The Perfect Landscape (20 page)

Buying and selling paintings is a hobby for him, not his profession, and Hrafn’s mind is on his work. He has never been particularly interested in Gudrun Johannsdottir’s paintings; her landscapes are too unassuming for his taste, and he hasn’t bought any of the abstract paintings she painted later in her career and is best known for. He’s not short of money, and it’s not the potential for profit that matters here.

Hrafn is curious about Masha. What does this wealthy woman want from him? She hasn’t made a move on him; she was evidently going to use Larisa for that purpose, although she has probably now realized that didn’t work. All he can assume is that she wants to develop contacts with Icelandic entrepreneurs, some of whom have a reputation for being prepared to take risks and think big. Compared to Mariya Kovaleva, Hrafn and his colleagues are small-fry. Hrafn isn’t even among the richest men in the country; he is just one of many who are into big business. But small-fries have their role to play. Small-fries can even transform into fast-moving sharks, if they make the right moves. It’s impossible to guess what Masha has in mind.

Hrafn would very much like to forge links with Masha; her hotel chain alone could increase his fish sales twentyfold. His export business has remained static for some time. It’s going well enough, but the time for change has come. By partnering with Masha those changes could come sooner rather than later.

When Hrafn arrives in Copenhagen not long after his e-mail exchange with Masha, he finds the painting in his room,
wrapped in the same brown paper as before. He is surprised and blames the Russian approach to efficiency. Maybe Masha is all talk and no substance? It doesn’t look as if the painting has gone further than to reception and back up again.

His phone rings. It’s Vasya. His father’s old business colleague.

“I’ve got some bad news,” he says and goes on to tell Hrafn about his wife’s death. Vasya’s voice is old and weary; he sounds hoarse. Hrafn sympathizes with him, but there’s nothing he can do. The funeral has already taken place.

Hrafn is dismayed when he switches off the phone. Vasya and his wife often came to Iceland when he was a boy. He has good memories of them and his father, who showed his best side with them. Now that era is gone forever. He doesn’t get time to digest the news because just then his phone rings again. Seeing a Russian number on the screen, he assumes it’s Vasya again, but it’s Masha’s voice on the other end.

“How do you like it?” she asks in her strongly accented English. Hrafn is taken aback. Is she tailing his every move? He only got to the room a few minutes ago.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” he replies politely, still thinking of Vasya and his loss. “I’ve only just got in.”

“The painting, of course. How do you like it?” Masha repeats impatiently, her tone excited as a child’s. Hrafn looks more closely at the packaging around the painting, which is leaning up against a wall. He was wrong; it has been unpacked and rewrapped. He assumed the painting would be sent to Moscow to be looked at, but obviously that’s not necessary. Masha undoubtedly knows competent specialists in Copenhagen.

But he still doesn’t understand the question. He knows the painting; he doesn’t need to look at it again. She knows he likes it; otherwise he wouldn’t have bought it. He looks at the packaging.

“I’m happy with the painting,” he says, being careful she doesn’t hear the surprise in his voice. “Did you find anything about its history?”

Masha laughs but doesn’t answer.

“I knew you’d like it. It’s a masterpiece. Now there’s no doubt that she, whatever her name is,
dottir
-something, has painted it. Larisa says you could sell it for a good price.”

Hrafn assumes that Masha has got a hold of some information that irrefutably links the painting with Gudrun.

“That’s good to know,” he says. “We should meet up again soon. Are you in Copenhagen?”

But Masha is at home in Moscow. However, before she hangs up she promises to get in touch next time she’s in Copenhagen.

Hrafn turns his phone off. Staring at the brown wrapping paper for a moment, he tries to picture the painting in his mind’s eye but can’t quite recall it in detail. Eventually he picks the painting up, lays it on the bed, undoes the packaging, and looks at a totally transformed painting.

The birch copse has been altered, but what most astonishes Hrafn is the mountain that now rises up from the trees. There was no mountain when he bought the painting. He sits down on the bed, perplexed. He examines the painting more carefully; it doesn’t look newly painted, far from it. The paint looks normal.

