Masterpiece

by Janet Pywell

  ‘Is that what she told you?’

  ‘I told her she had better keep an eye on that big old diamond ring she wears,’ he laughs.

  ‘Oh, my good–’

  ‘And she replied, the first thing she’ll do every morning is to count her fingers – I just love her sense of humour. She really is a gem.’

  The following Sunday morning after we have return from a long walk in Chiswick Park, Javier is standing in the bay window at the front of the flat with a glass of chilled prosecco, a pre-lunch drink, in his hand.

  ‘They’re moving in,’ he says.

  ‘Stop stalking the neighbours.’ I reprimand but I walk over to stand beside him. ‘What are you gawping at?’

  Through the slatted blinds and beyond my miniature front garden a powder blue BMW is parked crookedly on the pavement. A broad-shouldered blond man with a trim beard is talking animatedly to a woman in the passenger seat. He looks older than her probably late fifties. There is a deep crease between his eyebrows and his mouth is moving in angry sequence as he gesticulates wildly. Then he gets out of the car and carries a suitcase inside.

  What will I do?

  Javier tilts the blind. ‘He doesn’t look happy,’ he murmurs.

  ‘They never got on,’ I say.

  ‘You don’t look happy either. You seem preoccupied the past few days.’ His gaze is on me and his breath is sweet on my cheek.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lie.

  I walk over to the fridge and take out a chilled bottle of prosecco. Outside in the garden, Javier’s friend Oscar is hammering my fence with nails. He is repairing the wooden slats I broke while climbing over it. His rhythmic tapping seems to accompany the pauses in our conversation.

  ‘Maybe the painting is the original. She said, the painting would make him come back,’ Javier says.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She hardly has a stolen painting hanging in her house.’

  ‘I think we should find out. I’d like to take a look at it. Maybe we should speak to him or Mrs Green? Maybe we could negotiate its safe return to the museum. Maybe we could–’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Come on, Mikky. They may not know it’s the original especially if she bought it off some market in the Borough. I’ve heard of that sort of thing happening before. Think of the notoriety and the fame that we would receive if we returned it.’

  ‘Let’s not get involved. You have too much going on at the moment with your commission.’

  ‘Let’s find an excuse to go around there and check it out–’

  ‘Mrs Green is only just out of hospital and I don’t want to get involved in her family disputes.’ I turn away from the window. ‘Besides, it can’t be the original. It was stolen from Boston almost twenty years ago and there’s no way it’s turned up on the wall of an old lady in Chiswick. Besides, it’s nothing to do with us,’ I add.

  ‘Perhaps I should speak to her–’

  ‘Javier, don’t go worrying her. There have been rumours and newspaper articles on the Internet. The Concert is now in Eastern Europe they think it was swapped for drugs or something like that by the Real IRA. It will probably never be seen again,’ I insist.

  ‘A lot of artwork is traded for drugs or prostitution within the old Eastern bloc countries. It’s a form of trading currency and talking of newspapers there was a small article in the Evening Standard about you rescuing Mrs Green.’ He holds out his glass and I refill his glass.

  ‘I don’t know how they found out. The only person I can think of was the man who came to replace the glass in her window.’ I sip my prosecco. ‘I don’t understand why it reached the evening paper.’

  ‘Well, I would like an article in the Evening Standard. I would love someone to write about me. Especially if I was a hero.’

  ‘Well you would. Therein lies the difference between us,’ I reply.

  In the kitchen I place parboiled potatoes into sizzling fat. A sprig of rosemary cut from my garden tub has fallen into the oil so I fork it back on top of the roasting lamb then turn the potatoes in the hot oil before shoving the dish back into the oven.

  Oscar continues banging nails into the fence and when he looks up, I wave.

  ‘Lunch smells delicious.’ Javier continues to stare out of the front window. ‘Look!’

