“I’ve got to get back to work,” I say, as we loll around in postcoital bliss. Actually it’s the second postcoital bliss of the afternoon, and I’m falling farther behind by the moment.
“I think March would be a wonderful time for your show.” Aiden’s tongue follows the contours of my ear. “Lots of time between paintings for a little fun,” he says. “Spring and renewal. It’s so appropriate.”
A shiver runs through me. For a moment I consider the possibility, even though I know there’s no way I can wait that long. I leap off the bed before he can convince me to stay. “You’re my dealer. You’re supposed to want what’s best for my career.”
“I’m also your lover.” Aiden sits up and puts his hands behind his head, watches me as I get dressed. “So I have to consider what’s best for your body.”
“And don’t think I don’t appreciate it.” I step into my work jeans, which are so stiff with paint they practically stand by themselves. “But you know what happens to girls who are all play and no work.”
“They’re not dull?” he asks.
“They’re not successful.”
Aiden throws his arms up in mock despair. “Mankind! Beware the overly ambitious woman. She’ll leave you cold and alone, your balls blue.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Beware the overly melodramatic man.”
He picks up the remote from the floor and aims it at the small television perched on a pile of old cookbooks I never use. “Just want to check the market close,” he says. “Then I’ll head back to the gallery.”
I’ve no interest in the market, having never owned a single stock, so I pick up my brush and inspect my current piece. It’s the Pink Medium I’ve been thinking about for months, and it’s coming out better than I expected. I’m thrilled at the radiance the phenol formaldehyde and oven have given to the many tones of pink. Greedily, I reach for my palette.
“Shit!” Aiden yells. “Claire. Shit. Shit!”
I whirl around.
“It’s After the Bath. Our Bath.” He jumps out of bed and stands, naked, in front of the television. “I think.”
I suddenly understand what the term “heart in your throat” means; it feels as if every major organ in my body has squeezed itself behind my larynx. Still clutching my brush, I join him.
“Assumed to be one of the unrecovered paintings stolen from the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the brazen 1990 Boston robbery that has stymied the world’s most renowned investigators,” intones the CNN newscaster.
And there it is, filling the screen. If that isn’t my Bath II, then someone did a hell of a forgery. Although it’s impossible to see the details on my tiny screen, structurally, the painting appears to be an exact replica of the one Aiden has in storage. My brush clamors to the floor. I take his hand.
“The painting was discovered last week during a security screening in San Francisco aboard a ship destined for New Delhi, India,” the newscaster continues. “If it proves to be Edgar Degas’ After the Bath, it will be the first object recovered from the 1990 heist in which priceless masterpieces by the likes of Vermeer, Rembrandt, Manet, and Degas were stolen. The painting is currently en route to Boston for authentication. There is no word on any arrests made in the case, but the FBI has announced a full investigation. We will have updates for you as soon as we receive them.”
Aiden and I stare at each other, neither able to speak, the glazed shock in our eyes saying it all.
“I thought you said he was going to carry it with him?” I finally say.
Aiden pulls his pants on. “We don’t know that he didn’t. All they said was that it was caught during security screening. And we don’t even know if it’s my buyer.”
After the Bath. A ship. Leaving from San Francisco. Going to India. Who else could it be?
“It’s important we sit tight,” he says. “Don’t panic. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll try to get some more information. Be back as soon as I can.”
“Where are you going?” I ask, as he grabs his jacket.
Aiden looks at me and blinks, almost as if he’s surprised to see me. Then his eyes soften, and he wraps me in his arms. “It’ll be okay. I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you. Or me.”
I let him hug me, wanting to believe what he’s saying, but all too aware that these promises aren’t his to make. Or to keep.
WHILE I WAIT for Aiden to return, I try to work, but for the moment, my powers of concentration abandon me. Afraid I’m going to make some fatal error that will put me even farther behind or burn down the entire building, I force myself to stop. I keep the television on, but it’s just a repetition of the same information. Even the shot of the painting is the same. I do some Internet surfing, but the only thing I learn is that the TSA discovered the painting almost a week ago and didn’t authorize the release of the information until today. Which means they probably know a lot more than they’re telling.
I put on an extra pair of socks and a sweatshirt, but I can’t get warm. I add a down vest and wool gloves with the top of the fingers cut off. But my bones seem to be emanating cold from their marrow. I want to jack up the heat, but the forced hot air has erratic effects on paint that isn’t completely dry. So I walk in circles, hoping movement will help.
It’s dark when Aiden returns. I throw myself into his arms, seeking both warmth and protection. As he’s just come in from the cool night air and doesn’t have any magical defensive powers, I’m disappointed on all counts.
He sits on the couch and presses a finger to the bridge of his nose. “They arrested Patel.”
“Who?”
“Ashok Patel. The buyer.”
“So it’s my painting?”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind.
“Right, right,” I say, as I run through the implications. “You said you’ve worked with him before. So he knows you. Your name, what you look like.”
“Yes and no.”
“Which?”
