“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“Don’t give me that crap.” He comes back to sit with me on the couch. “I can tell by the expression on your face that you think it’s good, too.”
“Is larceny the same as theft?”
“You didn’t steal anything.”
“I possessed stolen property.”
“You don’t anymore. And you had no idea it was stolen when you did.”
It strikes me how easily Aiden appears to believe his own lies. “But, what if—”
“You know where this is going to get us, don’t you? All the ruminating? The Internet scavenging? Driving yourself crazy with what-ifs? This is how people get caught. They do something stupid, put themselves in the wrong place, look nervous, and wham. Someone gets suspicious, and it’s over.”
“Like the—”
“You’ve got to promise me you’re going to quit this,” he says. “You’ve got to focus on your painting, on your show. And get your emotions in check.”
I know he’s right, so I promise him I will. But, of course, he doesn’t have the complete picture, so to speak. And although part of me would love to share the secret, I find his ease with his own lies and his composure in the face of real jeopardy too troubling to take that step.
When he leaves, I go back online to search for more information on my four possibilities. I have three Frenchmen and an American: Yves Chaudron, Jean-Pierre Schecroun, Émile Schuffenecker, and Virgil Rendell. All painting and forging in the times and places of Degas and Belle.
During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Yves Chaudron, a struggling painter, lived in the Montmartre district of Paris, as did Degas. Chaudron gained fame as the forger of the Mona Lisa stolen by his partner, Vincenzo Peruggia. There’s still speculation over whether the Mona Lisa now hanging in the Louvre is the original or one of many high-quality Chaudron forgeries Peruggia sold to foreign collectors. Now I know where Ely Sakhai, the New York City double-dealer, got the idea.
It turns out that Jean-Pierre Schecroun was born in 1940 rather than 1861—Wikipedia isn’t the most reliable source—but Émile Schuffenecker is a strong second possibility. He was a close friend of Gauguin and van Gogh, who were also friends of Degas’, and he was suspected, although never convicted, of forging Impressionist masters, particularly Cézanne. He claimed he wasn’t forging, that he was exposing the idiocy of those who refused to acknowledge the brilliance of his own paintings.
Virgil Rendell fits the same mold. He turned to forgery when his work was disregarded by the prestigious dealers of the day and committed suicide in 1928 after getting caught trying to sell a fake Sargent. I pause. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Then I remember. Rendell painted the portrait of Sandra Stoneham’s grandmother Amelia Prescott. Amelia was Belle Gardner’s niece, her favorite niece, as Sandra was quick to point out.
I close my eyes and recall Amelia. I see Rendell’s exquisite technique, how Amelia’s skin glowed, how her happiness pulsed from the canvas. It’s a powerful painting, full of emotion and character, created by an artist of great talent, in the classical style of the masters. My eyes fly open. An artist who, in all likelihood, was a personal acquaintance of Belle Gardner’s.
From the pen of
ISABELLA STEWART GARDNER
January 1897
Paris, France
My dearest Amelia,
I am your very cranky aunt today and probably should not be writing when I’m in such a fret. But there has been so much noise and tumult in our apartments this past month, that now that I am alone, I must take advantage. The weather has been wretched, cold and windy and even a bit of snow, so we are all cooped up inside. I am so much driven by people talking, talking, talking and asking question after question, that I am almost pleased to be on my sick bed.
Please do not worry. I have only a head cold. But a most miserable one. My throat is very bad, and I can scarcely hold up my head, but there is no fever. The doctor has threatened to send me off to the countryside if my breathing does not improve. Of course, the countryside is out of the question as I have a number of purchases to complete before we leave in less than a month.
As you well know, it has been a long trip: England, France, the Netherlands, Germany, at Palazzo Barbaro for the summer, then back here to Paris. But I’ve had a number of successes that make it all worthwhile! I have purchased Botticelli’s Tragedy of Lucretia, Peter Paul Rubens’s Portrait of Thomas Howard, Second Earl of Arundel, and my very favorite of the year, a little Madonna, barely one-foot square, that is now before me on a chair.