  I stand beside him and watch the scene in the street. In the rear of the car a small boy with masses of blond curls sits with his face pressed to the window. His eyes wander over the row of Victorian houses where we live and he appears remotely detached and disinterested. Annie, a delicate blond woman in her thirties, unfolds her legs from the passenger side and opens the back door for her son.

  ‘She looks like a model,’ I whisper.

  ‘A stick insect,’ Javier murmurs.

  Max escapes the confines of the car and runs excitedly up and down the small path with his arms spread wide as if he is Superman. His outstretched wings cause him to lean precariously and he swoops back out into the street and straight into his mother’s leg wrapping his arms around her thigh and she laughs.

  She hands him a blue backpack and gives him an encouraging push toward the front door. He takes small steps carrying it carefully in his arms, his pink tongue poking out of the side of his mouth.

  Annie calls out and Roy reappears. He bangs his fist on the bonnet of the car, slams the driver’s door and guns the engine. Annie pulls away just as the car bounces off the curb and squealing tyres slice though the tranquil street.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ says Javier. He turns to me with a frown. ‘What a brute! I hope he treats his mother better than that.’

  On the pathway Annie’s step falters. She levels a penetrating stare and the shutters seem to disintegrate between us. My breath catches in my throat and I remain motionless until I blink and the thin web is broken and she moves quickly into the house.

  Oscar’s voice comes from the patio at the back of my flat. ‘Any chance of another beer before lunch?’ he shouts. ‘This worker needs some refreshment.’

  I find a Stella for Oscar and return to Javier side. He is standing in the middle of the lounge staring at his charcoal drawing, lost in thought, until I refill his glass and then he smiles.

  ‘Did I tell you that a freelance journalist phoned me? He wants to do an ongoing interview while I’m painting Josephine’s portrait. He seems to know a lot about her. He’s a big fan. He wants me to talk him through the process. A step-by-step portrait guide and there would be a series of interviews and the television might get involved – perhaps even a documentary or something…’

  ‘Wouldn’t you have to ask the Director?’

  Javier frowns. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe I should mention it to Nico Vastano, he’s the Theatre Director.’

  ‘You can ask Josephine when we meet her in Italy,’ I say.

  ‘Italy? Who said anything about going to Italy? We’re going to Germany – to Dresden, the home of Stöllen cake and Christmas markets.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s where she lives now.’

  ‘Well, I would have thought the theatre would have to supervise all the publicity and interviews. They must have a press agent or a publicity person who can advise you.’

  ‘But he sounded so nice: funny and friendly. He’s asked me to meet him for lunch in Randall and Aubin.’

  ‘Wow – that’s your favourite restaurant – does he know that?’

  ‘The oysters are to die for–’

  ‘Not to mention the champagne,’ I add and he laughs.

  ‘Why don’t you tell Dino or Nico that he contacted you? Then they can decide what they want to do. They might be glad of the publicity or they may already have something lined up. If he knows Josephine Lavelle then he’s probably her friend. What’s his name?’

  ‘Karl Blakey.’

  I shrug. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘How would you? You don’t like opera music anyway,’ he laughs. ‘You’ve always refused to come to the opera with me. Remember that time in Madrid
? I bought tickets to see the Barber of Seville and you wouldn’t come. You went to a Foo Fighters concert instead.’

  ‘True. Wailing cats at the opera – not my thing. Can’t stand it – it all too phoney and unnatural.’

  ‘I hope you’ll be more polite when you meet Josephine Lavelle, next week.’

  ‘Only if I can educate her on the merits of rock music.’ I take a few steps and play air guitar around the sofa twanging my imaginary electric strings to the sounds of Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell.

  ‘You’re a philistine.’

  ‘That’s true. But you would be too if you’d had hippy parents who rocked around Spain like gypsies blaring out Rolling Stones, The Who and The Grateful Dead at full blast from a campervan that reeked of stale beer and cannabis.’

  ‘Well, I admit, my life was more conventional – much more boring.’

  ‘You had stability. You had a home and security, and copious amounts of money and love. My parents barely remembered to enrol me in school.’

  ‘I’m amazed you turned out so perfect.’

