“But couldn’t you be wrong?” Claire hesitated, then risked saying what she was thinking. “You thought Great-Aunt Cady’s painting was a fake at first, too.” She had met Dante when he had evaluated a little oil painting she had inherited, a painting of a woman holding a letter. In the end, it had turned out to be a priceless Vermeer, something he was always a little defensive about.
“That’s why I have to be careful. With the wrong word, you can tar something forever. The whispers will follow it, even if turns out to be clean.” He set the framed sketch back down, then waved his hand to indicate the other pieces. “I’m just suspicious about the quality and even the quantity of the work here. I should have heard at least some rumors about these being in existence. But I’ve never heard anything.”
“Didn’t Allen Lisac say they were from someone’s private collection, you know, in a private family for years?”
“I didn’t say anything when Allen told us that last night, but that’s the oldest dodge in the world.” Dante adopted a fake British accent. “Noble family, come upon hard times. Forced to sell what they’ve owned for generations, but they want to keep it hush-hush, all very embarrassing, you know.”
“But if people know John Maxwell was faking drawings, why aren’t they more cautious? I can understand why Allen Lisac might be taken in – but the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
“It all stems from desire.” Suddenly looking exhausted, Dante sat down in the only available chair. “If you want a particular kind of something, and then you finally find one, you might not look at it too closely. Even the best curator can be fooled if he thinks with his heart and not with his head. Forgers find a need and fill it. And right now, this type of drawing is very hot. We’re obsessed with authenticity, but we have no idea how to assess it. Not with absolute certainty.”
“But what if this drawing is real?” Claire asked. “What if the awkwardness you see is just because the artist was having a bad day? Or because it was only a preparatory sketch and not the final piece?”
“There are two sins a curator can commit. One is to authenticate a forgery. In the art world, buying a forgery is seen as a very embarrassing lapse in judgment. The other is to accuse a genuine work of art of being a fake. And to me, the second is much worse. It’s-” he searched for the right word “- it’s heinous, because you’ve condemned something that a great artist labored over. His last surviving message to us, and you say it should be crumpled up and thrown away. You can’t rush to judgment, or you will condemn yourself as well as the art. I’m afraid some people are already thinking that about me. In the past year, I’ve identified one more drawing in the museum I am nearly certain is a forgery. It’s supposed to be the only surviving drawing by Desiderio de Settignano. It’s an invaluable historical relic. Or it would be if it were real.”
Dante was pacing again, his long strides brought up short by the little free space left that wasn’t crowded with art. “Desiderio was an Italian sculptor who lived in the mid-1500s. We acquired a sketch for an altar piece. Madonna and child and cherubs. However, the Virgin Mary in this sketch is nearly identical to one in a known Desiderio sculpture – except in the other one, she’s facing left.”
“So part of it was the same as something else, only in reverse?” Claire said.
“Exactly. That’s a typical forger’s trick – flipping an existing picture and hoping no one notices. The problem with any forged work of art is, if it looks like something we have already, then it’s easy to condemn it as a simple knockoff. Any innovation is likely to be anachronistic. So the forger tries to mix or match elements from different existing compositions to make what looks like a new piece of art.”
“But you thought that painting I had was like that,” Claire pointed out. “You thought it had to be a forgery because it used all the typical elements of a Vermeer painting, like the windows, the light, the woman holding a letter, the chair with the lion’s head finials.”
“That’s exactly why this is driving me crazy. If I bring up my doubts, I’m sure I won’t get this job at the Oregon Art Museum. Even at the Met , no one wants to hear about any doubts I have. Not really. Not when it means we have to take something down off the wall, not when it means the gossip will spread that we’ve hung fakes side-by-side with the real thing. I’ve got my doctorate, I’ve got my experience, but in the end, in some cases it all comes down to your gut.” He waved his hand. “And my gut said two drawings we have at the Met are wrong. And my gut’s telling me the same thing about at least a couple of these.
“You never said anything about having troubles at the Met.” Claire had thought Dante told her everything. Their phone bills were astronomical. “Are you afraid they are going to – get rid of you?”
“Not that baldly, no. And there are only a couple of people who feel that way. They content themselves with hints. My guess is they would be more than happy to give me a glowing recommendation for this position in an unspoken quid pro quo for my silence. And then I would become someone else’s problem.” He sighed. “I wanted to tell you Claire, but it seemed too hard to put into words. I’ve started to question everything I see. Can my eye be right and the eyes of all the other experts be wrong? That Desiderio altar piece I told you about? X-ray fluorescence tests confirmed that the chalk and ink were consistent with the time period.”
“So it’s not a fake?”
“It doesn’t prove anything!” Claire found herself shrinking back, even though she knew Dante’s anger wasn’t directed at her. “I told you that everyone knows Maxwell only ever used the real materials. You have to look for his signature flaws. The hair he draws is too curly, the hands are awkward, and sometimes he even bordered his works with doodles.”
Claire hesitated before she spoke, knowing that her next question would be heresy to Dante. “But if you can’t tell if something is a forgery, then does it really make any difference if it is or not?”
