Picture This

by Tobsha Learner

  Like an ember you have to fan, evolution makes narcissists the most successful of us, but how do you measure success? Maxine once asked her from behind her modelling stand, caught in the flow of all those stories that had begun to fill the apartment like invisible fish hooks catching at Latisha’s hair and lips. The question remained unanswered and suspended between them. Latisha, numb from lying on that lumpy uncomfortable couch, was too embarrassed to admit she didn’t know what a narcissist was. It sounded like the name of a flower, but that couldn’t be right. So she stayed mute in feigned wisdom. Only now did the answer come to Latisha as she navigated the uneven pavement: If success meant staying alive, Maxine had failed, and if success meant not feeling things so much they drove you to crazy dangerous things, the artist had failed again. Yet Maxine had lived – more vividly and in far brighter colours than Latisha could possibly imagine – she concluded, as she turned west on 32nd Street, having only loved once herself, and that at a distance, so quietly that through fear of rejection, and worse humiliation, she’d let the man walk out of her life without him even knowing she wanted him.

  The building was a red-brick block that looked as if it had been thrown up cheaply in the 1960s, with apartments that ran over a laundromat, a takeout shop and a tiny electronics store, with an array of neon signs in Korean plastered above them. The windows above were grimy and neglected, as if some of the rooms were still used for storage.

  Latisha ambled up. An old poplar tree leaned wearily against the building, its leaves dusty, a stray dog shitting in the small patch of grass around it. She hauled herself up the stoop to the entrance and scanned the list of names. Apartment ten had a tiny caricature of the head of a young man: a handsome man not more than 20, with a haunting look about the eyes. She peered down at the slip of paper: Gabriel Bandini.

  ‘You Mr Bandini? ’Cause I need to talk to you,’ she asked the drawing, then pressed the buzzer.

  A small Korean man opened the front door. He glared up at her, vibrating with an anger that put Latisha in mind of a ruffled cockerel.

  ‘What you want, lady? Number ten not home!’

  ‘Where is Mr Bandini?’

  ‘That guy? He gone!’ The small Korean tried to push the door shut, but Latisha got her metal crutch in the crack just in time.

  ‘Gone for good, or gone for a while?’

  He glanced down at the crutch jammed in the door, then up at Latisha’s massive bulk, something in him obviously deciding she wasn’t a woman to be messed with.

  ‘How do I know? I’m only janitor. He pay rent though, up till September. Left his painting shit all over the place, landlord very, very upset. Wants him to pay for new carpet.’

  ‘If you’re the janitor, you have a spare key?’

  ‘What’s it to you?’

  ‘I’m his aunt.’

  The Korean looked shocked, then uncertain. ‘He white!’

  Latisha reached into the lining of her long knitted coat, fished around and then pulled out the 20-dollar bill she kept there for emergencies.

  ‘His rich aunt,’ she declared, holding out the bill.

  Shrugging, the janitor opened the door and ushered her in.

  *

  Susie wound the window down and stared across the street; the old cookie factory on 125th Street, East Harlem, also known as Spanish Harlem, was only a block or so down from the famous Apollo Theatre. The building was red brick and looked 19th-century, with high windows, a couple on the top floor boarded up and broken. A car body repair shop was located at street level, the garage doors open to reveal several BMWs and a Ford in various stages of repair, and a number of African-American men in greasy overalls busy panel-beating and soldering to a frenzy of hip-hop blasting out of a hidden speaker.

  The men were oblivious to Susie, sitting in the cab she’d taken uptown, gazing across at the building.

  ‘Lady, you sure this is the right address?’ the Sikh cab driver asked in disbelief, wondering what a fashionable Englishwoman might want this far uptown – unless it were drugs.

  Susie peered up at the apartments above the garage: the large windows promised good light and she guessed the rent would have been affordable compared to SoHo or fashionable downtown.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You want me to wait? You know this ain’t a great ’hood for tourists?’

  She double-checked the address – it was definitely 31, 125th Street.

