The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  Zelda knew that despite her own misgivings about Karen O’Neil, the project manager was seriously disappointed in her. So much so she’d steadfastly refused to watch the video she and Friedrich had made at the Amstel Hotel or listen to anything she had to say about its contents. Now Karen would certainly get Irises, without so much as a fight from Bernice. Her actions had made a bad situation so much worse that even the project manager would do just about anything to get the New Yorker out of her hair.

  Thanks to her, Rita Brouwer would never see Irises again. Worst of all, she’d blown her chance to stay in Amsterdam for nothing. There was no way Marianne would still support her application to the master’s program after she’d learned what she’d done.

  Zelda smashed her fists against her thighs. Where was Pietro! All she wanted to do was cry on his shoulder and hear him say it was all going to work out. But for the last two hours he’d refused to answer his phone. If only his grandmother would die, then he would have time to talk to me, she thought bitterly. Instantly guilt washed over her. She didn’t really wish an old woman harm, but Pietro should have made time to be there for her, today of all days.

  When her phone did begin to beep seconds later, she snatched it out of her pocket, sure her boyfriend had finally seen her many voicemails and text messages. Her face fell when she saw it was Friedrich texting for the sixth time. He was here for her, whether she liked it or not. Though she was not looking forward to rehashing her terrible morning and having to hear him say ‘I told you so’, she knew he wouldn’t give up until she phoned him back.

  She dialed his number as she turned towards home.

  “Hey, Zelda, how did your meeting with Bernice go?”

  “Badly, very badly.”

  “No seriously, how did your bosses react when you showed them our video?”

  “Karen O’Neil wants to have me arrested for invasion of privacy, Huub Konijn thinks we tried to steal Irises for Rita Brouwer, and Bernice Dijkstra refused to watch even a few seconds of our DVD.”

  “That is bad.”

  “And to top it off, both Bernice and Huub said they will be getting in touch with my mentor Marianne and letting her know what a total idiot I am. Bye-bye master’s program and hello Seattle.”

  “Come on, give yourself some time to let it all sink in. I’m sure you will find a solution to your problems –”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now,” she sniffled, her voice breaking. “I need some time alone.” And to call Pietro again, she thought, wondering if her Italian lover was trying to reach her right now.

  “I’ll call you later, okay?” She ended the call before he could respond and quickly checked for missed calls or messages. There were none.

  A few blocks later, Zelda opened the front door to her building. As she climbed the four flights to her studio apartment, her anger at Pietro turned to concern. Maybe something terrible had happened to him. Maybe he wasn’t answering because he couldn’t.

  She ran up the last few steps to her studio. Once inside, she rushed over to her desk and rifled through its’ drawers, searching for Pietro’s parents’ home phone number. She’d had to beg it off of him, whining that he didn’t trust her to show some discretion. Zelda knew his grandmother was lying sick in bed and his parents couldn’t speak a word of English; it was just nice to know she had another way of reaching him. Confronted by her crocodile tears, Pietro finally relented, writing it down on a piece of stationary after repeatedly warning her to only use it if there was a real emergency. Her entire world was collapsing around her and she needed her boyfriend. If this wasn’t an emergency, she didn’t know what was. She’d picked up a few Italian words in their three months together; she only hoped it would be enough to get him on the line.

  She carefully punched in the eleven-digit number, wanting to get it right the first time. After a few rings, a young woman answered, “Casa Moretti. Pronto?”

  Relief washed over her. This must be Pietro’s younger sister. “Buongiorno. Is this Rosa? This is Zelda Richardson. I am calling for Pietro Moretti. Is he home right now?” She spoke slowly and distinctly. Pietro said his sister spoke English quite well, but the phone’s connection crackled with static. She hoped the younger woman could hear her well enough to understand what she was asking.

  “Who is this? How do you know my name?” the young woman asked in halting English spoken with a thick, melodious accent.

  “Pietro’s told me all about you. I feel like I know you already,” Zelda smiled to herself at this unexpected surprise. Pietro always talked about how great his little sister was and what a pleasure it was to be around her.

  “Pietro?” Rosa repeated, before launching into a string of Italian expletives. It reminded her of Pietro’s outburst after he’d slammed his thumb hammering a nail into the wall. “That lazy bastard should be here helping me with the wine harvest, not out with his girlfriend again. I don’t know when he will be back,” she spat into the phone.

  Zelda was sure she misheard the girl through the static on the line. Or maybe her English wasn’t as good as Pietro said it was. “You must be mistaken,” she chuckled, “this is his girlfriend calling. Zelda, Zelda Richardson. That’s me.”

  Rosa started giggling. Zelda relaxed, it was just a silly cultural misunderstanding after all.

  “Oh, so you are that fesso American my brother’s been living with?”

  Zelda’s heart froze. “What?” was all she could muster.

  “Pietro’s with his girlfriend right now, the same one he’s had since high school,” her words were daggers in Zelda’s heart. “You are just the stupida who’s been paying his bills.”

  “No, there must be some mistake. He’s taking care of his grandmother, your grandmother. She’s sick,” Zelda whispered, sinking onto the edge of her couch.

