meld Vivienne and Paulien. Then she does just t
hat. She allows herself to fall into life with George, allows herself to enjoy it.

  Monaco might be the most exquisite place on earth, the weather a balm, loosening her muscles, soothing her apprehensions, buoying her hopes. No matter where she stands, where she looks, there’s grandeur of every sort, including inside George’s house. The colonnade seven are finally free, each hanging on its own wall, liberated from its ensemble, no hinges or scissors. She wishes she could invite her father here, but he’d never approve of his paintings being a part of a private collection. Not to mention that they were stolen. But it warms her to see them unencumbered, present in her daily life, just as they were when she was a girl.

  And then there’s George, who appears to be in love with her, actually and truly in love with her. She knows he’s a master con artist, a great actor, a liar par excellence, but there’s a new softness to him, to the way he views the world. He’s different from the George of London and Philadelphia, his restless edginess gone, the crafty spark in his eyes diminished, even his dimple subdued.

  He spends his days responding to her every possible desire—the ones she has and the ones he conjures for her—from walks on the beach to excursions into town to extravagant gifts of post-Impressionist art. He talks constantly of the Mertens Museum. And then there’s the sex, which is always about her, hardly ever about him. It seems he cares only about her pleasure, with no endgame beyond, and although it’s her third time around this particular waltz, she’s becoming convinced of his sincerity.

  Of course, what matters is that he becomes convinced of hers.

  The high Mediterranean light whitewashes the marble terraces surrounding the house, and salty air wafts through the rooms. The waves froth beneath her, and Vivienne is already nostalgic as she awaits the arrival of the Monte Carlo police. They will be escorting a team of American FBI agents, who will determine whether, as she claims, the artworks hanging on the walls are the ones that disappeared from Philadelphia a year ago. George is in Nice buying her an engagement present. She suspects a painting, most likely a Matisse.

  After she lets the men in, the uniformed Monacans remain in the main living area while she escorts the dark-suited agents on a tour of the mansion. She points out the forty-two stolen paintings. As she speaks, one of the agents, an authority on art theft and clearly the highest ranking of the group, consults a file containing black-and-white reproductions of the missing pieces. A second agent takes photographs; the other two take notes.

  The agents inspect the works carefully but ask few questions, which is good. The more quickly this transaction is completed, the better. When they finally rejoin the policemen, the eight of them wait silently for George to return.

  “Hey, doll!” George calls as he walks in the door. “You’re never going to believe what I have for you.”

  Vivienne stands, as do the men.

  George places a bulky package wrapped in brown paper against the wall. Then he straightens, his smile generous and welcoming. “Well, howdy, sirs!” he booms, slipping easily into his cowboy persona.

  The lead agent produces his badge for inspection. “I’m Agent Nathan. United States Federal Bureau of Investigation. These are my colleagues from America, and I’m sure you recognize the Monte Carlo police.”

  George looks at the badge and then shakes the agent’s hand heartily. “Tex Carver from the great state of Oklahoma,” he says. “Good to see some friendly faces from home. Please, please sit, all of you. Make yourselves comfortable. How can I be of service?”

  No one sits, and Agent Nathan picks up his file of reproductions from the coffee table. “We were wondering if you knew anything about these paintings, Mr. Carver.”

  George nonchalantly flips through the pages. “Why, they look like copies of some of the paintings in my own collection. Where did you fellows get them?”

  “I was about to ask you that same question,” Agent Nathan replies. The other three agents position themselves around George. The policemen step behind them.

  George surveys the room, clearly assessing his options and seeing none. “Vivienne had nothing to do with it,” he tells the lawmen. “She’s completely innocent. I took the paintings from the Bradley by myself. She wasn’t even in Merion at the time.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Agent Nathan says.

  “You are?” George turns to Vivienne.

  She meets his gaze. The fact that his first impulse was to protect her is touching, but not enough to cause regret.

  George’s expression shifts from confusion to comprehension, and she can’t help being impressed by his self-possession. A peculiar smile flits across his face. “A true protégé,” he says to her. “Well done.”

  All the time Vivienne was incarcerated at Riverside, she never knew what it looked liked on the outside. Now, standing on the sidewalk leading up to the entrance, she sees it’s a boxy brick structure, topped with turrets and barbed wire, its facade as stern as its innards. She shivers in the cold rain, raises her umbrella.

