by Amber Brock
Poppy, who had caught wind of the conversation, joined in. Her eyes shone with a dreamy look. “It should be someone European, shouldn’t it? Someone who studied in Rome or Paris?”
“There seems to be a consensus then,” Arthur said, without a glance in Poppy’s direction. Vera was surprised he was still listening. As the conversation bubbled around him, he had continued calmly eating.
Ida gave a little clap. “Wonderful! Oh, I am delighted. Vera, do you know anyone who could do it?”
Vera’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know any muralists. My dealer—”
“Fine, fine. You can help with the selection, then, can’t you? Tell us if we’ve got a good one, or if it’s one of those toilet fellows,” Clarence said.
Bessie winked at Vera. “You heard the man. Absolutely no toilets in the building from here on out.”
“I know a gentleman, serves on one of the museum boards or another,” Clarence continued. “I’ll phone him first thing tomorrow. Have him put the word out.”
“And the artist could live in, couldn’t he?” Poppy said. “A sort of artist-in-residence? Isn’t 2A open?”
“It is, isn’t it, Arthur?” Ida asked.
“The unit is empty at present, yes.” Arthur offered a tight smile. “We’ll see how it all works out.”
With that decided, and a few more excited chirps from Ida and Poppy, the diners resumed their meal. Vera noted with a glum look at the clock that it was only eight thirty. They still had dessert and cordials, and the men would certainly have cigars in the library while she suffered through another hour in the drawing room with the ladies. So she was relieved when Arthur stood at the end of the meal and announced his regret that he and Vera would have to leave early.
“Oh, no,” Ida cried, her chest deflating. “You can’t stay for just a bit longer?”
“Very sorry, but I’ve got to stop in to the office this evening. Big meeting on Monday,” he said.
A cold shock went through Vera, but she kept her expression cool as she took his arm. They accepted a chorus of good-byes, then went out to the elevator. Vera waited until they were back in their own foyer to speak.
“The office, Arthur? It’s Saturday night.” Her voice came out harder than she wanted.
He lifted his chin. “I’m well aware what day it is. What does that matter?”
After ten years of marriage, she knew the difference between a trip to the office and simply leaving, but pushing him could make him shut down completely. She at least wanted a chance at living her daydream from the elevator. “It’s so…late,” she said at last, trying to sound more concerned than unhappy.
“I’m aware of the hour, too. You know I have to work late.”
“Will you be home at all, then?”
His face was unreadable stone. “It all depends on how much I’m able to get done.”
“I see.” She pulled at her gloves, nearly ripping a seam in her haste.
Evans stepped in. If he had heard the exchange, or felt its meaning, it did not show in his face. He took Vera’s gloves.
“Evans,” Arthur said, “call down for the car, please. And that will be all this evening. Unless you needed something else?” He turned to Vera.
She exhaled hard, defeated. “No. Thank you, Evans.”
“Very good.” The butler left, the soft leather soles of his shoes against the marble the only sound in the foyer.
Vera stared at Arthur a moment longer, trying to will the courage to say what she knew about where he was really going. But courage failed her, as it always did, and she turned for the staircase. She called a soft “good night” over her shoulder and gritted her teeth against the ache in her chest. Why had she allowed herself to hope that their glances, their friendly words, would translate into what she had imagined in the elevator? A few jokes about tiresome company did not mean that evening would be any different than the countless evenings before.
Vera forgot about the mural idea until two weeks later, when Evans led Clarence Bloomer into her library.
“Clarence, how are you?” She gestured to the chair near her, and he sat. “I’m sorry, we weren’t expecting you. Evans should have told you Arthur is out.”
“No, dear. I’m here to see you.” His tawny mustache broadened with his grin. He dug into his coat’s breast pocket, retrieving an envelope. “I’ve spoken to my friend, the one on the museum board.”
“Your friend?” Vera took the proffered envelope. Peeking inside, she saw it held a letter and some photographs.