“He knows me as the owner of Markel G. Been a client for years. But he’s got no idea I was involved in this sale. As I told you before, I went through a number of middlemen.”
“So they know who you are.”
“It’s a levels thing, again. I’m covered, and because I’ve never done anything like this before, it’s unlikely I’ll come up on anyone’s radar screen.”
This doesn’t sound as convincing as Aiden is trying to make it appear, but there are more pressing issues at the moment. “How’d they find him?”
“I don’t know for sure, but my brokers gave him explicit instructions to take the canvas off the frame and carry it with him. I assumed he’d do what he was told.”
“But he didn’t.”
Aiden slides over and puts his arm around me. “Patel doesn’t know where the painting came from, who he was dealing with or, obviously, that it isn’t real. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to tie it to me.”
“The FBI or the TSA or whoever, they could get things out of him. Work up through your layers.”
“That stuff’s a lot less effective than it looks on TV.”
“But they’re going to be all over the whole Gardner theft thing again. Where the paintings are, who’s got them. They could connect it to you from that end.”
“I’m saved by both my own ignorance and others’ ignorance of me.” He cups my chin. “The important thing is that no one can connect any of this to you. I’m the only one who knows you’re involved, and,” he kisses me lightly, “my lips are sealed.”
“But what about you?”
“I brought you a high-quality copy and paid you eight-thousand dollars to make a copy from it. That’s all you know. And don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”
“Is it really that simple?”
He flashes a quick grin. “I sure as hell hope so.”
The grin throws me off balance, and I again find myself thinking about how little I know about him.
“Guess t
he good news is that I don’t have to worry about how to get the original back to the Gardner anymore,” he says. “Or at least not for a while.”
I bite my lower lip. Of course, there is no original, or at least no original he can give back. Aiden, too, knows little about me. “What if they figure out it’s a forgery?” I ask. “Or, maybe worse, what if they don’t?”
Aiden takes my hands. “Claire, you’re going to make yourself, and me, crazy with all these questions. There’s no point in getting ahead of ourselves. Let’s take one thing at a time. As my grandmother used to say, ‘Assume the best until you know the worst.’ “
“Right,” I tell him, although I know I’m incapable of that kind of control. “Whatever Grandma Markel says.”
Aiden slaps his thighs and stands. “Want to order out for pizza?”
When the pizza arrives, neither of us eats much. We play with our slices and pretend to be engrossed in reruns of Seinfeld and Taxi. We even laugh now and then.
“Are we whistling a happy tune?” I ask Aiden after a particularly boisterous bout of amusement.
He shrugs. “If it works …”
We turn in early, and for the first night since Aiden made me macaroni and cheese, we don’t make love.
Twenty-seven
Above the fold, on the front page of the Boston Globe, is a photograph taken from the Gardner Museum archives of After the Bath, the one that had hung in the Short Gallery for almost a hundred years, the one stolen in the heist. Only Aiden and I know that this isn’t the painting recovered on a dock in San Francisco. Only I know it wasn’t painted by Edgar Degas.
STOLEN GARDNER MASTERPIECE FOUND? asks the large-font headline. It’s the lead story on almost every news site on the Internet. The Today show, too.
Aiden and I comb every source we can find, reading snippets out loud to each other. But the bottom line is that nothing additional has been released since yesterday’s announcement. No mention of Patel or an arrest. The authorities are keeping whatever they know very close.
“Do you think they’re doing that thing where they withhold evidence that only the killer could know?” I ask Aiden.
Aiden rolls his eyes. “Claire, there is no killer. And there very well could be no evidence. Which is probably why they aren’t sharing it.”
“You know what I mean.”
He stands and massages my neck, another thing he’s really good at. “Unfortunately, I know exactly what you mean.”
I lean back into his expert hands and groan. I’m in my paint clothes, and Pink Medium has been cooking for over an hour. I drop my head forward so he can get at the sore muscles above my shoulder blades.
“Are you scared?” I ask.
His fingers keep working, but he doesn’t answer.
His silence jolts me, and I turn to look at him. “Could we go to jail?”
“Don’t be a child, Claire,” he snaps.
I take a step away from him. He’s never raised his voice to me before.
“Sorry,” he says, drawing me back. “Sorry. As you might have guessed, I’m a little stressed.”
My eyes scour his.
He sighs. “Anything’s possible, and this is not an insignificant crime. But no, I don’t think we’ll go to jail. Or at least you won’t.”
I hold onto him. I don’t think I could bear to lose another man due to a situation for which I’m partially to blame.
“Don’t worry so much,” he says. “I’m checking into a number of options. Things to keep us safe.”
While this is hopeful, there’s evasiveness in his voice that makes me uneasy. “What kinds of things?”
Aiden gently untangles himself. “I have to get going,” he says. “Should be at the gallery most of the day. I’ll call you if I learn anything.”
When he leaves, I go right back to work. The zone is the only safe place for me now.
