by Janet Pywell
I ponder every single scenario planning how things can go wrong at the moment of the swap. Now I have her key and the alarm code my job will be easy but I still run the risk of getting caught.
And in the meantime, if Javier returns and walks in to the smell of oil paint it will arouse suspicion. So I throw open windows and patio doors allowing damp, cold January air to circulate the room. I pull my woolly hat over my ears, place my boots on the coffee table and hug myself. Cold is transient. Soon I would have all the money to go wherever I wanted – Spain, the Caribbean even South America.
Getting rid of the masterpiece afterwards would be a delicate process and I close my eyes and consider my options: return the painting to the Isabella Stewart Museum and claim the reward or use someone in Spain who would attest to finding the painting in a dusty attic. I could place it in the hands of an art dealer who would broker the negotiations of the sale – probably to an unscrupulous collector who would then provide me with a very generous commission.
This is a chance in a lifetime but the problem with stealing an already stolen masterpiece is that not many people would touch it – only the greedy and unscrupulous – and they are understandably dangerous.
I wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen as rain begins to drum against the window and dark clouds gather and a storm rumbles overhead. I turn up the volume to Foo Fighters – Congregation and play air guitar pretending I am Dave Grohl then I pour a glass of iced vodka, raising it to the chaotic storm and down it quickly before refilling my shot glass again.
Some forgers are bitter and self-centred. They are romantic or misunderstood and sometimes they are angry. They are unrecognized as geniuses but they are skilled and talented craftsmen. I believe I am a well-balanced combination of all these attributes.
Forgery is a craft. It is a technique that has become harder because there are more tools now to discover a fake. Chemicals, scientists and even X-rays will reveal the truth but sometimes forgers are careless. They go to the effort to paint a masterpiece then use modern tacks to attach it to the frame. It’s the small detail that gets them caught. Forgery is also dangerous. I have known men who would kill for a painting and sometimes stolen paintings create more greed and unnecessary violence.
But this is a one off opportunity – it’s a lifetime chance and a simple scam that will give me security for life. I won’t need anyone - ever. I will buy my own villa. Travel. Live life to the full and I will never be beholden to anyone. I will be free.
But my dreams are a long way off. First, I have to steal the painting and get away with it. I cannot fail. I must not make a mistake. I go over the details again – what if Roy finds out it is a fake? Nothing ever slots neatly into place and things always go wrong and just when you least expect it.
I was in essence waiting for Mrs Green to die but I’m not in any hurry for her life to end. I have become fond of her and I would save her again. Like me, she has been alone and she knows what it’s like to have no one. I want her to enjoy this time that she has with her family. I will wait until the painting dries or until natural causes or God decides on Mrs Green’s demise. I will know when the moment is right and I will take the opportunity.
On Christmas Eve when I knew she was alone I had popped in with a card and chocolates and it was as if I had plucked a brilliant jewel from the night sky and given it to her as a gift. Her blue eyes had glistened as brightly as the diamond on her finger.
‘Come and have Christmas lunch with us, Mikky. Please don’t be alone.’
‘I hate Christmas, Mrs Green, all the gaiety and joviality doesn’t suit me.’
We had chatted for an hour before I made an excuse to pop upstairs to the bathroom and I made a quick detour to her bedroom reassured that the painting was still safe on her bedroom wall.
I pour another vodka and glance out of the front window where darkness was settling like a silk curtain. I had been happy to spend Christmas alone. As a child the tassels, tinsel and gold trimmings each year seduced me into happy anticipation but it was quickly replaced by snide comments, jealousy and drunken arguments. Each year I hid in a church, finding sanctuary in the calmness of Mass. Incense became my regular fix, filling me with comfort and joy and inner calm and a stranger’s smile was the nicest gift.
Birthdays were no better.