  ‘No, don’t worry, this is the right place.’ Susie paid, then climbed out, the cab screeching away in hurried relief. Suddenly she was very alone. She stood in the doorway of the garage, the cacophony of the panel-beating and music rendering her invisible for a moment.

  ‘Lady, you need an auto fixed up?’ An older African-American man, grey peppering his tight curly hair, stepped down from behind one of the hoisted cars.

  ‘No. I’m looking for someone.’

  ‘Please let that someone be me!’ A youth, tall and gangly, cornrows plaited tightly to his scalp, gold earrings gleaming in both earlobes, appeared beside the older man, grinning cheekily. ‘A pretty lady like yourself shouldn’t have to do the lookin’.’

  ‘The lady was talking to me,’ the older man reprimanded, then turned back to Susie. He wiped his hand, which was greasy with car oil, and held it out formally. ‘Name’s Henry Firestone. I am the owner of this establishment.’ He indicated the youth. ‘This young brother with the mouth is Erin. Who you after?’

  ‘Actually I’m trying to find out about the last few weeks of my friend’s life. Maxine Doubleday, did you know her?’

  The atmosphere immediately changed. Henry glanced sharply at Erin before addressing Susie: ‘We don’t know anyone of that name. Who are you? ’Cause if you’re press you’re out of here.’

  ‘No, no. I’m a close friend of Maxine, from London. I guess I’m just looking for some answers.’

  ‘There ain’t no answer to suicide.’ The younger man spat the words out like he really knew.

  ‘Erin!’

  ‘So you did know her?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Henry still sounded suspicious. Ignoring his boss, Erin jumped in again.

  ‘You need to talk to Miss Latisha.’

  ‘Who’s Latisha?’ Susie failed to keep a tone of jealousy out of her voice. The idea that Maxine might have moved to Harlem for a lover hadn’t occurred to her.

  ‘Miss Latisha lives in apartment seven,’ Erin explained. ‘Has done for forty-odd years. She’s an honest, God-fearing—’

  ‘Mountain of a woman,’ Henry cut in. ‘Who had no time for anyone until Maxine – your friend – put the soul back into a lonely, crippled, monster of a woman. We were real sorry to hear about her … accident.’

  ‘To be honest, I still can’t believe Maxine actually took her own life. Did she seem depressed to you?’

  This time it was Erin who answered. ‘Not those last few days. If anything she seemed like she was excited about something.’

  ‘You have a loose mouth, Erin, I told you before.’ The older man put out a warning hand.

  ‘She’s a friend and we owe it to Maxine.’ Erin turned back to Susie. ‘Maxine was respectful, and she was a good artist – in the time she was here she gave back to the community. That’s a lot more than most.’ He was interrupted by a crash at the back of the shop.

  Henry’s head whipped around. ‘Malik! I told you to secure that axle!’ He turned back to Susie. ‘Now, why are you really here, lady? I have a shop to run.’

  ‘Do you think I could see the apartment… where Maxine lived?’

  ‘There ain’t nothing to see. The police came and cleared some of it away, then a white man with a limo. There’s a new tenant in now – and nothing’s left of the studio Maxine made or anything she left hanging in the air – it’s all gone. That’s time: wipes life away like we was less than dust.’ Henry spat at a pile of tyres for emphasis, then began walking toward a small office tucked away at the back of the shop.

  Erin swung around to face Susie.
‘See what you gone and done? Made Henry go philosopher on us. And he the most depressing philosopher this side of the Hudson, bar my uncle and he in jail.’

  Ignoring him, she ran after Henry. ‘What about this Latisha woman – can you give me her number? Maybe I can ring her?’

  ‘Latisha, a phone? Lady, she’s not on the matrix, unless you a ghost or something. She one of those charismatics and she a member of the Spiritualist Church of East Harlem. Why, I hardly heard her talk before Maxine moved into this ’hood. Most of the time I swear she functioning on another plane. But if you want to try, she apartment seven – opposite apartment six, which was where Maxine lived.’

