The Portrait of Molly Dean

by Katherine Kovacic

  ‘Stuff it.’ I need something to eat.

  In the kitchen, I put the kettle on and prise two pieces of sourdough rye from the loaf in the freezer. Hogarth shambles through the door, then slowly stretches himself into a literal downward-facing dog, rounded off with a simultaneous yawn and vigorous shake. Welcome to Tuesday.

  I’m trying not to think about the potential damage to the canvas I was carrying last night, and I keep flashing to a vision of me trying to explain to Geoffrey what happened to his favourite painting. Of course, if I’d been an employee at a major auction house, I’d simply get John around to repair any damage and not say a word to the client. But I have morals, so that sort of thing is not an option. I enter the study, steeling myself for the worst.

  First I grab some old newspaper and spread it across the top of my desk. Picking the painting up, I’m careful to keep it angled forward so if any of the glass slivers dislodge they will fall away from the canvas. I lay the frame facedown and set to work with fine pliers, carefully easing out the old nails holding the canvas in the frame. When I have them all in a neat pile, I lift the painting straight up and out, putting it gently to one side while I deal with the glass. At least I can see there are no tears in the canvas, but I’ll have to do a close examination for scratches and paint loss on the surface before I can relax. Now I lift the frame by one edge and flip it onto the newspaper, letting the broken glass fall out. I carefully fold up the edges of the paper and place the whole lot in a plastic bag, then turn my attention to the canvas itself.

  It has come through completely unscathed; not so much as the tiniest chip of paint missing. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I’ve already told the clients the glass had to go, so I just won’t tell them the circumstances surrounding its ultimate removal.

  Without the glass, the Böcklin signature is evident and the surface is clean. All the bloom I’d noticed originally seems to have been on the inside surface of the glass. The canvas must have been well stretched before Böcklin set to work, because it’s still relatively taut with no signs of restretching or lining. I give the frame the once-over to make sure it wasn’t damaged and, after a quick wipe to remove a bit of grass and dirt, I replace the canvas in its nineteenth-century home. For my money, I’d have the frame rather than the painting. The latter is slightly unsettling, but the former is a divine hand-carved affair. The fact the original gilding only survives in traces here and there simply adds to the beauty of it.

  I spend the next two hours looking through books for examples of Böcklin’s work, making sure the signature is right even though he’s not the sort of artist anyone would fake. More importantly, I check to see if I can find a similar scene among his other recorded paintings. As it happens, there are a number of works featuring moonlit ruins with varying casts of sinister figures, so I’m feeling quite confident. But just to be sure, I track down the name of a curator in Basel who knows far more about Böcklin and shoot off an email. Then I check various lists of auction prices so I can put a reasonable value on the painting. Feeling virtuous, I tidy up my notes from the East Melbourne valuation and collate the whole lot into a coherent catalogue of the collection. Actual, billable hours, I tell myself as I back up the file. To round off the morning, I send the clients an email informing them that preliminary examination strongly suggests the painting in my possession is indeed by Böcklin and confirmation is pending. I also suggest a couple of days next week when we could meet to discuss the collection as a whole and whether they’d like me to handle the sale of any pieces. By the time the clock in the lounge chimes eleven, my desk is clear again and, apart from the dull ache in my wrist, I’m pretty damn happy with the way the morning’s gone.

  Of course, just as I’m congratulating myself, the thoughts I’ve studiously avoided all morning come crowding back in. I’m on the verge of believing it was just a random lout, some scumbag who saw me with the frame and took a chance, probably hoping it was a signed Richmond football jumper or something, then dropping it when he saw it was actual art. But as I stare vacantly at the Böcklin, something clicks. I retrieve the portrait of Molly Dean and prop the two paintings against the wall, side by side. Colin Colahan travelled extensively in Europe in the 1920s and was particularly taken with France. After that, he often prepared canvases to French or European dimensions, the sizes slightly different to those mainly used in England and Australia. The Böcklin and the Colahan are both exactly the same size, both in quite decorative frames, even if with vastly different subjects. Of course, no one else would know that, but what if my attacker just saw me with a painting and assumed it was the portrait of Molly Dean?