  She watches as he’s led into the prison, one guard hovering close at his right and another at his left. He’s handcuffed and shackled, pale and haggard, a crushed man. Not George Everard anymore. Nor Ashton King or István Bokor or Tex Carver. No, it’s Clem Knipper who stares at the sidewalk as he shuffles along. Just as she saw in her imaginings. But this didn’t come about because she imagined it. It came about because she learned well at the feet of the master. Planning and patience and playing a role.

  He’s been convicted of multiple counts of grand larceny in the Bradley heist, while charges are still pending for tax evasion and money laundering in both the Pennsylvania and the United States federal courts. He’s awaiting trial on similar charges and a raft of additional financial crimes in six states and at least seven countries. He’ll spend the rest of his life in this grim building—or one like it—his cash and property distributed among his victims, the forty-two paintings returned to the Bradley Museum.

  A veneer of sadness coats her triumph. A twinge of regret followed by a surge of satisfaction as the prison door closes behind him. As always, she is of two minds about George.

  Author’s Note

  The Collector’s Apprentice is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the lives of the art collector Albert Barnes and his assistant, Violette de Mazia, as well as the history of the Barnes Foundation, which he founded and they both nurtured. Loosely is the operative word here, as events that took place over a span of ninety years have been collapsed into ten, legal issues simplified, details rearranged, and names changed. The dialogue is invented, as is almost every storyline, including the confidence games, the romances, and the murder trial. Although certain aspects of the situations, locations, and persons may be recognizable, all incidents, characters, and their actions are the product of my imagination.

  There are a number of historical figures who interact with the fictional characters in the novel, including Gertrude Stein, Leo Stein, Alice Toklas, Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda Fitzgerald, Pablo Picasso, and Henri Matisse. I did extensive research on each, which forms the basis of their personalities and actions, but obviously none of them knew anyone named Edwin Bradley or Vivienne Gregsby, although they did know Albert Barnes and Violette de Mazia. On the other hand, George Everard is a complete fabrication, as are many others who inhabit the novel. This mix of history and invention continues throughout the book.

  All civil and criminal lawsuits and trials are fictional, but I did try to imbue them with as much verisimilitude as possible. In a few instances this wasn’t feasible. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania would not have had the power to appropriate personal property in the manner described, although the Barnes Foundation was moved, through various legal maneuvers and against Barnes’s written directive, from Merion to Philadelphia. An irrevocable trust—which is what Albert Barnes had—would not be dissolvable without approval of the court and the Office of the Attorney General. The reading of a will would not have been postponed twice owing to a lawyer’s att
empt to contest it, nor would there be only two weeks’ notice of a trial to seize property.

  While the Bradley art collection bears a strong resemblance to the Barnes collection, the two are not the same. In the novel, many of the Bradley artworks were created, acquired, shipped, and hung at different times and in different places than those in the Barnes, and they were purchased from different sources. These include works by Matisse—for example, The Joy of Life and Dance II—Renoir, Gauguin, and Van Gogh. The Art in Painting was published in 1925 rather than three years earlier as stated in the book. The Art of Henri Matisse was published in 1933, not in 1926. Likewise, the Arboretum School, which is shown as operational in the 1920s, did not open until 1940.

  I also played with some of the events in Henri Matisse’s life. The apartment in Paris described in the book is actually his apartment in Nice. He did paint his odalisque series in the mid-1920s, but the order and timing of these works has been changed. Matisse created a mural for Albert Barnes called Dance II, which had to be redone because of a measurement mistake, but it wasn’t installed until 1933. Matisse was nominated to sit on the jury for the Carnegie International Exhibition in Pittsburgh, but it was in 1930 rather than 1925. He did not divorce until 1939.

  In the novel, the post-Impressionist movement is accurately portrayed in terms of its evolution, principles, artists, and works of art. But perhaps the greatest deviation from the historical record is my representation of the amount of time it took for the movement to become an accepted part of the artistic canon. The school was given its name in the show Manet and the Post-Impressionists in 1910 and is generally considered to have taken place between the 1880s and 1920s, yet it remained unappreciated and even mocked by many well into the mid-twentieth century, particularly in the United States. There was no Painters of Paris and Nice show in 1918 or at any other time.

  In Pennsylvania in 1928, maximum-security female inmates were housed at the Industrial Home for Women in Muncy, and maximum-security males were housed at the Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia. I took literary license and placed both men and women at Riverside Prison, which didn’t open until years later.