“Wonderful. I’ll forward you all of the corrections I’ve gotten since the conference. Please don’t get frightened off when you see how many emails there are.” Bernice beamed at Zelda before turning towards Huub Konijn. His icy expression wiped the grin right off of her face. She cleared her throat and leaned forward on one elbow, shutting him out of her direct sightline.
“I’ve reserved one of the workstations in the museum’s library for you to use, starting next Monday. It’s quiet in there so you should be able to work relatively undisturbed, which is important considering the number of objects involved. I will also email you a list of books to read in order to gain more insight into the exhibition and our research project.”
Bernice closed her notebook and pushed back her chair. “Now Zelda, if you don’t have any more questions, I will show you out.”
FIVE
Bernice walked slowly back to her office, sure Huub had already fled the conference room. The last thing either one of them wanted was another pointless confrontation. What was done was done. Zelda Richardson had said “yes”, as Marianne assured her she would. They were lucky Marianne mentioned her; Bernice hadn’t expected to find a qualified volunteer at such short notice. At least she hoped Zelda’s being a native speaker would be enough to satisfy Leo de Boer, the director of the Amsterdam Museum; the girl didn’t have any official training as a translator or editor.
Not that they had a choice; there was no time or money left to do it any other way. She’d warned Leo from the start that Huub’s team wasn’t sufficiently trained to translate all of those texts; they should have hired a professional translator months ago. If Huub wasn’t such a control freak, Leo would have been less inclined to agree with him.
Since being named head curator of the Stolen Objects exhibition, Huub had become obsessed with every aspect of it, far more than any other curator on the team, even volunteering – no demanding – to lead both the collection research and website project groups. If Bernice hadn’t known about his past, she might think his obsession was bordering on unhealthy. Yet it was his family history and previous accomplishments which granted him a level of trust no other curator had enjoyed, so far as she could remember in her twenty-seven years at the museum.
Well this time even Leo had to admit he hadn’t been critical enough. Her blood pressure began to rise just thinking about their current predicament, which Huub’s obstinacy had gotten them into.
“Think on your heart,” Bernice mumbled. She stopped in the empty corridor and inhaled deeply, feeling the calm flowing back through her amble body as she exhaled. As the second breath slowed her pulse, Bernice tried visualizing the clear blue skies and deep green leaves of the Suriname River’s jungle-encrusted banks, visible from the veranda of her second home on the outskirts of Paramaribo, as her doctor had taught her. She scratched at her scalp, wondering if it wasn’t the heart medicine but stress that was causing her hair to fall out. Maybe with enough rest and fresh air, it would grow back and she could finally be rid of this itchy wig. She’d already submitted her request for early retirement due to medical reasons; Leo should approve it before the end of the month. Only five more projects to go and she was free. Her heart wasn’t going to let her grow old, not if she let Huub and the others continue to get under her skin.
When her pulse rate returned to normal, she continued on to her office. She still wasn’t sure Zelda was the right person for the job, but she’d done all she could to get them out of this mess, as any good project manager would.
Bernice closed the door behind her, resolving to forget about Huub and the faulty translations for now. After pulling off her wig, she ran her hand over her bare scalp and sighed in relief. Then she grabbed an empty box and set to work organizing the mountains of paperwork cluttering up her usually pristine office.
SIX
“What did you say?” Friedrich asked distractedly as he picked up his remote-controlled Cessna 182 Sky Trainer from the patchy brown lawn covering most of the Museumplein and intently examined it for signs of damage.
Zelda stretched her lean body out on her blanket, soaking up the warm summer sun and taking in the views as she waited for him to finish checking the plane’s flaps and gears. The ship-shaped weather vanes and decorative spires mounted atop the Rijksmuseum – and several of the richly-decorated mansions surrounding the square – shimmered and sparkled like stars on the horizon on clear days as this, outshone only by the enormous golden harp adorning the Concertgebouw, drawing her eye to the far left end of the square. In the middle of the grass, a group of school children playing soccer screeched in delight as they raced up and down the makeshift field, while tourists smoking joints watched from under a cluster of elm trees.
Since she’d moved to Amsterdam, this unattractive field of grass had become one of her favorite haunts. Not because of the square itself, but three of its more famous residents. Rolling onto her stomach, the sun’s rays bouncing off the Van Gogh Museum’s tall glass windows momentarily blinded her. Strange to think inside that gray, moon-shaped building hung some of the most expensive artwork in the world. The imposing red-and-white brick building next to it – the Stedelijk Museum – seemed a more appropriate place to house an art collection. Although the recent addition of a giant bathtub to the backside of the nineteenth-century structure was meant to remind visitors it was home to post-war and contemporary art. However, the institution which attracted the greatest number of tourists was just behind her: the Rijksmuseum, home to the nation’s most cherished paintings, sculptures, ceramics, jewelry and furniture. They even had seventeenth-century dollhouses on display. Though most came to admire some of the best Rembrandt’s and Vermeer’s in existence.
Many an afternoon Zelda had spent blissfully roaming the halls of those three treasure troves, dreaming of one day working for them. If she managed to get into the master’s program, that is.
