2909_The_Forgotten_Painting__Smashwords
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Author’s note
Foreword
Warsaw Ghetto: 15 May 1943
McCormack & Sons of London, auctioneers: December 2014
Monet’s Garden, Giverny: 1920
Outback Queensland: December, 1985
Berchtesgaden: Christmas Eve, 2008
Warsaw: December 2007
Imperial Crypt, Vienna: 2012
The auction
A coffin key and a boy with psychic powers: Imperial Crypt, Vienna: 2012
The thirty-five million pound painting and the megastar
The old man in the Swiss mansion
The email from Gstaad
Arrogance and pride
The examination
Warsaw Ghetto: August 1942
Warsaw Ghetto: The ‘sale’
The verdict
The fallout
Six months later
More books from the Author
About the Author
Connect with the Author
THE FORGOTTEN PAINTING
“Where it all began…”
Jack Rogan Mysteries Book 1
Gabriel Farago
This book is brought to you by Bear & King Publishing.
Publishing Consultant: Lama Jabr
Website: http://xanapublishingandmarketing.com
Sydney, Australia
First published 2016 © Gabriel Farago
The right of Gabriel Farago to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 (for example, fair dealing for the purposes of study, research, criticism or review) no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Signup for the author’s New Releases mailing list and get a free copy of ‘Letters from the Attic’ and step behind the scenes of the ‘Jack Rogan Mysteries’ Click here to get started.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A few weeks ago, my publicist left a message on my phone: ‘Must talk; urgent!’ Assuming something was wrong, I called her back at once. To the best of my recollection, this was the gist of our conversation:
‘You have a lot of new supporters out there and many have subscribed to your mailing list, follow you on Twitter, have become Facebook friends and are part of your launch team. They all want to know what’s happening’, she said.
‘They know what’s happening; we are about to release the next book’, I replied.
‘Yes, but we should reward them for their loyalty and support, and offer them something in return: a gift.’
‘What kind of gift?’
‘Well, they are all readers, so giving them something interesting to read would be a good idea ...’
I realised at once where this was heading. ‘What’s on your mind?’ I asked, expecting the worst.
‘A novella.’
‘What? I’ve just finished The Hidden Genes of Professor K, and you want me to write a novella? Now? Just like that?’
‘Exactly. No more than say, thirty-thousand words. Something exciting, a page-turner to showcase your writing. What would be really great is if you could feature your main characters and create a storyline that somehow touches on all of your three books. You know, come up with something really interesting that gives your readers something new, creates a little mystery and perhaps extends the plot,’ she prattled on, warming to the subject, ‘and answers some of the questions left open in the books and then ties everything together. Does this make sense?’
‘Do you know what you’re asking?’
‘Come on … you can do it!’
‘I don’t know …’
‘And one more thing …’
‘Yes?’ I asked apprehensively.
‘I really need it now! This is urgent! So, get right into it.’
‘But I’m going to Japan next week; my walking tour, remember?’ I protested lamely. I always like to take some time off after finishing a book.
‘No problem! You can think about the storyline while you walk, and then write it all down when you get back. Perfect! Sorry; must dash!’
Well, that’s how The Forgotten Painting started. I did go to Japan the following week, and for twelve blissful days without internet, I walked part of the famous Nakasendo Way, a historic seventh-century Shogun trade route crossing the mountains from Kyoto to Tokyo. Surprisingly, I did find time to think about the storyline, how to combine all the necessary elements suggested by my publicist, and turn it into a novella that is both exciting and entertaining. It was quite a challenge. This is what I came up with. My little gift to you. I hope you enjoy it.
Gabriel Farago
Leura, Blue Mountains: 1 August 2016
FOREWORD
At the book launch, I noticed a reader looking at my novella. I saw her frowning so I went over to ask if she had any questions.
‘It’s very short’, she said. ‘Is this some kind of prequel?’
‘Yes … and no’, I replied.
"What kind of answer is that?’ she demanded.
‘Well, it’s a little difficult to explain ...’
‘Try; you’re a writer, yes?’
‘Good point. Have you read the Author’s Note at the beginning of this book?’
‘I have.’
‘That explains some of it, but there’s more ...’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘It’s where it all began.’
‘Oh? What?’
‘The Jack Rogan Mysteries.’
‘Please explain ...’
‘Well, all of my books are loosely connected, but they are not sequels. Each of them ‘stands alone’ and can be read separately. However, they are all linked ...’
‘In what way?’
‘Through the characters, and of course the storylines. Jack Rogan is my central character. He’s in all the books ...’
‘Ah; hence The Jack Rogan Mysteries, right?’