On my twelfth birthday Papa was so drunk he fell down the steps of the caravan. He cried out and held his ankle. I placed his arm around my shoulder to help him stand. The stale alcohol from his mouth made me recoil but I held my breath but then Mama staggered down the caravan steps with a meat knife. She leaped at me, her face contorted in a blaze of fury. Holding Papa I was slow to react but I managed to cover my face with my hand but not before I saw jealously flashing from her eyes as she ripped my skin with its blade. Blood gushed down my arm, I screamed and Papa fell to the floor.
When my hand was being stitched in the local hospital she had laughingly told the doctor I was careless, always having minor scrapes, burns and incidents while she flirted shamelessly.
I was subdued. Shocked by her deceit and betrayal, and afterwards when we got back to the caravan we were greeted by Papa’s drunken snoring, and she had shoved me inside with a poke in the back and said, let this be a lesson to you.
There was no remorse or compassion so I developed it into a game, deliberately laughing louder, acting bolder, taunting, teasing and testing. When she saw Papa and me laughing she would pretend to ignore us both then she would get one of us to do a chore to break us up. At first Papa would tease me back and make me laugh, but we both paid a heavy price at the hands of her temper and her violent anger.
Sometimes she would banish me from the caravan and I would take refuge in a local church while she took Papa to the nearest bar where they would drink until they could barely stand and when they came home I was forced to listen to their rows and their love making.
It didn’t take me long to realise he was a weak man and it was easier for him to please her than to suffer her constant mood swings. Why hadn’t I been more compliant?
There is a crack of thunder overhead. I stand at the patio door and I am reminded of another storm, in another country, a long time ago when I was a child trapped helplessly in a life where I didn’t belong.
That night after a violent argument and in a blind drunk and jealous rage she had taken Papa’s motorcycle. I had watched her drive manically and erratically down the dirt path from our caravan to the coast road a few kilometres away bouncing into puddles and skidding at the corner.
Later that night the Guardia Civil told us she had wrapped Papa’s favourite Yamaha around a tree. She had never woken from her coma and after a week I stood with Papa, beside her bed, as the life support was switched off.
I was fourteen years old.
In my grief, I hoped that her death would bring us closer together and we could shake off the shroud of her constant jealousy but in the years that Papa and I lived alone we rarely laughed. He trod on eggshells around me, politely, formally and distantly as if Mama was watching us from above.
And that was when I missed my Mama most and the games we had played to annoy her. The flicker of laughter Papa created in me was a light that had illuminated my life but like the hiss of a burning candle it died and was snuffed out. Papa no longer smiled.
Even though she was gone from our lives she had scarred us forever. Papa withdrew into himself and I was left to fend for myself and I soon discovered the only way out of my life was education and money.
A cracking explosion fills the London sky and the heavens are ripped open. Rain drums on the patio and I stand mesmerized watching the wild storm, thunderous and rumbling like an angry giant. I trace my ugly, ragged wound on the back of my left hand that runs from my middle finger beyond my wrist, listening as thunder rolls, rumbles and roars overhead. The eight-inch scar is as jagged and as resplendent as the white forked lightening that splits the black sky above my head, and as vivid as my childhood memory.
Enough! The past is over. I slam the patio door. I must plan the future.
On the following Saturday Javier, Oscar and I have just returned home from a long walk through Chiswick Park. The house is aired, the easels and paintings are hidden and my brushes are cleaned and put away.
I flick on the kettle focusing on my task ahead and the exhibition for Sandra Jupiter at the beginning of February. A forgotten Caravaggio from a private collection is to be loaned to the Knightsbridge Museum. Caravaggio’s The Cardsharps became an immediate sensation and will be the focal point for the Baroque Exhibition.
Javier’s mobile rings and his cheeks flush with excitement. He paces the lounge: tilts the blinds, walks to the breakfast bar and lifts an orange then replaces it. He sits on the sofa and crosses his legs, stands up goes to the window and tilts the blind again.
