False Impression

by Jeffrey Archer

  Dr. Petrescu still wrote to her mother every month, only too aware that most of her letters were not reaching her because the spasmodic replies often asked questions she had already answered.

  The first decision Anna made after she left college and joined Sotheby’s was to open a separate bank account for her mother in Bucharest, to which she transferred $400 by standing order on the first day of every month. Although she would rather have—

  “I’ll wait for you,” said Sergei, as the taxi finally came to a halt outside a dilapidated block of flats in Piazza Resitei.

  “Thank you,” said Anna, as she looked out at the prewar estate where she was born, and where her mother still lived. Anna could only wonder what Mama had spent the money on. She stepped out onto the weed-covered path that she had once thought so wide because she couldn’t jump across it.

  The children playing soccer in the road watched suspiciously as the stranger in her smart linen jacket, jeans with fashionable tears, and fancy sneakers walked up the worn, potholed path. They also wore jeans with tears. The elevator didn’t respond to Anna’s button-pressing—nothing changes—which was why, Anna recalled, the most sought-after flats were always those on the lower floors. She couldn’t understand why her mother hadn’t moved years ago. Anna had sent more than enough money for her to rent a comfortable apartment on the other side of town. Anna’s feeling of guilt grew the higher up she climbed. She had forgotten just how dreadful it was, but like the children playing soccer in the street, it had once been all she knew.

  When Anna eventually reached the sixteenth floor, she stopped to catch her breath. No wonder her mother so rarely left the flat. On the floors above her resided sixty-year-olds who were housebound. Anna hesitated before she knocked on a door that hadn’t seen a splash of paint since she’d last stood there.

  She waited for some time before a frail, white-haired lady, dressed from head to toe in black, pulled the door open, but by only a few inches. Mother and daughter stared at each other, until suddenly Elsa Petrescu flung open the door, threw her arms around her daughter, and shouted in a voice as old as she looked, “Anna, Anna, Anna.” Both mother and daughter burst into tears.

  The old lady continued to cling to Anna’s hand as she led her into the flat in which she had been born. It was spotless, and Anna could still remember everything, because nothing had changed. The sofa and chairs her grandmother had left them, the family photographs, all black-and-white and unframed, a coal scuttle with no coal, a rug that was so worn it was hard to make out the original pattern. The only new addition to the room was a magnificent painting that hung on otherwise blank walls. As Anna admired the portrait of her father, she was reminded where her love of art had begun.

  “Anna, Anna, so many questions to ask,” her mother said. “Where do I begin?” she asked, still clutching her daughter’s hand.

  The sun was setting before Anna had responded to every one of her mother’s questions, and then she begged once again, “Please, Mama, come back with me and live in America.”

  “No,” she replied defiantly, “all my friends and all my memories are here. I am too old to begin a new life.”

  “Then why not move to another part of the city? I could find you something on a lower—”

  “This is where I was married,” her mother said quietly, “where you were born, where I lived for over thirty years with your beloved father, and where, when God decrees it is my time, I shall die.” She smiled up at her daughter. “Who would tend your father’s grave?” she asked, as if she’d never asked the question before. She looked into her daughter’s eyes. “You know he was so pleased to see you settled in America with his brother—” she paused “—and now I can see that he was right.”

  Anna looked around the room. “But why haven’t you spent some of the money I’ve been sending to you each month?”

  “I have,” said her mother firmly, “but not on myself,” she admitted, “because I want for nothing.”

  “Then what have you spent it on?” Anna queried.

  “Anton.”

  “Anton?” repeated Anna.

  “Yes, Anton,” said her mother. “You knew that he’d been released from jail?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Anna, “he wrote to me soon after Ceauşescu was arrested to ask if I had a photo of Papa that he could borrow.” Anna smiled as she looked up at the painting of her father.

  “It’s a good likeness,” said her mother.

  “It certainly is,” said Anna.

  “They gave him back his old job at the academy. He’s now the Professor of Perspective. If you’d married him, you would be a professor’s wife.”

  “Is he still painting?” she asked, avoiding her mother’s next inevitable question.

  “Yes,” she replied, “but his main responsibility is to teach the graduates at the Universitatea de Arte. You can’t make a living as an artist in Romania,” she said sadly. “You know, with his talent, Anton should also have gone to America.”

  Anna looked up again at Anton’s magnificent portrait of her father. Her mother was right; with such a gift, he would have flourished in New York. “But what does he do with the money?” she asked.

  “He buys canvases, paints, brushes, and all those materials that his pupils can’t afford, so you see, your generosity is being put to good use.” She paused. “Anton was your first love, Anna, yes?”

  Anna wouldn’t have believed that her mother could still make her blush. “Yes,” she admitted, “and I suspect I was his.”

  “He’s married now, and they have a little boy called Peter.” She paused again. “Do you have a young man?”

  “No, Mama.”

  “Is that what brings you back home? Are you running away from something, or someone?”

  “What makes you ask that?” Anna asked defensively.

