The Brodsky Affair: Murder is a Dying Art (5 page)

“Not really, it’s indistinct. It could be any number of names. Give me some names. Write them down or I’ll never remember them.”

He wrote four names on a large blue Post-It: Deineka, Bromdski, Godlevsky, and Brodsky. She stuck it on the bottom end of the computer.

Tamsin began exploring the various indexes of the magazines he had downloaded. Most didn’t involve a trawl through their contents. Others needed cross-referencing with assorted libraries, institutes, galleries, museums, universities and journalistic sources. Complicating her search was the rare use of a form of archaic Russian that had almost vanished in the nineteenth century.

She methodically worked her way through each name. Checking, double-checking. But nothing came close to the names indicated by Lot 275.

The Bloody Marys softened his impatience. He had not expected such a negative search.
Have I made a mistake?
In the back of his thoughts, he had visions of men in suits, smoking big cigars and wearing enormous gold rings squeezing the life juices from his body.
Please God… if only.

Outside, from a dark sky lit only by sodium streetlights and fanned by explosions of an Arctic wind, snow dropped and spun down like an army of parachutists.

Silence gripped him and left him to the mercy of hope, enticing him to pour another huge Bloody Mary, thinking that he could be in for a long night. Every once in a while, he rose to check on her progress.

Ninety minutes later, the rhythmic tapping of the keyboard stopped. Her head lifted.

“How about this?”

He jumped up and leant over her left shoulder. “What have you found?”

“I’ll read it to you in English.”

Vol.2. Issue 3 Autumn 1936
The Young Artist

“His paintings have been a revelation. He combines modernistic graphics, an avant-garde blend of cubism with a Rayonist touch of Soviet realism, reminiscent of the Vkhutemas era. Brodsky’s works have become much sought after by collectors and our national museums. The two works illustrated,
The Harvesters
, and
Workers in the Snow
, represent the very best of our modern artists. He is not a prolific painter, and his works are often formulated in pairs dealing with the gaps that bridge time and space in social expression, the theatre and humanity. What Brodsky presents is of an unassailable quality for one so young, painting these when in his early twenties. His works are usually numbered and these are nos. 8 & 9 and can be seen at the State Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow. We know of eighteen. We look forward to seeing many more (See figs 1&2).”

“Painted in pairs, just as I thought. Enlarge those pictures, will you please?”

She did. “Any the wiser?”

“Interesting. The style and texture aren’t dissimilar to the pair in Australia.”

He pulled out his magnifying glass and peered through it. Again and again he examined the pair, comparing them to those on his laptop. “The signatures are comparable, not exactly identical, but I’m certain they could be by Brodsky, unless they’re forgeries.”

“But why forge a painter who, as you said, is not well known in the West?”

“He’s become so, and his paintings are causing more than just a stir. In Russia, he’s hot news. Forgers aren’t stupid, and have an eye for the market. It’s not always just the money they’re after either.”

“What then?”

“They have a history of grudges.”

“Grudges?”

“Yes. One possibility is they don’t like certain types of art and want to make a mockery of it by forging works, like Modigliani, for example. There can be a deeper reason. Take Tom Keating for example, who died in 1984. As an artist, he thought the gallery setup was rotten, and corrupt with dealers fleecing the public and getting fat on the proceeds. A talented artist in his own right, he was overlooked or ignored by dealers and their customers. He wanted to expose them as a bunch of ignorant crooks. He became a master forger who painted over two-thousand fakes.”

“That many?”

“That many. He used all sorts of tricks and chemicals, and built-in ‘time-bombs’ into his works that in later years would activate, and the paintings would deteriorate to expose them as fakes. The irony of it is, his own works were ignored but his forgeries have become collector’s items, fetching reasonable sums of money.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Tamsin tapped the pictures on screen. “So, how can you be sure Lot 275 isn’t a forgery then?”

“I’m not, but given the circumstances of Brodsky’s life, I doubt if these are fakes.”

“Is he alive?”

“No. He died in the Majdanek concentration camp in 1943.”

