The Art Forger (19 page)

The more I work on
Bath II,
the more sure I am that the forgery Markel brought to me was copied directly from an original Degas. Except for Françoise and the space around her, the scope of the colors, the subtlety of the shadows, the juxtapositions of tone and light have to be based on the work of the master. I don’t believe any forger could have created this without a model from which to work. At its most essential heart, this is an Edgar Degas creation. Which, if I’m right, means there might be an original somewhere. Degas was famous at the time it was painted, and it’s unlikely an object of such value would have been destroyed. But you never know.

By the time Markel arrives, the canvas has been in the oven for almost an hour, and I’m experimenting with greens for the next layer. He wipes paint from my cheek with his thumb and gives me a hug. “A little too orangey for your coloring,” he says. “Might want to add a touch more red.”

I’m not displeased at his familiarity. We’ve never hugged before, and he feels bigger than I expected, more solid. And he smells good, like summer. I hug him back, lengthening the embrace a moment or so longer than might be considered proper between colleagues.

I pull away. “Don’t come by tomorrow.” I gesture to the palette I’ve been experimenting on. “I look even worse in green.”

He turns to the oven. “Is it cooking?”

“Got about another fifteen minutes before the first test.”

He sits down in my chair and stares into the oven. “It’s such a weird image. A baking canvas.”

“Almost seems normal to me now.”

The light is on inside the oven, and he leans in closer. “You’re already into the rich tones?” he asks. “How did you get so far so fast?”

“Thanks to your trusty oven.”

“Can we take it out?”

I cluck my tongue. “No, little Aiden, I’m sorry, Santa isn’t coming until morning.”

“Patience isn’t my strong suit.” He wanders over to the table where my paints, brushes, and mediums are scattered in a messy jumble only I can understand. He sniffs. “You got a dead animal in here?”

“Shit. I sure as hell hope not.” I go to the kitchen area, squat to check the base of the cabinets. I open the door under the sink and warily stick my head in. “But it’s not unheard of.”

“No. I mean it smells like formaldehyde. Like a science lab or something.”

Relieved, I stand. “Phenol formaldehyde. Another van Meegeren invention. Like I told you, a kind of a medium, but not directly mixed in. It hardens the paint and helps it dry.”

Markel frowns. “But if Degas didn’t use it, won’t they be able to tell?”

“The baking breaks it down and completely disperses it. The paint’s hard, but the chemicals are gone.”

“And you wondered why I chose you?”

“Anyone with time to do the research and the ability to copy can do this.” The juvy boys aren’t the only ones uncomfortable with compliments.

When the timer chimes, I grab two potholders, squat, and open the door. I carefully inch the canvas toward me, giving it small pushes through the rack on the underside of the painting. Then I lift it and place it on the top of the stove.

Markel says nothing as I dampen a piece of cotton wool with alcohol and wave it an inch or so above the area on which the newly applied orange is the thickest. The paint remains unchanged. No softening, no desaponification. I press the alcohol swab to a dab of paint I purposely leaked over the edge of the canvas, holding the contact while I count slowly to ten. When I remove the cotton wool, it’s completely white. I lightly press a finger to the paint. Hard as a rock.

“Done,” I say, lifting the canvas to the easel.

Markel’s eyes swing from my forgery to his original, then back again. “It’s phenomenal, Claire,” he says in a low whisper. “Absolutely phenomenal.”

“Now for the varnish.” I twist the top off a can of varnish and pour a bit into a small bowl. When the smell hits my nose, I’m back in juvy, sweaty and scared. I quickly pick up my brush and start talking about van Meegeren. “So he figured out that if you applied a coat of varnish while the paint was still warm from baking, the cracks from the original sizing would come out as each layer cooled.”

“Clever man.”

“I had a rudimentary understanding of the whole craquelure thing, but I never knew any of the details before I took those Repro certification classes and started doing research for this project. Never even heard of van Meegeren. We didn’t learn about him in art school. Hardly anybody seems to be aware of his contribution.”

“I’m guessing academics aren’t all that keen on beefing up the reputation of a forger,” Markel says dryly.

“And even though you can’t see it right now because the paint’s still hot,” I continue, “in another couple of hours, a tiny tracery of miniature hills and valleys will rise magically until they’re written on the surface.”

“Both artist and poet.” He’s beaming at me like a proud papa. But the softness of his eyes has nothing to do with fatherhood and everything to do with sexual attraction. He takes a step toward me. “Claire?” he says, and I know exactly what he’s asking.

I want him, I have for a while. It’s been a tough day, and I’d like nothing better than to crawl into his arms, have him obliterate all my fears and replace them with pleasure. But I’ve made too many bad choices before him, and now there are too many secrets between us. I shake my head.

He blinks, steps back. “Okay. That’s cool. Has nothing to do with the rest of the project. Or anything else.”

The longing on his face mirrors what I feel. “Maybe later,” I say, wishing for sooner. “Maybe after this is all over . . .”

“Probably smart,” he says, in a flat voice that reveals that he doesn’t think it’s smart at all.

Twenty-three

It’s September, and as the cool breezes come off the water and the sunlight becomes more angular, I’m seized by that back-to-school exhilaration where anything is possible and no one knows what the new year may hold. I told Repro I needed to work on my own projects for a few months. Beverly Arms “granted” me a leave of absence pending further investigation. Rik’s in Paris, and I let it be known at Jake’s that I’m deep into a creative burst. Markel’s stopped by a couple of times, but the visits have been short and slightly awkward. When he leaves, I wish he were still here.

But I see the end. I can feel it, taste it. In a Herculean effort that puts my labors of the past weeks to shame, I sprint toward the finish line. There’s nothing to stop me except the time required to paint and bake. And if I do say so myself,
Bath II
is looking good.