“Yes, the man I mentioned at dinner. He put the word out about our little mural project, and a man in Paris says he knows someone perfect for the job.”
Vera had assumed the residents would forget about the artist idea, but she did not dare say as much to Clarence. “Of course, the mural. Who does he have in mind?”
Clarence’s eyes sparkled. “He’s quite new, but I’m assured he’ll be one of the best known in the world in a few years. Hallan is his name. Emil Hallan. Studied at one of those very old schools, you know.”
Vera cocked her head. “Hallan? I’ve never heard of him.”
“As I say, very new. Young fellow. He’s in Paris now, but he’s willing to come to the city. Says in the letter he’s only just started with murals, but he’s completed at least one, so he’s got some experience with larger works. There’s a photo in here, and a few of some of his other paintings. I don’t know art. They look good to me, but I wanted your expert opinion.”
Vera pulled the photos from the envelope. “I’m sure I don’t—” Her breath caught in her throat. Even in black and white, she could see the subtle use of shading, the careful arc of the brushstrokes. His style was undoubtedly modern, with sharp geometric lines, but he somehow blended a modern edge with a heartfelt tenderness that leapt out of the photographs. One suggested a woman, kneeling over a child in a low cradle. Another was a stand of trees, like the edge of a forest, but they looked to Vera like proud soldiers. A few at the edges were battered, but those in the middle stood strong. She wanted to look at them forever, examine every nuance. She could not imagine how incredible the paintings must be in person. Clarence’s friend was right. Whoever painted these was clearly finding his style but had the potential to be among the greats.
She flipped to the last picture, then paused. The last was a beautifully done mural highlighting the musical arts. Swirling rivulets grew into streams and then near the bottom took the shapes of cellos, flutes, a kettledrum. But something was wrong. The styles of all four works were so similar, she could not think how to put her hesitation into words. But something inside of her insisted that the mural was not the work of the person who painted the other pieces. The raw emotion of the first three paintings, the tangible mix of despair and hope, was lacking in the mural. She had the strangest notion that if she could have seen the originals in color instead of the black-and-white photos, she would have been able to point out the difference. But how could she explain the subtle disparity to Clarence when she could not describe it inside her own mind? She allowed herself another glimpse at the first paintings, and her heart ached to know who had made them.
Clarence’s smile drooped into a frown. “Is something wrong? I told you, I don’t know the first thing about—”
“He’s very good.” The words escaped, riding her breath, before she knew they were coming. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought of the rush of emotion the paintings had inspired. She felt as though Clarence had walked in on her dressing. She shoved the photos and letter back into the envelope. “They’re—he’s a good candidate, I suppose.”
Clarence’s expression brightened once more. He took the envelope from her. “Excellent! Oh, from the look on your face I was afraid they were terrible. But they’re good, you say?”
Vera calmed her expression and patted her hair. “Very nice. Fine work.”
“I’ll write him back today, then. Thank you, dear.”
After a few more pleasantries
and a reminder to have Arthur phone him, Clarence left, chest still puffed out with the triumph of his find. Vera sat for a long time in a haze, still thinking about the photos. She wondered what sort of man could paint such haunting pieces. He would have to be educated, refined. The sort of man who felt deeply and did not hide it. The sort of man who could not abide coldness or indifference. A man who would not toy, who would say things honestly, and without reservation.
An uneasy tremble went through her as she remembered the photo of the mural. But then, she chided herself, a mural was a different medium altogether, and one she knew little about. Perhaps an artist’s style had to be adapted for work on such a large scale. She supposed that her recent brush with forgery had left her on the alert. The postmark attested that the letter and photos had indeed come from France. Besides, she could not bring herself to care whether the pool room twenty floors below had a mural or not. The only interest she had in hiring the artist was that it might mean the arrival of someone with whom she could possibly have a real conversation.