  *

  There was a distinct smell of fried rice intermingled with a kind of soapy odour Latisha assumed came from the laundrette on the ground floor. It was a curious, slightly bilious blend, which merged with the reek of the thick oil paint that clung in small moulds to a large wooden palette beside an easel upon which stood a half-finished painting. There were several other abstract paintings leaning up against the wall of the neglected studio apartment. A bed and several wooden crates were pushed up against the far wall. An old cooker with a food-encrusted saucepan was sitting on one of the gas rings in the corner, a cracked kitchen sink next to it. The carpeted floor was covered in newspapers, some of which were drenched in old turps and linseed oil that had penetrated to the carpet beneath. A Formica table sat under the large window, a glass ashtray spilling over with cigarette butts, an old wooden box filled with vintage lead soldiers, one of them half sitting in a glass of what smelt like vinegar, the enamel paint dissolved off the small metal figure.

  Latisha walked to the table. The coffee in the cup had a film of mould on it. Bandini might have left in a hurry, but he was long gone.

  On the other side of the room was a large glass cabinet. The carpentry appeared to be home-made. There was a power cord and some peculiar lights inside – like a self-tanning unit, she thought, until she noticed lines along the floor of the cabinet, blue, green, yellows, parallel and criss-crossed. Mystified, she switched it on. Immediately the cabinet was lit up with a violet light. She walked around it, still confused, then switched the light off.

  She turned back; there was a box visible under the bed. Stepping across the newspaper, carefully avoiding the blobs of paint in case they were still damp, wondering abstractly how long oil paint took to dry, she reached the bed. Lowering herself down onto the thin mattress, the rusty springs groaning under her weight, she caught her breath before pulling out the cardboard box.

  Inside was a tin of rusty tacks, a box of old-fashioned paintbrushes, a large envelope and a stack of sheets of blank pages that looked as if they’d been torn out of books, the paper yellowed and aged. Latisha picked up one of the paintbrushes and caressed the tip of it absent-mindedly as she tried to figure out how all these curious objects were linked. Then she carefully opened the envelope. It contained six photographs of the backs of oil paintings: close-ups of the corners, where the canvas was stretched over the frame. One photograph even showed the line of old tacks nailed into the frame.

  ‘Now why on earth would someone want a photograph of a piece of rubbish like that?’ Latisha asked out loud. Nevertheless she selected a dozen single pages and one of the photographs, then slipped them into her large handbag, careful not to crease them.

  Just then the afternoon sun shot through the dusty windows, catching at the colours of the half-finished painting sitting on the easel. Curious, she hoisted herself back onto her crutch and made her way over.

  The painting – half-painted and half-montage – was of a strange rolling landscape which, to Latisha’s amazement, was made up of Wrigley’s chewing-gum wrappers. It sat below a violet sky with a large sun painted with crude brushstrokes of thick yellow paint. There was a quality of the yellow paint that was instantly recognisable to Latisha. After picking up an empty glass jar from the trash can, she returned to the palette and scraped a large blob of the yellow paint into the jar, then screwed the lid tight and slipped that too into her voluminous handbag.

  *

  Susie peered through the letterbox of apartment six. The narrow vertical slit framed a sliver of the apartment inside: a section of bare wooden floor, the corner of a glass coffee table and the edge of a cheap floral-patterned couch, the sleeve of an abandoned pullover on the floor. Any traces of Maxine’s residency had been wiped away. It was an interesting choice for a studio; there would be enough light and space inside, but it was a long way from the galleries both downtown and uptown. Maxine must have wanted to isolate herself for some reason.

  Taking a deep breath, Susie banged on the door, but there was no response. What am I searching for? she asked herself. Did I really think there would still be traces of her? Or that by some quirk of fate she would still be living here in some parallel universe, unaware of her death outside these four walls? She knocked again, this time pounding on the thin wood; again, no response.

  Overwhelmed, she sat heavily on the last step of the stairwell and stared across at door number seven, where Maxine’s friend Miss Latisha lived.

  Reaching into her satchel, she pulled out a sketchpad she always carried and began writing a note for the woman she assumed would be returning to the apartment later that day.

