Masterpiece

by Janet Pywell

  It is past three o’clock when I check his room. He is curled on his side and snoring. I take Mrs Green’s key from its hiding place, swing my bag over my shoulder and let myself out of the front door. Carrying my small torch I swing my legs over the low wall and peer through my neighbour’s letterbox.

  I know Roy came home earlier this evening and my plan is risky but I can’t take a chance. He is unscrupulous. He could have it on the market by the morning.

  When I let myself into the house each miniscule click of the lock and the hinge seems to echo loudly. I am hoping they are all asleep. I don’t know what I will say if I get caught. I stand for a few seconds until my eyes are accustomed to the dark remembering how Mrs Green lay on the floor a few feet from me. I was able to save her then – but today I was too late.

  I shake my head to clear the memory and swallow the knot in my throat. I check there is no alarm set downstairs and move forward. My foot kicks a boot carelessly strewn on the floor and I pause with only my beating heart for company.

  Silence.

  My flashlight precedes me up the stairs one very slow creaking step at a time. The house is cold and I shiver. The bedroom door at the back of the house is ajar and I tiptoe far enough inside to see an outline of someone asleep tucked under a thick duvet. Annie is curled like a crescent shaped moon and snoring lightly. Against the wall a child’s single bed lays empty.

  I ease myself slowly along the landing past the second bedroom that lays empty and I pause to check the bathroom then I head to the front of the house to the last bedroom. The door squeaks as I push it gently open.

  Roy is turned away from me, asleep on his side with his arms curled protectively around Max and I am caught out and surprised by the tenderness of his pose.

  On the right-hand side, on the wall beside the wardrobe and opposite the bed, hangs the Vermeer.

  Behind me there is a cough and bedsprings groan so I move quickly, ducking inside the bedroom as soft footsteps pad along the landing toward me. I hold my breath as the click of the light illuminates the corridor and the bathroom door half closes.

  Annie pees long and hard and I crouch down behind the door waiting for her to finish. The toilet flushes, the tap gushes, the light clicks off.

  Her footsteps come closer so I hunch down, lower toward the floor. She pushes open the bedroom door and stands gazing at her husband and son. We are inches away from each other with only the door separating us and I hold my breath.

  If she turns around she will see me.

  Finally she backs away and only when I hear her soft footfall recede down the corridor and the squeak of the bed do I breathe slowly out.

  So many plans fail because of impatience, carelessness and over confidence. I will not fail so I wait.

  The carpet is soft under my black trainers. I reach up and lift the painting down, tilting my torch to examine it further. The picture depicts a man and two women playing music. It is the reason I moved here. On the landing I crouch down ready to run if necessary. I cut the canvas carefully with my scalpel and roll the painting into my rucksack. Occasionally I am distracted by a night-time sigh from the bedroom and I pause to glance around, listening intently, hoping they won’t stir. I pull out my forgery unroll it and tape it securely back into the frame. It is 69 centimetres high by 63 centimetres wide – the exact measurements as the original.

  Any expert, and also the art dealer in Bruges would know it has been tampered with but to Roy’s untrained eye I am hoping he will not notice. I have memorised how to match the tape on to the frame from the photographs and I work quickly. I’m a professional. In my capacity as a restorer I have done this many times. But it is not a quick or an easy job. Several times Roy murmurs in his sleep or Max sighs and I pause. My body tenses. After I replace the forgery on its hook I glance down at the bed and Max’s eyelids flutter in sleep.

  I tip toe down the stairs and I close and lock the front door softly behind me feeling an increasing sense of euphoria and by the time I am inside my flat my breathing is calm, my hands are steady and my head is clear.

  The masterpiece is mine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘Art is what you can get away with.’

