The Empress of Tempera

by Alex Dolan

  “It’s hidden because it’s your show,” Kasson rebuked his donee. He told all of them, including Paire, “We were having a disagreement on this very topic. I’ve bought out the gallery, which includes the wall space this counterfeit is currently occupying.”

  “The terms of our agreement make exception for this one piece.” Mayer explained to Rosewood, “Mr. Kasson and I have had this discussion on many occasions. The donor—”

  “An anonymous donor,” Kasson said.

  “—is paying generously for us to assure that it will continue to hang. I’ve made a special provision to obscure it during this reception. All we’re doing tonight is rehashing a disagreement that was resolved weeks ago in a contract.” He gestured with his chin to the surrounding crowd. “And we’re making ourselves look bad in front of guests who are here for him.”

  Kasson wouldn’t let this drop. “You also promised that you’d be fully staffed for the event tonight, and you haven’t replaced what’s-her-name who quit. I’ve come to assume that your agreements are flexible, depending on their convenience.” Kasson noted to Rosewood, “You should care about this.”

  “Why should I care? Finding a Qi is like finding a living dinosaur. Why wouldn’t I want to see it? I want to tear down the curtain myself.”

  Paire couldn’t be sure if Rosewood was that eager to see the painting or if he just wanted to agitate his benefactor. She also noticed that the crowd started to gravitate around them. They formed a spectator line around the artist, and around the curtain, expecting something to be revealed. They probably assumed that the blue velvet drape was covering the latest Derek Rosewood, the jewel in the crown for this exhibit. Ever the agitator, Rosewood seemed delighted by the idea of giving them something truly unexpected. “It’s not like one piece will take away from the whole show,” he insisted.

  “You take for granted how secure your own notoriety is,” Kasson warned.

  Paire asked, “Why are you so sure it’s a fake?”

  Nerves frazzled, Kasson blurted, “Because there hasn’t been a real Qi on the market for years. Mayer, remind me, what’s the date on this one?”

  “1980.”

  Kasson explained to Paire as if educating a granddaughter—a granddaughter whom he disliked—“Qi lived in exile. He was from Beijing, came to the States in the seventies, and then went back to China. In 1980 he wouldn’t have been in America. He didn’t produce anything new in that decade, or any time following 1977.”

  Paire said something she considered an obvious possibility. “What if he’d painted it in China, and had it shipped to the United States?”

  Kasson ridiculed her with laughter in a way she hadn’t experienced since Abenaki. Her face flushed, and when she looked across the room at her favorite series of Rosewoods, suddenly that series of five seemed to be sniggering at her as well. He said, “You’ve seen the piece. The liberties he’s taking, the sensuous quality of the figure. You think that would fly in China in 1980? Please.”

  Mayer folded his arms and played with his beard, what seemed to be a method of placating himself so he wouldn’t tell this man to go to hell. He said for Paire’s benefit, “You’re right. This was shipped from China. We’ve got all the documentation to prove provenance. It’s real.”

  “Provenance can be forged, often more easily than paintings,” said Kasson.

  “An expert confirmed it for me.”

  “What expert—your anonymous donor? You’ve staked your professional reputation on the artistic equivalent of Al Capone’s vault.”

  Paire leaped at the opportunity to contradict Kasson. “Al Capone’s vault was real. There just wasn’t anything in it.”

  “Aren’t you cute to remember?” Kasson turned to Rosewood. “Remind me why she’s here.”

  “Say that again, I’ll rip down the curtain.” Rosewood raised his glass in a mock toast. The Virginia accent crept out. Her heart melted when he protected her.

  Paire wasn’t a good judge of these things, but couldn’t tell who would win if a fight broke out. Rosewood was nimble, but Kasson was so much more substantial that the artist might fit inside him.

  Kasson sneered at the younger man. “Watch where you step.” He looked Paire up and down again, this time wolfishly, possibly titillated by imagining her in her underwear. “Miss, what’s your name again?”

  “Paire Anjou.” She let the words flit off her tongue.

  “You don’t say. What a wonderfully whimsical name. Light. Playful.” He looked at Rosewood. “Fleeting.”