Dante snorted. “Come on, Claire, you know it does. A forgery tells us nothing about a great artist. Worse, what it does is make us think what we see revealed about the forger is really a truth about the artist. In my opinion, museums have to hold the line. People rely on us to show them what’s true, what’s real. Every year, millions of people pay to get into the Met. They never consider the possibility of having to decide for themselves the authenticity of what they have come to see. But how do you know that what you see in the museum isn’t a fake? How do you know that the Met doesn’t have a clever team of forgers stashed down in basement making statues and then chipping their noses and arms off? Or maybe copying a masterpiece and then reversing a vacuum cleaner on it so that in ten seconds you get the layers of dust a real painting would get in five hundred years?”
Dante was looking at Claire as if he truly expected an answer.
“I - I don’t know. People just take it on faith.” She thought of her non-existent dog. You saw a dog dish filled with kibble, you believed in the dog. You walked into a museum, you were already willing to believe that whatever you saw was art. “I guess they figure you guys are supposed to be the experts.”
“But what if we’re not, Claire? Think of all the layers and layers that are designed to tell you that we know what we’re talking about. When you come in to a museum, there are uniformed guards, there are sensors that buzz when you get too close, spotlights trained just so, Plexiglas shields protecting the most important pieces. You get handed a glossy, four-color guide. And mounted on the wall next to every piece is a caption with the name of the artist and the year it was created and the name of the benefactor who donated it. The whole thing creates a kind of institutional authority. Of course what you’re seeing is real. All these experts have authenticated it, cataloged it and then set out to display it.”
He paused. “But what if we’re wrong, Claire? What if we’re wrong?”
Chapter 37
NOT4IN
It was another hour before Dante managed to tear himself away from the drawings. Claire had to
finally insist that she was leaving whether Dante came or not. She was worried about Charlie. She imagined the older woman shaking, afraid, maybe even crying, although Claire had never seen her cry.
Multnomah Boulevard was clogged with cars, but it wasn’t until she turned down her own street that Claire realized the reason. The road was already narrow, but it had effectively been turned into a one-way street by dozens of cars and two satellite TV trucks parked along both sides of the road. One of the truck’s tires were squarely on top of what had once been a rosebush of Charlie’s. As she drove past her house, Claire saw the yard was filled with people. The impact of the words hit Claire afresh, and she heard Dante moan under his breath, as if he had been struck. She finally found a spot to park two blocks away.
They had walked half a block when Dante touched her sleeve and then pointed at the windows of the houses next to them. Taped up in the front window of each house was a white paper menorah. Claire’s eyes prickled with the beginning of tears. Most of the people in these houses were strangers to her, yet they were trying to present a united front to the world.
Someone had set up a card table in their driveway, and people were waiting in line to sign what seemed to be some kind of petition and pick up a paper menorah. Two eight or nine-year-old girls sat on the ground next to table, one tracing and the other cutting out more menorahs. Adults kneeled next to them scrawling messages on big pieces of cardboard. The one closest to Claire read “Hate” with a circle and slash through it. Knots of people stood talking earnestly. Three men in white coveralls with “Miller Paint” stenciled on the back were running their fingers across the paint of an undamaged section of the house.
Claire had seen some of the people before – at Fred Meyers or the library or walking down their driveway to pick up the newspaper in the morning – but many of them were strangers.
In the middle of all the action was Charlie, standing directly in front of the hateful words on the side of the house. Charlie was being interviewed by a woman Claire recognized as Tara Patten from Channel 8. Another crew from Channel 2 was packing up. Dante and Claire found a place next to Tom on the sidelines. He took Claire’s hand and gave it a brief squeeze. Along with a dozen other people Claire had never seen before, they listened in.
“When you saw these slogans, how did they make you feel?” Tara asked earnestly from beneath her blond hair that hung in a perfect, unmoving pageboy.
“These words do not hurt me,” Charlie said with her face set and stern. “I lived through things far worse in Nazi Germany. America is a big country, big enough for many different types of people. I have found so many good, caring people here. Why should I pay attention to the few – the very few – bad ones?”
The cameraman swung his lens around to focus on Tara. With a cheerleader’s smile, she said, “The community has really rallied around this brave senior. Nearly every house in this neighborhood is displaying a paper menorah, and a candlelit rally is being planned tonight at 7 pm in nearby Custer Park. Local businesses have offered security guards, to repaint the house, and many other services.”
There was a pause, while Tara pressed her hand against the side of her head, listening to her flesh-colored earpiece. Then she turned solemn. “Jeff, police say they are investigating any possible links between this incident and the recent racially motivated attacks in this neighborhood. There were no witnesses to this crime, but suspects in the previous assaults have all been described as white young men with shaved heads. Have Neo-Nazi skinheads returned to Portland? Only time will tell. Back to you, Jeff.”
