Masterpiece

by Elise Broach

  Cautiously, Marvin crawled over to his preferred spying place behind the desk lamp, watching James the whole time. James was leaning over the drawing, studying it, his face transfixed in a smile. Suddenly, he looked up. He peered around the top of the desk.

  “Hey, little guy,” he said softly.

  Marvin stiffened. He’d thought he was well hidden behind the lamp’s brass base, but James’s voice suggested otherwise. Remembering Papa’s warning, he flattened himself and slid partway under the lamp.

  James kept talking, his voice calm. “Little guy, that’s what I’ll call you . . . because you are a really little guy.” He hesitated. “Unless you’re a girl.”

  WHAT? Marvin recoiled in alarm, despite his determination to keep still.

  “Don’t be scared. I won’t hurt you,” James said. He continued to study Marvin. “I don’t think you’re a girl. I think you’re a boy, like me.”

  Marvin felt a flicker of relief, but stayed frozen at the edge of the lamp.

  “You probably can’t even understand me, huh? That’s okay. My dad is coming in a few minutes. I can’t wait to show him your picture! It’s the most amazing thing.”

  Marvin watched James lean his elbows on the desk, settling his face in his hands. “But everyone thinks I did it. That’s the only problem. And I don’t know how to tell them.”

  James’s serious gray eyes tracked over to the lamp and stayed there. Marvin cringed.

  “They’ll never believe you did it, anyway. So what’s the point of telling them?”

  No point, Marvin wanted to say. Don’t bother, especially since the drawing won’t even be here tomorrow. Best to forget all this. He gazed at the tiny picture mournfully.

  From the hall they heard a loud thump on the door, and Mrs. Pompaday’s muted greeting. A minute later, Karl Terik and Mrs. Pompaday appeared in the doorway.

  “James! James, show your father your drawing. Look at this, Karl. You’ll be shocked, I tell you. Look how tiny and elegant it is. Oh, I can’t wait to show it to the Mortons. And Sandra Ortiz, at the gallery.”

  Karl grinned at James and strode over to the desk, wearing a patient expression, as if preparing to compliment the picture no matter what he really thought. But when he saw Marvin’s drawing, his eyes widened. He rubbed his beard, staring at it.

  “May I?” he asked James, reaching for the paper.

  James blushed. “Sure, Dad.”

  Marvin inched forward to watch Karl’s reaction.

  “James,” his father said slowly.

  “What did I tell you?” Mrs. Pompaday clapped her hands. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Karl walked to the window, lifting the drawing to the light. “How did you do this?”

  James swallowed. “I just did it. You know, copied what was outside.”

  His father brought the page close to his face, scrutinizing it, then held it at arm’s length. “The lines are so delicate. And steady. I wouldn’t have thought you could make a line this thin with the pen I gave you.”

  James didn’t say anything.

  Karl shook his head. “It looks . . . well, it’s ridiculous to say it, but it could be a Dürer.”

  Marvin and James both stared at him, not understanding. Karl was still lost in thought, tilting the drawing at different angles. “I mean it. It’s that good.”

  Mrs. Pompaday glowed. “Oh, yes! Exactly. A Dürer.”

  “What’s that?” James asked. “What’s a dürer?”

  “Albrecht Dürer,” Karl explained. “The German Renaissance artist. Painter, engraver, did lots of pen-and-ink drawings, even a few miniatures like this, a long, long time ago. The detail in this is unbelievable, James. I can’t get over it.”

  James smiled joyfully at his parents. Marvin smiled joyfully at James.

  “How long did it take you?” his father continued.

  James squinted in the direction of the desk lamp and bit his lip. “Um, I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention,” he said. “But it took a while.”

  “I bet so,” his father said, whistling under his breath. He dropped his hand to James’s back and rubbed the boy’s thin neck, his voice rising in excitement. “You know what we’ll do, buddy? We’ll go to the Met this afternoon! There’s a drawing exhibit that just opened, works by the Old Masters—Dürer, Bellini, Titian, Michelangelo. You have to see it. Here, we’ll take your drawing with us.”

  Marvin almost toppled out into the open. No! he wanted to cry. Stop him, James!

  But Karl grabbed a math textbook from the desk and carefully slipped the drawing inside the cover. “I want you to see firsthand how good this is,” he told James.

  “Really?” James asked. “You think it’s as good as the pictures by those famous guys?”

  “I do! I really do, James.” His father ruffled his hair.

  Mrs. Pompaday didn’t look pleased. “I don’t think you should take that drawing anywhere,” she said. “What if something happens to it? I haven’t even had a chance to show my friends.”

  Karl laughed. “Nothing will happen to it,” he said, tucking the math book securely under one arm. “I’ll guard it with my life. This is really something!”

  Now what? Marvin raced back and forth behind the base of the lamp, not knowing what to do. What if they took the drawing away for good?

  James and his parents were heading through the door when Marvin saw James hesitate. “Oops, my jacket,” he said to his father. He came back into the room, grabbing it from his closet, then paused by the desk, crouching near Marvin and shielding him from his parents’ view.

  “Come with us,” he whispered. “To see the drawings. Don’t you want to?” He rested one big pale finger on the desktop next to Marvin, his eyes urgent. “Come on, I’ll take care of you. We’ll be back soon.”