‘Exactly. If you read my books in the correct order, you can follow Jack Rogan’s adventures and his life ...’
‘So, I should really begin with The Empress Holds The Key, and then read The Disappearance of Anna Popov and so on?’
‘Yes. If you do that, you’ll get a lot more out of my books because you will pick up the finer points and nuances from the other books, if you know what I mean. But you should really start with this one, The Forgotten Painting, because–’
‘That’s where it all began?’ she interrupted. ‘And that’s why it’s Book One?’
‘Precisely! If you start with this one, it will introduce you to the Jack Rogan Mysteries and all of my published books in the series. That’s why it’s free; a little present to my readers to pique their interest.’
‘You’ve certainly piqued mine.’
‘Good. And you will find excerpts from all of my books at the back of this novella, which will give you an idea of what you can expect.’
‘Great. What are you working on now?’
‘My next book, of course.’
‘The one coming after The Hidden Genes of Professor K?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘The Stolen Recipes of Suleiman The Magnificent.’
‘Wow! What’s that all about?’
‘I have included a little ‘teaser’ at the end of The Hidden Genes of Professor K, which tells you all you need to know – for now.’
‘A few chapters perhaps?’ she asked, hopefully.
‘Yes. All of my books have an extract from the next book included at the end.’
‘To create anticipation, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and let my readers know what’s coming next.’
‘Great idea. When will it be released?’
‘All going well, towards the end of next year; 2017.’
‘Can’t wait!’
‘In the meantime, you can read all of my other books and get into the swing of things.’
‘Are you tempting me?’ she said.
‘I certainly hope so!’
Gabriel Farago
CONTENTS
Author’s note
Foreword
Warsaw Ghetto: 15 May 1943
McCormack & Sons of London, auctioneers: December 2014
Monet’s Garden, Giverny: 1920
Outback Queensland: December, 1985
Berchtesgaden: Christmas Eve, 2008
Warsaw: December 2007
Imperial Crypt, Vienna: 2012
The auction
A coffin key and a boy with psychic powers: Imperial Crypt, Vienna: 2012
The thirty-five million pound painting and the megastar
The old man in the Swiss mansion
The email from Gstaad
Arrogance and pride
The examination
Warsaw Ghetto: August 1942
Warsaw Ghetto: The ‘sale’
The verdict
The fallout
Six months later
More books from the Author
The Empress Holds the Key
The Disappearance of Anna Popov
The Hidden Genes of Professor K
About the Author
Connect with the Author
WARSAW GHETTO: 15 MAY 1943
The major looked at the devastation around him, and smiled. It was over. The uprising that had begun on 19 April 1943 had been crushed. His superiors would be pleased. Streets littered with corpses, smouldering ruins and the stench of death was all that remained of the once crowded ghetto. A gentle rain had made the pools of congealed blood on the pavements slippery. Grey skies wept, lamenting the senseless brutality and slaughter. The major’s men, all SS, were methodically searching every building for the few remaining survivors who had gone into hiding. Everyone else was either dead, or had already been deported to concentration camps.
‘Herr Sturmbannfuehrer, in here!’ shouted one of the major’s men, waving from the other side of the street. ‘We found some.’ The major crossed the road and followed the man into the building. ‘They were hiding under the floorboards on the first floor,’ continued the officer, ‘a whole family. Quite ingenious.’
The major looked at the bearded man sitting next to a frightfully thin woman and three children—two boys and a girl—cowering on the floor in front of him. The man was clutching a violin case to his chest. ‘Your name’, demanded the major.
‘Krakowski’, stammered the man, barely able to speak.
‘Your wife and children?’
The man nodded.
The major pulled his gun, a Luger, out of its holster and pointed it to the man’s head. ‘Are there any others hiding in this building?’
‘No’, whispered the man. ‘Spare them. It was my idea; let the children go.’ The major was about to pull the trigger when something caught his eye; a painting hanging on the wall above a sideboard. He lowered his gun, walked over to the painting and looked at it. ‘Yours?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘It was given to me.’
‘By whom?’
‘The artist himself.’
‘How come?’ asked the major, and turned around to face the man on the floor.
‘It was after one of my concerts in Paris in 1920.’
‘You are a musician?’
‘Yes. I play the violin.’
For a while, the major looked thoughtfully at the wretch on the floor in front of him. Then he turned to the officer standing in the doorway and said, ‘Take them to the train station.’
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer’, replied the officer.
As soon as he was alone, the major reached into his tunic and pulled out a pocket knife. Extraordinary, he thought, staring at the signature at the bottom. Then he lifted the painting off the wall, placed it on the sideboard and began to carefully dismantle the frame.
