by Janet Pywell
Hiding? Now that does seem like a good idea.
After lunch I go home and I wait until I see Annie and Max leave the house, and I’m singing, The Pretender like Dave Grohl and mimicking his guitar playing when Mrs Green answers her front door.
‘Mrs Green? How are you feeling?’ I give her my best smile.
‘Mikky? Hello dear. What a lovely surprise. Come in – what a pretty plant.’
‘I would have popped in before but I didn’t want to get in the way of your family moving in.’
She doesn’t seem to hear me. ‘I do love a poinsettia – a beautiful colour and so warm – it cheers the house at Christmas. Thank you, dear.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘It’s lovely to be home.’
‘I hope you haven’t come home too soon?’
My neighbour seems smaller. There is more colour in her cheeks than when I last saw her but she still looks frail and tired. I follow her slow shuffling gait along the hallway looking at the spot on the floor where I found her lying and I risk a quick glance into the lounge. The Concert no longer hangs above the mantelpiece. The gilt-frame is gone.
My mouth is dry.
Where is it?
‘Have a cup of tea. Sit there by the window.’ She is wearing the big diamond ring on her bent wedding finger.
What she has done with the painting?
‘Roy seemed quite pleased when I telephoned him and told him that I wanted to heal the rift between us. He managed to get a transfer with his company in the north as they have offices near Heathrow airport. He will still have to travel abroad quite a lot but Annie and Max are happy here. He’s settled into the nursery school, you know, the one at the back here.’ She waves in the direction of the nursery tucked behind our homes.
I nod. ‘I often hear them in the playground from my bedroom.’
‘It’s lovely to have young people around me. I had forgotten how lonely I was.’
What’s he done with it?
The teapot is heavy in her hand and I manage to grab the spout before it spills. She slumps into the rocking chair and spends a few minutes settling patchwork cushions around her hips.
She sighs. ‘Oh, Mikky, I couldn’t go into a home and be parted from all my things. I don’t want to be with old people who are ill all the time or have nothing to say. I like to have all my little bits and pieces around me and I enjoy television. What would I do with all my things if I went into a home? I couldn’t sell them. They’re not worth much but they’re mine.’
She glances through to the lounge and I follow the direction of her gaze. ‘I’ve had to put some of my favourite things away, some of those things dear to me and also the Vermeer I had hanging in the living room. Just to keep it safe.’
‘Good idea, Mrs Green but I hope you can still appreciate it?’
‘I’ve moved into my bedroom. It’s not an original of course but the art dealer told me it was a good fake. It cost enough but I couldn’t resist it, besides I always dreamed of owning the real thing and this is the nearest I will ever get...’
‘I hope Roy doesn’t think it’s the original,’ I laugh.
‘I’ve led him on a little but it’s up to him what he wants to think. At least it might keep him interested in staying here – even if it is only for his inheritance.’
She screws up her eyes and peers at the blue tits on the feeders and even when they fly away she continues staring, lost in thought, while I stroke the ugly ragged scar on the back of my left hand and think of the trouble I’ve gone to.
In 1994 a letter had been written to the Isabella Stewart Museum promising the safe return of the paintings for $2.6 million but the FBI had failed to negotiate. All communication stopped and nothing had been heard since then but I knew the art dealer in Bruges who ‘acquired’ the Vermeer two years ago. He was a conduit for the Real IRA and he had been forced into getting rid of it for them. He was scared. He wanted it off his hands – and quickly.
I was working in the gallery when I overheard their arrangement. They agreed that after Mrs Green died the art dealer would inherit the painting legitimately. He could therefore claim the huge reward the museum was offering, alternatively he could hand it in to another museum in Belgium or even to the Tate in London. Or he could sell the painting. Sometimes when the painting has changed hands a good few times the buyer can plausibly claim that they thought it was a legitimate sale. A buyer would normally pay less than ten percent of the normal market value. A low price because both parties are at risk of getting caught.