  Dear Miss Latisha, My name is Susie Thomas, I was a very close friend of Maxine Doubleday and I understand you knew Maxine those last few weeks of her life. I would love to talk to you about her. My mobile number is (1) 646 586 9023 – ring me any time.

  Many thanks,

  Susie Thomas

  PS My assistant Alfie’s number is (1) 646 586 9024, if my line happens to be busy.

  She added a little drawing of her own face at the bottom of the page, then slipped it through the letterbox.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘We had agreed on 25 million, but another interested party has emerged. I am morally obliged to offer it now at 25.5, assuming we can settle today… ’ Felix, smiling, kept the right amount of neutral confidence in his voice without being too pushy. There was also the faintest whiff of regret in his tone, a trick he’d learnt from his mentor before he died: Make them feel like they’ve got a bargain, my boy, and you cannot go wrong. Arnold Tuchmann had known all the strategies and had had no moral qualms about selling on several impressionist works that were almost certainly Nazi plunder. In moments like these, Felix found himself missing the old bastard.

  Felicity Kocak’s art broker – a young man with the glistening sheen of the perpetually nervous – leaned over to Felicity, herself resplendent in a gold Versace jumpsuit and matching chain-belt adorned with charms representing each of her properties, and whispered something inaudible in her ear.

  Irritated, Felix waved a hand dismissively. ‘Of course, Felicity, if you are having second thoughts, there is the other party, although naturally I would prefer to see this painting in the Kocak collection, a collection I regard myself as being intimately involved with.’ He shot Felicity his most seductive smile, and was rewarded by a bemused but flirtatious look back – bullseye.

  ‘It is a pivotal work.’

  The painting hung on the wall behind them, lit carefully to display the flat, almost invisible brushstrokes, the bold use of colour, the haunting realism and isolation of the figure in the centre. Privately, Felix thought Girl in Yellow Square of Light had never appeared so compelling.

  ‘The provenance?’ the art broker queried.

  ‘We’ve been through this… Several letters and a diary entry, in front of you in the folder. A letter from Jo Hopper to her friend and Hopper collector, Bea Blanchard, dated September 9, 1943,’ Felix continued smoothly, ‘in which she mentions the painting, particularly Hopper’s use of light, which she regarded as a breakthrough at the time. According to the letter, the painting had been sold, but the owner’s name is not mentioned. There is also a line in a diary entry of Jo’s from the year 1925, written during a holiday in Provincetown, in which she mentions that Edward is
working on the painting. The paper and ink of all the enclosed documents have been carbon-dated. There is also a letter of authentication from renowned art curator and Hopper expert Donald Voos, praising the historical uniqueness of the work and thus its importance in the Hopper canon – early and late. I also should remind you that the Whitney is waiting on the painting to include it in their Hopper retrospective, which starts… ’ Here he checked his diary, a ruse to show how this sale was merely one of many he had to deal with on a daily basis, ‘ …next week, I believe. The sale today would be dependent on them being permitted to hang it – with a small notice describing it as a generous loan from the Kocak Foundation, of course.’

  ‘I can’t see that being a problem, can you, Steve?’ Felicity piped up, obviously excited by the prospect.

  The young broker glanced up from the folder. ‘I have to tell you we had a call from the Hopper Foundation,’ he stammered nervously. ‘One of their representatives said—’

  ‘Which one?’ Felix snapped.

  ‘I am not in a position to divulge,’ the broker retorted, a little more confident.

  ‘Joanna Fleisch, right?’ Felix interjected.

  The broker went bright crimson. Gotcha, Felix thought, then continued his rampage. ‘Of course it was, Steve.’ He leaned forward and patronisingly squeezed the young man’s hand, which only served to disarm him further. ‘You have to understand; Fleisch’s whole career is predicated on her “exclusive” insight into the relationship between Jo and Edward Hopper. The fact that this painting and others from the early years of their marriage have managed to slip by her infuriates Fleisch. She likes to think of herself as having sourced every painting of Hopper’s from the time Jo entered his life. Why, she’s written an entire thesis on it! Joanna Fleisch has an awful lot to lose, so naturally she wishes to discredit both me and the reputation of the collector—’