TWO DAYS LATER, it’s confirmed that a man named Ashok Patel, an Indian national from Bangalore, has been arrested for transportation of stolen goods. It’s also reported that the canvas was on its stretchers, not rolled up as Patel had been instructed. Nor was he carrying it with him. Instead, it was concealed inside a large container of blue jeans destined for a New Delhi department store.
Over the next few days, there’s talk of extraditing Patel to Massachusetts, about charging him in the heist, about sightings of the other stolen paintings all over India. But a week after the arrest, there’s no additional hard news on Patel or the authentication of Bath II, just speculation by television anchors who don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. If it weren’t for my windows, I’d be a madwoman by now.
Taking refuge in painting has worked double duty: Not only am I ahead of schedule but also I’m either too engrossed or too exhausted to obsess about Patel. Only part of this is due to my current workaholism; the other piece is the sheer number of hours I’ve put into this window project over the past two years. I’ve made hundreds of drawings and taken thousands of photographs, so my difficulty wasn’t what to paint but which ideas to choose.
I’ve made all thirteen canvases, applied the sizing, sketched all the underdrawings, and covered them with a coat of underpaint. Pink Medium should be finished today and Tremont tonight. I’ll start polychrome painting on Corridor and Bay tomorrow. Aiden is very impressed with the quality of the work. I’m pretty pleased myself.
I check the calendar. I’m working at almost twice the speed I estimated, finishing two paintings in a little over a week instead of just one. At this rate, with ten weeks and eleven paintings to go, I should be on pace to stage a December show. With a couple of weeks to spare. I recalculate to make sure. The numbers stay the same. I can do this.
I’ve felt this conclusion coming for the past few days, but now I’m ready to make it a decision. Instead of calling Aiden to tell him the news, I take a long shower and spend more time drying my hair than usual. I put on a touch of makeup, something I haven’t done in ages, and my lace underwear. Unfortunately, my closet is pretty sparse, but as the weather’s unseasonably warm, a sexy tank top and the cute little jacket I bought at Filene’s Basement years ago will work just fine.
When I get to Markel G, I stand inside the door and watch Aiden at his desk at the rear of the gallery. The current show is about line, and it’s very impressive, particularly curatorially. There are anthropomorphic sculptures created by thin lines of thread. Drawings of what at first appear to be sheets of graph paper but are in actuality a delicate webbing in ink. A twenty-foot spiral created by miles of wire. White circles upon circles upon circles etched into a black canvas. And most impressive, a single-line drawing, maybe twenty-five feet long and covering two walls, depicting life in a Kenyan village. A very smart show.
Aiden’s unaware of me, speaking into the phone with a warm smile. No one would ever guess that he’s worried about anything greater than the installation of his next show. It strikes me that if Aiden’s that calm, then I should be, too.
When he sees me, a wide grin stretches across his face. He hangs up and comes toward me but checks himself before giving me a hug. I’m nervous that if our relationship is known, people will think that’s how I got the show—which I suppose is better than how I actually got it.
Although Aiden thought it was silly, he’s humored me and agreed to be discreet in public. “You look fabulous. An occasion I don’t know about?”
I bat my eyelashes from an appropriate distance. “Just a visit to my dealer to discuss my upcoming December show.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
We decide on the second week of the month, with the show to stay up through the new year.
“It’s good timing,” Aiden assures me. “Really good. We’ll have the opening on the sixth, well before Christmas, and the show will hang through the holiday season when the street’s always full. You’d be surprised how much business gets done the week after Christmas.”
I listen to all this, watch the owner of
Markel G put my name in his calendar, glance at the walls, and mentally replace the artwork with my own, but it’s not real. It’s not happening to me, Claire Roth, the pariah of the Boston art world. The Great Pretender. It can’t be. Or can it? Unaware that I’m not listening, that I’m pretty much incapable of doing so, Aiden talks on about placement and promotion, wooing curators and collectors, price points.
“Oh,” I cry as a pulse of happiness surges from the center of my being. I actually clasp my hands together with a clap of pure joy. It is happening to me.
Aiden bursts out laughing and introduces me to his two assistants, Chantal and Kristi, who together must have at least twenty piercings and less than a yard of fabric below their waists. Very high boots, though.
He tells them about my December show and goes to my website. Chantal and Kristi ooh and ah over the paintings while Aiden gushes to them about the unique combination of classical techniques and contemporary subject matter. For a moment, I feel left out of the conversation, an outsider looking in. An interloper. I have to remind myself that I’m not. Right now, right this very moment, the dream I never believed would come true is happening. My entire body buzzes with the improbability of it all.
Two middle-aged women wearing high-style haircuts and designer jeans come through the door, and Kristi immediately goes to greet them. I show Chantal the early windows I plan to include in the show and tell her a bit about the new ones. She seems sincerely excited. I try to act cool and unimpressed, as if I do this every day, but I can tell from the heat in my face and the wild waving of my hands that I’m not doing a very good job.
When Chantal is called away by another customer, Aiden says, “So how do you want to celebrate?”
I put a forefinger to the corner of my mouth. “I heard there’s a place just a block or so from here that has the most wonderful etchings …”
The Art Forger Page 16