It used to be that only about five percent of stolen artwork was ever returned but more recently and since the Art Loss Register was formed and the ownership of paintings can be more readily identified, it has risen to almost twenty percent.
But this convenient arrangement with Mrs Green meant that after her death, the art dealer’s family in Bruges would be financially taken care of and this pleased Mrs Green as her husband and the art dealer had once been very good friends.
‘You wouldn’t sell the painting?’ I ask, suddenly conscious of her gaze on me.
‘Not in a million years, I will keep it until the day I die. I enjoy looking at it. My Albert always said it was one of his favourite paintings. I just wish he had been alive to share it with me. He would be very impressed to know I had a Vermeer on my bedroom wall – even if it is a fake.’
‘Does Roy share the same passion for artwork?’
‘Let’s say, I have to be a little careful with Roy. He’s still got an eye for making money. He went through a phase where nothing was important to him. He got into a lot of debt and he would have sold everything to the devil but now he has Annie and I think he might have changed. Annie is good for him. He works hard and he travels abroad and he seems happier…’
‘What does he do?’
‘Technology, computers or something like that, I don’t really know but Annie and Max will stay here with me when he has to go away so I won’t be on my own any more.’
I know loneliness. I’m its best friend.
Mrs Green continues speaking. ‘He seems much calmer than he used to be and I believe he was quite pleased when I asked them to move in. We’ve healed the rift and the past is past. We must move on. I’ll just have to learn to live with the change won’t I, my dear? Now, tell me, what about you? Is there any news?’
‘Javier won a portrait commission and so we have been invited to Germany to meet Josephine Lavelle.’
‘My goodness, she’s even better than Maria Callas. Josephine Lavelle, well I never, what an honour that will be for him. There’s no one in the world that could sing like her – is there?’
‘It’s not my type of music,’ I confess. ‘I find it so boring.’
‘But you must go with him. Poor Javier will need you. She has a bit of a reputation with men. She’s a bit of a man-eater. Is that what you would call her?’
I laugh. ‘Is she a bit of a tart?’
Mrs Green giggles revealing a row of even false teeth. ‘Not any more I shouldn’t think. Didn’t you hear what happened last summer?’
I shrug and shake my head.
‘It was the opening night of Tosca and it should have been Glorietta Bareldo, her rival, who sang but at the last minute she was ill so they asked Josephine Lavelle to take over. It must have been terribly awkward as they were both going out with the same man – and then she was shot on stage.’
‘Was her singing that bad?’ I joke.
Mrs Green smiles but shakes her head sadly. ‘The boyfriend – he was an artist I think – he died. She was shot too. The bullet pierced her lung. They say she will never sing again.’
I stare at her.
Raffaelle Peverelli, my Italian art tutor and mentor under whom I studied one summer in Italy in my first year at University had been shot at an incident in a theatre. I had been in Morocco last August and Carmen had phoned to say he had been killed. I’m sure it was at an opera. Surely this could not be the same incident?
>
‘Were they lovers Josephine and this artist?’
‘Yes, presumably, he had lived with Glorietta Bareldo for years but then he met Josephine Lavelle. It caused a lot of scandal of course. Josephine had faded from the spotlight. This was to be her first performance in over four years.’
‘Is she better now?’
‘It would seem so, if she is ready to have her portrait painted. It’s all the more reason for you to go and chaperone, Javier. He will need you. He will need protecting.’
We talk for half an hour or so but my mind is preoccupied with the death of Raffa. Old memories have surged forward jostling and pushing for pole position in my reticent memory but I take comfort in the company of this old lady and her calm tranquillity. Mrs Green is naturally positive and upbeat. She has a curious mind and I enjoy her lively conversation. Half an hour later when I am leaving her house I bend forward to kiss her cheek as I would to the grandma I never had and, as I pull away, she takes hold of my wrist and presses a key into the palm of my hand wrapping my fingers tightly shut around it.