“Was he Jewish?”

“A Russian Jew.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“I need to speak to Zimmerman’s. Do you know the time difference?”

“Eight hours forward. If you call at eight in the morning, you’ll catch them at four in the afternoon.”

Later that evening in bed with Tamsin, he attempted to make love. She wanted to. He wanted it too. Nothing stirred. His mind was full of Russian artists.

She bottled her frustration. She didn’t have to ask. She knew, and it was another step on the slippery slope he stood on. How many times had he allowed his artistic quests to intrude and dissipate their emotional and physical relationship? It was getting close to one too many.

~ * ~

Perth, Western Australia

Myra Kelly picked up the phone on the third ring. “G’day. Zimmerman’s, my name’s Myra. How can I help you?”

“G’day to you, too. My name’s Jack Manton, and I’m calling from London. It’s about your next auction on March twenty-sixth. Is it possible to speak to your valuer?”

“Why, yes. Mr. Hartley’s here right now. I’ll pass you over.”

Peter Hartley had an even broader Australian accent. “How can I help?”

“Lot 275 with the indecipherable signature, is there anything on the back of the frame identifiable?”

“No problem. Hang on a few minutes.”

An age seemed to pass. “You still there, Mr. Manton?”

“Still here.”

“Not a lot. There’s a tattered old label I can barely read. It’s French and looks like
Galerie Avant-Garde,
Paris. Painted also on the back of each are the numbers twenty-three and twenty-four. We obtained the paintings as part of the estate of one of our residents, Mr. George Mulligan, a bit of a collector. He died in July last year, and his lawyers have instructed us to dispose of parts of his estate. We know he travelled to France and England several times, so that might account for the label.”

“Thanks, Mr. Hartley. You’ve been more than helpful.”

As Manton put the phone down, he was certain his heart skipped a beat.

Chapter Five

Perth, Western Australia

O
ver eighteen hour’s flight time via Singapore to Perth, the journey to Western Australia was a pilgrimage too far. Manton was relieved when the large Boeing touched down with a jarring thud on the runway of Perth Airport.

Thirty minutes later, numb from exhaustion, he walked out of the airport into a bright afternoon and hailed a cab. Not long after, it turned off The Great Eastern Highway, and he arrived at his hotel in the Burswood district of the city, close to the auction house.

First, a hot bath, then a large scotch, and time to reflect on his impulse to fly to Australia and view the paintings close up. He’d never been one to pussyfoot about, and what the hell… a trip to Australia was a perk of the job!

The heat of the bathwater became seductive, and forty minutes later, he awoke in cooling water from a dream of meeting Leonardo Da Vinci. It was a recurring dream, one that he’d interpreted as symbolising his hopes of making a major discovery that would rock the art world. His Scotch remained unfinished.

In spite of jet lag, he continued his daily physical routines of swimming and running. At his age, he figured he didn’t do too badly, although strenuous activity had become more difficult. More so if he’d had too many drinks the night before. He reckoned the effort required to keep him in shape helped keep him sane.

Sitting at the breakfast table later that morning, Manton flicked through the daily
West Australian
newspaper before eating his Eggs Benedict, sprinkled, the way he liked it, with a liberal splash of chilli sauce. He took his time. Zimmerman’s viewing day for the auction didn’t open until ten o’clock. He finished his third large morning coffee, feeling lightheaded, but with a sense of excitement. Extra caffeine on this occasion didn’t seem like a bad idea.

Following the concierge’s instructions, he stepped outside into the unfamiliar streets, and began the short walk across to Zimmerman’s.

The building had been painted with a musty yellow facade and supported a large wrought-iron bracket from which a blue and white oval sign hung on a blackened chain. It was inscribed with a flourish,
‘Zimmerman’s Auctioneers and Valuers since 1899’.
He checked his watch. It was quarter past ten. He walked into the lobby, bought a catalogue, and wasting no time, sat in the nearest chair and began scouring through the items. He found the paintings and they were numbered as stated, lot 275 and due up the next day at an estimated time of two fifteen.

