The Bloody Canvas

by KJ Kalis

  The night of the auction, Abibi had watched Christopher as he watched everyone else. It was curious to her. Most people when they attend an auction were either busy chatting with people they knew or looking at the art. That wasn't Christopher. She watched him over the shoulder of a colleague from another art school as he moved around the room. He would look at a piece of art and then look around the room. He repeated the cycle several times. The entire time Abibi watched him, she became more curious. Who was this man? Why was he watching the crowd so carefully?

  As the auction started, Abibi moved to the back of the space. On her professor’s salary, she didn’t have the means to purchase any of the art. That’s not why she was there. She liked to attend art auctions to not only see art that she would never see in a museum, but to make contacts in the industry. One never knew when those could become important.

  Dr. Abibi Roux was born in Kenya. She was the second daughter of a mom who was an artist and a dad who worked in Kenya’s growing technology industry. Compared to most of the people in Kenya, even their small home seemed like a mansion. Early on, Abibi’s mom recognized her innate art ability. Some of Abibi’s fondest memories were from the hours that she spent outside working on art projects with her mom under a sparsely leafed tree in the shade.

  Though not every child in Kenya got a good education, her father’s hard work ensured that she was able to go the entire way through high school with no problems. When Abibi was seventeen, her parents sat her down to have a talk. She could still remember the day clearly. Her mother sat with her hands folded on the tablecloth in their small dining room. Her father sat on the other side looking far away. “Abibi,” he said, “We love you very much and only want the best for you. We’d like you to consider pursuing your art education in the United States.”

  At the time, she had been crushed by the idea of leaving her family in Kenya, though she knew what her father had said was true. Six months later, when her father drove her to the airport to send her to the United States, she knew it was a moment that would define her life. It had. After going to art school in Virginia, she had gone on to get her graduate degree and decided to accept a position at the Savannah College of Art and Design. For the first few years, her work was interesting and exciting. She loved the idea of developing new artists. The looks on the student’s faces when they discovered they could see a new shape or get a medium to reflect what they were seeing in their heads on canvas took her breath away.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The hours and the pay simply weren’t enough to give her the lifestyle that she desperately wanted. And, she had found no man that could keep her happy for longer than a few months. That was until the night that she was at the art auction in New York City and saw the strange blonde man moving through the crowds. “I haven’t seen you at the auctions before,” she managed before he walked away again.

  “I haven’t seen you either,” the man said, his comment hanging in the air. “My name is Christopher Lavaud.”

  Abibi studied him as she would’ve studied a piece of art or a model for a piece she was creating. “It’s nice to meet you, Christopher.” As he stood next to her, she realized how large a man he was. Broad shoulders, well over six feet tall with a wide frame. Strength radiated from his body. She imagined that underneath the carefully tailored suit and overcoat that he wore that he had the body of an American football player.

  “Do you come to these art auctions often?” he asked.

  Abibi nodded. “When I can… I find them inspiring.” Truthfully, it was her first one.

  A small smile crept across his face. “Really?”

  She looked at him, wondering why he had made that comment. “Don’t you find them inspiring?”

  “Not especially. However, I do find them to be quite profitable.”

  Abibi could tell he was about to walk away. For some reason, she didn’t want him to. He seemed different from the other people that attended the art auctions. He seemed distant, detached. Abibi wondered why. “How is it that you find them to be profitable?”

  “How about if we have a drink and I’ll tell you?”

  Abibi did just that. Had her father known that she had followed a strange man out of an art auction and got into a cab with him to go to a bar somewhere else in New York City, he would’ve been horrified. But Christopher was so different from any other man she had ever met that she couldn’t resist.

  The cab pulled up in front of a small dark bar, and she followed him in. The bartender seemed to know Christopher and simply pointed him towards the back of the restaurant. There was a single booth in the corner, sitting empty. Abibi slid in across from Christopher, who put his overcoat off to the side. A skinny waitress came over and brought him a drink without even asking. It looked like scotch or whiskey, but which one it was, Abibi couldn’t tell. “What would you like, honey?” Abibi ordered a glass of white wine.

  “Tell me about yourself,” Christopher said.

  Abibi only spent a few minutes answering his question. She told him about Kenya, about how she ended up at art school, how she initially loved the work that she did at SCAD, and how she had gone to the art auction to cultivate new contacts in hopes of furthering her career. In her mind, there was no reason to be deceptive. Many Americans wouldn’t have been quite as honest, but she wasn’t American, after all.

  “What you’re saying is very interesting to me,” Christopher said.

  Abibi noticed for the first time that he had a slight accent. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Paris. I studied business there.”

  “Paris?” Abibi tapped her long, painted fingernails on the bowl of her wine glass. “And you studied business? How did you get interested in the art world?”

  “There are a lot of unique opportunities in the art world that can’t be found anywhere else.”

  While Christopher didn’t tell her much about his business the first night they had drinks, Abibi learned more over time. As she thought back to that night, Abibi realized that she still didn’t know much about what he did, even after two years of working with him.