  Andy Warhol

  I check my watch cursing the London trains. The photo shoot for the pre-exhibition took longer than I expected and I hate to be late. I quicken my pace to keep up with the assortment of travellers, commuters, tourists and students who spew out of Victoria underground like a heard of wildebeests. A man bumps my shoulder knocking my bag of photography equipment and it falls to the floor. I swear and turn around but he doesn’t stop or even notice. But in that flicker of an instance, in that small second of time, I glimpse a face in the crowd behind me. His features are clear amid a backdrop of blurred and colourful kiosks selling fast foods and drinks and it’s as if I am clicking his image with the eye of my camera. I miss my footing and stumble forward tripping down the steps. A stranger – a girl – grabs my arm and steadies me with annoyance but doesn’t stop.

  He is following me. He is like a chameleon in my wake and when I turn he has already disappeared. I weave and dodge past busy commuters in the underground tunnels. I can’t let him follow me. He must not know where I am going.

  At the bottom of the escalator I turn right and dip through the narrow subway onto the platform. It’s packed tight so I squeeze and jostle through the crowd, holding my bag like a shield in front of me, moving along the platform and when the train breezes past I turn around.

  Karl Blakey continues to follow me. The collar of his dull green jacket is pulled around his neck and secured with a checked scarf. He has obviously given up following Javier and now he is tailing me. I read his scathing reports depicting Josephine’s descent into drugs and his more lurid articles on her affairs. It seems he has a personal vendetta toward her. He has written unflinchingly and with exaggerated detail charting every wrong movement of her life. He wrote about the discovery of the Golden Icon and her final performance. He also reported that Josephine’s ex-husband had been murdered in his home in Ireland and it had been a surprise to me to know that she had once been married. It seems he wants to damage her and I guess he will use Javier or me to help him.

  The crowds surge forward to board the tube but I hold back. I wait. I dip my head low onto my chest and mingle with the disembarking passengers walking in their herd back toward the steep escalator I have just descended.

  My heart is thumping rapidly and perspiration forms on my forehead and when I am half way up the rising steps I turn to look down. He is standing at the bottom gazing up at me. My pursuer has detected my ruse so I begin walking the giant staircase as if I am striding toward heaven followed by the devil himself. He moves quickly taking long strides up the escalator in my wake, chasing me.

  At the top I consider all the exits. A noisy group of American tourists come toward me so I slip off my burgundy duffel coat, wrap it inside out and push it under my arm, and I join their group. They babble excitedly and don’t notice me as I duck between them as they head to the down escalator. I keep my back turned and my face averted and when I risk a quick glance over to the up escalator Karl Blakey is taking long, confident strides toward the top. He doesn’t look to his right. He doesn’t see me.

  At the bottom of the escalator, on the opposite platform, tube train doors are open. I turn sideways and slip through the closing gap conscious that my whole body is trembling and my mouth is dry. Karl Blakey is following me and I have the Vermeer tucked in the back of my wardrobe.

  To the surprise of the people in the carriage I punch the air with my fist, strum my air guitar and begin to laugh loudly.

  The winter sun is warm on my cheeks and I squint at the rowing crew as they pass by, the Cox shouting orders like a Sergeant Major on parade. A plane flies overhead and I shield my eyes to watch its gradual descent wondering how soon I can escape from lunch. I have arranged to meet Josephine in The Bell on the river near my flat where the food is good and the
place is busy enough to be distracting. But because of my decoy manoeuvre I’m twenty minutes late.

  Through the window I see a group of diners with chilled glasses of Sauvignon Blanc talking animatedly. The thought of seeing Josephine doesn’t excite me but I mustn’t raise suspicion. I must develop a valid reason for leaving this city – and soon.

  ‘Mikky, you look lovely.’ Josephine stands up banging her leg on the table. She winces, bends over and grips the table. Her face is etched with tiredness – or is it grief?

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Thank you for coming.’ She forces a wide smile and holds out her hand formally.