Since bringing the artist in was Ida’s idea, the other ladies named her head of a newly created “Mural Board,” and she threw herself into plans for the big arrival. She roped Vera into helping her furnish 2A and make travel arrangements for Mr. Hallan, since Arthur would be the one writing the checks. The Mural Board agreed that $10,000 plus the cost of travel would be a fair price for what might take several months to paint. Vera suggested the room and board serve as a sort of deposit, with the money paid upon completion of the project. The artist would have comfortable accommodations within arm’s reach of his work, and deferring the payment would ease the concerns of anyone wary about hiring an unknown. If they did not like his creation, they would not have to pay.
The maintenance staff and the chauffeur’s lounge occupied most of the second floor, so 2A was a modest two-bedroom apartment. From what she had seen of his work, Vera determined that Hallan would appreciate clean lines and delicate touches of color, and she furnished his rooms accordingly. She and Ida bought a six-person dining table, since he would hardly be expected to entertain much, and hired a housekeeper to cook and clean for him. The two women debated about whether or not he would need a valet. Vera thought not, since the girl would be perfectly capable of keeping up with one man’s calendar and wardrobe, but Ida thought he should have at least two servants. Weary of arguing the point, Vera allowed Ida to have her way. They booked a second-class passage on the SS Leviathan. Vera assumed that since she did not recognize his name, he would not necessarily be accustomed to first-class travel. With the apartment furnished, servants hired, and the ticket purchased, there was nothing to do but wait.
Mr. Hallan sent Arthur a letter of introduction and thanks for the post, but Arthur handed the unopened envelope off to Vera. She studied the gliding letters, as thin and delicate as spider webs. Hallan explained that he had attended the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris and included a letter from one of his instructors there, who gushed about Hallan’s talent. That much, however, had been obvious to Vera from the photographs.
Two weeks before the artist was scheduled to arrive, the Mural Board met in Vera’s library to discuss who ought to go pick him up. She thought one of the men should go, but as Hallan was scheduled to arrive in the middle of a weekday, the other women quickly voted that down. They were certain none of the men would be willing to interrupt their workday to go down to the docks.
“As head of the Mural Board, I feel I should certainly be there to welcome Mr. Hallan,” Ida said, her hand fluttering to her chest.
“I ought to go,” Caroline Litchfield cut in. “I’m the head of the Welcoming Committee, and he could be considered a new resident.”
“I want to go,” Poppy Hastings said.
“Why should you go?” Vera asked.
Poppy’s cheeks colored. “I speak French.”
Vera pressed her lips together for a moment, summoning all her patience. “He speaks English perfectly. Or at least he writes it. If we crowd the car with a delegation, there will be no room for Mr. Hallan, to say nothing of his trunk.”
“We could take two cars.” Poppy’s voice lifted with hope.
“Why only two?” Bessie Harper asked, in her usual dry tone. “We could all arrive in separate cars. Give him a grand welcome. Let him know he’s meeting the upper crust.”
A faint line of confusion appeared between Ida’s brows. “I suppose that would be grand…”
Vera cut in without giving Ida a chance to decide if Bessie was serious. “I really don’t think that’s necessary. We’ll all have a chance to meet him. He’ll be working here for a while. Besides, the night after he arrives I’m having a dinner party. He won’t have been here more than a day, and you’ll all have met him. Then Ida’s having cocktails, and didn’t you mention a luncheon, Caroline? You’ll be positively sick of him before two weeks are done.” She pulled her shoulders back and spoke in her most authoritative tone. “Ida and I will go. That will be plenty of welcome.”
Caroline nodded. “Of course.”
“I suppose,” Poppy said, deflated.
“Be sure to take an extra car or two, just in case,” Bessie added.
After the ladies left, Vera lingered in the library. Why had she said she would go? Ida ought not go alone, but Vera had not really meant to volunteer herself. She was as anxious as the others to catch a glimpse of the artist, but she felt as if there were a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. She thought again of the paintings in the photographs, and stood to pour a drink. What if he was not the man those paintings made him seem to be?