  “He told you that? That he’s taking care of our grandmother?” Rosa roared with laughter. “She died five years ago.”

  Zelda couldn’t get a sound out. This must be a cruel joke, or Italian sense of humor. Pietro hadn’t been using her this whole time, he couldn’t have been. He loved her!

  “I will be sure to tell my lazy brother that his American girlfriend called,” Rosa cackled before hanging up.

  Zelda’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces. Her phone dropped to the floor as she covered her eyes with her hands and let the tears flow. Stupida is right.

  “How could I have been such an idiot?” she seethed. She should have known Pietro was too good to be true. He didn’t even ask her out on a date until he was about to get kicked out of his apartment. He must have known it would be easy to get her into bed. From the first day of class, it was obvious to everyone that she lusted after him. He was an Italian god with perfect wavy black hair and pearly white teeth; how could she not fall head over heels in love with him? Wasn’t she the one who suggested he move in, at least until he found another place? Wasn’t she the one who said he didn’t need to ask his father for money again, that she had enough saved to pay for everything? Stupid, stupid, stupida!

  All these months living together, sleeping together, laughing together, and she never suspected it was all a lie. Such a fool, such a blind, lust-struck fool!

  As reality sunk in, a wail of agony rose from her throat, filling the room. Friedrich has been right about Pietro all along. This realization, on top of everything else that had happened today, was simply too much to bear. Zelda curled up into a ball on the couch and bawled her eyes out.

  THIRTY-THREE

  June 16, 1942

  Arjan van Heemsvliet flipped slowly through the pages of his inventory ledger, marking the paintings he needed to find a new hiding place for as he went. He’d never assembled a separate list, instead choosing to include his friend’s canvases in his business records so that, to the casual observer, the entries would appear to be part of his unsold stock. Because he’d never intended on leaving Amsterdam, he hadn’t kept track of the exact count. Now as he numbered the paintings in his l
edger, currently totaling 215 with more than twenty pages left, he could feel his sense of hopelessness growing.

  A long shadow darkened his gallery window, startling him. Certain it was Drechsler returning for more paintings, he rushed to hide the inventory ledger inside the top drawer of his mahogany desk, quickly shoving it under an unfinished letter to his family before the door’s chimes began to ring. When they did, Arjan was already standing a foot away from his desk, casually examining his only remaining portrait by Gérard Dou.

  A stranger with a handlebar mustache entered Galerie Van Heemsvliet. The older man was unfamiliar to him, yet Arjan felt as though they had met before. His guard went up instantly.

  The stranger removed his bowler hat and began fidgeting with its brim. His eyes remained downcast.

  Arjan asked warily, “How can I be of assistance?”

  “Are you Arjan van Heemsvliet?” the stranger asked, his expression serious.

  “Yes, this is my gallery. Are you interested in purchasing a painting or sculpture?” he asked rather brusquely, certain this man was not here to buy anything.

  “No, not exactly.” The stranger glanced around as if to ensure they were truly alone.

  Arjan felt a bit dizzy. He leaned against his desk, worried what might come next. Had Drechsler told others about their arrangement? This man wasn’t from the Gestapo otherwise he would have burst inside with twenty armed officers on his heels. Or was this a trap, an attempt to first confirm what Drechsler told his superiors about Arjan’s sexual preference, and a platoon of officers were waiting around the corner for their commander’s signal?

  “A friend told me about you,” the stranger began.

  Arjan felt his knees give way then his head crack against something sharp as he fell to the ground and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Arjan gasped slightly as his eyes shot open. Certain he was in a jail cell, he glanced around in confusion, calming only slightly when he grasped that he was stretched out on a chaise sedan in the back of his own gallery.

  “Oh good, you’ve come around. You hit your head on your desk when you fainted. You’re going to have quite a large bump on your forehead, I’m afraid.” The stranger was sitting on a chair beside him, sipping tea from one of his cups. The porcelain beaker seemed positively dainty in the man’s large hands. The dim light emitting from an oil lamp placed on the floor between them created menacing shadows on his gallery’s walls. Through the front window, he could see it was already dark outside.

  “What do you want?” Arjan asked, his voice hoarse from fear.

  “Siegfried and Jiske once told me I should turn to you if I ever needed help.”

  “Siegfried and Jiske?” Arjan tried sitting up but his head throbbed so painfully he lay back down, silently trying to work out how this man knew his good friends and long-time clients.

  “We were introduced at Max’s bar mitzvah.”

  Arjan studied the stranger’s face intently in the weak light, trying to remember. Siegfried had invited hundreds of people to his only son’s thirteenth birthday party. He’d shaken hands with so many that night, what was it now, four years ago? He hadn’t seen his friends since December 3, 1940, when Siegfried brought his exquisite collection of paintings to his home. They’d become friends while organizing a fundraiser for a Salvation Army soup kitchen and recognized they shared a mutual interest in French impressionism. A few weeks later, Siegfried purchased the first of five paintings from him. Those canvases, along with another seventeen, were now his responsibility.