  ‘Bullshit.’

  From his place on the dog bed, Hogarth quirks an eyebrow at my tone.

  I decide to call John, tell him the whole story and see what he thinks. I pick up the phone and start to dial, then put it down again.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid. No, no, no.’ I may be talking to myself, but I’m not listening. No one knew I had the Böcklin and, frankly, even if they did no one would care very much. This isn’t Monet or Picasso we’re talking about. But people do know I have Colin Colahan’s portrait of Molly Dean. It would explain why the guy hurt me only enough to get the painting, then swore and dumped it once he was able to see it properly.

  I pick up the phone again and this time I follow through. I listen to it ring, once, twice, three times before there is a click.

  ‘Hello, John Porter speaking.’

  ‘Hey Mulder. Things have taken a somewhat unexpected turn.’

  ***

  I tell John everything that happened. For his part, he alternates between expressions of shock and worry, threats to kill the bastard (when we figure out exactly who the bastard is), and wild speculation about secret societies dating back over a century. I wait for him to go all Manchurian Candidate on me, but luckily he has some standards. Finally he has all the crazy out of his system.

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’

  ‘What for? I mean, thanks, but it’s okay. My wrist aches and I’m a bit shaken, actually no, I’m just pissed off now. Hogarth’s here and no matter what it was all about, I doubt it’s going to happen again. I told you the guy’s arm looked funny when he got into the car? Well I reckon Hogarth broke it or dislocated his shoulder. I know that’d make me think twice.’

  ‘But if Hogarth hurt the creep, what if …’

  ‘Don’t say it.’

  The silence on the line stretches. In my kitchen, I hear a click-hum as the refrigerator motor kicks in. From the dog bed in the corner come some rhythmic scuffing sounds followed by a few throaty growls and yips. I look over at my wonderful hound. His feet are jerking and his lips and eyelids are twitching as he dreams, probably taking down bad guys.

  ‘You should have brought me Molly Dean days ago.’

  ‘There was no rush,’ I reply. ‘All it needs is a light clean, and how was I to know this sort of thing would happen? Or even if it’s anything to do with the portrait?’

  ‘Is the wrist okay for you to drive?’ John’s voice sounds taut and over-loud.

  ‘As long as I don’t have to perform a handbrake turn, I think I can manage.’

  ‘Shit Alex. This is serious.’

  ‘Sorry. I was just picking up on your whole conspiracy-theory-evil-forces-at-work vibe.’

  ‘Look, like you said, it doesn’t matter what the whole thing was about, but just in case, grab Molly Dean, buckle Hogarth into his car harness and come to the studio. You can do your work from here or hang out if you want. We can hash over the whole Molly thing again or I can clean the bloody painting so you can move it the fuck on. Whatever. Just for once, please stop being Ms Independence. I’m worried, okay? I’m a temperamental artist, remember. Even if you don’t give a stuff, please come and placate my sensitive soul.’

  ‘Well why didn’t you say it was all about
you? I’ll have to spruce myself up a bit so I don’t look quite so much like a bag lady. It’d be my luck to be sitting there looking crap when the head of the National Gallery pops in.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time, mate.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  We exchange a couple more insults and I get the feeling John is as relieved as I am that we are back to having a normal conversation.

  After ending the call, I grab a couple of biscuits and then change into jeans, a fresh black t-shirt from my vast pile of black t-shirts and some cosy boots. I briefly contemplate a white t-shirt, but the black makes me feel tougher. People write PhDs about clothing and colour in paintings, the way viewers respond to different things. If anyone sees me in my denim and black with my huge dog, I hope they feel suitably cowed. Then I add a pair of Chanel sunglasses and any impression of toughness is immediately negated by the Swarovski crystal double Cs adorning my temples.