  Abibi’s first assignment from him came about two months after they had met at the art auction. One day, right after class her phone rang with a number she didn’t recognize. “Hello?”

  “Abibi.”

  She recognized the voice immediately. She and Christopher had talked on the phone several times in the last couple of months and had even had other meet ups for drinks. Nothing more, though. Not that she wasn’t interested, but he seemed to have business on his mind. “Hello, Christopher.”

  “I have a favor to ask. I was wondering if you are available for lunch today?”

  “Are you in Savannah?”

  “Indeed. I’ll text you the address.”

  He said nothing more but a moment later Abibi received a text message with the location for a small, upscale restaurant on the other side of town. He had set the time for one o’clock. Looking at her phone, she realized she had just enough time to make it across town to meet him. How he knew that she’d have time to meet today, she wasn’t sure. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was just a good guess. She took one moment before leaving, pulled a dark red lipstick out of the drawer in her desk and used the mirror hanging on the wall behind her, one with a gilded frame, to check her hair and makeup, dabbing on a fresh coat of color.

  Abibi arrived at the restaurant right on time. She hadn’t been there before. Morton’s Seafood was a restaurant that mostly locals frequented, but it was anything but casual. The tables were covered in starched white tablecloths with long-stemmed glasses that picked up the sunlight streaming through the window. While the waiters and waitresses wore blue t-shirts, jeans and small black aprons, Abibi could tell that they were nothing but a professional crew simply by the way they moved around the restaurant in efficient order.

  After an appetizer of raw oysters, Christopher picked up his napkin, wiped his face and rested his elbows on the table. “I ask
ed you here because I have a favor.”

  In some respects, Abibi was relieved that Christopher was finally getting around to the reason for his phone call. Getting to know him had been nothing short of frustrating. Her stomach started to flutter a little bit, but she refused to let it show. She picked up her napkin, dabbed the corners of her lips, and refolded it in her lap. She did not speak.

  “As I told you when we first met, my background is in business. There is a lot of business to be done in the art world.” He paused, taking a sip of water, “I have a client, a very wealthy client, that is particularly in love with images that were painted by Rembrandt.”

  Abibi’s mind immediately went to all the information that she had about the famous painter. Born in 1606, the Dutch painter was nothing short of prolific. Her own impression of his work was that he was a master of light and dark, of expression and of movement. Skills like those might not sell with the general public in modern times, but for discerning collectors, Rembrandt's works were astounding and emotive. “That’s fascinating. And, what does that have to do with me?”

  Christopher froze in space for just a moment, his eyes staring right through her. Abibi didn’t know if she should be flattered or frightened. “The favor I have is quite specific. Are you familiar with Rembrandt’s worked called ‘The Storm on the Sea of Galilee?’”

  She was. The image, taken from the Biblical story of the storm that cropped up on the Sea of Galilee depicted the apostles hanging on for dear life on a small boat with a bloated sail. The work was one of Rembrandt’s finest masterpieces. Its value was incalculable. “Yes.”

  “I was wondering if you have a student who might be able to replicate that work for me?” Christopher stopped speaking for a moment as the waiter brought over the main course, seared salmon over spring vegetables for Christopher, and a small salad with asparagus and locally caught shrimp for Abibi. Christopher immediately picked up his fork and took a bite of food, once again staring at her.

  Abibi felt uncomfortable and yet curious at the same time. What, exactly, was he asking her to do? Would this be a forgery, or was it just an opportunity for a collector to hang a replica in their home? Abibi took a bite of her salad before answering. She laid the fork down gently on the side of her dish. “Could you tell me a little bit more about the project?” She wanted to see exactly what he would tell her without being prompted or without her asking too specific of a question.

  Christopher finished chewing his mouthful of food and put down his fork. “From time to time, I have investors who have their eye on a specific piece of art but are unable to acquire it for one reason or another.” He tilted his head to the side, “Sometimes, a piece of art simply isn’t available because it is in a museum or held by a church that refuses to sell. Other times, they simply want something to look at for their own home. There are other reasons, of course…”

  Abibi instantly wondered what the other reasons could be, but she didn’t want to ask. Something in her told her that the less she knew the better it would be. “I am certainly familiar with that piece of art. However, it isn’t in my area of expertise to replicate that for you or your client. I do have a few students who might be able to do that work. Can you tell me how soon you might need it and what you are offering in terms of compensation?” It had become evident to Abibi that this favor that Christopher was asking her to do was much more of a business transaction than anything else. The nervous flutter in her stomach had become an excited hum. Maybe this was the way that she would be able to achieve her financial dreams after all.

  “Certainly. That’s a reasonable question.” Christopher took another sip of his water, the melting ice cubes making a quiet clinking noise as they hit the side of the glass. “The overall pay for the project would be one hundred thousand dollars. Generally, I suggest to my brokers that they split the commission with their artist fifty-fifty. After all,” he said, bringing the fork up to his mouth with another bite of salmon, “There is a lot of value that the broker brings to the process.”