He pushed open the doors into the viewing room to be confronted by a motley array of items – glass, porcelain, china, mirrors, toys, ephemera and rows of depressing brown furniture. The paintings hung on the walls and others had been stacked up at angles off the floor. Lot 275 had been placed against a wall, buried by four other paintings. Leaning over, Manton removed the pair with care, separated the binding cord, and placed the paintings on a nearby cupboard. He stood back to look at the images he’d only ever seen on a computer screen.

He was prepared to be disappointed.

He wasn’t.

He experienced an emotion akin to an electrical charge coursing through him. The sheer colours struck him; the interwoven yellows, reds and black shafts of light. It was urgent and shone with an unmistakable excellence. They surpassed what he had imagined.

Brilliant… they have to be by Brodsky!

In a rush, he pulled out a large printout he’d taken from the Soviet magazine. The styles were a perfect match. Turning them over, the first thing that caught his eye was the tattered label, but clearly marked with the
Galerie Avant-Garde, Paris
trademark. There didn’t appear to be a date. Taking out his voice recorder, he made a note of the gallery for further investigation. He also noted the small, purple-coloured numbers 23 and 24. The estimate remained at three to five hundred Australian dollars.

He experienced a tense emotion of expectancy. “Excuse me.” He turned to one of the porters. “Has there been much interest in your art sale?”

“No, nothing to speak of,” replied the porter, as he hauled a sack barrow of old suitcases into position. “Mind you, being on the Internet, you can never really tell until the bids start coming in.”

“Thanks,” muttered Manton. That was now his big fear. Had someone else spotted what he had? The suspense had already caused him to break out into a mild sweat.

If he could pull this off, verification confirmed, it would sort out his finances for a long time ahead. At the entrance desk, he registered to attend the next day and the clerk handed him a bidding card, numbered 117. He now needed time, somewhere quiet to do more research and contemplate possible outcomes.

~ * ~

Russia, St Petersburg

Anna Karolin, at thirty-one years of age, was dressed in a red, tailored designer suit that had cost her a month’s salary. She knew men found her attractive. She wasn’t slim or overweight, but guessed the packaging was just right to entice. Former lovers had told her that she possessed an enigmatic quality that coupled with her cultured intelligence, had drawn them towards her.

Sitting at her desk and working as a senior researcher for IAS (International Art Sourcing), she was the epitome of a successful, professional executive. This she knew was not true. Earlier that morning and hearing his funereal voice speak down the line, she’d put down the receiver and experienced a chill pass through her as swift as a butcher’s knife. That voice requesting her presence resurrected her loathing of him, causing her to deliberate once again whether she’d made the right decision to remain in her job or not.

Eighteen months ago, with nothing else but a Postgraduate Fine Art Research Degree from Lomonosov Moscow State University, she had hopefully applied for a position as a Junior Researcher with IAS. There had been three hundred applicants from across Russia for the post. Jobs like that didn’t come easily, but she breezed through every interview and test and was offered the job. She thanked God for being given the opportunity. Three months into her work, and she wondered if the Devil himself might have been behind it.

She thought back to late one evening when he had called her up to his office to discuss various sources and strategies for a wealthy collector of paintings by the little known Scottish Impressionists, Alberto Morocco and David McClure. Her research had been intensive, and she herself knew she had made a breakthrough.

As she began to explain her findings and moved to illustrate them on his office whiteboard, she had felt his thick, warm breath that reeked of garlic sausage and brandy on her neck. She remembered moving to one side, but then he started pressing hard behind her against her bottom, and his hands had slid around to cup her breasts. He spoke, his voice tremulous and husky. How could she ever forget?

“My lovely little Anna… lovely Anna, how beautiful you are. I thought so from the moment I first saw you.”

She struggled to free herself but his grip remained firm.

“I can make things so good for you and nobody would ever know…”

She remembered shrieking and managing to pull herself free. She stepped back and her hands shot up, palms outward. There was no way,
ever
, she would allow him to touch or feel her.