There’s a marvelous interaction between the phenol formaldehyde and the baking that renders the colors with the depth and brightness of a finely cut jewel. They sparkle under the light, almost shimmer. Although I’m going to have to tone this down at the end with a wash of India ink to mimic the effects of time, it occurs to me that no such thing will be necessary on my windows.

When I accepted Markel’s offer, I thought I’d be learning at the feet of a master painter; instead, my most powerful lessons have come from a master forger. Markel has already agreed to let me keep the oven until the opening. As my excitement grows at the thought of working on my own paintings, I push myself even more.

I’ve taken to sleeping in multiple, short stretches during both night and day, upsetting my natural circadian rhythms and further cutting myself off from the cadence of the world. I do two, maybe three, glaze-and-bake cycles, then tumble onto my mattress for a few hours of rest. When I get up, I eat some cold pad Thai, drink a glass of orange juice, and get back to work. I often feel as if I’m observing myself from afar, from outside, while, in seeming contradiction, I remain in the zone for longer periods of time than I ever believed possible.

The downside is the dreams, recurring ones. Of Isaac, of Belle and Edgar Degas, of Markel. Usually I’m being held hostage by Isaac, pursuing Belle and Degas, being pursued by Markel. But sometimes it’s the other way around or all mixed together. A couple of times, Xavier’s been there, too. And in more than a few, Markel and I are making love. When I wake up, the dreams seem boringly predictable, but when I’m inside them, they are terrifyingly—or orgasmically—real.

I push myself harder and harder, paint faster and faster, hoping that by finishing the painting, I’ll also be finishing off my demons. That I’ll be able to climb out of this vortex and into my actual life.

Then, one day it’s done. With the sweep of the brush, I sign Degas’ name, making sure to leave the somewhat too large space between the “a” and the “s.” Adrenaline surges through my body as I step back and admire my handiwork.

I do an overall comparison between the two paintings. Except for the brilliance of the color in
Bath II,
they appear virtually identical. I come closer and inspect them inch by inch, stroke by stroke. Excellent. I check for the tiny spot of green I put on the back of the top-right corner of
Bath II
to make sure I’m always able to tell the difference, then carefully go over the painting. I close my eyes, open them, take it in. Do it again.

I open the closet door so the full-length mirror is facing out and position the two paintings so I can see both reflections simultaneously. I turn one upside down, then the other, lay them sideways on the couch.

My stomach twists. There’s something wrong with
Bath II.
Something Degas would never do. I try to find what I’m reacting to, sliding my eyes back and forth over the painting until something clicks. The shadows off to Françoise’s left don’t have enough depth. I turn back to
Bath,
study Françoise, compare her to mine. She and her shadows are identical in both paintings.
Bath II
may not be a Degas, but I’ve created an accurate forgery of the forgery.

There’s only one more thing left to do. I apply a thin layer of varnish over the entire canvas. When it’s dry and the craquelure has risen to the surface, I lay the painting flat on my work table, grab a wide brush and a bottle of India ink. Then I hesitate. I know I need to do this. Have to do this. But I balk at the idea of restraining the vivid tones I worked so hard to create.

I force myself to put brush to canvas. Force myself to cover the entire image with the blue-black ink. Force myself to watch the canvas turn completely dark, obscuring every line and every bit of color. When the ink’s dry, I wipe it away with a soapy rag, then carefully remove the new varnish with a mixture of alcohol and turpentine.

Again, I’m awed by Han’s genius. The last bits of ink have adhered themselves to the ridges of craquelure, creating a network of fine lines that duplicate those of the original forgery. I cover the canvas with a final coat of varnish, tinted with a touch of brown to mirror aging, and the faux masterpiece is complete.

M
ARKEL STANDS IN
front of the two paintings, his eyes roving from one to the other and then back again. He doesn’t say a word, and his face is inscrutable. For a moment, I’m back in Isaac’s studio waiting for Karen and Markel’s verdict on
4D.
The nauseating anticipation is the same, as is the relief when he turns to me with a huge smile.

“Bravo.” He claps his hands in appreciation, and I see that he wants to hug me.

I step away and pull a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator. “You brought over the one that we drank to cement this project, so it’s my turn to provide the one to celebrate its conclusion.”

Markel is so riveted by the paintings that he doesn’t notice the awkwardness in my voice. “I don’t know what to say. I honestly don’t.” He turns to me, and his eyes are warm with admiration. “Which one is which?”

I grab a couple of glasses and walk back to him. “Guess.”

He steps in closer, inspects each carefully, then walks around and inspects the backs. “Would’ve thought I’d know it anywhere.”

“A good sign.”

He returns to the front and looks some more. “But I can’t tell. I really can’t tell.”

“Oh, go for it.”

He stabs at the painting on the right. “This one.”

I laugh, and he swivels his arm to the left one. “This one.”

I hesitate, toying with him.

“Claire . . .”

“Should’ve stuck with your original bet.”

“You’ve done phenomenal work here.” He takes the champagne bottle from me and pops it open. “To you,” he says, raising the bottle and allowing the foam to cascade down its side. “The most amazing woman ever.”

I hold the glasses out and watch the rims as he pours, avoiding his eyes. Half of me wants to throw myself into his arms, while the other half is all too aware of the lie I’ve told—or, at least, the lie I’ve allowed him to believe. And I’ve no idea how truthful he’s been with me. It’s difficult to own, given the pounding of my heart and the dampness between my legs, but I’m not sure I can trust him. Although I’ve never been particularly astute about relationships, as my rock-strewn romantic history attests, I’m astute enough to know this is not a good basis for one.

We sit on the couch, touch glasses, and toast our success. I snuggle myself into a corner cross-legged and smile, hoping not to look like I’m trying to avoid contact. “So what’s the next step?”