The Madonna and Child in a Rose Arbor is the work of Martin Schongauer, a German and a contemporary of Holbein and Dürer, but to my mind, a far better painter. The present frame is ghastly, far too bold and garish for my little babe, and I shall order a new one as soon as I am out of bed. Best of all, she is small enough to smuggle inside my suitcase and avoid those nefarious taxmen and their horrid duties. Now that your Uncle Jack has agreed to my museum, I am in full cry.
Your uncle still complains about all the money we are spending, but I daresay he is anticipating the excitement of the planning and building to come. It is quite intoxicating, and I am anxious to return home to begin work with the architects. And, of course, to see you and my two favorite children, dear Jackie and adorable Fanny. Sweet Fanny already had such a vocabulary when I left seven months ago, I can only imagine the paragraphs she must be speaking now!
Last night we dined with Henry James and Edgar Degas. When we told them of our plans for the new museum, they were both taken with the idea, and we talked long into the evening about whose work should be purchased. When Edgar said he would be proud to be considered, I told him that Mr. Gardner and I would be thrilled if we three could agree on a price, and the man had the audacity to say I had already heard his price! Fortunately, neither Henry nor your uncle was listening carefully.
When Uncle Jack said he must work at the bank’s offices for the rest of the week, Edgar invited me to his studio on Wednesday. After his comment, I am a bit nervous, but nothing will keep me away. As you are always so interested in these adventures, I will continue this letter when I return from Montmartre.
Wednesday evening
I have returned. As always, my Edgar stories are told to you in the strictest confidence. Out of respect for your uncle, I ask you to burn this letter after you have read it. It would be most unfortunate if it fell into the wrong hands.
As soon as I arrived in the studio, as I expected, Edgar offered to paint a picture for my museum if I would model nude for him. He did not seem surprised at my refusal and asked if I would put on my silken robe. To this I agreed. I have learned that once you have done a risky thing, it is quite easy to do it again.
And it was as luscious as the last time! He had a fire going, and, if anything, it was even more sensuous than in the heat of summer. Of course, it was difficult work holding a pose, but when he released me and allowed me to stretch in any way I liked, I can only say, I have never felt so playful, so much myself. I closed my eyes, and it was as if I were dancing with a gossamer angel.
But instead of continuing his sketching, as he did the last time, Edgar knelt and touched the single strap of my gown. “Please, Belle,” he whispered. “Allow me to take this from you. Allow me to see you as you truly are.”
I was lying on the sofa, and when I opened my eyes, I looked directly into his. They were so deep and pleading, so without guile, that before I realized what I was doing, I raised my arms, and he pulled the slippery silk from my skin. Oh, Amelia, I can’t describe to you the bliss, the joy, the gay abandon. I was unrestrained, reckless, and more open to the experience of being alive than ever before. It was as if I were a newborn babe.
“You’ll never show the sketches to anyone?” I murmured, as he positioned my arm, my leg, unpinned my hair. His touch was dry, courteous, respectful.
He smiled and picked up his sketchbook. “Yo
u are a beautiful creature.”
“Most certainly not,” I said, but I must confess to you, I was no longer sure.
And it only grew more so. When, once again, Edgar released me from my pose, and I was allowed to assume positions of my own choice, a great warmth and tingling began within my body. This grew and grew until it burst from the very core of me and flowed outward to my every extremity. I gasped with the power of it, the joy of it.
I had the thought that I was breaking from the chrysalis that has imprisoned me all these years. That I was, for the very first time, unbound, able to truly connect to the physical world. To connect to myself. And, of course, to connect to Edgar.
I know this is something no proper woman would ever do, particularly not a Stewart or a Gardner. And I am well aware that the gossip and rumors that have swirled around me since I arrived in Massachusetts would be nothing compared to what would take place if this ever became known. But I tell you now, no matter what consequence there might be, I shall never be sorry. Mum’s the word.