MCCORMACK & SONS OF LONDON, AUCTIONEERS: DECEMBER 2014
The auctioneer glanced at his watch, adjusted his bowtie and looked at the excited crowd waiting for the auction to begin. The response had been overwhelming. With worldwide publicity creating unprecedented interest in the painting, a successful outcome seemed assured. He could recognise representatives of several leading galleries from around the world in the audience. They were rubbing shoulders with some of his regulars; all well-heeled collectors for whom money was no object when it came to acquiring something so precious and unique. All of them were potential buyers, even with the stratospheric estimates the painting was expected to reach. The high-profile art critics and journalists who were also in attendance, albeit for quite different reasons, would ensure the bidding would be spirited and go through the roof. It wasn’t often that a newly discovered painting by one of the most sought after impressionists came on the market. And then, there was more; so much more ...
This only comes along once in a career, thought the auctioneer. Satisfied, he walked slowly across to the lectern in the middle of the podium and, letting the tension grow, picked up his gavel and surveyed the excited faces looking back at him. He knew that a successful auction was as much about theatre as it was about having the strategy and experience to work the bidders in the right way. Suddenly, a hush fell across the auction room; a ripple of excitement and expectation washed over the silent crowd, realising that several million pounds were about to change hands.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ began the auctioneer, ‘it gives me great pleasure to present to you one of the most exciting art offerings of our time: a newly discovered—or more accurately—rediscovered painting by none other than Claude Monet, one of the undisputed masters of impressionism.’ The auctioneer paused, once again for effect, and then walked across to the easel standing next to him and carefully lifted the blue silk cover off the painting. ‘I give you Little Sparrow in the Garden: a masterpiece!’ The crowd gasped. Discreetly lit by subdued lighting from above, the brilliant colours of the spectacular painting dazzled and beguiled even the most critical eye.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the painting has been carefully examined by several highly regarded experts. You will have seen their reports in the catalogue. Suffice it to say, they all agree that this is a genuine Monet, painted by the master towards the end of his long life, most likely around 1920, but before his cataracts were removed in 1923, which had a profound impact on how he saw colour and light. It would therefore appear that authenticity is beyond doubt.’ The auctioneer paused, letting this critically important statement find its mark. He adjusted his bowtie again, a nervous habit that helped him focus, and then continued.
‘This brings me to the next most important subject—provenance—always a somewhat delicate topic that is rarely clear-cut and precise, yet it is of great significance to potential buyers. Ladies and gentlemen, this is a “fortunate” painting. Why? Because it can tell you all about its extraordinary journey from the moment it left the hands that created it, until it ended up right here in front of you, for sale. You will have read all about that in your catalogues too. Yet, as you will soon see, there is more; much, much more.’
A master of creating anticipation and excitement, the auctio
neer knew exactly how to appeal to potential bidders and how to hold their attention. He also knew that every gesture and every word counted, and one mistake could lift the curtain of fascination and burst the attention-bubble.
‘It isn’t often the case, ladies and gentlemen, that the true legal owner of a painting that has been lost for such a long time, and the person who found it and then returned it to its owner, can both provide a detailed account of all the relevant facts and circumstances that brought about this extraordinary reunion, and prove them. Yet, this is precisely the case here, ladies and gentlemen. The owner of the painting, Mr Benjamin Krakowski, and Mr Jack Rogan, who found it, are both present today and ready to answer any questions you may have. You will have noticed in your catalogues that as part of the painting’s provenance, an important document is also included in the sale: a diary.’
The auctioneer pointed to an elderly, well-dressed man sitting in the front row. ‘I would now like to invite Mr Krakowski to say a few words about the painting and its colourful—forgive the pun—history.’
All eyes were now upon the tall man with a striking shock of white hair who walked slowly up to the microphone. Benjamin Krakowski had presence. To most people attending the auction, he was no stranger; his fame preceded him. As a celebrated composer and violin virtuoso, he was well-known to most, which made his presence even more exciting and intriguing.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is a very important day for me. It brings back many memories; happy ones, but also very painful ones. As this painting belonged to my father and is about to be sold, I would like to share some of those memories with you, if I may. I believe that the painting’s story has to be told, not only because it forms part of that all-important provenance the auctioneer was talking about, but also out of respect for an extraordinary man who I loved.’
Krakowski paused, as memories of a painful past came flooding back with alarming clarity, and looked at something in the distance only he could see. ‘The best way to begin,’ he continued after a while, ‘is at the beginning. I will tell you why and when the painting was created, why it is called Little Sparrow in the Garden, and how it ended up with my father. I will also tell you when and where I saw it for the last time, before Mr Rogan returned it to me a year ago.’