by Ellen Klages
“There are originals for sale?”
“Not often. They’re all in private collections. The last one that came up at auction was five years ago, and it went for $60,000. One might go for double that, now.”
“Really?” She tapped a finger to her lips, thinking, and then smiled with an expression so expansive it pleated her entire face. “I’ll just fetch my shopping bag, young man. I believe I have something that will interest you.”
Three
As she put the bag onto the table, Helen watched the man with a distaste she was careful to conceal. After twenty-seven years as a judge, she was well practiced in giving no clue to her thoughts. She had an excellent poker face.
Martin Blake was a small man with thinning, gelled hair—not quite a comb-over—beady eyes, and a ridiculous little beard. He wore an off-the-rack jacket over a print shirt and a pair of “designer” jeans, none of which were to her taste. From his speech about the magazine, she had sized him up as a man whose belief in his own expertise was inflated.
He was just who she’d hoped he would be.
Helen had done her research. High-end collectibles were a specialized business, and there were only a handful of dealers in the Bay Area who carried the right sort of inventory. She’d been retired for ten years, but her contacts were still varied and reliable. After carefully considering the information they’d provided, she had decided Martin Blake might be just the man to act as her—executor.
His shop was tasteful enough, and his online auctions brought high-end buyers from around the world. But what had gotten him from a squalid secondhand bookshop in the Tenderloin to this more prestigious location was a very lucrative business dealing with a friend of hers. Blake had slicked him out of a sizable collection, appraising it at a fraction of its actual value, buying treasure at thrift-store prices.
Nothing actionable, nothing ever made public. Martin Blake’s veneer of respectability had remained intact—if one did not shine too bright a light.
She slowly removed the box, setting it so gently onto the table that there was no sound. For the second time, Helen undid the cords that held the corners of the silk and let it fall away.
She was gratified to hear a sudden, inhaled gasp.
A gleaming shallow case of dark, polished wood, about ten by fifteen inches, lay among the folds of silk, its top framing a sheet of thick glass. Inside was a painting—done in vibrant pastel chalks—on a sheet of heavy art paper.
Martin Blake did an almost comic double take. His eyes widened, his mouth hung open. “Is that—?”
“Haskel’s last painting.”
The illustration showed a slender, russet-haired young man in evening clothes, dancing with a woman in a shimmering blue jumpsuit that clung to every curve, her hair a sleek blond waterfall. They gazed into each other’s eyes with obvious joy. The dancers stood in a skylit library. Behind them, a wall of windows revealed the skyline of the city and the expanse of the bay spread out below.
In the bottom right-hand corner was the familiar, angular signature.
“Jesus,” said Martin Blake.
“Indeed,” Helen replied dryly. She allowed him to gawp for a full ten minutes in silence. He circled the table slowly, looking at the painting from every angle. He squatted down, peering across its surface, then went to his desk and returned with a pair of white cotton gloves and a large magnifying glass. He scrutinized the signature, then the box itself, running a finger along the edges of the glass, the smooth, unmarked wooden sides.
“How do I open it?” he asked finally.
“You don’t. It’s sealed. Watertight and— nearly—airtight.”
He sputtered. “How am I supposed to examine the painting?”
“Are you interested in purchasing it?”
“If it can be authenticated, I would consider making an offer.” His face held a curious mixture of emotions, those of a man whose dreams have just come true and who cannot believe it. He looked simultaneously ecstatic and poleaxed.
“I’m sure I can answer any questions,” Helen said.
He touched the case again, stroking it, and she watched his eyes shift—a slyer, more calculating look now.
“I have my doubts,” he said after a moment. “It’s not his usual subject matter. There’s no menace. It looks like the cover for a romance title, and Haskel never worked for those houses.” He tented his fingers under his chin. “There’s no space for a title, and I’m even more troubled by the setting—the details of the room and the city beyond. That’s not his style at all. Haskel’s figures were elaborate and explicit, but his backgrounds were notably bare, nearly abstract.” He gestured to the cover of the magazine lying in its tray.