  “You ordered two frames from my shop on the Stadhouderskade the following week. I always appreciated you doing that,” the stranger added, genuine warmth in his voice.

  Of course! Now he remembered, the frame maker, “Philip Verbeet,” he said aloud.

  “Yes, Philip Verbeet,” the man appeared relieved the art dealer finally recalled his name.

  “But why are you here?”

  “Siegfried told me what you did for him before he and his family went into hiding. His daughter Rachel and my Fleur were best friends at grade school. They’re still safe – at least they were the last time I brought them supplies, about a month ago,” Philip said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.

  “What I’d done?” Arjan felt the darkness returning, dreading what the older man would say next. When Siegfried came to his house that stormy night and told him he’d decided to take his family into hiding, Arjan immediately offered to store his art collection for him until the war was over. He’d never intended to help anyone else. Yet, he sat on the boards of so many charities, museums and cultural institutions that he knew too many influential people who’d been forced to disappear because of their ethnicity, religion, or sexual preference. One had snowballed into thirty-seven. Thirty-seven desperate friends who had to flee Amsterdam or go into hiding, taking nothing more than the clothes on their backs and whatever they could fit into a small travel case.

  “A German general arrested my oldest daughter’s boyfriend last week and has been asking questions about her. I don’t know exactly what he wants with Iris, but I put my family on a train to Venlo two days ago, for their own safety. I have thirty-six paintings, sketches and watercolors I don’t want the Nazis getting ahold of. I’ve already been to every acquaintance and friend I trust, but no one who can help me, not like you can.”

  “Please no,” Arjan whispered. He’d cautioned those he’d aided to never mention his name to another living soul; their silence was his only condition for taking such an enormous risk.

  “Could you possibly hold onto them for me, at least for a few months?”

  If Siegfried told Philip what I’d done for him, how many others knew? Arjan wondered. Siegfried had built up one of the most important collections of French impressionists in the Benelux. If the wrong person discovered Arjan had his masterpieces, he would be robbed and killed the very same day, he was certain of it. And his other friends’ collections were just as unique. With Drechsler in the picture, even a rumor he had them would be reason enough for the SS officer to break down his door and tear his house apart. It would only be a matter of hours before he’d found the hundreds of masterpieces stashed in his storeroom.

  As reality sunk in, Arjan’s mind shut down from fear and willingly slipped back into the darkness.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  “Hey Zelda, you left these in the front door.”

  She slowly lifted her head off the couch and blinked the moisture out of her eyes. Friedrich was standing in the doorframe, her keys dangling from his right hand.

  “What are you doing here?” she managed.

  “It sounded like you could use a friend,” Friedrich sat down next to her and lightly stroked her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Zelda wrapped her arms around his neck and whimpered, “No, I am absolutely not alright,” before breaking down again.

  He held her close, rocking her gently. After she’d soaked his t-shirt, she pulled back from him, her flow of tears reduced to sniffles. “It’s Pietro. You were right, he’s a bastard.”

  “What happened?”

  “He’s got another girlfriend,” she wailed.

  Friedrich looked away, embarrassed. “Oh.”

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve before continuing. “They’ve been going out for years! So I guess that makes me the other woman, doesn’t it?” she looked to Friedrich for an answer, but to no avail. He kept his gaze diverted.

  Anger coursed through her veins just thinking about the lies Pietro must have told her during their three months together. She jumped off the couch and began pacing back and forth, unable to sit still any longer. “Pietro always spoke in Italian when he called his family, or at least he said it was his family. He was probably talking to her the whole time, telling her how much he loved her, right under my nose.”

  Zelda threw her hands up in the air, “What kind of girl is she? She must have known Pietro was living with me in this broom-closet?”

  “Maybe she though
t you were his housemate?”

  “Then she must be an idiot, or doesn’t mind sleeping with a man-whore.” She laughed manically at the idea of Pietro working as a gigolo.

  “He must have known you had a crush on him and took advantage of the situation. You told me he was getting kicked out of his apartment, right? That’s why you let him move in so quickly?” Friedrich shook his head. “He used you Zelda, there’s no getting around it.”

  She blew her nose loudly into a paper towel. “Please don’t say I told you so, Friedrich. I can’t bear it right now.”

  She couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been. Though she would never admit it to Friedrich, or anyone else for that matter, part of why she wanted to stay in Amsterdam so badly was Pietro; she was deeply in love with him. Granted, since the summer began she’d barely heard from him. He was always busy with his family’s winery or his sick grandmother. Or so he said. But Pietro’s virtual love notes and their sporadic Skype sessions were enough to make her feel important and loved. And there was always a mention of September, when he would return to Amsterdam and share her bed once again. She thought he really cared about her, but in reality he had been using her the whole time.

  Zelda slammed her knuckles against her forehead, trying to block out the memories of their nights together. “I am such a fool and Pietro is such a bastard.”

  “He’s the fool,” Friedrich murmured, kissing her full on the lips.

  She pushed him away, smacking him on the cheek as she did. “What are you doing?”

  He looked down at the floor as he spoke. “I don’t know, I just – ”