Paint. The art of scam.

by Oscar Turner

  ‘No. No. It's OK. I'd better be going actually,’ said Polly as she threw back the remainder of her glass.

  ‘Hey Pole. Fancy doing coffee or somethin'?’

  Polly grimaced, but politely smiled, patting Ed's arm. ‘That's very sweet... but no thanks Ed, I really should get going, my husband is waiting for me.’

  Ed nodded with a disappointed smile. ‘Sure. Well. I'll see you around then.’

  Polly wandered off, once again patting his arm as if to console him. Once clear of Ed's line of sight she stopped and scanned the crowd to find Carva. She spotted him again and watched him.

  Carva downed the glass of wine as subtly and as quickly as he could, turned, head down, aimed for the door and left.

  Polly thought it strange, not remarkable, but worth a smile.

  She looked around at the ever louder but thinning crowd. The booze was kicking in. Gesticulating arms lashed like leaping fish emphasising fascinating insights. Impatient partners shifted listlessly from one leg to the other, their futile attempts to look interested, fading.

  Polly looked across at Harry. He was, as usual, about to be kidnapped by the ultra right wing faction of the Saga popular peoples front, taken to a restaurant by force and made to suffer unimaginable torture by unwanted attention.

  It was time to leave. It was only on the way out that Polly discovered that quite a few people, she had met at previous openings, were there. But by then it was too late to talk at any length. Groups were established. A few acknowledge her with a smile, a wave or a blown kiss.

  Polly went outside The Warehouse. It was a pleasant evening, the air felt fresh and clean. She drew in a long breath and slowly released it through her nose. Polly watched with amusement as Harry was bundled into the back of a taxi by the gang of grey gigglers. Seymour would be worried. She knew that. Maybe a walk would be good.

  By the time Polly got home that night her mind was clear, she was focused. Seymour on the other hand, had reduced himself to a squirming insecure mess, having decided that Polly had, quite rightly, reached her limit with him. That he had taken it too far this time and his need to get a reaction was about to destroy him yet again, and he was really, really sorry. It was OK about the ginger too, he'd found some in the bottom of the fridge, it was a bit mummified, but he'd soaked it in warm water and rescued it.

  The next morning Carva struggled with several keys to the several locks on the door of the gallery. His overweight frame didn't lend itself to tackle the bottom locks easily and they were never used these days. Besides, they were the ones that dogs pissed on and drunks vomited gallons of lager and Chinese food on.

  At last he pushed open the door, picked up another pile of post and entered the gallery; felt his way to his desk in the dark, opened a small cupboard and disarmed the burglar alarm. In all the years he had been there, nobody had ever attempted to break in. It never did occur to him why.

  Still in the dark, he slumped in his office chair and sat quietly. Almost as if he had to drum up courage, he reached across the wall and turned on a bank of light switches that softly illuminated the whole gallery with a glum yellow tinge. The desk in front of him was a mess, the red bills stood out.

  Reaching down to the floor, he grabbed the cardboard tube, slid out its contents and held a print of Seymour's work in front of him. He was battling with it, twisting himself to like it. It was hard to dislike Seymour's work, the strong, striking organic colours and simple lines always seem to smile at you and if you gave it a moment of your time there was a good chance you'd smile back. He placed the prints on the desk, covering the bills, reached for the phone and dialed.

  ‘Ah. Polly, Simon Carva here. Just thought I'd give you a ring so that maybe we could arrange a meeting about your, um, proposal.’

  ‘Oh hi Simon. Sure. Sorry I didn't call you back. When did you have in mind?’

  ‘Lunch maybe? Why don't you drop by the gallery at about one or so and we'll take it from there.’

  ‘Sure, Ok. I'll see you then. Bye. And thanks for calling.’

  Carva put the phone down slowly and sat back in his chair; hands behind his head, until the pain of the pose got the better of him. He had never done it before. Looking around the glum gallery, he smiled, stood up and, taking one of Seymour's paintings, held it up in front of a particularly grim oil painting in a chunky gold leaf frame.