She turned back towards Friedrich and noticed he’d stopped turning the replica model airplane around in his hands. Judging from his relaxed smile, it must have survived its short flight without incident. Figuring she had his attention again, she finally replied, “I said the internship isn’t what I was expecting it to be. They want me to check some texts for translation errors; that’s it. I mean, with all my knowledge and experience building websites you’d think they would want me to re-design their site for them. I don’t know what kinds of visitors they’re hoping to attract, but it’s the antithesis of appealing,” she fumed.
“Aw, poor little Zelda,” her skinny blond friend chuckled as he spoke. “Those mean old curators don’t realize what a talent they have within their midst! They won’t let you re-design their website after being inside the museum exactly two days? Are you serious?”
“But Marianne made it sound like that was exactly what they wanted. Why would she say it if it wasn’t true?” She still couldn’t accept that her mentor only recommended her for this internship because she was a native English speaker.
“Marianne doesn’t work there; who knows why she said what she said. Perhaps she figured it was the best way to get your attention?”
“Or maybe they don’t know what they need, or what questions to ask. I could add a flash animation to the database’s homepage so visitors would see some of the artwork when they open the site. It would only take a few minutes to create and I’m sure Bernice and Marianne would be impressed with my initiative.”
“But would Huub? It sounds like he doesn’t want your help with the texts, let alone the website’s design.”
“Yeah, but –”
“No buts, Zelda. Do what they asked you to do and you’ll probably be able to stay in Amsterdam a while longer.”
Zelda shot Friedrich a dirty look. She’d known him for five months, but most days it felt as if they’d know each other forever. He could irritate her as only a younger brother could, or so she thought. Being an only child she’d always longed for a brother or sister to play with, even though her friends were jealous
of her for not having to share everything with a sibling.
Knowing they wouldn’t be able to agree, she nodded towards his Cessna as she stood up. “Are you going to take her up again today?” She shook the grass out of her blanket before shoving it into her backpack.
Friedrich examined the wings once more before shaking his head slowly. “No, the wind is getting pretty strong. Plus some cops just entered the square; I’d better put her away.”
Zelda followed his gaze towards two gigantic horses clip-clopping their way across the grass, police officers perched high atop their wide backs. Even though flying remote control aircraft was strictly forbidden in Amsterdam’s parks and squares – due to the potential danger to innocent bystanders – Friedrich took one of his many planes for quick spins here most days of the week. As of yet he’d caused no bodily harm and, as with most things in Amsterdam, the police were pretty relaxed about his short, low-level flights.
He wiped the model plane off with a soft cloth before carefully placing it into its hard-shell case. “You want to get a coffee before I have to go to work?”
“Sure, I’ve got nothing better to do. Well, read more of the books on Bernice’s list, but that’ll take me at least another week. Let me help you.” Zelda slipped her backpack onto her shoulders before grabbing Friedrich’s, grunting with effort. “Geez, what are you teaching yourself this week?”
“Portuguese and Catalan. I still can’t decide whether I want to go to Lisbon or Barcelona during the winter break.” Friedrich’s choice to work at the University of Amsterdam’s media lab had everything to do with his love of languages. His bag was always filled with DVDs and books about foreign tongues and lands, and almost never about his own study. Despite his protests to the contrary, Zelda knew he’d only enrolled in the psychology program to please his family, not himself.
“Winter vacation is only two weeks long and I’m pretty sure most people speak a little English in both cities – they are touristy hotspots after all.”
“Perhaps, but I learn so much more about another culture when I understand their language. Besides, it’s fun.”
“Fair enough,” she said, wondering how many other travelers would bother to learn a new language for such a short trip. “Oh, I almost forgot; I’ve got your latest column with me. I guess editing your writing is good practice for the internship,” she quipped, fishing a piece of paper out of her backpack before handing it to her friend.
Friedrich glanced over her few corrections of his latest blog about drones and nodded before folding it up and shoving it into his pocket. “Thanks, I can post this later tonight.”
As they walked across the Museumplein, the puffy clouds racing across the summer sky reminded Zelda of the Old Dutch masters housed in the Rijksmuseum looming before them. The massive structure always conjured up visions of Camelot in her mind. It looked like a castle on steroids with its eight medieval towers jutting up above the skyline. Stone statues of knightly-looking artists, brightly-colored coats of arms and story-high tile tableaus were woven into the extensive façade. A long gable-arched passageway running through the center of the building completed the effect. All that was missing was a drawbridge and moat.
The illusion was somewhat tainted by the enormous story-tall letters of the iconic ‘I Amsterdam’ structure placed between a small reflecting pool and busy bike path leading into the museum’s belly. Friedrich and Zelda dodged irritated cyclists and oblivious tourists clamoring for a place on the giant letters as they made their way into the arcade. The presence of this unusual architectural feature baffled Zelda completely, until she learned that such a tunnel was a prerequisite of the planning commission back in the 1880s, meant to connect ‘old’ Amsterdam with the new neighborhoods being built behind the Museumplein.