  “There is a sadness in your eyes, and fear,” she said, looking up at her daughter, “which you could never hide as a child.”

  “I do have one or two problems,” admitted Anna, “but nothing that time won’t sort out.” She smiled. “In fact, I rather think that Anton might be able to help me with one of them, and I’m hoping to join him at the academy for a drink. Do you have any message you want passed on?” Her mother didn’t reply. She had quietly dozed off. Anna rearranged the rug on her mother’s lap and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back again tomorrow morning, Mama,” she whispered.

  She slipped silently out of the room. As she walked back down the littered staircase, she was pleased to see the old yellow Mercedes was still parked by the curb.

  28

  ANNA RETURNED TO her hotel, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, her newly acquired chauffeur took her to the Academy of Art on Piata Universitatii.

  The building had lost none of its elegance or charm with the passing of time, and when Anna climbed the steps toward the massive sculptured doors, memories came flooding back of her introduction to the great works of art hanging in galleries she thought she would never see. Anna reported to the front desk and asked where Professor Teodorescu’s lecture was taking place.

  “In the main theater on the third floor,” said the girl behind the counter, “but it has already started.”

  Anna thanked the young student and, without asking for any directions, climbed the wide marble staircase to the third floor. She stopped to glance at a poster outside the hall:

  THE INFLUENCE OF PICASSO ON TWENTIETH-CENTURY ART

  Professor Anton Teodorescu

  TONIGHT, 7:00 P.M.

  She didn’t require the arrow to point her in the right direction. Anna gingerly pushed open the door, pleased to find that the lecture theater was in darkness. She walked up the steps at the side of the hall and took a seat toward the back.

  A slide of Guernica filled the screen. Anton was explaining that the massive canvas was painted in 1937, at the time of the Spanish Civil War, when Picasso was at the height of his powers. He went on to say that the depiction of the bomb
ing and the resulting carnage had taken Picasso three weeks, and the image was unquestionably influenced by the artist’s hatred of the Spanish dictator, Franco. The students were listening attentively, several taking notes. Anton’s bravura performance reminded Anna why she’d had a crush on him all those years ago, when she not only lost her virginity to an artist, but began a lifelong love affair with art.

  When Anton’s presentation came to an end, the rapturous applause left Anna in no doubt how much the undergraduates enjoyed his lecture. He’d lost none of his skill in motivating and nurturing the young’s enthusiasm for their chosen subject.

  Anna watched her first love as he collected together his slides and began to put them in an old briefcase. Tall and angular, his mop of curly, dark hair, ancient brown corduroy jacket, and open-neck shirt gave him the air of a perpetual student. She couldn’t help noticing that he had put on a few pounds, but she didn’t feel it made him any less attractive. When the last student had filed out, Anna made her way to the front of the hall.

  Anton glanced up over his half-moon spectacles, apparently anticipating a question from the student who was approaching him. When he first saw Anna, he didn’t speak, just stared.

  “Anna,” he finally exclaimed. “Thank God I didn’t realize you were in the audience, as you probably know more about Picasso than I do.”

  Anna kissed him on both cheeks and said with a laugh, “You’ve lost none of your charm or ability to flatter.”

  Anton held up his hands in mock defeat, grinning widely. “Was Sergei at the airport to pick you up?”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Anna. “Where did you meet him?”

  “In jail,” admitted Anton. “He was lucky to survive the Ceauşescu regime. And have you visited your sainted mother?”

  “I have,” replied Anna, “and she’s still living in conditions not much better than a jail.”

  “I agree, and don’t think I haven’t tried to do something about it, but at least your dollars, and her generosity, allow some of my best students to—”

  “I know,” said Anna, “she’s already told me.”

  “You can’t begin to know,” continued Anton. “So let me show you some of the results of your investment.”

  Anton took Anna by the hand, as if they were still students, and guided her down the steps to the long corridor on the first floor, where the walls were crammed with paintings in every medium.

  “This year’s prize-winning students,” he told her, holding out his arms like a proud father. “And every entry has been painted on a canvas supplied by you. In fact, one of the awards is in your name—the Petrescu Prize.” He paused. “How appropriate if you were to select the winner, which would make not only me, but one of my students, very proud.”

  “I’m flattered,” said Anna with a smile, as she walked toward a long row of paintings. She took her time as she strolled slowly up and down the canvas-filled corridor, pausing occasionally to study an image more closely. Anton had clearly taught them the importance of drawing before he allowed them to move on to other media. Don’t bother with the brush if you can’t first handle the pencil, he liked to repeat. But the range of subjects and bold approach showed that he had also let them express themselves. Some didn’t quite come off, while others showed considerable talent. Anna finally stopped in front of an oil entitled Freedom, depicting the sun rising over Bucharest.

  “I know a certain gentleman who’ll appreciate that,” she said.

  “You haven’t lost your touch,” said Anton, smiling. “Danuta Sekalska is this year’s star pupil, and she’s been offered a place at the Slade in London to continue her studies, if only we can raise enough money to cover her expenses.” He looked at his watch. “Do you have time for a drink?”

