A Fine Imitation (6 page)

With that decided, and a few more excited chirps from Ida and Poppy, the diners resumed their meal. Vera noted with a glum look at the clock that it was only eight thirty. They still had dessert and cordials, and the men would certainly have cigars in the library while she suffered through another hour in the drawing room with the ladies. So she was relieved when Arthur stood at the end of the meal and announced his regret that he and Vera would have to leave early.

“Oh, no,” Ida cried, her chest deflating. “You can't stay for just a bit longer?”

“Very sorry, but I've got to stop in to the office this evening. Big meeting on Monday,” he said.

A cold shock went through Vera, but she kept her expression cool as she took his arm. They accepted a chorus of good-byes, then went out to the elevator. Vera waited until they were back in their own foyer to speak.

“The office, Arthur? It's Saturday night.” Her voice came out harder than she wanted.

He lifted his chin. “I'm well aware what day it is. What does that matter?”

After ten years of marriage, she knew the difference between a trip to the office and simply leaving, but pushing him could make him shut down completely. She at least wanted a chance at living her daydream from the elevator. “It's so…late,” she said at last, trying to sound more concerned than unhappy.

“I'm aware of the hour, too. You know I have to work late.”

“Will you be home at all, then?”

His face was unreadable stone. “It all depends on how much I'm able to get done.”

“I see.” She pulled at her gloves, nearly ripping a seam in her haste.

Evans stepped in. If he had heard the exchange, or felt its meaning, it did not show in his face. He took Vera's gloves.

“Evans,” Arthur said, “call down for the car, please. And that will be all this evening. Unless you needed something else?” He turned to Vera.

She exhaled hard, defeated. “No. Thank you, Evans.”

“Very good.” The butler left, the soft leather soles of his shoes against the marble the only sound in the foyer.

Vera stared at Arthur a moment longer, trying to will the courage to say what she knew about where he was really going. But courage failed her, as it always did, and she turned for the staircase. She called a soft “good night” over her shoulder and gritted her teeth against the ache in her chest. Why had she allowed herself to hope that their glances, their friendly words, would translate into what she had imagined in the elevator? A few jokes about tiresome company did not mean that evening would be any different than the countless evenings before.

Vera forgot about the mural idea until two weeks later, when Evans led Clarence Bloomer into her library.

“Clarence, how are you?” She gestured to the chair near her, and he sat. “I'm sorry, we weren't expecting you. Evans should have told you Arthur is out.”

“No, dear. I'm here to see you.” His tawny mustache broadened with his grin. He dug into his coat's breast pocket, retrieving an envelope. “I've spoken to my friend, the one on the museum board.”

“Your friend?” Vera took the proffered envelope. Peeking inside, she saw it held a letter and some photographs.

“Yes, the man I mentioned at dinner. He put the word out about our little mural project, and a man in Paris says he knows someone perfect for the job.”

Vera had assumed the residents would forget about the artist idea, but she did not dare say as much to Clarence. “Of course, the mural. Who does he have in mind?”

Clarence's eyes sparkled. “He's quite new, but I'm assured he'll be one of the best known in the world in a few years. Hallan is his name. Emil Hallan. Studied at one of those very old schools, you know.”

Vera cocked her head. “Hallan? I've never heard of him.”

“As I say, very new. Young fellow. He's in Paris now, but he's willing to come to the city. Says in the letter he's only just started with murals, but he's completed at least one, so he's got some experience with larger works. There's a photo in here, and a few of some of his other paintings. I don't know art. They look good to me, but I wanted your expert opinion.”

Vera pulled the photos from the envelope. “I'm sure I don't—” Her breath caught in her throat. Even in black and white, she could see the subtle use of shading, the careful arc of the brushstrokes. His style was undoubtedly modern, with sharp geometric lines, but he somehow blended a modern edge with a heartfelt tenderness that leapt out of the photographs. One suggested a woman, kneeling over a child in a low cradle. Another was a stand of trees, like the edge of a forest, but they looked to Vera like proud soldiers. A few at the edges were battered, but those in the middle stood strong. She wanted to look at them forever, examine every nuance. She could not imagine how incredible the paintings must be in person. Clarence's friend was right. Whoever painted these was clearly finding his style but had the potential to be among the greats.