  Rosewood didn’t hesitate. With that line of guests already gathered for the reveal, he dragged a corner of the blue velvet drape, fast as ripping open a shower curtain. The hooks that held it up couldn’t withstand the force of the tug, so the entire cloth came off the line and jumbled on the gallery floor.

  A smatter of applause erupted from the people immediately around them, who didn’t know what they were looking at but assumed it was a new Derek Rosewood, something in a completely divergent style. The applause rippled throughout the crowd, until the entire room was turned in the direction of the canvas, and clapping as hard as they could without spilling their drinks.

  Paire had been greedy to see the woman again but was unprepared for how it would affect her. The flash of red in the pigment recalled all that blood when Nicola Franconi had expired on the sidewalk, but just as quickly the memory of that violence faded, and she stared at the artistry with a hungry appreciation.

  The painting hung higher on the wall than Rosewood’s pieces. The woman’s feet dangled at Paire’s eye level. She stood close and sniffed the aged paint, noting traces of oil that stood out from the collective musk of pressed people. Her eye caught a tiny brushstroke of white, which, if she backed up a few paces, would simply look like a fleck of sunlight glinting off a pedicured toenail.

  The placard mounted to the right of the frame read:

  Qi

  The Empress Xiao Zhe Yi, Seated (1980)

  Tempera on wood

  On loan from anonymous collection

  She watched to measure the painting’s impact on Rosewood. Rosewood often took in masterworks of art with either disinterest or disdain. She was almost certain the only reason he had pulled the curtain was to silence Abel Kasson, with the added benefit of confusing the crowd that had come for his work. Always keep them thinking, he might say. He might not be thrilled if guests went wild for the single piece of artwork that wasn’t his, but maybe he’d be delighted if it stirred up more controversy. Paire tried to read his expression. She thought he might be fishing for the right thing to say that wouldn’t pop her balloon. Something other than, This is it? Someone killed himself over this? What’s all the hubbub? Ever the pedagogue, he might break the empress down into her elements, make academic comments about the lighting, criticize the gold-leaf frame for being too ornate for a modern painting, note that it was derivative of some artist she’d never heard of.

  But Rosewood did none of these things. He stood fixed to the floor, looking up into the empress’s self-assured expression the way a child might look at his first lunar eclipse. His mouth slightly open, Rosewood smiled involuntarily, his eyes shiny with rapture.

  Instead of looking at the empress, Abel Kasson glared contemptuously at Rosewood. Mayer wasn’t looking at the empress either. He turned his body away from the painting and regarded the crowd. When she could force her gaze away from Her, Paire did too. Now that the painting had been unveiled, everyone in the hall pressed more tightly together, moving in as close as they could. As if someone had tilted a box of marbles. They pushed against Paire, and the heat off the wall of bodies overwhelmed her. She felt the herd might actually pin them against the portrait. They all gaped at the empress without considering whose toes they might crush. The chatter that had filled room died out, making the pounding synthetic kick drum seem all the more invasive. Possibly sensing that his music was too loud for a room this quiet, the DJ lowered his volume so that the beat merely haunted the reception,
lingering in the background as a soundtrack to enhance whatever contemplations and fantasies this painting inspired.

  Mayer edged away. At first Paire thought he was stepping aside to let his guests have a better view of the empress, but he kept walking away, and she caught a glimpse of Lucia waiting for him by the entrance to the Fern’s back office. She wore a taupe dress that clung to her in the same way Paire’s did, showing off obliques that framed her stomach like parentheses.

  With Rosewood distracted and Abel Kasson sizing her up broodingly, Paire decided to work her way out of the crowd as well, toward the front window. She elbowed a few people who were too transfixed by the portrait to notice her. Her face felt hot and damp by the time she reached open air.

  By the front door, she looked at the mob from behind. The cluster around the painting reminded her of a science video she’d seen of sperm vying to fertilize an egg. On the other side of the room, Mayer and Lucia confided to each other in whispers, nodding at the empress. The way he leaned into her seemed overly familiar for an employer. He didn’t need to whisper so close, now that the conversation in the room had petered out. Yet his lips hovered so near the woman’s ear, and his hand touched her upper arm with the easiness that only comes from having touched something many times before. Lucia’s left hand was suspended in the air just over his chest, possibly wanting to play with the purple tie. Paire could spot that Godzilla diamond from all the way across the gallery. For the first time, she noted that Mayer didn’t wear a ring.