“All true,” Helen said.
“Still, it’s an interesting piece.” He circled the table again, his steps firmer now. In control. About to make a deal. Helen amused herself watching him evaluate the situation. He wanted it, she knew, as much as he’d ever wanted anything in his life. Just how cunning would he try to be?
He stopped and placed his hands on the table. “Tell you what,” he said with a weasely smile. “I’m a gambling man. I’ll give you twenty thousand for it.”
“Really?” Helen did not return the smile. “I seem to remember you saying the last Haskel went for three times that at auction. And that this,” she touched the box, “was—what did you call it? Ah, yes. The Holy Grail. Try again.”
Blake paled. He straightened up, jamming his hands into his pockets. Helen noticed that his palms had left faint damp spots on the polished wood.
She had him.
“That painting was sold by a reputable auction house, and came with indisputable provenance,” he said, his words clipped. “You certainly can’t expect me to just take your word for this.”
“Of course not,” Helen said. She pulled a black-and-white photo and a scrap of paper from the pocket of her jacket. “I was there when it was painted. Here’s your provenance.” She handed it to him.
The photo was small, less than three inches square, with a thin border and deckled edges. In it, the painting lay on a drafting table, a work-in-progress; the background was half done, the figures lightly sketched in. A hand holding a piece of chalk was just visible at the left edge. Off to one side, the boy in the painting, in shirtsleeves and trousers, one knee drawn up, sat perched on a windowsill. Next to him stood a slim Asian girl in an embroidered cream jacket.
The paper held two handwritten words: Thanks. —Haskel
“Provenance enough?”
He stared. “You’re saying that’s you watching him work?”
“It is.” She plucked at her lapels. “Same jacket.”
“When was this taken?”
Helen turned the snapshot over. On the back, written in pencil, was a date: September 17, 1940.
“Sorry. I don’t buy it. That’s got to be your mother.”
“It’s not.” She watched him try and do the math, could almost see the wheels turning as he counted.
“No way. You’d have to be, like—a hundred years old.”
“I am. Would you like to see my ID?” She gave him her most judiciary stare.
“I—I suppose not.” He frowned. “But even if that is you, I would never buy a piece without examining it.”
“Examine away.”
“I mean close up. Out of the case.”
Helen smiled. It was not the sort of smile anyone would want to see twice. “Once our transaction is complete, you are welcome to take any action you choose. But I caution you. The painting, as you can see, was done in chalk pastels. You just explained how fragile a medium that is.” She tapped the side of the box, a sharp knuckle rap, and watched as a few powdery grains shifted on the surface.
“Jesus. Don’t!”
“That is why it was sealed. It can be lifted—carefully—but not shaken or disturbed, as you just saw.”
“Other original Haskels have survived.”
“Fixative,” Helen said, the F so firm
it almost popped in her mouth.
He snorted. “Well, of course.”
“Not this one.”
He stared, at her, at the painting. “Impossible. Not in that condition.”
“It has been stored under—optimal—circumstances.”
He circled the table again. “No one else has seen this?” he asked after several minutes.
“I give you my word, no other living soul knows about this painting.” She gave a small shrug. “I do have an appointment later today with another buyer, if you decline.” She named the man and watched Blake’s jaw clench. “All I’ve told him is that it’s an original Haskel.”
Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. The photograph in his hand trembled. He noticed her glance and put it down next to the wooden case.
“How much?” he finally asked. His voice cracked like an adolescent’s.
“Two hundred thousand,” Helen said, as if it were a casual figure. “Wired to my account. Here’s the bill of sale.” She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket and laid it on the table. She had called in a few final favors, and knew, to the penny, what funds he had. He could cover it, but only just. “You will not get another chance, Mr. Blake.”
