A Fine Imitation (8 page)

Though Vera held a party to introduce Hallan to the building the evening after his arrival, it seemed everyone had already bumped into him by the time dawn broke on his first full day at the Angelus. One by one, the ladies called on Vera, ostensibly with a question or the need to borrow some trifle. Mostly they just bragged about having met “the artist.” Poppy said she ran into him in the elevator, and Vera supposed she had ridden the elevator up and down all afternoon hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Caroline Litchfield said she saw him in the hallway, but Vera could not fathom any reason for her to be on the second floor at all. Bessie Harper, true to form, was the most brazen; ignoring etiquette, she had simply knocked on his door. The women buzzed with excitement, almost floating above the chairs Vera offered.

Though the invitation clearly stated, “cocktails at 7:30, seating at 8,” people began arriving as soon as the clock read seven twenty-five. Vera had Evans direct them into the drawing room and waited until the exact time on the invitation to enter. Arthur followed shortly after. Hallan arrived late.

He stood in the doorway, and the room immediately broke into applause. He smiled, but his brow knitted almost imperceptibly. Vera walked over to greet him, and he gave the room a little nod of acknowledgment before stepping to her side. His dark suit made the bluish hue in his eyes more prominent, and he had tamed his hair into a sharp part. Vera thought it fortunate that he knew how to dress himself appropriately for a formal dinner party. There was no knowing what kind of savagery a working artist might be accustomed to.

“Good evening, Mr. Hallan. So kind of you to come,” she said.

“How are you this evening?” he asked.

“Very well, and you?”

“I'm well. Thank you for hosting, I'm looking forward to meeting everyone.” He scanned the room. “Well, everyone I haven't met yet.”

“In that case, let me introduce you to my husband.” She turned and laid a hand on Arthur's sleeve. He disengaged himself from his conversation. “Arthur, I'd like to present Mr. Emil Hallan.”

The men shook hands, and Arthur drew himself up to his full height. “How do you do? I received your letter, of course.”

“Glad to hear it,” Hallan said.

“I'm sure my wife has inquired about the suitability of your accommodations.”

Hallan glanced from Arthur to Vera, then back again. “Oh, the apartment is excellent, thank you.”

Arthur took a sip from his highball glass. “When do you plan to begin work?”

“Very soon. Haven't made it down to the pool yet. I'll need to get a sense of the size of it, do some sketches, that sort of thing.” Hallan turned to Vera. “I was hoping you could take me down there tomorrow morning. Would you?”

Vera gave a pinched smile. “So sorry, I have an engagement in the morning. I'm sure Ida would be delighted to show you, though. She is head of the Mural Board, after all.” She beckoned to a waiter with a tray of drinks. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Hallan?”

He took a drink from the tray. Arthur returned to his group, and Vera stepped to the side to allow others to approach the artist. But Hallan, instead of circulating, stayed close to her.

“I'm sorry,” she said, allowing a hint of irritation into her voice. “Would you like me to introduce you to anyone?”

“I've met a good number already, actually. In the halls and the like.” He lifted a hand to the crowd. “These people certainly aren't shy.”

Vera studied her drink to avoid his gaze. Something about the focus and energy in his eyes, the candidness in his manner, made her unsteady. He was too comfortable with her, as though they were old friends. “No, I suppose they aren't,” she finally managed.

“It's a bit strange, isn't it?” he asked under his breath, leaning in.

“I beg your pardon?”

His face was so close to hers she could smell his shaving lotion. “The applause, the fuss. A Mural Board? It's not what I expected.”

Vera pulled on the pendant of one of her canary diamond earrings. “Everyone is excited, that's all.”

“And you?”

“Me what?”

His eyes gleamed. “Are you excited?”

Vera's lips parted, and she clamped them shut. When she spoke, her voice came out like the blade of a knife. “I'm generally a calm person by nature. If you'll excuse me, I ought to check on the kitchen.”

She left the drawing room and downed the last of her cocktail. If this was how the artist was planning to behave for the entirety of his stay, she did not know how much of his company she could tolerate. What was he thinking, asking her if she was excited? What was that in his tone? Was he actually flirting? With her husband standing not two feet away? Surely not. She stepped into the kitchen and took a deep breath to restore her composure.