As soon as the cameraman turned off his camera, Claire, Dante and Tom hurried over to Charlie. Claire gave Charlie a hug, and she thought she felt the older woman tremble at her touch. Tom wrapped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “How are you holding up?” Dante asked. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
“Evil has sewn the seeds of good,” Charlie told them. “Go look in the kitchen. There are enough donuts and pizza to feed an army. Instead I am offering them to all the people who come wanting to start a petition or put up lawn signs or” – she gestured at the men in coveralls – “paint over the wall. One of them took a chip back to their shop to match it, but I am thinking now perhaps we should leave the words where they are for a day or two. Let hate show its face so everyone knows it has not yet disappeared from the world.”
Charlie’s words were defiant, but there was also something about her that seemed fragile, as if she were holding herself up by force of will, pretending that she wasn’t wounded when she could barely stand.
“I’m glad you two are back,” Tom said. “I don’t want to leave her alone. I’m going home to get a suitcase, and then I’ll be back in time to make dinner.”
“Tom, I do not need to be protected.”
“Ah, but there’s want, and that’s another matter,” he said, kissing the top of her head.
Claire waited for Charlie to protest, but she was silent. Her silence told Claire more about how Charlie was doing than any words could have.
Tom squeezed Charlie’s shoulder while he found his car keys with his other hand. “I’ll see you guys in a couple of hours.” He took Claire aside, with Dante following. “Maybe you could get her away from this for a while, Claire. Why don’t you take her over to Nova’s? Charlie called her last night and told her that they needed to talk. She was going to tell her about how Elizabeth died and ask her who the real father of the baby was. It would be good for her to get away and get her mind off this. Everyone wants to talk about it, everyone wants to help – but each conversation is taking it out of her.
“I can stay here and hold down the fort,” Dante said. “I want to make a couple of calls, but I can still keep an eye on things.”
Chapter 38
CU2NIT
It took a little bit of doing, but Claire finally persuaded Charlie to go with her. The weather matched Claire’s unsettled mood – the smell of ozone hung in the air, and black clouds were beginning to mass on the horizon. As they walked to the car, she deliberately turned the topic to Elizabeth. Better old dusty troubles than ones so new the paint was barely dry.
“Tom says you want to ask Nova who the father of the baby really was. But why would she tell us that when she didn’t when we first talked with her?” They reached the car and got in.
“She did not know then that Elizabeth was murdered. She was covering up for her old friend. But now there is a reason to tell us the truth.” Charlie buckled her seatbelt. “Do not tell her about the – incident – would you? I am already tired of talking about it.”
Then she fell uncharacteristically silent. Claire was worried about her, but when she looked over, despite what had happened, Charlie was staring out the window with a Mona Lisa smile on her face.
There was only one reason Charlie could be smiling after such a day. “So … how are things with Tom?”
Charlie gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It is one date only, Clairle.”
“And one night! He gave me a start this morning when I came into the kitchen.”
“You cannot make a life out of one night. I certainly do not need any more excitement. I am only letting him stay again tonight because he insisted that he needed to protect me.”
“Uh huh,” Claire said. From the corner of her eye, she could see the private smile that curled Charlie’s lips. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to be eighty, after all.
Without the throng of visitors, Riverwalk looked somehow lonelier. The only person visible on the sprawling campus was an old lady in a walker, valiantly inching along the sidewalk. Slowing down, Claire leaned out and offered her a ride. She motioned at the sky, which looked ready to crack from the weight of the rain, but the elderly woman just waved her on.
Nova lived in one of a series of townhouses that ringed the sprawling complex. She answered the door in a white lacy slip, worn over a bra with conical stitching that to Claire’s eyes at least, contained more padding than Nova. Sheer purple nylo
ns dangled from her hand. Under the already teased and sprayed helmet of resolutely blond hair, there was something strangely naked and expressionless about Nova’s face. Claire chalked it up to a lack of makeup.
“I can’t talk to you for long,” Nova said. “I’m meeting someone at the Burger King, and I have to get ready. I don’t want to jinx it by saying too much, but this one might be a keeper.” She sat down on the edge of one of the two couches and began to gather up one leg of the nylons. The compact townhouse was overfilled with furniture, as if she had been reluctant to part with the contents of a much larger home. “I know I probably look foolish at my age, trying to get a man. God knows I’ve had enough of them. I don’t want to live with someone. I have no desire to cook three meals a day for a man again. I like my independence too much.”
Nova stood up to pull the nylons into place, and Claire looked away from her slack belly, covered by the kind of giant white cotton panties that Jean always bought at Sears.
“But there’s more to life than going out to lunch with my friends, or volunteering at the Red Cross once a week and handing out cookies. I just want someone to talk to, someone to bring me flowers and tell me I look pretty. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find that at my age. Well, you probably know a little something about it, Charlie.”
Nova sat back down, took a flowered makeup case from an end table and upended it in her lap. Without waiting for an answer, she kept talking, fingers picking through two dozens tiny bottles and tubes, pausing every now and then to take a quick puff on the cigarette slowly smoldering in the ashtray next to a round makeup mirror standing on wire legs.