Now the passage functioned as both a popular bike path and the entrance to the museum. As of yet, no tourists had been run over by the fanatic cyclists Amsterdam is famous for, as many of the museum’s directors and several city council members were certain would happen.
Once they’d passed through to the other side, they were immediately confronted by a cacophony of horns and bells created by the many bicycles, motorcycles and automobiles racing along the Stadhouderskade, a busy thoroughfare running along the backside of the Rijksmuseum. Before them lay Amsterdam’s historic city center, distinguished by the ring-shaped canals on which richly decorated houses had been built in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. They stopped by the pedestrian crossing, waiting for the traffic light to change. Ahead of them was a bridge leading to the Spiegelgracht, a street famous for its many galleries and antique dealers.
Friedrich glanced shyly over at Zelda, “So, how’s Pietro?”
“He’s doing great, as always,” she responded excitedly, her eyes lighting up as she thought of her lover. “But it sounds like his grandmother is really sick, she might be dying. It’s good he went back to visit her; you know how Italians are so family-oriented.”
Zelda looked up to catch her friend rolling his eyes. He clearly didn’t think much of Pietro, but then he would think poorly of any of her suitors, she suspected. Ever since their first meeting she’d had the feeling he was smitten with her. But she knew the feeling would never be mutual; Friedrich was more like a brother than a lover any day of the week.
She looked over at her gangly friend, her mind slipping back to their first official meeting five short months ago. She needed a Dutch language tutor and he wanted help with his English. They’d met through the message board in the media lab Zelda’s teachers had encouraged her class to use. Friedrich had acted so goofy and awkward during their first meeting she’d almost walked away before finishing her coffee, figuring she could try again. If he hadn’t been so grateful to finally have someone respond to his note, she probably would have. And she’d needed a Dutch tutor so badly.
By the time she’d figured out he was Swiss, it didn’t matter anymore. Friedrich was a master at languages. Born in Bern, he grew up speaking German, French, Italian and English. During high school he’d taken extra classes in Spanish and Russian, just for fun. After their second meeting it was clear to her that she needed his help a lot more than he needed hers. If he wasn’t such a perfectionist he could see for himself that his monthly columns reviewing remote-controlled aircraft were better written than many penned by native English speakers.
Despite his gift for regularly shoving his foot in his mouth, she was glad they’d become friends. He was the most real person she’d met in Amsterdam so far. But that was what made his critique of Pietro painful. Maybe he had a point. No, she reminded herself, Friedrich was good at flying planes and learning languages, but he was socially inept and certainly knew nothing about being in love. From what little personal information she’d been able to whittle out of her twenty-five-year-old friend, it sounded as if he’d never had a serious girlfriend. His own feelings for her were just clouding his judgment, she reckoned.
“But Pietro is still planning on coming back in September, a few days before his art history classes begin. He said it’s what his grandmother wants him to do. In fact, he called again last week to ask if he could stay at my place for a few more months. Assuming I get in, of course.” Unlike Zelda, Pietro had already been admitted into the Art History master’s program where he would be specializing in contemporary Dutch painters. She secretly wished he had tried for the Museum Studies master too, so they could spend their days together, as well as their nights.
“So you’re going to let him freeload off you for another semester then?”
“He’s not freeloading; he cooks most of the meals.”
“Yeah, with food you buy.”
“Stay out of it, Friedrich. We’re in love, get used it. Besides, after I get into the master’s program this fall we can get a bigger place together.”
“Have you shared your fantasy with Pietro yet?”
“Fuck off.” Zelda snapped, shaking her head, upset with herself for letting Friedrich get to h
er. He’d hit a nerve by verbalizing her deepest fear, that Pietro was just using her. She refused to let the thought take hold in her mind. No, Pietro was in love with her and she with him. That was that. The serious housing shortage in Amsterdam had nothing to do with their relationship.
Sure, they’d only been together for three months before he’d gone back to Italy for the two-month summer break. But Zelda already knew he was the one; she’d never met anyone as wonderful, funny or caring as Pietro before. So what if he didn’t pay for the groceries or chip in on the rent?
But lately, every time she mentioned her Italian lover, Friedrich acted like a total jerk. He was supposed to be her friend; she didn’t have time for his jealous shenanigans, not with everything else going on in her life.
“You know, I don’t think I’m up for coffee today. I have an awful lot of history books to get through,” she said, tossing his backpack onto the ground, trying to keep her voice from cracking in anger.
As she stormed off, Friedrich called out, ‘Oh, okay. See you Saturday. Tschüss!”
“Yeah, whatever.” Zelda mumbled, knowing full well she’d see him then.
SEVEN
Another day over, another search begun. As Konrad Heider waited patiently for an auction catalogue to download, he rocked his drink gently, relishing the sound of the ice cubes clinking against the crystal. His enjoyment was cut short by a computerized ping alerting him to an incoming message. Wondering who would be emailing him at this late hour, Konrad clicked on the flashing icon. Edward Cutter, an old friend and senior curator at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City had sent him a message. Though the full moon shone through the window of his study in Düsseldorf, dusk was just beginning to creep over the skies of America’s East Coast.
The Lover's Portrait Page 3