The blood drained from his face, his absurd goatee dark against pale flesh tinged a sickly grayish green. He had the sort of expression so common to Weird Menace covers, a deer caught in the most horrible of headlights. It was, she thought, an exquisite dilemma, pitting his greed against his better judgment. He knew it was the find of a lifetime, a legendary piece, one that would elevate him to the most exclusive circles in his field. But—
Martin Blake stared at the wooden case for five minutes without seeming to breathe. Helen waited. She was a very patient woman.
Finally he picked up the document. His lips moved slightly as he read. It was half a page, transferring the painting to him, with its current condition agreed upon by both parties. With a few lines of legalese, it also relieved her, upon his signature, of any liability, responsibility, or future claims regarding the work.
“That’s it?” he asked.
“It is. When my banker has confirmed the transfer, we sign and the painting is yours.”
Fifteen minutes later, Helen said, “Yes. Thank you so much,” pushed END CALL, and slipped her phone into her pocket. She folded the silk and the Neiman Marcus bag under one arm, and shook Martin Blake’s hand. “Congratulations,” she said, retrieving her cane. “It’s a very special painting.”
Blake could only nod. He walked her to the front of the store and held the door as she exited onto Geary Street, the bell jingling faintly behind her.
Caveat emptor, she thought, and turned toward Union Square.
Four
Helen walked slowly, but with a spring in her step. Her first stop was her bank, where she withdrew the transferred funds and closed the account. She gave the clerk the addresses of the GLBT Historical Society, the San Francisco Art Institute, and the friend who had been swindled. “Fifty thousand to each of those. Cashier’s checks, please.”
Martin Blake would be utterly baffled, but Haskel, she thought, would have approved.
The remainder she took in cash, five banded stacks of hundred-dollar bills. She asked the bank manager to call a cab, and went home. Her phone buzzed as she was finishing lunch. The caller ID said: Blake. She let it go to voice mail. When he called again, two minutes later, she turned off the phone and went to take a nap.
The next morning, she hired a Cadillac convertible and a driver for one last day in the city that she loved. To Chinatown for tea and almond cookies, Fisherman’s Wharf for a lunch of Dungeness crab and champagne. In the afternoon, she went to North Beach and Russian Hill, visiting the places she had first discovered when she’d moved to San Francisco at the age of nineteen, the places where she and Haskel had become friends. Never more than that, although Helen had once entertained hopes they— She sighed. Water under a long-closed bridge.
Some of the landmarks of her memories were gone—the Monkey Block had been torn down more than fifty years before, to make way for the Transamerica Pyramid; 440 Broadway remained a seedy bar, but with a very different clientele than Mona’s. Only Lupo’s seemed the same, secure in its old location, even if the sign said Tommaso’s; its pizza was still delicious and its red wine robust—for twenty-first-century prices, of course.
Each place she stopped to eat or drink, she left a sizable tip for the startled waiter or waitress—ten thousand dollars in cash. The astonished smiles and tears were the finest part of a very fine day. By the time the driver took her back to her building, it was evening. He held the car door, shocked when she handed him the fifth stack of bills.
“Thank you for a lovely day,” she said, tapping her cane on the sidewalk. “I will remember it for the rest of my life.”
She went upstairs, weary but content. Every box on her To-Do list had been ticked off, one by one. Her realtor would sell the building on Spofford Alley. She had no children, and had outlived most of her friends, so her lawyer had drawn up a will with a generous bequest to Ivy, her caregiver, and a smaller one to her attentive doorman. The remainder of her estate she left to the Manzanar Committee, along with a few trusts and gifts to various charities. All done and dusted.
Most important, she had kept her oath, and seen to Haskel’s painting. Seventy-five years. She smiled.
It was time.
Her keys and wallet centered on the kitchen counter where Ivy would be sure to see them in the morning, she poured the last of the Macallan into a tall tumbler. She walked to the big window and stood for a minute, quietly gazing at the city spread out below her, the canyons of tall buildings spotted here and there with traffic signals and the yellow glow of sodium lamps, the ever-changing pattern of lights on the new Bay Bridge flickering off to the east.