I am your loving,
Aunt Belle
Thirty-five
Aiden has been doing heavy publicity for the show; he’s received requests for the video portfolio from as far away as Mumbai and Paris. As the show grows closer and more certain, in true imposter-syndrome fashion, I find myself worrying whether I’m good enough for this kind of stage, if the critics will wonder what Markel G could have been thinking. After being unappreciated for so many years, now I’m fretting that I’m reaching for something I’m not. As my friend Jan used to say in graduate school, “No insecurity too obscure.”
The only news on Patel is that he was arraigned, pled not guilty, and is being held at the Nashua Street Jail. Not even a whisper of a possible deal with the FBI. I’m feeling a bit safer, although my excitement about a possible Virgil Rendell/Belle Gardner connection has been put on hold. When I called Sandra, she was rushing to catch a plane to Athens for a ten-day cruise, but she did encourage me to contact her when she returned. Which I will definitely take her up on.
It’s a beautiful day, the last kiss of fall, so I decide to trek down to Newbury Street to shop for the dress Rik’s been hounding me to buy for the reinstallation. I wander in and out of the high-end (who wants to pay $10,000 for an “elegant evening jacket”?), the midrange (who wants to pay $1,000 for a dress the size of a blouse?), and into my old standby, the vintage, where everything is shoved on too many racks and there’s barely room to stand. I don’t try anything on.
Instead, I go to Markel G. Aiden’s alone in the gallery, so I give him a hug.
“You smell wonderful,” he says, nuzzling my neck. “Not a whiff of phenol formaldehyde.” Then he lifts his head and pulls a frown. “Why aren’t you working?” He points to his watch. “Time’s a wasting.”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m on my way. On my way. Just wanted to let you know I’m pretty sure I’ll have them all done in a week.”
“Only pretty sure?”
“Okay, okay, I’m sure. Positive.”
He beams. “I knew you’d make it.”
“But you’re relieved anyway?” I tease.
“Templeton’s started in on the first batch. I haven’t seen anything yet, and he said he’ll need another full week to frame what he’s got and another to finish up the last ones.” Templeton is Aiden’s framer. We were originally going to go with all the paintings unframed, but Aiden changed his mind a few weeks ago. This cut my deadline down by a couple of weeks. And increased Aiden’s costs tremendously.
I hug myself. “We’re really almost there.”
“And then you’ll have plenty of time to do some of that publicity you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.”
“Hey, I’m doing those radio shows in a couple of days.”
“Reluctantly.” He looks at me critically. “You need some new clothes.”
I laugh. “Clothes for radio interviews?”
But he’s serious. “Don’t kid yourself, Claire. In this world, your appearance makes a huge difference. And it’s not all radio.” He rummages through a drawer and pulls out an envelope. “I was going to give this to you when you were completely finished, but you’re close enough. A present.”
I take the envelope, shake it, turn it over, then face it up again.
“For a job well done.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
When I do, I’ve no idea what I’m looking at. A receipt of some sort. For Canyon Ranch. Three days and two nights. And a ticket for a car service. I look at him, confused. “For me?”
“When you’re done, I want you to get out of here for a few days. Pamper yourself. Rest, relax. It’s only going to get hairier from here on—”
“What about all the promotion you’ve been pushing me to do?”
“It’s not even three days. You can do it all when you get back.”
“I can’t take this from you. This place costs like five hundred dollars a day.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“No, no. I’m not doing it. Can’t. Won’t.”
Aiden takes my hands in his. “Okay, you can pay me back after the show. When you’re dripping in money.”
“But what about the show? We’ve got to hang it. I want to be there for every step of the installation. And then—”
“We won’t be doing the installation until well after you get back. Templeton won’t have the framing done until then.”
“But, I—”
“If you don’t go, I’ll cancel the show.”
“You will not.”
He shrugs. “Probably not, but that gives you an inkling of how important I think this is for you.”
“Because I’m losing it?”