The wood seems richer than before, the birch trees possess more life, the colors are deeper, and the painting is undoubtedly
greatly improved and very like paintings he has seen by Gudrun Johannsdottir. He looks again—no, no signature. He wonders whether Masha has had the painting renovated and this painting was hidden underneath. But that can’t be right because in some respects the painting is exactly the same as before; most of the treetops are as they were. The sky doesn’t appear to have changed. Then it occurs to Hrafn that his memory is playing tricks on him. The painting has always been like this. But he knows that’s not true. He wouldn’t have overlooked a whole mountain.

He checks the back of the frame, examines the painting in detail. There’s no doubt about it. Masha has got an outstanding forger to alter the painting. To place the scene in the Icelandic countryside and imitate the style of Gudrun Johannsdottir down to the brushstrokes. And he has expressed his delight over it.

Hrafn is not pleased, and for a second he considers destroying the painting. Tear it into shreds and let it disappear. But Masha would not be pleased. Again, he wonders how she knew exactly when he would be returning to his room; she’d called only a couple of minutes later.

What would the market value be of a newly found, prewar painting by Gudrun Johannsdottir? Hrafn calls the gallery in Reykjavik to get some information. The value is good. Would get him a very nice Jeep. He’s been thinking about changing. He looks at the painting again, at the back of the frame, no signature, nothing about the origins of the work. The frame hasn’t been changed; the painting looks completely authentic. He looks at the picture. He likes it a lot. It’s an impressive piece. After a moment’s hesitation, he calls his friend, Thor, the lawyer
who specializes in copyright. A fellow student from high school days, a fishing buddy and a gym buddy when they’re both in Reykjavik. Thor doesn’t pick up right away, but Hrafn lets it ring. Thor is often out fishing in the summer, but Hrafn knows that he never goes out without his phone and Bluetooth.

“Well, hello there,” says Thor.

“Where are you?” asks Hrafn. “Have you caught anything?”

“I just let one go,” replies Thor. “I’m in the Nordura River. Lovely day up here.”

Hrafn tells him briefly about the painting. Thor listens carefully, and by the time he replies he’s standing on the bank of the river.

“So this Russian woman is in contact with forgers who’ve done this for her?”

Hrafn concurs and describes Masha’s private collection to Thor.

“Do you think the paintings have been forged?” asks Thor, and Hrafn thinks of the rows of paintings on Masha’s walls in Moscow.

“No,” he replies. “But possibly some of them.” He remembers the smell. When they went in he caught a whiff of turpentine and oils. Maybe some of the paintings were brand-new, barely dry.

“I know that Gudrun Johannsdottir sold some paintings at an auction in Copenhagen around 1940,” says Thor. “If one of those matched this painting then we’d be sitting pretty. I’ll look into it for you when I’m back in town. Talk to my friend Baldur.”

Hrafn agrees; he knows what Thor has in mind.

Hrafn is no art forger. He has not made a habit of selling forged pieces. But he has followed the market for a good
number of years. He knows that a certain percentage of the artworks in circulation are forgeries; with Thor’s help he has managed to get rid of a few paintings that he suspected could have been forged, to clean up his collection.

Gudrun Johannsdottir is dead. In his view there’s nothing unduly criminal in profiting from a forgery attributed to her, a work that isn’t even signed. If he did sell the painting, it would be on the basis that in all probability the painting was by her. And if Thor managed to arrange it that a painting in the auctioneer’s list in Copenhagen from the time when the original painting was done was listed as exactly the same size as this painting, so much the better. Thor has good contacts and knows someone who is skilled at changing the odd number in an old record in such a way that no one will notice. In this way a painting that originally was sixty-by-eighty centimeters could easily become fifty-by-seventy, for example. Thor has easy access to the records of the gallery in Reykjavik; he simply has to borrow Baldur’s keys, no questions asked.

Thor and Hrafn regularly give each other a helping hand. They are businessmen in their different ways. These business dealings are a gray area. Strictly speaking they are illegal of course. Unethical. And yet no one loses by them. Everyone gains. Hrafn, Thor, the auction house. In Hrafn’s eyes, such business dealings are all right from time to time but he wouldn’t engage in them on a regular basis. And whoever ends up buying this painting will undoubtedly be delighted with this handsome work of art.