Then she opened the bottle of pills, and took them, two at a time, with a swallow of good scotch until there was nothing left of either.
Helen Young went into her bedroom. She changed into a pair of blue silk pajamas, brushed her hair, and put on a touch of lipstick. Then she got into bed, turned out the light, and went to sleep for the last time, humming a Cole Porter tune until she and the melody simply drifted away.
Party Tricks
From a tiny room in the midst of the bustle of Chinatown, low snippets of conversation—in English—wafted out to the cracked pavement though a half-open door. Franny Travers bent over a wooden table, pale oak topped with a sheet of cobalt glass. A teapot on a bamboo tray anchored one corner, a sheaf of closely typed papers another.
“Sign there, there, and there. Initial there, sign there, and it’s done,” her companion said. She was a young Asian woman in a fashionable suit from the City of Paris—pencil skirt, high-necked blouse, peplum jacket. Her ink-black hair was perfectly coifed—finger-rolled and lacquered—her red lipstick flawless, her skin a warm ivory.
Franny uncapped her fountain pen. A small woman in her mid-forties, she wore her dark hair in a blunt cut—part Dutch boy, part flapper’s bob—and sported a jade tunic over a pair of loose black trousers. “Why is it so complicated?”
“You’re a woman. You own two buildings. And you’ve written a will leaving them to your live-in friend. None of that sits easy with the courts.” She tapped one of the papers. “That’s why I’ve spent the last three weeks making sure it’s unbreakable. Every single i is dotted, t’s crossed, all the heretofores and in perpetuities—and blab, blab, blab.”
“That’s why you’re the lawyer.”
“Almost a year now,” Helen Young said. “Though you’re still one of my only clients. Unlike the stuffed white shirts downtown, you don’t seem to mind being represented by the yellow peril.” She made a face. “And no one around here is willing to take advice about money from a mere woman.”
“I like to keep my business ‘in the life’ when I can.” Franny scrawled her name with a flourish and capped her pen. “How do you make ends meet?”
Hele
n shrugged. “Fifteen years of ballet and tap classes trumps three of law school. If I weren’t dancing twelve shows a week at Forbidden City, I’d’ve had to hock this suit long ago.” She smiled. “Letting me live here rent-free is a very generous fee. I can’t tell you how much that’ll help.”
“I’m glad.” Franny fitted a Lucky Strike into a jade holder and lit it, blowing the smoke in the direction of the doorway. “Your apartment is painted and furnished, but there’ll be noisy workmen in the other five for a month at least.”
“I’ll cope. When are you going to advertise them?”
“I’m not. The world is at war—even if we seem to have the luxury of pretending otherwise—and I have European friends desperate to get people out. The refugees will need places to stay, away from prying eyes.”
“Chinatown fits the bill.”
“It does,” she agreed. “And where else can you get dried toads?”
Helen laughed, then looked at the thin, faux-gold watch on her wrist. “It’s almost six. Isn’t tonight your little salon?”
“The Circle!” Franny swore. “I forgot. They’ll be ringing my bell in fifteen minutes. At least Babs is handling dinner.”
Helen glanced down at her T-strap heels. “I brought the papers straight from the clerk’s office, but it’s a good mile to Russian Hill, most of it fairly steep. I’ll never make it in these shoes. We’ll have to flag a cab.”
“In Chinatown?” Franny snorted. “Besides, taxis always have difficulty finding my house.” She drummed her fingers on the glass for a moment, flipping a mental coin. “Just this once,” she said aloud.
Franny reached into a drawer and removed a hand-painted map the size of a cocktail napkin. She folded it, her fingers moving too fast for Helen to follow, burnishing each crease with the edge of a pale bone knife until a little envelope no bigger than a saltine lay in her palm.