‘Take this with you, Mikky. You saved my life and I’ll never forget that. Especially the way you climbed over the fence. I’ve written the alarm code on the tag so that you’ll be able to let yourself in and you won’t get covered in cuts and bruises again. You were so brave and I’m very grateful. I could have lain there for days. I might never have been found. I could have died. And I have you to thank for all this now. My new exciting life and reconciliation with my family after all these years.’
‘You don’t need to give me a key, Mrs Green. Your family are here now and they’ll look after you.’
‘Just in case,’ she insists. Her bony fingers keep the key firmly in my fist. ‘One just never knows. It will be our secret.’
As I let myself into my flat I can’t believe my luck. She’s given me the key to her front door and the alarm code. What a result! Perhaps somewhere out in the Universe my grand scheming plan has been endorsed and everything will fall neatly into place. I celebrate with my air guitar dancing around my lounge singing, Good Girls Go to Heaven.
CHAPTER THREE
‘Everything you can imagine is real.’
Pablo Picasso
The week before Christmas I go to Germany like a child metaphorically screaming, kicking and having a tantrum. The thought of this woman with my mentor, Raffaelle Peverelli and now making friends with Javier is too much for me to contemplate. I know I will not like her.
I imagine Josephine Lavelle on a golden throne. A diva Goddess reclining languorously, treating me dismissively and with contempt. I don’t want to go. I don’t even like opera.
‘What am I doing?’ I ask Javier, draining my third gin and tonic and looking around for the air hostess but he isn’t listening. He is tuned into his iPod and his eyes are closed.
It was eight years ago that I studied with Raffa in Italy but it could be last year. Having spoken about him with Mrs Green it has made my memories stronger: his soft voice, musky cologne and even the acrid tobacco from his moustache seem more pungent and I remember one evening toward the end of my visit we were in the market square in Bergamo. It was early evening and the sun was hiding behind the Church spire so I lifted my sunglasses on top of my head. Along with the other art students we were discussing, arguing and debating the merits of the Old Masters, the success of the Romantics and the evolution of Modern Art. I was rolling a cigarette listening to other art students and drinking wine from Lombardy, when Raffa leaned toward me and said.
You’re not original, Mikky. You copy too faithfully. You must show more flair if you want to be a proper artist. Your work is too faithful for this world, bellissima. You must believe in your talent and trust your instinct. You are a perfectionist. You could become the world’s best forger.
I had laughed but I was annoyed with his advice. I did not like his suggestion to imitate art and like so many times in my life certain words stick in the back of my mind and lurk there waiting to pounce just when you think them forgotten. The plan that I have for stealing Mrs Green’s painting now makes perfect sense and as the plane circles to land in Dresden I go over the details once again in my head. My life has been filled with triggers that have had a domino effect leading to this moment. It hasn’t been fate or destiny. It has been me who has lined up the opportunistic dominos with patient precision. Patience was the most important thing I learnt as my parents dragged me around Spain. I learnt the art of waiting in the confines of the church or under the shade of a tamarind tree as they finished another beer or rolled another joint, and I learned not to get my hopes up and how to keep myself amused with my thoughts, puzzling and reasoning – not just about religion and spirituality – but also about art and beauty and through them I wanted to decipher the truth.
What is the truth? Wherein lies a lie?
I decided by the age of fourteen that the truth is whatever one believes it to be. Whatever anyone decides upon – that is their truth and theirs alone and that it’s all right to have a different truth from family or lovers. It is like owning a painting. It is okay to have a fake painting and if someone believes it is authentic – then so be it – why destroy that belief?
The plane tilts its wings and I raise my tray table and throw my bag at my feet. The dark and lumpy clouds rock the plane reminding me of a ride at the fair ground. Javier stirs then settles again. His long eyelashes rest upon his cheeks. His olive skin looks soft and there is a fashionable shadow of a beard on his chin.