  ‘I was determined not to end up like them.’ I give him my best sarcastic smile.

  ‘I still think you should contact your father.’

  I raise my palm. ‘Don’t go there.’

  Javier has no understanding. He finds my past funny and adventurous. He’s never understood loneliness nor felt the exclusion of having no friends.

  ‘You always celebrated birthdays. You had a proper home. You don’t know what it was like to sing lullabies alone in the dark when a party was in full swing and the air was filled with a foggy haze. Your parents knew where you were. Not like mine who didn’t bother to check that I had got back safely from the church before it was dark.’

  ‘You have to get over your past, Mikky. I’ve told you before and I’ll keep telling you. You must speak to your father. He’s your only family. It will help–’

  ‘I don’t want to think about my past – and certainly not him.’

  My mind is focused on my plan but as we eat our roast dinner my mind strays. My past, that I normally keep firmly boxed in the deep recess of my mind, has been set free and my resentment gathers speed stirring my emotions quicker than Macbeth’s three witches can utter their doomed prophecies.

  As a child we travelled all over the country. They promised I could make friends and have birthday parties at the next school. They said next Christmas we would be in a proper home and that there would be no more fiestas spent in the caravan, or on a beach or parked in a stranger’s field. And they said next year there would be money for presents and we would have a proper meal cooked in a proper home with a proper stove.

  But there never was. They lied.

  And then it was all too late anyway.

  Trust doesn’t come easy to me and I don’t believe anyone. I am different. I will not become attached to anyone or anything.

  At the table Oscar and Javier joke and tease. They are completely at ease with each other and unaware of my inner turmoil. Javier’s eyes brown eyes sparkle and his laugh is deep and happy. He is the longest friend I have ever had. But I saw how he betrayed Carmen. It was nine years ago but I will never forget the hurt and damage he caused when he broke her heart. Everyone is betrayed in the end.

  I will keep him away from Mrs Green and from the painting. My immediate task is to find out what the set-up is next door. Then I will take action. I will be methodical. I will get what I want. I always do – eventually.

  On Monday morning I’m working in a secured vault underneath London’s busy streets in a room probably wedged between tube tracks, sewers and a multitude of other unknown quantities. But it is the silence I relish, the hushed reverence. It’s almost church-like but without the spiritual emotion, more like a library but without muted coughs, scratching chairs and squeaky footsteps. As I work I am deliberating on the family next door. My planning and the detail must be faultless.

  I am rearranging the spotlight, tilting it slightly to eradicate the finest shadow in the right-hand corner. Precision and detail are imperative. A fraction of a millimetre can make all the difference.

  ‘Mikky?’

  I turn at my name.

  ‘The Caravaggio is almost restored. It should be here by the end of the month.’

  ‘Before Christmas?’ I ask.

  ‘I do hope so.’ Sandra Jupiter is the museum’s curator. We have worked together several times and we have a close professional relationship. She is a few years older than me, mid-thirties, attractive and I think she is a tough woman who is used to getting what she wants. ‘I would like to think it would be here by then.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ I have no doubt she will get it.

  I roll up my sleeve and I see her looking at the vibrant ink tattoo wrapped along my inner arm.

  ‘The exhibition is on the 4th February so we have lots of work to do. Make sure you’re free. I will go over the schedule with you,’ she says.

  I smile and nod. It’s more money and it’s also my insurance just in case my plan is delayed. ‘I’ll put the date in my diary.’ I tilt the light with my disposable gloves. I want to be left alone. I want to concentrate.

  ‘How’s Javier?’ she asks.

  She knows him through his exhibition last year in a gallery off Bond Street. She purchased his portrait of Paco de Lucía, the world-renowned Flamenco guitarist. It hangs over the hearth in her dining room and is admired by artists, exhibitors and curators worldwide.

  ‘Concerned about his commission – that it won’t be good enough.’

  ‘Why is he always so insecure about his talent?’