  It stood out. It was called ‘The Flower Tree.’ Its utter loudness of colourful flower like leaves that appeared to move in the wind, laughed at the sombre, faded gold leaf frame; that had spent its life surrounding a miserable old peasant woman gutting a chicken. Carva nodded to himself. His smile, although uncomfortable at first, remained.

  Carva had had a difficult night. After his brief visit to The Warehouse, he went home to his empty flat and spontaneously burst into tears. The convulsions and outpouring of deep, long suppressed emotions, flooded his head with hot blood. It took some 10 minutes to recover; with the help of gulps of Scotch, straight from the bottle.

  It was six months since Desmond had died. Desmond was everything to Carva, absolutely everything. They had met back in 60's at a bar in Nice. Both young and well provided for by families with old money, its origin unknown even to them, and lots of it, they set off on an adventure that stopped suddenly 6 months ago.

  Carva stared at the photo of them the two of them sat proudly in the centre of a large circular coffee table. It was black and white, they were holding up full champagne flutes and wearing smiles that said it all. They had just bluffed there way into Cannes Film Festival. What a day that was. Carva smiled as the memory hung for a moment. Everybody thought they were homosexual and it didn't matter a hoot. In those days, nothing mattered. They were in love, totally, and as they became physically closer, as they thought was expected of them, that love changed. The politics changed. They no longer had the greatest friendship anybody could wish for, but were, somehow, left with an obstacle course. A game of emotional snakes and ladders. Thankfully they both knew what was going on and talked endlessly about it, gushing out feelings and emotions that surprised even them.

  Then one night, out of nowhere, Desmond said.

  ‘Damn sex. Not worth the bloody mess!’

  They both burst into a laughter that smashed away everything that had corrupted their love and they never slept together again. It was all unspoken, no agreements or pledges asking to be broken, they just snapped back to normal. Beyond the occasional clumsy, drunken flirting, neither Desmond nor Simon ever slept with anyone else. They didn't even think about it, they were just too busy with their life.

  Simon Carva was now lost: a moment he had dreaded so much, that he had hoped he would be the first to die. Desmond would have been much better at being alone than him.

  Carva's Gallery was a birthday present from Desmond, several years ago. Carva was broke, the result of bungled investments and he needed a cash cow. They had been dabbling with dealing in antiques and old oils quite successfully for many years and the gallery was a perfect next stage. They both ran it for years, mainly as a hobby and often closing for weeks on end for holidays, after selling a masterpiece to wealthy people who had more money than sense, who spent their entire time worrying about losing it. Desmond and Simon were well connected in those days and were often commissioned to hunt down rare and valuable works of art. Lurking around Europe, in a Bentley, looking for something that may not be there. God that was fun. Once they were commissioned by the Jewish Council; to retrieve art, stolen by the Nazis. That wasn't fun at all.

  But as time moved on, one by one, old reliable clients died off, the 80's came along, money became the new God, Simon Carva's cash cow was dying of starvation and Desmond was dead. It was a lot to take in.

  Carva finished the bottle of scotch in one swig and opened another sat on the silver tray next to him. He woke at three in the morning still sat there in the armchair, his crotch soaked in whiskey from the topless bottle lying on his belly. Carva steadied himself on the arms of the chair, a
s he stood up. Desmond would have been furious with him for getting drunk, alone, like that. It was about the only thing Desmond objected to. He had never seen Desmond drunk, not like this. He drank a lot, a hell of a lot, but never too much and always with dignity.

  Desmond would also not approve of the gigantic hole that Carva was digging himself into.

  Somehow, when he woke that morning again, this time in bed, he felt differently about things. Like he had hit the bottom of the hole and had looked up and seen the light. And there was Polly.