‘Josephine is coming to London next week.’ He tells us when he hangs up. ‘We are invited to the opera to see Norma with Glorietta Bareldo. It’s opening at the end of the month in Covent Garden. It’s like a dream – to meet two opera singers – and for them to want to know me. Can you believe it?’ Javier takes the mug of coffee from me and stands at the window absorbing the details of her visit.
Oscar claps his hands. ‘I hope I’m here but I think I will be away on business. That is when I go to–’
‘I hope you are here, Oscar. You can take my place. I don’t like opera. I don’t understand it and it won’t bother me if I don’t have to go,’ I say.
‘Thank you, Mikky, I–’
‘But Josephine has invited you,’ Javier says turning around. ‘She said specifically…’
I shrug. ‘I don’t need friends and I certainly don’t need Josephine Lavelle in my life.’
In the lounge I put a match to the hearth and the twigs and logs stir into a flame burning and flickering like the ardent light in Javier’s eyes; dancing in rhythm with the eagerness of his voice.
‘Glorietta Bareldo would like to meet me,’ he says. ‘I don’t know all the details yet but she will be hosting a drinks reception. There will be interviews and other events and I must make sure I will be available. It’s all about raising my profile and speaking about Josephine’s portrait.’
‘Can’t you go to Dresden to paint her?’
‘No, Mikky! Besides, she has made great progress in the past few weeks. Her health has improved and she is stronger. She is looking forward to returning to England.’ Javier rubs his hands as he conveys each detail of Josephine’s plan but only Oscar pays attention. I am wrapped up in the thought of seeing her again and knowing that she will be so important to Javier that he becomes obsessed with pleasing her.
It fills me with déjà vu. I witnessed her jealousy. I know she will wield her power over Javier just as Mama did with Papa and just like my father, I know Javier is a weak man. He adores the attention she lavishes upon him. He will bask in her affection and her praise just as Papa had bathed in Mama’s adoration as she stroked away his insecurities boosting his ego and his confidence.
Javier and Papa share many similarities.
But I’m different. I have developed resilience. This woman will not interfere with my plans. She’s nothing to do with me. She’s Javier’s muse. She will not affect my life. I will not let her.
Javier’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
‘I will arrange to use Sandra Jupiter’s art studio. You know the one she has above the museum – on the top floor? Marcus Danning has used it many times, and I think Josephine will find it comfortable.’
‘How long is she here?’
‘Two weeks perhaps three.’
‘But that’s when the Caravaggio is being exhibited,’ I complain.
‘Fantastic. We will invite her – and Glorietta Bareldo.’
‘No–’
‘Why not? Sandra will be delighted – two famous opera divas at the exhibition will be amazing. Think of the media coverage, Mikky. Think how prestigious it will be for us.’
‘I don’t want either of them there.’ It is my work and my exhibition.
‘Don’t be so negative, Mikky. It will be a good endorsement for you. Come on, get your diary out, I think we should check our schedules and arrange Josephine’s visit. We must plan something nice for her.’
Oscar nods enthusiastically. ‘Perhaps a trip to the country – Windsor?’
‘What for?’ I say.
‘She said in Dresden that she wants to form a friendship with us. I like her, Mikky. She’s interesting company and I want you to get to like her too. There is something deep about her; sadness or tragedy – something so concealed that I can see the pain hidden in her eyes.’
I raise my eyes to the ceiling and shake my head. ‘There are lots of people who are sad inside, Javier. She’s not the only one hiding her emotions.’
He ignores me. ‘Perhaps she can come here for dinner or lunch or both?’
‘No!’
‘I want to welcome her to London…’
I groan.
‘It’s the least we can do.’ He glares at me. ‘The least you can do…’
‘To make amends for my behaviour in Dresden?’
‘I want her to get to know you.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s you she likes. It’s you she wants in her life – not me.’
‘You would need to spruce this place up a bit,’ Oscar says, ignoring the tension between us. ‘It doesn’t look fit for a diva at the moment.’