  Scanning the room, Paire saw one other person at the Fern Gallery who seemed unaffected by the Empress Xiao Zhe Yi. The woman wandered apart from the rest of the gathering, at the front of the gallery with Paire. Turned away from the rear wall and facing the opposite direction, the woman strolled around the entrance, casually looking over Rosewood’s pieces. She stopped at one of the hyena-people, the one in the LAUGHTER series that Paire herself favored out of the five. Anywhere from twenty-six to forty years old, she wore a beet-burgundy gown that seemed too formal for the reception, even among those who had come in suits and cocktail dresses. This woman was dressed for an award ceremony. Straight black hair cascaded to the middle of her back like a horse’s tail. Slightly taller and more slender than Paire, her curves were less ostentatious. A slit in the fabric showed that her legs were toned but not muscular, and her skin was pale like Paire’s. When the woman turned her face, Paire saw she was Asian. Because of her perfect oval face, Paire immediately thought she resembled the Empress Xiao Zhe Yi. She dismissed her observation a moment later, and judged herself harshly. Can’t tell non-Caucasians apart, she thought. But as the woman rotated into full view, Paire was struck by the resemblance. They had the same lips, naturally contoured in a pout. When she looked back a second time, the real-life woman was looking right at her. She’d caught Paire staring. The woman politely smiled, then, possibly made uncomfortable by the lingering glance, sauntered out the door.

  Paire followed.

  She stepped out onto an almost vacant sidewalk and a refreshing blast of night air. All of those who had lingered outside the Fern to admire Rosewood’s HERO in the window had since migrated inside. The DJ’s muffled beat sounded behind the quavering glass. A few steps down toward Seventh, a taxicab idled, roughly where Rosewood had picked her up yesterday. The woman was already getting in. Paire saw a sliver of leg lifting off the asphalt as it withdrew into the vehicle. Her toes, clad sparingly in matching burgundy heels, looked perfectly pedicured. The leg disappeared, and a hand with long fingers closed the door. The taxi pulled off.

  Paire looked down at her feet, realizing she stood over the spot where Nicola Franconi had expired. She could see how the blood had discolored the concrete like a dried puddle of oil.

  Mayer suddenly appeared beside her, far enough that he didn’t startle her, but close enough that Paire knew he had come outside for her. He looked concerned, as if he’d rushed out there to prevent some kind of disaster. His face was flushed, and when he coughed into the air, his breath came out like a cloud. In April, the temperature at night dipped low, and in that moment Paire noticed she felt cold. She shuddered. Mayer took off his jacket and offered it to her, just like yesterday. She politely refused. Lucia came outside as well and stood by Mayer, looking equally troubled.

  “Is everything okay?” Paire asked, unsure why she was getting so much attention.

  “Fine, fine,” said Mayer. He looked past Paire, presumably toward the taxi.

  All three of them turned to watch it, catching the last glimpse of yellow as it hooked around the corner.

  Mayer seemed relieved to see the cab drive out of sight. He asked abruptly, “How would you like a job?”

  Paire tilted her head, wondering if this was a joke.

  He continued, “Listen, you’re in art school. I assume you want to get into the business, right?”

  Paire looked over at Lucia, who nodded to assure her that this wasn’t some kind of prank.

  “You stood your ground against Abel Kasson. If you can assure me you’ll keep your clothes on while you’re on the job, I’m pretty sure I can teach you everything else.” His hand warmed her when she shook it. “Come by tomorrow and we’ll work out schedules.”

  Rosewood rushed outside to join them. He spoke to Lucia and Mayer at once. “Good night, folks.” Cheerful but insistent, he took Paire’s hand. “Let’s go.” He hailed a passing cab, and she barely had time to thank Mayer before she was led into the back of the taxi. As they peeled off, she saw Mayer step close to Lucia and cradle the back of her head during a slow kiss.