She flipped to the last picture, then paused. The last was a beautifully done mural highlighting the musical arts. Swirling rivulets grew into streams and then near the bottom took the shapes of cellos, flutes, a kettledrum. But something was wrong. The styles of all four works were so similar, she could not think how to put her hesitation into words. But something inside of her insisted that the mural was not the work of the person who painted the other pieces. The raw emotion of the first three paintings, the tangible mix of despair and hope, was lacking in the mural. She had the strangest notion that if she could have seen the originals in color instead of the black-and-white photos, she would have been able to point out the difference. But how could she explain the subtle disparity to Clarence when she could not describe it inside her own mind? She allowed herself another glimpse at the first paintings, and her heart ached to know who had made them.

Clarence's smile drooped into a frown. “Is something wrong? I told you, I don't know the first thing about—”

“He's very good.” The words escaped, riding her breath, before she knew they were coming. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought of the rush of emotion the paintings had inspired. She felt as though Clarence had walked in on her dressing. She shoved the photos and letter back into the envelope. “They're—he's a good candidate, I suppose.”

Clarence's expression brightened once more. He took the envelope from her. “Excellent! Oh, from the look on your face I was afraid they were terrible. But they're good, you say?”

Vera calmed her expression and patted her hair. “Very nice. Fine work.”

“I'll write him back today, then. Thank you, dear.”

After a few more pleasantries and a reminder to have Arthur phone him, Clarence left, chest still puffed out with the triumph of his find. Vera sat for a long time in a haze, still thinking about the photos. She wondered what sort of man could paint such haunting pieces. He would have to be educated, refined. The sort of man who felt deeply and did not hide it. The sort of man who could not abide coldness or indifference. A man who would not toy, who would say things honestly, and without reservation.

An uneasy tremble went through her as she remembered the photo of the mural. But then, she chided herself, a mural was a different medium altogether, and one she knew little about. Perhaps an artist's style had to be adapted for work on such a large scale. She supposed that her recent brush with forgery had left her on the alert. The postmark attested that the letter and photos had indeed come from France. Besides, she could not bring herself to care whether the pool room twenty floors below had a mural or not. The only interest she had in hiring the artist was that it might mean the arrival of someone with whom she could possibly have a real conversation.

Since bringing the artist in was Ida's idea, the other ladies named her head of a newly created “Mural Board,” and she threw herself into plans for the big arrival. She roped Vera into helping her furnish 2A and make travel arrangements for Mr. Hallan, since Arthur would be the one writing the checks. The Mural Board agreed that $10,000 plus the cost of travel would be a fair price for what might take several months to paint. Vera suggested the room and board serve as a sort of deposit, with the money paid upon completion of the project. The artist would have comfortable accommodations within arm's reach of his work, and deferring the payment would ease the concerns of anyone wary about hiring an unknown. If they did not like his creation, they would not have to pay.

The maintenance staff and the chauffeur's lounge occupied most of the second floor, so 2A was a modest two-bedroom apartment. From what she had seen of his work, Vera determined that Hallan would appreciate clean lines and delicate touches of color, and she furnished his rooms accordingly. She and Ida bought a six-person dining table, since he would hardly be expected to entertain much, and hired a housekeeper to cook and clean for him. The two women debated about whether or not he would need a valet. Vera thought not, since the girl would be perfectly capable of keeping up with one man's calendar and wardrobe, but Ida thought he should have at least two servants. Weary of arguing the point, Vera allowed Ida to have her way. They booked a second-class passage on the SS
Leviathan
. Vera assumed that since she did not recognize his name, he would not necessarily be accustomed to first-class travel. With the apartment furnished, servants hired, and the ticket purchased, there was nothing to do but wait.

Mr. Hallan sent Arthur a letter of introduction and thanks for the post, but Arthur handed the unopened envelope off to Vera. She studied the gliding letters, as thin and delicate as spider webs. Hallan explained that he had attended the Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris and included a letter from one of his instructors there, who gushed about Hallan's talent. That much, however, had been obvious to Vera from the photographs.

Two weeks before the artist was scheduled to arrive, the Mural Board met in Vera's library to discuss who ought to go pick him up. She thought one of the men should go, but as Hallan was scheduled to arrive in the middle of a weekday, the other women quickly voted that down. They were certain none of the men would be willing to interrupt their workday to go down to the docks.