When the cook confirmed everything was running on time, Vera sent the maid out with the dinner bell. The party progressed to the dining room, and the guests found their seats. Vera was glad she had put Hallan three seats away, between the matronly Ida Bloomer and the reedy Bessie Harper. The distance was a relief. Poppy Hastings was likewise too far away to enjoy a chat with the artist; a good thing, since she had been on the point of salivating over him when Vera had returned to the drawing room.

Vera congratulated herself on having planned and timed the meal perfectly. The chilled caviar melted like ice, and the sole that followed was still steaming. She would have to commend Gertrude on the perfect presentation of the artichokes, and the chicken had just the right amount of herb seasoning. The only tiny hiccup was when Julius Hastings bellowed an order to a servant who passed away at least two years before, but that sort of thing could be forgiven at his age. Otherwise, everything flowed as Vera had planned, until the waiters brought in the cordials.

Hallan stood and clinked his fork to his glass, silencing the party. “Good evening, everyone. I want to thank you again for my appointment as your muralist. I'm delighted to begin work on the project very soon.”

There was light applause around the table, which he waved off with a gracious nod before continuing. “I do have a request to make, and I thought it easiest to make it when we are all assembled together. I must ask that all keys to the pool room be turned over to me, and that no one enter the pool until the painting is finished.”

Dull silence greeted this statement, followed by a rumbling murmur that increased in volume. After a stern look from his wife, Clarence Bloomer stood.

“I understand artistic temperament and all that,” Clarence said, “but my wife has to take her daily exercise in the pool. Doctor's orders.”

Hallan nodded. “I know it will be an inconvenience, but I really cannot proceed without privacy while I work. I never let anyone see my work until it's done. I'm afraid I must insist.”

The murmur resumed, and Clarence took his seat. Kenneth Harper leaned in to Vera, speaking under his breath. “Yes, you know, I've heard of that with artists. Don't like anyone seeing a work in progress.”

“I suppose,” Vera said. She looked back to where Hallan stood, but turned away again when she found his eyes fixed on her.

Arthur stood. “We've paid for the man's passage and lodgings. We should indulge his conditions for work as well, don't you all think? You'll have the keys tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” Hallan turned to the others. “You won't be disappointed, I promise you.”

Caroline Litchfield leaned across the table, eyes gleaming. “How delightfully eccentric. Don't you think so, Vera?”

“Quite unusual.” Vera accepted a glass of sherry from the waiter at her elbow. A few seats down, Arthur turned cold eyes on Hallan, who chatted with Ida. If the artist felt the stare, he did not acknowledge it.

Hallan got the keys the next day. Vera assumed he must have put them on a ring, because every time she saw him at a social engagement after that, his pocket jingled as he walked around. And there were many social events. Everyone in the building seemed to want to throw a cocktail party or a dinner in his honor, and Vera wondered when he would find time to do any painting at all. Not that they would know if he was. She passed him making a sketch once, out on the sidewalk, as she waited for the car to take her to Wednesday lunch with her mother. A railing blocked her view of his drawing paper, so she could not satisfy her curiosity about his subject. She worried he would tie her up in conversation if he saw her, but he was so engrossed in his work that he never looked up.

At the many social functions, however, he felt free to approach Vera, and did so earlier and earlier each time. The first welcome event after Vera's dinner was a cocktail party at the Bloomers'. When the excitement of redoing her living room had waned, Ida Bloomer had purchased an authentic Egyptian sarcophagus. Everyone had gone mad for Egyptian artifacts and decor after the discovery the previous year of King Tut's tomb, but Ida's passion surpassed them all. A recent fashion show highlighting Egyptian style had further increased her ardor. Her celebration in honor of the artist would be her second Egyptian-themed party since March, and this time she would have the sarcophagus as the focal point.

Vera dutifully put on a gold and black dress and her large blue scarab pendant. She asked Marguerite to darken her eyes with kohl and to weave a gold ribbon into her elaborate hairstyle. Arthur refused to dress up for theme parties. Costumes were, in his words, “for children.” He met Vera at their front door in a plain black suit.

Even the most enthusiastic of the other men seemed to have tired of theme nights as well. When Vera and Arthur entered Ida's drawing room, all except one of the men were dressed in suits. Clarence, however, sported a huge golden headdress that matched Ida's. Vera imagined it was one of two concessions he had made to the theme. The other had to be the swoops of sapphire- and ruby-colored fabrics hanging over the party, and the painted wooden panels with hieroglyphics that stood beside the tall windows.