He kept looking at the painting, and I could feel the memories welling in him. I let him look. I wanted him to look. It was more his painting than anyone’s. I could see that now. I knew I should say something... like “that’s very interesting,” or “that explains so much.” But I didn’t. I stared at the painting, too, and it was as though we were alone in that crowded, noisy room. We might have been on a desert island, or in a time machine. I saw Herbert running, saw his hunger. I saw his passion for questions and the seeking out of answers. I saw why philosophers always failed, and why they went on trying despite the fact. I saw the whole bloody story. And the colours: They were elemental, but they were of the city, too. They were Paris, not long after the war, the recuperating city. Blood and sweat and the simple feral need to go on living.
To go on living.
My eyes were filling with water. I was about to say something crass, something like “thank you,” but Hefferwhite beat me to it, leaned towards me so his voice could drop to a whisper.
“It’s a hell of a fake.”
And with that, and a pat on my shoulder, he drifted back into the party.
“I could have died,” I told Jance. It was straight afterwards. I was still wearing the Armani, pacing the floor of my flat. It’s not much — third floor, two bedrooms, Maida Vale — but I was happy to see it. I could hardly get the tears out of my eyes. The telephone was in my hand... I just had to tell somebody, and who could I tell but Jance?
“Well,” he said, “you’ve never asked about the clients.”
“I didn’t want to know.”
“Maybe I should have told you anyway. It would save this happening again.”
“Jance, I swear to God, I nearly died.”
Jance chuckled, not really understanding. He was in Zurich, sounded further away still. “I knew Joe already had a couple of Voores,” he said. “He’s got some other stuff too — but he doesn’t broadcast the fact. That’s why he was perfect for Herbert in Motion.”
“But he was talking about not wanting to be reminded of the suicide.”
“He was talking about why the painting was there.”
“He thought it must be a message.”
Jance sighed. “Politics. Who understands politics?”
I sighed. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“Don’t blame you. I never understood why you started in the first place.”
“Let’s say I lost faith.”
“Me, I never had much to start with. Listen, you haven’t told anyone else?”
“Who would I tell?” My mouth dropped open. “But I left a note.”
“A note?”
“In my office.”
“Might I suggest you go retrieve it?”
Beginning to tremble all over again, I went out in search of a taxi.
The night security people knew who I was, and let me into the building. I’d worked there before at night — it was the only time I could strip and replace the canvases.
“Busy tonight, eh?” the guard said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Busy tonight,” he repeated. “Your boss is already in.”
“When did he arrive?”
“Not five minutes ago. He was running.”
“Running?”
“Said he needed a pee.”
I ran too, ran as fast as I could through the galleries and towards the offices, the paintings a blur either side of me. There was a light in my superior’s office, and the door was ajar. But the room itself was empty. I walked to the desk and saw my note there. It was still in its sealed envelope. I picked it up and stuffed it into my jacket, just as my superior came into the room.
“Oh, good man,” he said, rubbing his hands to dry them. “You got the message.”
“Yes,” I said, trying to still my breathing. Message: I hadn’t checked my machine.
“Thought if we did a couple of evenings it would sort out the Rothko.”
“Absolutely.”
“No need to be so formal, though.”
I stared at him.
“The suit,” he said.
“Drinks at Number Ten,” I explained.
“How did it go?”
“Fine.”
“PM happy with his Voore?”
“Oh yes.”
“You know he only wanted it to impress some American? One of his aides told me.”
“Joseph Hefferwhite,” I said.
“And was he impressed?”
“I think so.”
“Well, it keeps us sweet with the PM, and we all know who holds the purse strings.” My superior made himself comfortable in his chair and looked at his desk. “Where’s that envelope?”
“What?”
“There was an envelope here.” He looked down at the floor.
I swallowed, dry-mouthed. “I’ve got it,” I said. He looked startled, but I managed a smile. “It was from me, proposing we spend an evening or two on Rothko.”
My superior beamed. “Great minds, eh?”
“Absolutely.”
“Sit down then, let’s get started.” I pulled over a chair. “Can I let you into a secret? I detest Rothko.”
I smiled again. “I’m not too keen myself.”
“Sometimes I think a student could do his stuff just as well, maybe even better.”
“But then it wouldn’t be his, would it?”
“Ah, there’s the rub.”
But I thought of the Voore fake, and Joe Hefferwhite’s story, and my own reactions to the painting — to what was, when all’s said and done, a copy — and I began to wonder...
Unmarked Graves
by George C. Chesbro
© 1997 by George C. Chesbro
Veil dreams.
As the A train pulled into the West Fourth Street station, Veil Kendry heard the wail of a human over the scream of machinery, and he turned to his left to see a knot of people gathering around someone lying in their midst on the subway platform. He pushed through a wall of startled and curious commuters and came upon a frail young Chinese woman giving birth.
“Get back and give her room to breathe!” he said sharply, raising and loosening her dress as he knelt beside her in a pool of her burst water. It turned out to be a needless request, for the harried New Yorkers were already surging around them in a rush to get on the train. He shouted to no one in particular, “Tell the motor-man to call the paramedics!”
The train pulled out of the station, and the few people who had gotten off glanced nervously at the tableau of a man and woman, blood and water on the concrete, and walked quickly away. In a few moments they were alone on the platform. Veil positioned himself between the woman’s legs and gently cradled the tiny, bloody head that was emerging from the birth canal. Between gasps and cries the woman spoke to him rapidly in what Veil recognized as Chinese. He spoke, or at least understood, a number of Asian languages, but not Chinese, and so he spoke to her softly and soothingly in English. When the baby emerged Veil wiped away the placenta, bit through the umbilical cord and knotted it, then gently laid the newborn infant on the mother’s heaving chest. “Here you are, Mama,” he said quietly, caressing her cheek. “Calm down, now. It’s all right. People will be here soon to take care of you.”
The woman’s reaction startled him. Still speaking rapidly and obviously distressed, she picked up her baby and held it out to him, urgently and repeatedly gesturing for him to take it. “I don’t want your baby, Mama,” he said, shaking his head as he pressed the infant back down on her chest, noticing as he did so the rope burns on her wrists. “She’s yours. Take it easy. Everything’s going to be fine.”