  I decide that as well as Molly Dean’s portrait, I’ll also take the Böcklin, the Jane Sutherland and my recently purchased Herbert Badham. If anyone decides to break in, the most valuable paintings shouldn’t be sitting around. I can’t really do any lifting with my right hand, so I’m going to have to make a couple of trips ferrying the paintings out to the car and the thought makes me anxious all over again. I loosely wrap the paintings in some old blankets and line them up in the hall, ready to go. Then I put Hogarth’s car harness on so he’s all set, pick up my mobile phone and sling my bag over my shoulder. I feel stupid and angry with myself, but at the same time I can’t squash the last insidious tendrils of apprehension that are twining their way out of my brain and wrapping themselves around my heart.

  ‘Right, let’s get this show on the road.’

  Hogarth trots to the front door and stands there with his head millimetres from the frame. Easing him back, I open the door and we step out into brilliant sunshine that instantly makes me feel even more ridiculous. How could anything bad happen on a beautiful day like this? Still, I’m not taking any chances and I put Hogarth in a sit-stay on the verandah, ready for action should it prove necessary. It’s not, and I trot between house and car, moving the paintings into the boot before locking the front door.

  ‘Get in.’ I wave toward the open back door of the car. Hogarth doesn’t need to be asked twice. If he spoke human, I’m sure he’d be yelling ‘Road trip!’ right now. He jumps onto the seat and I lean in to connect his harness. It’s a moment where I feel exposed and my shoulders tense, but I click the buckle home and straighten up, suffering nothing worse than a big slobbery lick from Hogarth.

  ***

  By the time we arrive at the studio, my wrist is throbbing but I’m feeling much brighter. I talked it out with Hogarth during the drive, and have decided that the sooner Molly is out of my life, the better. I’ll type up what I have of the provenance and Molly’s story – emphasising her relationship with Colin and the poignancy of the portrait given her untimely death – then I’ll make some calls to a few of my collectors. If that doesn’t work, I’ll put Molly in an auction and feed the gruesome details to a stringer I know who does stuff for the Herald Sun. I figure that should whip up plenty of interest outside the regular art-buying fraternity.

  John must have been listening for the car because he appears before I even pull the key out of the ignition.

  ‘Hogarth!’ John opens the back door and tries to unbuckle the harness, but his efforts are hampered by Hogarth’s excited squirming. After a few attempts he manages it and the two of them explode from the car like some sort of clown act.

  ‘You’re both nuts.’ I shake my head.

  Hogarth rears up on his hind legs and thumps his paws onto John’s shoulders. John lets out an audible ‘umpf’ and staggers slightly, but manfully manages to keep it together. Then Hogarth sticks his nose in John’s eye socket and I can see it’s all about to go south.

  ‘Four on the floor, buddy.’ Hogarth reluctantly drops his front feet to the ground. John’s face is red.

  ‘When will you learn not to razz him up if you haven’t seen him for a while?’

  John has the grace to look sheepish. ‘Subject change!’ He scrutinises me closely from large sunnies to particolour wrist to my boot tips. ‘You look like a mob wife with domestic issues.’

  ‘Thank you so very much. Perhaps you’d like to shut up and bring the paintings inside now?’

  John moves to the boot of my car then hesitates and turns back. ‘I’m glad you’re okay, Alex.’ He steps forward and gives me a hug. ‘I’d be bored witless if I didn’t have you around.’

  ‘Yeah well.’ I squeeze back. ‘Good job I only hit my head or I might have damaged something.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to go there, but now that you mention it …’ He steps back out of reach as I make to slap him and we grin at each other for a moment, then he gives me a salute and pivots back to the car, grabs all four paintings in one go and leads Hogarth and me into his studio.

