I was so startled that I froze at the entrance to the café and just watched them for a while. They seemed to be the best of friends, chatting away in French. Lotte had the look she has on whenever she’s speaking her native tongue, a certain relaxed formal look, if that makes sense, as if it’s taken her some effort to conform to the sloppy way that Americans hold their bodies and their faces and now she’s snapped back into a persona that was, paradoxically, more natural.
It wasn’t just surprise; it was like being knocked down by an unexpected wave at the beach, disorienting, you don’t know which way is up, you can’t breathe.
While I was standing there paralyzed, a waiter approached and asked whether I wanted a table. This caught their attention, and Lotte looked up and waved. I went to their table; Krebs rose, gave a little bow, and shook my hand. I was thinking about how he’d arranged this, about how he must be having me watched, and also dying to know what they’d been talking about.
I sat down at their table. It was a little chilly and the buildings across the street wore pale banners of mist, but the hotel had set up tall steel heaters, far more efficient than the pitch-soaked flaming Christians that Nero had used in his own wintry Rome for the same purpose.
Krebs said, “This charming lady was just telling me that you spent the night drawing, with wonderful results.”
Here he indicated the drawing of Lotte lying on the table before him. “This is quite remarkable, for a drawing on cheap paper with a hotel pencil and children’s markers. No, actually, it would be remarkable in any medium-the energy of the lines and the colors combine to give a real sense of mass and living presence.”
Lotte said, “He did another one that’s even better.”
“Really? I would like to see it.”
“I’ll go and get it, if you like,” she said. “If you give me your key, Chaz.”
Like a zombie I handed her the key and she walked off.
“What are you doing here?” I said, trying, perhaps unsuccessfully, to keep the hostility out of my voice.
“You seem surprised. I have a good deal of business in Rome and this hotel is convenient to the studio. Why should I not be here?”
“Having breakfast with my wife?”
A dismissive gesture. “Your ex-wife, I believe, was looking at your drawing, and I expressed appreciation, and then the whole coincidence emerged. And not only that: it is also the case that I know her father slightly, in the way of business.”
“He was investigating you.”
“That is a harsh way of putting it, I think. He was engaged in an official international investigatory commission, and I was happy to help with my expertise. A charming woman, if I may say so.”
“Did you tell her about the forgery?”
“What forgery?”
“Oh, don’t be cute! The Velázquez I’m faking down the road there.”
“Wilmot, this becomes tedious. You seem to believe that I am some kind of criminal, but I am simply an art dealer who has hired a painter, you, to produce an artwork in the manner of Velázquez, using antique materials. If someone, some expert, wishes to identify it as an authentic Velázquez, that is none of my concern.”
“Just like Luca Giordano.”
He laughed and his face was transformed by delight. “In a manner of speaking, although given modern techniques of analysis, I think we must dispense with the signature under a layer of paint.” He laughed again, and the situation was so crazy that I laughed too. I had no idea if it was self-deception on his part or if he was playing with me. It’s a forgery, it’s not a forgery-whatever you say, Majesty…
Then his faced changed, grew serious, a little menacing. “On the other hand, it would be extremely unfortunate if what you are doing became generally known. As I believe I have already stated, I am in business with people who don’t share our sense of humor about these things. Do you understand me? We exist in parallel worlds, the world of artistic achievement and the world of tradable commodities and money. We consort with the new condottieri, like the painters of the quattrocento. They wish to realize their investment in this project, and anyone who might stand in their way, let us say a principled person who heard about the provenance of this supposed Velázquez from an unimpeachable source and talked about it in public, might be in considerable danger. Your ex-wife, for example. So, let us be very, very discreet, Wilmot. Am I perfectly clear?”
I nodded, because my throat had become too dry to generate speech, terrified, but also, strangely, glad that he was not going to spill any beans about what I was doing.
At this point Lotte reappeared, and she must have seen my face, because she asked, “What’s the matter?”
Krebs said, “We were just discussing the discontents of the current art scene, a lamentable and depressing subject. But now let us turn to art itself.” He took the drawing from Lotte and studied it. I took a drink of water.
“You’re correct,” said Krebs, “it’s even better than the other, I think because of the energy flowing between the figures. Just wonderful! Tell me, Wilmot, have you been working in this style for long?”
“Yes, for about twenty minutes,” I said. “It’s known as my Magic Marker period.”
He and Lotte shared a look, the kind parents wear when the indulged child has done something embarrassing; it made me want to throttle both of them.
“I would like to take these with me and have them matted and framed,” he said.
I shrugged. “That’s up to Lotte. I made them for her.”
There was a heavy moment, which Krebs ended by saying, “Well, not to stand on a technicality, but as I was explaining to Lotte just before you arrived, I believe that our arrangement is that all your work is mine to dispose of.”
“Even doodles?” I said, as in my head amazement struggled with relief, relief because he’d somehow gone with the patronage story I’d sold to Lotte, and so the happy fiction had been confirmed.
“Pardon me, but these are not doodles, and as I’m sure Lotte will tell you, the market price of works on paper has gone like a rocket in these past few years. I would be embarrassed to tell you what scrawls on napkins by Picasso fetch nowadays.”
“But I’m not Picasso.”
“Not yet, you’re not. But you are certainly going to be rich, and I am a long-term investor.” With that, he lifted a worn leather briefcase, opened it, removed a folder, slipped in the two drawings, and snapped it shut again. “I’m sorry to be so unforgivably crass,” he said. “But, you know, when I see a beautiful thing, I want to snatch, snatch…”
He illustrated this tendency with a grabbing motion of his right hand and contorted his face into a mime of feral avarice that I thought was rather more often its resting state than the avuncular one he had foisted off on my ex.
But we were all pals now, and so we both laughed politely at this display, and I had the waiter bring me biscotti and cappuccino, and the rest of the hour passed pleasantly enough in talk about painting and markets and what to see in Rome. Then Krebs had to leave for an appointment and avowed he was desolated that he could not ask us out to dinner, but he had to be in Stuttgart that evening. Another time, perhaps. He actually kissed Lotte’s hand as he left.
“So what did you think?” I asked when he was gone.
“Well, what I think is that if his checks continue to clear at the banks, you are the luckiest painter of this age. He is in love with you. I have seen it before: a rich collector is ravished by an artist, he cannot do enough for this person, he courts, he buys…and it is wonderful for the artist while it lasts.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t last?”
“Sadly, yes. Artists change their styles, they explore new themes, and in these the lover is perhaps not so interested. But I think that your Herr Krebs will be faithful, as long as you produce. I think he will be impatient with, let us say, a low rate of production, just as, to extend the metaphor, a rich man with a beautiful mistress would become annoyed if this mistress did not allow him the freedom of her body.”