With a knot of apprehension in her chest, Vera climbed into the backseat of a car with Ida two weeks later. Though Vera looked out the window as they cruised through the city, her mind was too clouded with a jumble of thoughts to notice much. At the docks, they waited in the car while the driver took a sign with Hallan’s name on it and went down to retrieve him.
“In that letter he sent your husband, did he say how old he is?” Ida asked.
“You know, I don’t think he did.”
Ida sighed. “I don’t suppose he said what he looks like. No, he wouldn’t, would he?”
Vera tugged the band of her thin silver watch. “You’ll see him soon enough.”
“He must be a young man, don’t you think? If he’s just starting to make a name for himself. And to think, our building will have his first major work.” Ida tittered. “We’ll say, ‘Oh yes, it’s an original Hallan.’ And then you know 863 Park will have to have one.”
Vera fanned herself. “Hmm. Does it seem a bit warm in here to you?”
“Are you feeling well?” Ida asked, leaning in.
“I need a bit of fresh air. I’m going to step out.” Vera opened the car door to a blast of the sour sea air only found near docks. She stood by the side of the car, scanning the crowds for the driver and fighting the trapped feeling the cramped car gave her. The hot air did not help revive her.
All the drivers looked the same in the sea of cars and people, with their black hats and white gloves. At last she saw Ida’s driver step into view, followed by two porters lugging a trunk. Behind them was a tall, long-limbed man in a tweed suit. Ida must have been watching out the window, because as soon as the driver appeared, she leapt from the car and stood beside Vera. Ida beamed, but Vera could only stare.
The porters loaded the trunk onto the back of the car, and the driver slipped them some coins. Ida all but thrust herself at the auburn-haired young man, whose mouth lifted into a slightly baffled smile.
“You must be Mr. Hallan,” Ida cried. “What a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ida Bloomer, head of the Mural Board.” She turned, holding out a hand to indicate Vera. “And this is Vera Bellington. Her husband owns the Angelus.”
Vera cursed Ida’s ridiculous and improper introduction but kept her face still in a well-practiced expression of coolness. Hallan greeted Ida, then turned to Vera. His face was all angles, like his paintings, but with a loose,
friendly grin that softened his features. His eyes were striking, the color of heaven in a children’s illustrated Bible, all faded blue-green and glorious. She could have inspected them as she inspected the paintings on her wall, each little glint and shift in shade. She caught herself and looked away.
“Hello, Mrs. Bellington. Pleased to meet you.” He held out a hand, and she hesitated. She could not politely refuse such a gesture, but that same phantom grip that had pulled on her shoulder before held her back.
“How do you do?” she said, forcing her hand forward. He gripped it, and her cheeks grew warm. She gestured to the car, ready to go home and be done with the pleasantries. “You must be exhausted. Let’s get you to your apartment, so you can settle in.”
“How was your journey?” Ida asked as she and Vera climbed into the backseat.
Hallan took the seat up front by the driver. “There was a bit of rough weather on the third and fourth days, but otherwise it was lovely. It’s a beautiful ship. And the food was wonderful.”
“So glad you enjoyed it,” Ida said. “You know, Clarence and I were thinking of taking a trip on the Leviathan next spring. I do love Europe in the spring. Don’t you, Vera?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. Just lovely.” Vera looked out the window.
Ida chatted with Hallan the whole way, occasionally pulling Vera into the conversation for a word or two. She concentrated on listening, trying to place his accent. He had a clipped British accent, very posh, that sounded to Vera like the ones she had heard among the better families of London. Nothing of the aristocracy, but certainly something one would hear at a fine restaurant, and not from a waiter. Every once in a while a hint of something else would creep in at the back of his throat, a sort of hard, brushed sound, like something scraping metal. But it was fleeting and always disappeared before Vera could identify it.
A week or two had passed since Vera had exploded with questions at Bea’s declaration that she would somehow be delivering boys. Uncharacteristically stoic, Bea had refused to answer, saying only that Vera should be on her guard. Despite this warning, Vera hadn’t thought to be on guard as she slept in her bed.