  In the taxi, Rosewood kissed Paire hard, ignoring the driver’s eyes in the mirror. The veins in his neck pulsed and his temples throbbed. The color of his skin changed—even in a dark cab she could tell—and his hands were cold. The blood had left his hands and gone to his head and groin.

  As soon as she shut the front door, his hands were on her, unzipping her dress and unlatching her bra. First, it was the familiar touch she knew, his arms holding her tightly from behind, lovingly, with a touch of apprehension. But tonight he felt stronger, his body warmer. His fingers rolled across Paire’s lower back, arms, legs. He stripped off his own clothing as if it were on fire. For Paire, it felt like being with a different man. His fingers dug deeply into her muscles, and the sensations were pleasant, his vigor a refreshing novelty. But Paire felt strange, because at this moment he felt like a stranger.

  They never made it to the bedroom, but sank to the floor in the entryway, right beneath the stenciled rose window. Paire shut her eyes and in her willing blindness felt the heat coming off the man. Gently, his hands cupped her ears, and his mouth met hers in the dark. His lips were soft, and she opened her mouth just as softly to welcome him. His scent was light and clean. Heart thumping, she felt the fine hairs on his legs and wrapped her arms around his narrow back. They came together aggressively, angrily. Paire submitted to it just as much as Rosewood. She hardly noticed the scrape of the pine boards against her shoulder blades.

  When they went to sleep upstairs, Rosewood whispered, “I love you.” It was the only time he’d said it, and it felt like an apology.

  Chapter 5

  On her first day at the Fern, Paire immediately went to the bathroom and slipped the glow-in-the-dark condom back into its leopard-print purse, hoping no one had noticed its absence. She’d bought a suit for the job, something that mimicked what Lucia might wear, a shoulder-augmenting three-button navy suit with purple trim, something that understated her cleavage. She tamed her synthetic red hair by pulling it back into a French twist. One small step into the art world, one giant leap away from Katie Novis.

  Officially, she was a fine arts consultant. Her primary responsibility was to learn everything about their art collection. Almost all of the Fern’s wall space was taken up by Derek Rosewood pieces, but the gallery kept a storage unit in Long Island City that maintained an appropriate climate for paintings—seventy-five degrees, fifty-five percent humidity. An impressive
inventory of work was housed there, with the Picassos, Mirós, and Lichtensteins she remembered from first visiting the gallery.

  “I’ve been working here for five years, and I don’t know everything we’ve got in the archives,” Lucia told her. The woman’s braces quickly blended into her face, and Paire couldn’t imagine her without them. She had kissed two boys with braces, later cleansing with mouthwash to purge the rancid metallic taste. Lucia seemed more hygienic, and Paire liked to imagine her flavor was sweeter.

  Paire memorized everything she could about the artists’ biographies, birth and death dates, education, anecdotes of how they were inspired—everything a potential buyer needed to know. It felt like another class. Her favorite one.

  During one of her breaks, Lucia said, “This is as much about art knowledge as it is about salesmanship. And buyers don’t want you to prattle on about technique. They want to know about the lives of the artists and the history of the work. They want the story behind the piece.”

  To test her memory, Lucia quizzed Paire when the gallery was slow. Once, as Paire entered a buyer’s bank account numbers into the database, Lucia asked, “Where and when was Miró born?”

  “Barcelona. 1890. And he died on Christmas Day in 1983.”

  “Where did he go to school?”

  “The School of Fine Arts at La Llotja and Galí’s Escola d’Art.”

  “Give me a nicety,” Lucia said.

  “He was an accountant for a few years until he had a nervous breakdown. The business world almost killed him.”

  Lucia raised a finger to her lips. “Don’t editorialize, especially about that. Most of your buyers will be suits. Over time, you’ll meet a lot of them.”

  Paire asked, “Are they all like Abel Kasson?”

  “No one’s like him,” said Lucia.

  Naturally, Paire tried to find out about the artist Qi. The Fern didn’t keep much information, other than the shipment documentation from the gallery in Beijing that had apparently sent the painting to the United States after he’d died two years ago. The documents were written in Chinese, so she couldn’t make sense of it. Information on the anonymous donor, presumably the same party to whom the painting had been shipped, was kept confidential. Paire had to find out what she could through her own research.