When I returned from studying in Italy, Carmen was a mess. She was heartbroken. Javier was as frivolous with love as he was with his emotions. His passion lasted for as long as he drew a painting. Then like a soldier after battle he was spent; exhausted and drained from the intensity of his affair. Carmen was despondent, desolate and broken. I have seen enough sadness and experienced more than enough heartbreak and I had cared for her the best I could, cajoling her back to life, stimulating her interest and healing her heart.
The cabin bell dings. We are reminded we are coming into land. I leave Javier asleep and watch the ground below coming closer and closer while hearing Raffa’s words. Words that haunt me now even after his death.
You could become the world’s best forger.
A stark wind whips across my face as we follow the tall, thin and anaemic looking driver called Andreas, to the black Mercedes. He lifts my case not bothering to look at me. We drive past busy streets with festive lights festooned across Christmas market stalls where steam rises from makeshift fires and a pig roasts on a spit. The city appears to be filled with magnificent historical buildings, statues in all shapes and sizes and illuminated churches with spires that stretch into the night-sky.
Josephine’s house is in the suburbs. Pots of red and white poinsettias line a flight of stairs leading to the front door. Javier reaches for my hand and squeezes my fingers just before we step wordlessly into a warm room and the aroma of roasting apples and cinnamon.
Josephine Lavelle is not a princess; she is more like a dowager. In her early fifties, she looks like a woman who has inherited wealth from her late husband and is used to a life of privilege and luxury. She looks fragile and vulnerable but when she smiles her eyes are sharp like bright diamonds. She radiates excited energy but not stamina.
Javier is focused on his muse and his model. She doesn’t stand up and it causes him to bend over her hand like an awkward servant. He takes her proffered fingers and he brings them to his lips in a manner that is both European and chivalrous. She has cast a spell over him. His brown eyes travel appreciatively over her face taking in the tiny details that only an artist like him can see and I know I have lost him. His smile is benevolent like he has stepped into the aisle of a glorious church and he is overcome with awe basking in the light of her glory.
I shudder and take a deep breath.
She turns her eyes on me and absorbs each detail of my appearance; my creased checked shirt, tight black jeans right down to my thick black
socks. Her eyes travel over my face, my dark hair and the details of my large features. I am a brute in the presence of a vulnerable gazelle. She’s like a predator and an invading sense of uncertainty washes over me, fearful that this fragile woman before me is about to wreak havoc on my life.
She beckons me like I am a street urchin who is meeting royalty for the first time. She is too perfect. The laughter lines at the corner of her penetrating eyes and her dark hair, cut too short, and wide smile are all staged – it is an act and I will not be bought by her transparent smile and her false exuberance. An invisible cloak like a shroud wraps itself over me like a cold, dark shadow on a summer’s day. It begins suffocating and stifling the vibrant fire burning within me, damping my enthusiasm, my creativity and snuffing life out of my soul.
She appears speechless but eventually and very softly, she says. ‘Mikky, it’s lovely to meet you.’ Her fingers are soft and firm, then suddenly, it’s as if the atmosphere changes and Josephine is excited and nervous, almost childlike. She claps her palms, squares her shoulders, sits straighter and pulling a heavy shawl across her chest she speaks in a strong voice with a trace of an American accent.
‘I hope you had a good journey. Please do sit down. You must be tired. Andreas will bring us some refreshment.’
It isn’t a question or a statement. It’s more an observation or a preference, as if she is ordering dinner from a room service menu. We are invited to sit on the white leather sofa opposite her and Andreas is dispatched from the room.
‘Delightful.’ Javier sits beside me and crosses his ankles. ‘It’s a pleasure to be here. Thank you for inviting us…’
She waves her hand as if his thanks are unnecessary but her eyes flick between us, as she absorbs minuscule details in our appearance, drinking us both with her gaze as if we are exotic cocktails to be quaffed and then disgorged with distaste and over indulgence.
We have nothing in common. We are from different worlds.