  Carva took 'The Flower Tree' back to the desk, carefully rolled it up and put it in the cardboard tube. He looked at his watch, picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘Ah Celia darling, how are you? Good, good...oh you know muddling along.... Desmond?.... Desmond is dead Celia darling remember?.... Yes I told you... I did...I did... Anyway we'll discuss that another time.... Listen Celia darling I want to talk to you about the car..... Your car.... Yes you do darling....

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Lunch.

  That morning Polly didn't mention her lunch appointment with Simon Carva, but Seymour knew there was something special afoot by Polly's mood: the way she dressed up in her 'pro' suit and the cocky air she had about her as she left.

  She walked the whole way, it was sunny for once and the idea of diving down into the underground, as she did by default normally, didn't appeal. Besides, she needed time to think and she could never do that down there.

  This was getting real now. She had already got it all worked out, right down to what she could buy and do with the money.

  The money. That money: sitting there. It had occurred to her recently that, actually, she was perfectly happy the way things were. She and Seymour were having a wonderful time, money was tight, but they enjoyed everything they had, together. But then it had always been like that, since they met. She wondered what would happen if there was money around. In a way it was poverty that brought them together. That worried her. She also wondered why she always wants to make money? For the sake of it? She'd been chasing it or years and years, thinking it was some sort of Nirvana. Trouble is, you never know when you get there.

  ‘Money divides people.’ Seymour says, usually before he goes into rant, about the impossible infinite growth requirement of the capitalist system and how it's a shame you can't eat money, because then it would all make sense.

  He was right of course.

  Among the fights that had been going on in her head, there was a big one. Seymour didn't care a damn if he sold his work or not. It was Polly, right from the beginning of their relationship that had pushed him. But somehow it was OK. Seymour was not so much as resigned to it as going along with it.

  Was she using Seymour's work to wash the dirty money? Yes. Did it matter? No. Providing Seymour didn't know. If he did know? Polly had no answer for that. Too late.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I hope this works.’ whispered Polly to herself as she approached Carva's gallery.

  ‘Ah Polly. Good morning to you and a beautiful morning it is!’ said Carva as a he stood up from his desk and approached her. Polly was taken aback by Carva's rather over dramatic greeting. He was supposed to be serious and suspicious, that was how she’d rehearsed it. She thought she’d have to be hard and assertive, to get the upper hand. Polly offered her hand to be shook.

  ‘Good morning Simon, yes it is nice. I walked all the way.’

  Carva leant across to kiss her cheeks; Polly allowed him to do it, which was unusual. He smelt of something that reminded her of someone, must have been dirty old men, she supposed.

  ‘Right,’ said Carva going over to his desk. ‘Please take a seat.’

  Polly lifted a pile of files off the only available chair and put it on top of another precarious pile on the desk.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Carva. ‘Really must clear this place up.’

  Polly smiled.

  Carva clapped his hands loudly. ‘Right! Let's get down to business.’

  ‘So you've thought about it then Simon?’ said Polly with her best poker face.

  ‘Yes Polly. I have.’

  ‘And?’

  Carva stared into space for a moment, as if thinking.

  Polly looked at him, then up at the high dark ceiling.

  ‘Look Simon.’ said Polly calmly but firmly.

  Carva snapped out of his thoughts. He had been thinking about Desmond. He was going to delivery a speech, designed to put himself in control of the situation, using lies and illusion. But Desmond had always said, ‘If you never lie, you never have to remember a thing.’ It was true. In all their years of wheeling and dealing antiques and art, not once had they misled anyone. There was no need.

  ‘Sorry Polly. I just remembered something. Um. Yes, well yes, in principle I am interested, of course.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But I need to know something Polly. I need to know. Well. Is this some kind of trick?’

  Polly was surprised; slightly offended by Carva's words. She was still trying to adjust her stance to this new, softer version of how she expected Carva to behave. He seemed fragile, childlike, that embarrassment, that only the British can deliver.

  ‘Is it Polly? I need to know. Now. You see. I'll be honest with you Polly. Things have been, shall we say, tricky for me lately, on several levels and I...Well I won’t bore you with the details. Bit I really don't think I could handle any trouble, or some sort of deception. Do you understand? I don't mean to sound rude. But you know what they say about things that sound too good to be true.’