“Nothing a beautiful spa and a bunch of massages won’t cure.”
The truth is, I’ve always wanted to go to Canyon Ranch. Fantasized about it even. Nothing I ever thought possible, but up there on the pipe-dream list. Delusions of indulgence. I lean over and kiss him. “You’re a very sweet man, you know.”
“Not at all,” he says. “I have a lot invested in you. I’m looking out for my own ass.”
IN LESS THAN a week, I’m finished. Done. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I walk to my spot at the windows, rub my lower back, and scan the deserted street. The weather’s nasty. A wintery mix of rain, sleet, and hail, with a bit of snow thrown in to warn of what’s to come. Late November isn’t Boston’s best moment.
I’m relieved, proud, euphoric. I’m exhausted, headachy, and filled with an overwhelming sense of loss. All twenty paintings behind me. All twenty paintings marching forward on their own. I’ve created them, labored over them, made them who they are, but what happens next is up to them, not me. I wonder if this is how a mother feels when she sends her child off to college.
I flop down on the couch, stretch my legs out, and put a pillow under my head. I hook my hands around the back of my neck and visualize the opening. I close my eyes, and I’m there. Except it’s a larger version of Markel G, with taller ceilings, wider windows. There are at least fifty paintings hanging on the walls. They can’t be all mine. But next to each painting is a little card that reads, “Claire Roth.” I must have done more than I thought.
I’m surrounded by a kaleidoscope of color: in my paintings and in the room. Both women and men are dressed in jewel tones, luscious and rich, deeply burnished, almost edible. But I’m in the most delicious of them all. A one-shouldered silk gown of the most magical amethyst, sparkling and fluid, falling to my feet, whispering with every step I take.
As I flow through the room accepting congratulations, I become aware that each color has its own fragrance, not necessarily what you’d associate with the hue—mine smells like a forest in the morning, rather than lavender—but just as breathtaking in their own way as the colors are. Because, of course, now I realize the colors come from my oven, that that’s the only way they could have happened: fashioned and shaped, baked, and then lef
t to cool. The paintings have transformed themselves into a third dimension and created a new sense all their own: a combination of sight, smell, and taste, larger and more powerful for being one.
I open my eyes, and early sunlight streaks the ceiling. I close them again and fall into a deep, untroubled sleep.
At nine o’clock, the telephone wakes me. “So?” Aiden asks.
I rub my cheeks, a bit disoriented, and struggle up from the couch. I’m still in my grubby paint clothes, and my mouth feels like dry pigment has been poured into it. “Hey.”
“Should I send Chantal over with the truck?”
My eyes rest on the finished paintings, and I take them all in in one greedy gulp. “Yup.”
“All done?”
“All done.”
“Never doubted it,” he says.
I go over and check the coffee pot. Empty. “So why’d you ask?”
He chuckles. “When are you leaving?”
I run the cold water and start scooping coffee beans. “I have to confirm with the car service, but sometime late afternoon.”
“Have time to stop by the gallery to say good-bye? Kristi’s off and Chantal’s running errands all day, so I can’t leave.”
I look around the messy studio. Although I’m far from neat, I’m particular about my art materials, and I can’t leave them like this for three days. Nor, given the mice, can I leave the kitchen in its current state. “I’ll call you later, but probably not,” I tell him. “This place is disgusting—and so am I.”
Cleaning takes longer than I anticipate. It’s been quite a while since I wielded a sponge, and the combination of strong coffee and my need for closure drive me into uncharacteristic tidiness. When I call Aiden at one to tell him I can’t make it, the gallery phone goes to answer mode, as does his cell. I text a message promising to be in touch as soon as I get back and thanking him again for Canyon Ranch.
I’ve never had a professional massage before but have no trouble imagining the feel of strong fingers pressing into my tight shoulder muscles, releasing the tension and breaking up those nasty chemicals Small is always telling me I’ve got to get rid of. Yoga classes, good food, and lots of sleep. Heaven.
The Art Forger Page 20