  “I certainly do,” replied Anna, “because I confess there’s a favor I need to ask of you—” she paused “—in fact, two favors.”

  Anton once again took her by the hand and led her back down the corridor toward the staff refectory. When they entered the senior common room, Anna was greeted by the sound of good-humored chatter as tutors swapped anecdotes while they sat around in groups enjoying nothing stronger than a coffee. They didn’t seem to notice that the furniture, the cups, the saucers, and probably even the cookies would have been rejected by any self-respecting hobo visiting a Salvation Army hostel in the Bronx.

  Anton poured two cups of coffee. “Black, if I remember. Not quite Starbucks,” he mocked, “but we’re getting there slowly.” Heads turned as Anton guided his former pupil to a place by the fire. He took a seat opposite her. “Now, what can I do for you, Anna,” he asked, “because I am unquestionably in your debt.”

  “It’s my mother,” she said quietly. “I need your help. I can’t get her to spend a cent on herself. She could do with a new carpet, sofa, a TV, and even a telephone, not to mention a splash of fresh paint on that front door.”

  “You think I haven’t tried?” Anton repeated. “Where do you imagine you get your stubborn streak from? I even suggested she move in with us. It’s not palatial, but it’s a damn sight better than that dump she’s living in now.” Anton took a long draft of his coffee. “But I promise I’ll try again—” he paused “—even harder.”

  “Thank you,” said Anna, who remained silent while Anton rolled a cigarette. “And I see I failed to convince you to give up smoking.”

  “I don’t have the bright lights of New York to distract me,” he said with a laugh. He lit his hand-rolled cigarette before adding, “And what’s the second favor?”

  “You’ll need to think long and hard about it,” she said in an even tone.

  Anton put down his coffee, inhaled deeply, and listened carefully as Anna explained in detail how he could help her.

  “Have you discussed the idea with your mother?”

  “No,” Anna admitted. “I think it’s best she doesn’t find out why I really came to Bucharest.”

  “How much time have I got?”

  “Three, perhaps four days. Depends how successful I am while I’m away,” she added without explanation.

  “And if I’m caught?” he asked, once again dragging deeply on his cigarette.

  “You’d probably go back to jail,” admitted Anna.

  “And you?”

  “The canvas would be shipped to New York and used as evidence against me. If you need any more money for—”

  “No, I’m still holding over eight thousand dollars of your mother’s money, so—”

  “Eight thousand?”

  “A dollar goes a long way in Romania.”

  “Can I bribe you?”

  “Bribe me?”

  “If you’ll take on the assignment, I’ll pay for your pupil, Danuta Sekalska, to go to the Slade.”

  Anton thought for a moment. “And you’ll be back in three days,” he said, stubbing out his cigarette.

  “Four at the most,” said Anna.

  “Then let’s hope I’m as good as you think I am.”

  “It’s Vincent.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Visiting my mother.”

  “Then don’t hang about.”

  “Why?”

  “The stalker knows where you are.”

  “Then I’m afraid he’ll miss me again.”

  “I’m not even convinced the stalker’s a man.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “I saw Fenston talking to a woman in the back of his car while I was attending your funeral.”

  “That doesn’t prove—”

  “I agree, but it worries me that I’ve never seen her before.”

  “She could be one of Fenston’s girlfriends.”

  “That woman was nobody’s girlfriend.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Five foot, slim, dark-haired.”

  “There will be a lot of people like that where I’m going.”

  “And are you taking the painting with you?”

  “No, I’ve left it where no one can giv
e it a second look.”

  The phone went dead.

  Leapman pressed the off button. “Where no one can give it a second look,” he repeated.

  “Can, not will?” said Fenston. “It must still be in the box.”

  “Agreed, but where’s she off to next?”

  “To a country where the people are five foot, slim, and dark-haired.”

  “Japan,” said Leapman.

  “How can you be so sure?” asked Fenston.

  “It’s all in her report. She’s going to try and sell your painting to the one person who won’t be able to resist it.”

  “Nakamura,” said Fenston.

  9/16

  29

  JACK HAD CHECKED in at what was ambitiously described on a flashing neon sign as the Bucharesti International. He spent most of the night either turning the radiator up because it was so cold or turning it off because it was so noisy. He rose just after 6:00 A.M. and skipped breakfast, fearing it might be as unreliable as the radiator.

  He hadn’t spotted the woman again since he stepped onto the plane, so either he’d made a mistake or she was a professional. But he was no longer in any doubt that Anna was working independently, which meant Fenston would soon be dispatching someone to retrieve the Van Gogh. But what did Petrescu have in mind, and didn’t she realize what danger she was putting herself in? Jack had already decided the most likely place he’d catch up with Anna would be when she visited her mother. This time he’d be waiting for her. He wondered if the woman he’d seen when he stood in line for the plane had the same idea, and, if so, was she Fenston’s retriever or did she work for someone else?