  ‘Do you know, Dino Scrugli?’ I ask

  ‘Dino, was in my house for dinner a few months ago.’

  ‘Javier applied for a commission. Dino Scrugli is one of the patrons but Javier can’t work out how Dino heard of him. Perhaps he saw the portrait in your house?’

  ‘I don’t think I had it then. Javier’s exhibition was in May but Dino came to me just before Easter. I remember he brought with him a gift of a Faberge egg.’

  ‘Very classy.’

  ‘Dino has class. He’s from one of the best Italian families. His grandfather began collecting art, his father continued the tradition and both of them have left everything to Dino who subsequently loans pieces to the Italian museums – for a small price – of course,’ she laughs. ‘He’s only used to the best.’

  ‘Then I hope he likes Javier’s portrait.’

  ‘Who is Javier painting?’

  ‘It’s a singer, some opera star. I think her name is La Velle, someone or other.’

  She holds her fingers to her throat. ‘Josephine Lavelle? Is she well enough? Wasn’t she injured quite recently?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I read about her in the newspapers. She had many admirers and also a very bad reputation. My goodness – Javier has done well. I think she will be a very interesting portrait.’

  ‘The Theatre Il Domo have commissioned it.’

  ‘Perhaps I should speak to Dino?’ Sandra likes to be well connected and I have no doubt she will be on the phone to him as soon as possible.

  ‘That would be fantastic. I’ll tell, Javier.’

  ‘What an opportunity – he deserves to do well. He is a talented and – handsome man.’

  I move as she speaks lining up the painting that I want to capture with my lens. I would like her to contact Dino but she wasn’t invited to the opening night of the theatre last year and I wonder if they are as friendly as she pretends.

  ‘Did you hear that Sotheby’s declared Landscape with an Obelisk a fake?’ I ask, changing the subject.

  ‘Can art critics ever agree?’

  ‘It’s not so much up to them any more though, is it?’ I say. ‘So much of it is now down to forensic science and X-rays, and a forged painting is soon discovered.’ I stand back and stretch my neck muscles flexing my arm muscles and wrist.

  ‘Thank goodness for modern technology,’ Sandra says
, ‘or we would be in a right mess.’

  ‘And the Art Loss Register,’ I add.

  ‘Yes, that too, at least we can keep a track of who owns what now, although there are still a lot of missing paintings – and many that certain collectors and dealers don’t want to come to light.’

  ‘It’s curtailed the acts of many shady art dealers,’ I agree.

  ‘But not enough, time and time again there’s some unscrupulous art dealer somewhere who’s willing to sell a stolen painting for less than it’s market value. Think of the artwork that the Nazis stole that has been sold on for a fraction...’

  ‘Some of them will never come to light.’ A shiver of excitement runs through me and I flex my shoulders to ease my shaking hands.

  ‘That’s true or they turn up years later hanging on the wall of some obscure person who brought it at an antiques market or who found it in a shed at the bottom of an ageing relative’s garden or such like,’ she adds. ‘And they don’t even know it’s valuable.’

  ‘So many stolen paintings are used as currency now for illegal drug trafficking or prostitution and we’ll never see them again. They’re probably hanging on the walls of some oligarchs’ houses in Russia or somewhere and they wouldn’t have any appreciation of their artistic value,’ I add. ‘It’s just a possession.’

  ‘I blame the unscrupulous art dealers. There are so many of them. They should be closed down.’

  ‘There’s no code of behaviour,’ I agree. ‘It makes it hard to establish a painting’s origins and authenticity. It’s no wonder the experts can never agree.’

  ‘It’s a moral-less way to earn money and it makes me so angry.’ She paces in front of me and I wait until she stops before realigning the camera angle. ‘And it ruins the reputation of art dealers in general. I blame the forgers,’ she adds. ‘They’re just as bad. No wonder so many are sceptical of our judgement.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘A reputation is the most important thing one can have and once it’s tarnished you never get it back. You might as well give up or go into hiding.’

  ‘A reputation is priceless,’ I agree.