‘Let’s just go out to eat?’ I say
‘She wants to get to know us, Mikky. She has taken a great amount of interest in knowing who I am, where I’m from, and about my family and my life. She’s interested. She wants us to become friends.’
‘How delightful,’ I reply with my best sarcastic smile.
‘Give her a chance. I think that’s the reason she wants to do the sitting here in London. She doesn’t want it to be formal and awkward. She wants us all to be friends.’
‘I have all the friends I need–’
‘Decorating is the best idea.’ Oscar interjects trying to placate us both. He places a hand on mine not taking his eyes from Javier’s face. ‘A new look, a new image, that’s what this place needs. I know it’s a rented apartment but a coat of paint wouldn’t be too expensive. But don’t paint over our mural. It always reminds me of our holiday, Javier and when we met.’
We all glance at the charcoal drawing. I have also become attached to the mural, the Argentinian dusky street that fills the gap on the wall, disguising the flaky paint, between the hearth and the kitchen worktop. It’s a life size sketch of crooked houses, wooden doors and street urchins that demonstrate Javier’s artistic talents and I know it will impress Josephine.
This clever diversion leads them to remember how they met in South America so I head to the kitchen and dump my dirty mug in the sink, leaving them debating the merits of the charcoal drawing and what had inspired it.
I venture outside onto the patio where the air is cold and fresh. The early morning blue sky has been replaced with large white cumulous clouds with pearly, silver edges. I’m distracted by their changing shapes; changing patterns in continuous flowing movements, from a dog to an elephant before fragmenting to become a giant mouse with a long wispy vapour tail. It’s rather like friendship, never the same, constantly changing and completely unreliable.
I pick up a discarded trowel and bend my knees to inspect the terracotta pots where clusters of lilac crocuses and white snowdrops are ripening and about to burst but voices next–door cause my body to freeze.
‘You’ll be away again all week?’ Annie’s husky tone drifts over the fence. ‘Do they not realise you have a sick mother? I’ve uprooted my life to accommodate you and her. It’s me that has made all the changes. And what’s it all for?’
Roy must be standing near the back door so I only hear the end of his sentence. ‘It’ll be worth it – you’ll see.’
‘It’s me that sacri
ficed my job to move here. Your life hasn’t changed at all.’
I don’t hear his reply.
‘You promised me! Now you’re telling me you’re going to Berlin… You’ve conveniently forgotten the successful business I gave up... I’ll go mad all day… at home with your bloody mother–’
‘She’s worth a fortune… It won’t be for long–’
I hear footsteps and when I look up Oscar is standing in the doorway. I put my finger to my lips.
‘Mikky? What on earth are you doing grovelling on the floor? You look like you’re practising for the Territorial Army,’ he laughs.
I shake my head but he continues. ‘It’s going to rain. Come inside and I’ll make some coffee.’
Roy’s voice comes clearly from over the fence. ‘That nosy bloody bitch can hear everything we say.’
Mrs Green’s blue eyes are twinkling when she opens the front door. There is colour in her cheeks and she seems sprightly and happy.
‘Snow is forecast,’ she says.
‘I hope you’re keeping warm,’ I reply.
She ushers me along the hallway to the kitchen. Her house is unusual in as much as it hasn’t been remodelled or updated since it was built. I follow her down the dark corridor glancing into the front living room. Her old three-piece chintz suite has been replaced with a modern leather armchair and a beige L-shaped sofa. The display cases have been replaced by flat pack units and are now filled with DVDs and framed family photographs of Roy, Annie and Max on holiday in various locations: snorkelling, skiing and diving. But there is still an empty space above the mantelpiece.
I stumble on an assortment of shoes in all sizes, shapes and colours and the grandfather clock ticks, whirls and then chimes.
‘They have rather taken over,’ she says. ‘They’ve only been here a few weeks but I do enjoy their company especially young, Max. He really is such a good child and I’m not just saying that because he’s my only grandchild.’ She waggles a finger at me and laughs.