  “And, you would consider my role to be one of a broker?” Abibi had stopped eating. The idea that just by finding a student who could paint the replica could earn her fifty thousand dollars had her attention. By the way that Christopher looked at her, Abibi could tell that he knew she was interested. She hoped that she hadn’t seemed overly excited. That was never a position of power in a business negotiation. Her father had taught her that.

  “Yes, of course.” Christopher leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders landing well outside of the width of the chair back, “The only challenge with this project is that my client is in a bit of a hurry. You see, they are having a gathering at their house in a month’s time. The work would need to be complete, dry, varnished, framed and shipped within that time frame.”

  Abibi did a quick calculation in her head. The work that Christopher was talking about would have to be done in oil. There were quick-dry mediums that you could add to oils in order for them to cure faster, but they compromised the color and texture of the paint on the canvas.

  To add to the complication, Rembrandt's work required layer after layer of carefully placed pigments in order to achieve the movement and light contrast that made what he did so remarkable. She turned her head and looked towards the window before answering. The light was streaming in leaving a puddle of brightness on the highly polished floor. Beyond the window, the restaurant had a view of the water. The docks were filled with small and medium-size boats, the kind that someone would use for local river fishing or for a couple taking a sunset cruise. In the distance, she could see one of those small boats cruising slowly. She imagined they might be out trolling for seafood. She looked back at Christopher, “What you are asking is a bit of a challenge, given the timeline and the technical difficulties presented in Rembrandt’s works.” She paused for a moment judging his reaction. He didn’t move. “That said, the level of compensation might make this project a worthwhile effort.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  For the remainder of their meal, there was little talk except for things like the weather, places to visit in Savannah and the various countries that Christopher had traveled to over his career. Abibi could tell that Christopher didn’t want to talk anymore about the project he had proposed.

  At the end of the meal, Christopher followed her outside, the sunshine warming her bare shoulders. They stopped for a moment in front of the restaurant. “You are interested in my proposition?” Christopher asked.

  Abibi didn’t answer for a moment. What was she opening herself up to? Questions coursed through her mind, but her mouth answered before she had a chance to consider much of anything else. “Yes.”

  Christopher nodded, “Good. Please get it started. I’ll be in touch.”

  Abibi drove back to the art school, unable to focus. She drove like a robot, completing all the turns without thinking about exactly where she was going. Before she knew it, she was back in her office, standing by the window, looking out on the quad. A few students were walking by, art materials and portfolios in their hands. Staring outside was something she did regularly. Looking out the window gave her comfort, as though her life was bigger than just the small office that she occupied. After a few moments of consideration, she picked up her phone. She typed a quick text message and waited for a response. Less than a minute later, Hailey Park had responded. She was interested in whatever opportunity Dr. Roux had to offer. Abibi invited her to come to the office immediately.

  A few minutes later, Hailey Park knocked on the door.

  “Come!” Abibi called.

  The hinges on the wooden door that sealed Abibi’s office from the hallway creaked as Hailey pushed the door open. “Dr. Roux? You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Hailey. Please do come in and sit down.” Abibi watched as the college freshman came in and chose a chair near the bookcase, the Buddha just above her. Hailey had taken two classes from Dr. Roux during the year. In both, she was top of her cla
ss. She had an excellent eye and technique that could only be God-given. “As I said in my text, I have a unique opportunity for you. I wanted to speak with you about it in person.”

  Hailey had perched on one of Abibi’s leather chairs. She had folded her legs up underneath her, Indian style. She was wearing torn jeans and a tank top. Abibi could see paint stains across the front of her pants. From teaching at the art college, Abibi knew that the students wore their paint, charcoal and other mediums on their clothing like badges of honor. It wasn’t uncommon to see students with completely stained hands sitting at a local restaurant or even in the school’s cafeteria. The students at the college had no shame about their art. It was one of the things that made Abibi proud to work there.

  Abibi had heard from a few of the other students that Hailey was having issues with making ends meet at school since her grandma passed away. Her friends weren’t sure if she would be able to continue her classes. Even though there were several thousand students at the art school, the culture was that of a small family. Gossip, tall tales and stories ran wild on a daily basis. “I heard that you might be having some challenges with your tuition.”

  Hailey’s face turned bright red, “I’m not sure how you heard that,” she stuttered.

  “Come, come. You know that people talk at school. That is no secret.” Abibi stood up and resumed her view out of the window. “Hailey, I have to be honest. In my years of teaching art, I have never seen a talent like the one that you have been blessed with.” Abibi turned to look at Hailey, wondering how she was receiving her compliment. Hailey wasn’t moving, her eyes staring at Abibi, her lips slightly parted. She only pulled on a strand of blond hair that laid on her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Abibi could tell that the compliment and the recognition that Hailey was having financial issues made her uncomfortable. Which one caused more discomfort, Abibi didn’t know. It didn’t matter. Though Abibi didn’t particularly care whether Hailey was uncomfortable at that moment, as comfort didn’t promote growth in her mind, she did want to move to the subject at hand. “I have a colleague who has approached me about a unique project. If done well, the project may be either extended or new opportunities may be forthcoming.” As Abibi said the words, she hoped they were true, for both of their sakes.