The Art Forger (3 page)

Small turns toward us, and Mike puts a hand on my shoulder. Maureen leans her elbows on the bar. Danielle and Alice, who are on the other side of Rik, stop talking. Everyone looks at me expectantly. There are few secrets among us, especially not career ones—and these are probably the only people who actually believe Isaac lied.

“Didn’t go well?” Mike asks. We sometimes call Mike “the church lady” in joking salute to his keen sense of right and wrong. He’d be horrified at Markel’s offer. And even more horrified that I didn’t refuse outright.

“I’m guessing not, although I wasn’t expecting much.” A lie everyone recognizes. They’ve all said roughly the same thing after a career disappointment. It’s how we survive.

“A shot of tequila for my friend here,” Mike says to Maureen. Aside from Rik, who isn’t really an artist anymore, Mike’s the only one of us who can afford actual drinks. He’s a lawyer by day, painter by night.

I knock back the shot as soon as it’s in front of me. The warmth spreads down my throat and into my empty stomach. A dangerous thing if Maureen decides to comp me a second shot, which, under the circumstances, she probably will.

“Any idea how much Markel got for it?” Small asks.

I know she’s talking about
Orange Nude.
“I told him not to tell me.”

“More to the point: Does anyone know if Cullion actually painted it?” Danielle’s voice is thick with sarcasm.

There’s dead silence in the bar; I stare into my empty shot glass. Although she doesn’t mean to, and would never purposely hurt anyone, Danielle often steps over the line she doesn’t see. It’s like her tact sensor is missing.

“Claire knows,” Rik jumps in. “She was there. And she wasn’t wearing any clothes.”

I throw him a grateful glance and hold up my hands. “Present and nude as charged. I can attest to its authenticity.”

“Never should’ve given it back to the old fraud,” Rik says to me. “You didn’t even—” He stops, frowns, and we all follow his gaze. “Well, well, well,” he says sourly, “if it isn’t the fabulous Crystal Mack, our own local artist at work. Slumming it tonight?”

“Oh, darlin’,” Crystal says as she slides onto the stool next to Rik. “Don’t be silly.” She kisses him on both cheeks. “Talking about the
Orange Nude
sale?” She looks at me and winks. “I heard mid–six figures.” She’s overdressed, as usual. Something clingy and expensive in that trendy green that makes me look seasick. Unfortunately, it looks just fine on her. Blondes can wear any color they want.

“Probably out of testimony to the beauty of the model.” Rik throws his arm around my shoulders. “Rather than the skill of the artist.”

“That,” Crystal smiles at me sweetly, “or the power of scandal.” Crystal, too, often steps over the line—but her eyes are wide open.

Maureen puts a second shot in front of me.

We turn away from Crystal and break into smaller conversations. Crystal orders a double scotch straight up and begins an animated discussion with Maureen, pretending that the bartender isn’t the only one willing to talk to her. Not that Crystal cares. Her purpose in coming here is to make herself feel better by making us feel worse. It works every time. The good news is that no one will ask any more questions about Markel with her around. The last thing anyone wants to do is give Crystal more ammunition.

By nine, Rik and I are the only ones left standing. Everyone else has gone home, and although we know we should, too, we linger at the far end of the bar. The two tequila shots have worked their magic on me: I’m all loose and stretchy, comfortably buzzed.

“I’ve still got options,” I say.

Even though we haven’t mentioned Markel in over an hour, Rik knows exactly what I’m talking about. “You’ve got lots of options, Claire Bear. Lots more than you even know.”

“Markel told me that just because I’d been blackballed, that didn’t mean I couldn’t paint.”

Rik’s eyes widen. “Oh, honey, he actually said that to you? What an asshole.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “He didn’t mean it like that.”

“Well, then how the hell did he mean it?”

“I think it was a compliment.”

“Some compliment,” Rik mutters.

“So,” I say, “I made it to the final round of the
ArtWorld
Trans contest. And I haven’t been rejected from the Cambridgeport Show yet.”

“What’s the Trans thing?” Rik isn’t a studio artist anymore, so he isn’t up on the latest contests and juried shows. He landed a job in the curatorial department at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum right out of graduate school—which was an amazing coup—and has happily worked his way up to assistant curator in four years. He claims he doesn’t miss the “drudgery, backstabbing, and poverty of being an artiste.” Sometimes I believe him, sometimes I don’t.

“The submission’s got to reflect whatever you think Trans means,” I explain. “Transpire, transplant, transcendent, transfusion, transmutation, transgendered.”

“Sweet,” Rik says, and I can tell he’s running through the paintings stacked in his closet to see if any would work. He blinks his eyes to stop the parade. “What’d you submit?”

I shrug as if I don’t really care. “A few from my window series. Transparent, transition, transpose, translucent. I figured if every painting had a bunch of Trans, it might give me an edge.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I heard next year it’s going to be Counter, so I thought I’d submit some of my repros as counterfeit.”

“Funny,” Rik says, in a way that clearly indicates he doesn’t think so. “So how’s that going anyway?”

“Markel liked them.”

Rik homes right in. “What interest could Aiden Markel possibly have in repros?”

“I don’t know, Rik. I can’t read the man’s mind. They were there, I guess.”

Rik holds his hands up. “Sor-ry. Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

“No, no,” I say. “It’s me who’s sorry. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Rik grins. “We all know you can’t handle your liquor.”

He insists on walking me home. It’s only a few blocks out of his way, so I acquiesce. Men got to do what they got to do. Even though I’m no fool about living in the city. I know the rules. Walk in the middle of the street or at least at the far edge of the sidewalk, be aware and tuned into surroundings, no white ear buds (steal my iPod), no texting (I’m distracted), no playing with apps (steal my iPhone). But above all, never, never, never look like you’re lost.