  Once his harness is off, Hogarth pokes around for a few minutes before finding a clear area of floor to settle. John unfolds the blankets from each of my paintings, just enough to see what the bundles contain before he puts them to one side. The third one is the portrait of Molly Dean and he drops her shroud to the floor then turns and places her on his easel. He slides the top clamp down and twists the wing nut gently, holding the painting in place. Molly looks a little lost against the frame of John’s studio easel. It’s not designed to be portable, but is built to safely support larger canvases weighing up to fifty or sixty kilos. Molly is a waif by comparison.

  John steps back and folds an arm across his chest, cradling the opposite elbow. His chin dips into his free hand and he stands there, regarding Molly, taking in every inch of the canvas and each nuance of her face. ‘She’s much prettier than I’d realised. I’ve seen the dumpy photo that was in all the newspapers, and of course her face is hidden in the nude, but she’s really quite stunning.’ He comes in close and drops his glasses from his forehead to the bridge of his nose. ‘Varnish is discoloured and the whole thing has dried into the canvas quite a bit, but should come up well.’ He grabs a jumbo cotton bud and sucks it for a moment, then rolls the wet tip gently across Molly’s cheek. Immediately her skin glows a delicate pink, the spot standing out so dramatically against the rest of the painting that it seems as though she is blushing.

  ‘It always amazes me that spit is a legitimate restoration tool.’ I step forward so John and I are shoulder to shoulder in front of the painting.

  ‘Just the right balance of enzymes, and if I work on a big canvas it has the added advantage of keeping me off coffee and alcohol! Too hard to use it all the time, though, and not strong enough if a painting is really filthy or flyspecked or something like that.’

  ‘Well Hogarth has an abundance of saliva. I’m sure he’d be happy to drool in your general vicinity.’

  ‘I suspect the properties of dog drool may be different, but if you’d like to volunteer the painting as well as the dog, I’ll give it a whirl.’

  ‘Maybe another time. How about we take the frame off and confirm the signature?’

  John looks at the painting again, bending down to touch the place where the writing disappears under the frame. Then he shifts his gaze to the top of the canvas, where a faint line is visible running left to right, about a centimetre from the frame. ‘The canvas has slipped. But you noticed the line, right?’

  ‘Sure. The signature would have been clear when it was originally framed and the canvas has just worked a bit loose and dropped, which is good, because I want to put her back in this frame when she’s all cleaned up.’

  ‘Right, let’s get on with it then.’ John unclamps the painting and carries it to his workbench where he lies it facedown. ‘Geez, you didn’t even make a start and take the paper off?’

  ‘Started to, got sidetracked.’ I shru
g.

  John grabs a Mylar sleeve and his knife and I turn away. I figure I’ll have a browse among the paintings John’s working on right now and then put the kettle on. As I edge my way toward the back of the studio, I hear the crinkle of old paper and the whisper of the knife separating it from the back of the frame. I reach a pile of canvases leaning against the wall and start to look through them, leafing them apart and tilting them forward like a giant set of files.

  ‘Alex.’

  ‘Mmmmm?’

  ‘Alex.’

  ‘What?’ I carefully replace the paintings and turn toward John, craning to see him around the easel.

  ‘There’s an envelope here.’

  ‘What are you on about now?’

  ‘Tucked in the back of the painting, wedged between the stretcher and the canvas. There’s an envelope.’ He’s hunched over his workbench, staring at the back of the painting.

  ‘Are you having me on with more of your conspiracy bullshit? Because I’m seriously over the whole thing.’

  John turns to look at me.

  ‘Really?’

  He jerks his head in the direction of the painting. ‘Get over here and see for yourself.’

  My head feels strange and light as I pick my way across the studio. For a moment I wonder if I’m concussed after yesterday, but then I focus on the sensation and realise I’m slightly freaked out by this.

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’ I’m not sure if I’m saying it for John’s benefit or mine.

  ‘Sure. I come across this sort of thing all the time. Envelopes stuffed with cash, the family jewels, last will and testament. Just another day in the office for me,’ John says.