Hrafn hangs up and looks again at the painting; it’s undeniably beautiful and would be a credit to any living room. Give it some time, maybe two or three months, and he will put it
back up for auction. In the autumn. As a painting by Gudrun Johannsdottir. The gallery’s database will then have documented a painting of this size from the auction list of around 1940.

Hrafn’s thoughts then turn to the auction house where he bought the painting. They have a picture of the painting before it was altered. He wants to see it again, to make sure that no one can connect this new painting with the one he bought. People have been caught out by this kind of slipup. Hrafn hurriedly finds the auction house’s website, but it’s only possible to see sold items from the previous week. He calls them up and gets a picture of the painting he bought e-mailed to him. It is exactly the same as the painting lying on his bed.

Hrafn is relieved but also concerned. It would seem Masha is very well connected, even in Danish auctioneer circles. She has clearly had the image in the database switched and replaced with a picture of the painting as it is now. Obviously it’s no problem to find an employee who is willing to get involved in this sort of thing. Invite him to parties on an expensive yacht, to a luxury hotel on a private island, or offer him cocaine and a more beautiful woman than he could dream of legitimately having. Hrafn thinks about Larisa, her gentle movements, the sparkle in her eyes.

It occurs to him that he has met his match in Masha. He has already accepted the painting. Thanked her for it. Expressed his delight. Without opening it. He is angry at himself. This would never have happened to him in another business deal. But how could he have foreseen it? And what would he have said if he had looked at the painting while they were talking? Probably the same. Now he owes Masha a favor and he doesn’t know what this favor will entail, only that he can’t say no to her.

A shepherd stands under a tree with his crook and his knapsack, leaning up against the broad trunk, watching his flock graze on a broad plain. The morning light falls on a small pond—or is the day drawing to a close? In the distance a village nestles among leafy trees, smoke winds up from the chimneys, bluish like the mountains in the background that soar above the plain, and the clouds are tinged with pink. There is an air of tranquility about the shepherd and his flock; the only thing that brings to mind the transient nature of life is the tree under which he is standing, dominating the center of the canvas. Its crown is dark and leafless, the bare branches standing out against the sky as if in anguish. Man’s insignificance in the face of Nature and the Almighty is revealed through the shepherd.

Der einsame Baum, The Solitary Tree
, is the name Caspar David Friedrich, the nineteenth-century German painter, gave to his work, which is owned by the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin and has now come to Reykjavik for the Arts Festival.

It isn’t a large painting, only fifty-five by seventy-one centimeters, and it looks lonely there on the second floor gracing the end wall of the exhibition room. Visitors have to peer at the picture to see the shepherd and the sheep or the smoke rising so calmly over the village. The painting has been roped off so they can’t get too close to it. Strict security was one of the conditions attached to the loan of this work. The gallery hardly meets such conditions, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Herbert Grunewald, patron and cocurator of the exhibition
Landscapes: Past and Present
is the ex-director of the Alte Nationalgalerie, the painting would never have entered the country. Let alone after only a few months to prepare for it.

Much has been made of the painting’s debut in the country, and it’s not surprising that Baldur and Kristin are rather tense seeing the crowd building up and filling the square outside the gallery. The attendance is even better than they expected. The street artists from Paris who are performing on the square are a big draw. It’s the third Saturday in May; the sun is shining and the air is still. It’s not only as if spring has arrived, but also summer, on the same day.

Hanna watches the gathering crowd with a slight feeling of surprise. The city has sprung to life today. Families with children and strollers fill the square to watch the artists juggling, fire-eating, and riding on unicycles just like abroad. The cafes on the square have set out tables and chairs and are doing brisk trade—people are drinking beer in the middle of the day as they do in Paris, Copenhagen, or Amsterdam. The square Hanna ran across in the rain and the storm on her way to the gallery on her first day is unrecognizable.

After the incident the week before, Haraldur and Leifur have managed to keep the peace by ignoring each other. Hanna
helped Haraldur get his pictures up in the Annexe. She made a point of singing their praises, and while they were hanging them she made out she didn’t notice Leifur’s installation ranged across the room. Haraldur and Hanna were both pleased with the result.