  My touch is impersonal, hard and cool. I will not be fooled by her fragility. ‘Couldn’t find a bloody taxi,’ I lie, slinging my pack of equipment onto the floor. I remove my jacket, revealing a creased Iron Maiden T-shirt with a faded logo and when I look up she is gazing at the tattoo wrapped along the length of my right forearm.

  ‘My goodness,’ she says. ‘That’s amazing.’

  It is a three dimensional elongated picture of a figure with hands clapped to its cheek in an agonised cry. The background is a lush deep red, orange and crimson landscape and my arm is suffused in colour.

  ‘It’s Scream.’ I hold it out for her to admire.

  ‘Edvard Munch,’ she says. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘Why this painting?’ she asks.

  ‘Because it was painted by a man who knew what madness and horror was really like.’

  ‘And you can relate to that?’

  ‘I have known madness and insanity.’

  ‘But you are so young…’ Her forehead creases and a flash of sadness flickers across her eyes.

  I don’t want her pity so I pull my arm away. ‘Age has no hold over your mind or your suffering.’

  ‘Haven’t you been happy, Mikky?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘Javier told me that his family love you,’ she insists.

  ‘This all happened before I met them.’ I lean my elbows on the table and pick up a menu. ‘God, I’m starving.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says, and I know it is a lie. She has lost more weight and her face is gaunt. I remember she hardly ate in Dresden.

  ‘What would you like?’ I ask.

  ‘What do you recommend?’

  ‘Everything.’ I say.

  The waitress arrives.

  ‘Would you like wine?’ she asks.

  ‘No. I’ll have a pint of cold Stella and the burger.’ I close the menu decisively and look at the people around us while Josephine orders plain fish and white wine.

  ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ she says, when we are alone. ‘I thought it would be nice if we met up and got to know each other. Javier is busy – another big interview – besides I’m sure he’s sick of the sight of me.’

  ‘How is Andreas?’

  ‘He’s never been to London before. This afternoon he has gone to the National Gallery,’ she pauses and stares at me.

  ‘How did your session with Javier go?’ I ask.

  ‘It was extremely interesting. We talked about what I would wear and how I would wear my hair and things like that. He has a real eye for detail. Nothing escapes him.’

  ‘He’s extremely talented,’ I agree.

  ‘You have a very close relationship.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You met at University in Madrid.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have become very…very, fond of him.’

  I shift in my seat. ‘He’s a professional. You chose the right man to paint your portrait.’

  ‘He’s very special, extremely understanding and easy to talk to,’ she smiles. ‘I would like to think that we have formed a lasting friendship and he is so obviously fond of you.’

  My smile is tight. ‘He’s the best.’

  Why did they speak about me? I don’t need more friends. I don’t want this woman in my life. Mrs Green had been different. She had been caring – not invasive. She had been interesting and she did not pry. I would miss her. My mouth quivers and tugs at the corner and I try to smile but it seems to turn into a frown.

  ‘Tell me about you, Mikky – about your work. Do you like photography?’ She leans across the table and smiles graciously with all the ease and charm learned from a career on the stage.

  My ringless hands lay on the table and I am aware of the new Madonna tattoo on my left index finger. It was a Christmas gift to myself while on a trip to Camden scouring for canvasses and paintings. The tattooist was recommended and the tattoo was a welcome respite from copying the Vermeer.

  ‘I like this,’ she says, she takes my hand.

  The Madonna’s covered head is tilted forward and her eyes appear closed.

  ‘Thank you.’ I pull away.

  ‘Does this have anything to do with who you are?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Are you religious?’ she persists.

  ‘Do I look like a Christian?’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Me?’ she laughs.

  ‘I am not like you, Josephine. I Googled you – Raffaelle Peverelli was your lover.’ The words are out and they seem to still her. She doesn’t move and I continue speaking. ‘You know I studied with him. That is where I got my love for Caravaggio and my interest for religious paintings but I am not a believer. It was only when I studied with him that I learned so much. He taught me the influence of light and dark, good versus evil and the struggle we all have within ourselves. It is easy to slip over to the dark side. It’s easy to become bad…’

  The waitress interrupts my flow with the delivery of our drinks and cutlery wrapped in a napkin. I take advantage of the distraction to calm myself and to assess the situation. I am babbling. I must regain control of my emotions.