We step out of Jake’s into the thick summer air and head down the sidewalk, past the back alley of ChiRom, the Asian-Dominican fusion restaurant that’s presently all the rage. A couple of men in grungy clothes are sitting, actually listing, against the Dumpster, passing a bottle of whiskey, and laughing uproariously. A well-dressed couple approaches us, glances into the alley, and crosses the street.

“Do you think Markel’s visit could’ve had something to do with Isaac?” Rik asks.

“Isaac’s dead.” I’m surprised by the sharpness of my tone.

Rik stops and turns to me. “Hey,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“Why does everyone think it has to be about Isaac?” I snap. “Is it beyond belief that he might just be interested in my work?”

Three

THREE YEARS EARLIER

“Give it up, Claire,” Isaac said. “I’m done.”

“You’re not done. You’re just indulging yourself.”

“Perhaps.”

Isaac and I were lying on the bed in his studio. But we weren’t naked, and there had been no sex, which wasn’t my idea. When I came in and found him sprawled out in the middle of the afternoon, I’d used all my womanly wiles to get him out of his slump—literally and figuratively. I’d succeeded at neither. He insisted on wallowing. This, unfortunately, was nothing new.

I guessed he was bipolar, but who could be sure when he refused to see a doctor? I wasn’t about to intervene. Health nagging was a wife’s responsibility, not a girlfriend’s. But when it came to totally screwing up his career, I had to take a stand.

I pushed myself to a sitting position, and Isaac put his head in my lap. I twisted a curl of his dark hair. He looked up at me with those amazing blue eyes and touched his finger to the end of my nose, then to my mouth. I kissed it and placed his hand over my heart. “Isaac,” I said, “you’re a royal pain in the ass.”

“But I have many other fine qualities?” he asked, in his deep chocolaty voice. A teasing smile lit up his face, and, as much as I wished it didn’t, it lit me, too.

There was everything wrong with this relationship: I’d been his student, he was forty-four to my twenty-eight, he was prone to bouts of depression interspersed with brilliant bursts of artistic production and irresistible magnetism. Even the separated-for-three-years marriage with a pending, but not yet executed, divorce was an old cliché. But it was new to me.

“Don’t try and charm me when I’m pissed at you,” I said. “I’m not going to let you do this. It’s the Museum of Modern Art, you idiot.”

“And that’s all it is, Claire. An art museum. We’re not curing cancer here.” He took his hand from my breast and wrapped his arm around my waist.

“You’re so full of shit.”

“That, too.”

“You can still do it, you know,” I said. “You’ve got two weeks.”

“Twelve days, but who’s counting?”

“It’s not like you’ve got to wait for glazes to dry. You could do three wet-over-wets in that time if you put your mind to it.”

“You could do three wet-over-wets,” Isaac said. “It’s a matter of drive.”

“So where’d your drive go?”

“High gas prices?”

I punched his arm. “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“See? I’m not up to it.”

“Karen Sinsheimer thinks you’re up to it.” Sinsheimer was the senior curator of painting and sculpture at MoMA. She was the one who’d noticed Isaac’s work at Markel G and commissioned a painting for her show
Survey of Recent Painting and Sculpture.
Such a stick-up-the-ass name for a show highlighting the best emerging talent.

“Karen Sinsheimer saw paintings I did a year ago.”

“And your point?”

“No point.” He leaned over, grabbed a detective novel from the end table, and opened it. He smiled up at me guilelessly. “There’s a bunch more over there.” He gestured to a shelf filled with shiny new books. “I wish you’d give one a try. Then we could read together and talk about it.”

I didn’t bother to respond—he was well aware I wasn’t partial to mysteries—so I sat there fuming while he turned the pages. I knew I should leave, but I wasn’t willing to give up so easily. Not only was I madly in love with the guy, but I recognized, as did many others, that he was a great talent. As in a major artist of our time. And if he didn’t take himself in hand, he was going to lose the biggest opportunity of his career.

This MoMA gig was no little thing. Sinsheimer had gone around the world and commissioned work from artists who had broken out in the past decade. Although the museum hadn’t released an official list, word on the street had it that roughly fifty painters and sculptors were included. Which meant that Isaac had been chosen as one of the top twenty-five rising painters in the world.

“Isaac,” I finally said, trying to sound stern. “Let’s brainstorm.”

“We don’t have to, I already know who did it.”

I snatched the book from his hands and pushed him off my lap. “The MoMA piece is going to be part of your time series, yes?”

“That was the plan.”

“But it’s not anymore?”

“As you well know, nothing I’ve tried has worked.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It all sucks.”

“Why?”

“Don’t do this, Claire. It’s boring. Mind-numbing, actually.”

“Just answer the question: Why does it suck?”

He crossed his arms over his chest.

I couldn’t help it: My eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Saac.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, sitting up. “Why do they suck? Why do they suck?” He looked off into the distance. “I guess they suck because they’re too dark.”

“Color or theme?”

“Both.”

“So let’s come up with some ideas that are light.”

“It’s a dark topic.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Time is the devourer of all things,” he intoned, his voice deep and ponderous. “As it passes, people die, buildings fall, civilizations disappear.”

“How about a more upbeat interpretation? Birth? The rejuvenation of spring?”

“Iron rusts. Silver tarnishes. Copper turns green.”

“So don’t do a time painting,” I said. “Do something else.”

“Time to time. Time and place.” He threw his arms open wide. “Time to live, time to die, time to cast away stones.”

It was difficult to keep a straight face. “Time to paint?”

Isaac wrapped me in his arms. “My girl,” he said.

“How about time as the fourth dimension?” I asked lazily, as he outlined my ear with his tongue.