  Polly stared into Carva's eyes. His frankness touched her.

  ‘Yes Simon, I do understand. It's a fair question.’

  Carva began fiddling nervously with his thumbs and looked down at them. Polly looked around at the low-lit gallery. A slight gap in the heavy velvet curtains covering the front shop window, allowed a fine shaft of sunlight through, illuminating the billions of jostling dust particles that lived there.

  The sickly feeling in her gut, that had started when Carva spoke, grew and the grim stale air in the gallery began draining her head of blood, pushing her spirit down. Polly stood up and grabbed her bag.

  ‘I'm sorry Simon. I really do need to get some fresh air.’

  Polly moved slowly to the door, opened it and stood outside on the pavement. She had left the door open. To close it would have made her exit final. The street was busy, people going about their business, cars crawled by in the traffic, remnants from the night before were being cleaned up. The sound of clumsy stilettos and giggling came from behind her. She looked around and watched the two young women stagger past her, arm in arm, laughing through smeared, well kissed lipstick. It was all so normal.

  Polly looked back at the gallery door. It was closed.

  ‘Shit, fuck, bum, ass,’ Polly muttered, accompanied by her off guard body language: observed by Carva, through the gap in the curtains.

  He watched her for a few moments, when suddenly, Polly stamped her foot and stepped off the pavement in front of an oncoming bicycle, carrying a fully kitted out cycle head, who, luckily, thanks to his experience, avoided hitting her, just in the nick of time. He stopped, looked at her and shook his head.

  Polly mimed ‘sorry’ to him.

  He was still shaking his head when he rode off, looking back one more time, just to remind her.

  ‘Rata Tat Tat’ The sound made her jump. She looked around to see Carva in the window, the curtains fully drawn open, poised with his chunky gold ring against the glass. He was pointing at the door, beckoning her to come in.

  Polly smiled at the sight. Carva looked like some burnt out old vaudeville act: the sun blasting in, lighting him up.

  By the time she got inside, Carva was already sat back at his desk. He looked so relaxed: Polly had no idea how to feel. ‘Polly, I am grateful for.....’

  ‘Simon.’ said Polly, cutting in, as she sat down. ‘I will give you my word that I will not cheat you, or lie to you in anyway. I will give you all the mo
ney you make from this, this, project, in cash. That is all I can say. You have to trust me and I have to trust you. But there are two conditions. One. That you must never ask me where the money comes from. And two. That you never tell Seymour about our arrangement. Ever. That's it.’

  Polly sat back, she had practised those words all night.

  Carva nodded. Money always was illusive to him, why the hell should he start worrying about where it comes from now?

  ‘Bugger it. Why not.’ said Carva reaching his hand across the desk to shake on it.

  Polly took his hand and looked at him. Their eyes met and locked for a few seconds. The glint in both their eyes somehow chinked like swords.

  ‘Right. We can go through the details over lunch if you like. Booked a table at the Chevington for us. Nice and private.’ said Carva.

  ‘I'd rather not discuss anything about this in public if you don't mind.’ said Polly. ‘We can do it now, here, it's all pretty basic.’

  Carva rolled his eyes. ‘Oh OK, but not now. I'm starving, come on,’ said Carva, easing himself up onto his feet, ‘let's celebrate instead!’

  Polly smiled as she allowed herself to be hoisted out of her seat and led out of the gallery and into a beautiful 60's Mercedes convertible that Carva had borrowed for the day.

  ‘Nice car,’ said Polly, as they pulled away.

  ‘Yes. They don't make them like this anymore.’

  ‘Who's is it?’

  Carva flashed a disapproving look at her.

  ‘Sorry’ said Polly.

  Carva burst out laughing and prodded her playfully in the shoulder.

  ‘Bastard.’ said Polly as she watched Carva enjoying himself at her expense. He suddenly felt like an old friend that she hadn't seen for years.