  ‘When did you study with Raffaelle?’ she asks, after the waitress disappears.

  ‘It was during my first year at University – eight or nine years ago.’

  ‘Before I went to Lake Como. Before I knew him. He slept with lots of his students. Did you… did you have an affair with him?’

  I am tempted to lie but instead I shake my head. ‘No.’

  She drops her shoulders, breathes more easily and colour comes back to her cheeks.

  ‘He wasn’t my type. Besides he was too old for me but he was talented. He mixed techniques. He taught me how to do that. He copied Old Masters then painted headphones, microwaves and lawnmowers into the scene. The juxtaposition was brilliant. He was amazing. It was modernism and surrealism. So original…’ my voice trails off and I am lost in another time and place.

  ‘You remember all this about his work?’

  ‘Of course, he taught me how to copy Old Masters. I prefer to use my imagination but I used biblical references and scenes in my own work. Did he ever speak to you about his ideas?’ I ask.

  ‘I remember a conversation we once had when I was leaving his villa.’ Her eyes stray to look out of the window and I know she is not here with me but has been transported to the past. ‘We were standing by the garden gate and he said he would make a great forger. He said that it would be easier instead of trying to do something original each time and I had replied that he would miss the creativity. I remember it well. I placed my hand on his cheek and it was soft. He had shaved and he smelled of tobacco and cologne. You don’t think forgers are creative, he said.’ Her smile is filled with his memory. She looks younger and more alive. Conscious I am watching her she raises her glass and sips wine. ‘Tell me about your art and your paintings.’

  It is, as if by changing the subject from Raffa the memory will belong to her alone and she won’t have to share it with me. She is as vulnerable as I am and like me, she doesn’t share her feelings.

  The waitress places my burger on the table and Josephine orders more wine and another beer for me.

  I move the bun to one side and add mayonnaise to my chips.


  ‘What are you painting now?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t paint now,’ I lie.

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t you miss it?’

  I shrug.

  ‘So you photograph artwork for museums?’

  It’s probably to keep Javier happy that she wants to know about me and I remember his warning to me this morning when we were eating cereal.

  Be kind to her, Mikky. She’s an ill woman. She has no one. No family and very few friends. It can’t harm you to be civil and nice. Make an effort for me. I have a feeling that she will be in my life for a very long time.

  So determined to make up for my bad manners in Dresden I speak candidly over lunch about art, restoration and my photography; its pitfalls and its challenges. ‘After University I spent a long time supplementing my income by restoring old paintings.’

  ‘Just as Javier did?’

  ‘Yes, we worked together some of the time. Then we worked on different projects–’

  ‘But you always lived together?’

  ‘Not always.’

  ‘He must have lots of girlfriends.’ She pushes her fish around the plate.

  I shrug.

  She can barely take her eyes from my face as I explain the details of my craft, determined not to speak about Javier or our friendship. Instead I tell her about the monasteries, churches and museums where I worked.

  ‘I did cleaning and restoration around Andalusia for a long time. One year I painted a special canvas of Christ ascending into Heaven. A priest wanted it but he wasn’t allowed to accept it and I wouldn’t sell it to him – so I gave it to the church as a gift. They couldn’t afford an Old Master and they were delighted. It made their church look more original and authentic. The painting would never bear up under scrutiny but it looked good hanging on the wall of the monastery. I have Raffa to thank for this – he gave me his passion. He gave me life as an artist.’

  A child totters over to our table and we both glance at her blue eyes and blond hair. We don’t move or speak until the mother comes and leads her away by her pudgy arm. ‘Come on, Libby. Don’t disturb these nice ladies.’