  Marvin was unable to think of anything but the drawing, which was now gone, out of the room, headed to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He dithered for one tormented moment, then scrambled on top of James’s warm, fleshy finger.

  “Here, I’ll put you someplace safe,” James whispered. He gently deposited Marvin in the pocket of his jacket. Frightened but thrilled, Marvin clung to the lip of the nylon fabric, peering out at the swiftly passing world from an unaccustomed height.

  The Temple of Art

  In his entire life, Marvin had never been outside the Pompadays’ apartment. To be fair, he had crawled onto James’s window ledge once or twice. On an unexpectedly warm day in December, the Pompadays’ cleaning woman had opened a few windows to let the mild air swirl through the winter-stale rooms, and Marvin had climbed eagerly onto the sill, scanning the distant sky above and the narrow, bustling street below. For all the information he’d gleaned from the Pompadays’ television shows, the world beyond the apartment still seemed vast and unknowable.

  Marvin couldn’t believe that here he was, tucked in James’s jacket, venturing out into the city. He held on to the nylon pocket with only his head protruding. The crisp February chill stung his shell, and the sidewalk rocked along below at an astonishing speed. Pedestrians loomed in front of him and quickly passed. Cars roared by, then squealed to a stop, horns blaring. Everything seemed too large, too loud, too strange. Marvin knew there must be beetles living out here too. He knew his own family had relations in Gramercy Park. He couldn’t help but wonder how they managed in a world that changed so quickly every minute. The city was full of danger and life. Marvin felt dizzy with excitement.

  As he jostled along in James’s pocket, he remembered the story of Aunt Cecile, the traveler of the family, known for her wanderlust. One summer day, she’d absconded from the kitchen with a used tea bag, opened one end to meticulously empty the contents of the pouch, and then used it as a parachute to leap from the living-room window, holding fast to the string.

  The beetles had watched her drift gamely to earth. A tiny floating speck, she disappeared when she reached the sidewalk and was never seen again. Marvin thought of her out here somewhere in the huge, hurryin
g world. Did she regret her boldness? Or had it been the first essential step, opening her life to new, unprecedented adventures?

  “Is that it?” James asked, pointing to the enormous grayish white edifice that rose before them.

  “Yep, that’s the Met,” his father told him. “You’ve been here before, remember? Though I mostly take you to the Museum of Modern Art.”

  Marvin could see large colorful banners with writing on them hanging high across the front of the building. He had no idea what they said. As easy as it was to understand human speech, and even to eventually figure out the concept of human time, it had proven nearly impossible for the beetles to decode their writing. A written language was something the beetles had no use for among themselves. But Marvin now realized just how helpful it could be. Why, if he knew how to write in James’s language, just imagine all the interesting, important things he could tell him!

  They climbed the long sweep of stone steps two at a time, with James cupping one hand protectively over his pocket. Soon they were in the cavernous main hall of the building. Marvin peered around at the crowds of people in their dark winter coats, the large, elegant vases of flowers, and the wide stairs leading to the second floor.

  “This way,” Karl called, leading them up the central staircase with long strides. Two vaulted hallways stretched on either side, with glass cases that held colorful displays of porcelain bowls and platters. Soft yellow light shrouded the open space.

  “I remember this place now,” James said. “It kind of feels like a church.”

  His father smiled. “Well, it kind of is a church . . . a temple of art.”

  Marvin glimpsed marble statues and gilt-framed paintings. Moments later, they walked into a large room, its walls lined with drawings.

  “Wow.” James stared. “Look at all this stuff.”

  His father took his hand and pulled him along. “I think the Dürer drawings are in the third room.”

  Marvin was too far from the walls and too jostled by his jacket perch to see well, but he could make out a blur of sketches, mostly portraits and figures, sometimes a landscape. The colors were muted: blacks, grays, browns, a faint wash of red. As soon as James stopped walking, Marvin tried to climb farther out of his pocket to get a better view. James kept sneaking small, worried glances in his direction.

  “Here!” his father said finally. “Look at that, will you? Do you see what I mean?”

  They came to a stop. By now, Marvin had four legs outside the pocket flap and was balancing precariously on its edge, hoping for a better look. As he teetered there in frustration, James’s finger appeared alongside him. He hesitated, then climbed aboard. James raised his hand to his shoulder, where Marvin quickly disembarked and hid beneath the edge of James’s collar.

  “Wow!” said James again.

  The drawing hanging in front of them was a small, precise image of a courtyard. The lines were impossibly thin and exact; from the casements of the windows to the stones in the square, meticulously contoured. The slate rooftops had edges as sharp as cut glass.

  Marvin stared at it. He could almost see the hand of the artist executing each line. The longer he stared, the more he could feel the drawing come into being.

  Karl looked around at the other museum-goers, who obliviously walked past them. He set the math book on the floor and carefully removed Marvin’s drawing from inside the cover, holding it up and turning to James. “Do you see? Your technique is so similar to Dürer’s.”

  James nodded, speechless.

  Slowly they moved along the wall of drawings, stopping to study each one. There were other small landscapes, pictures of an old woman and a girl, a pen-and-ink drawing of a rabbit. They were almost photographic in their details, yet startlingly distinct. The faces looked like real people, Marvin thought, with the ruggedness of noses and chins, expressions full of feeling. Near the end of the wall, James stopped.

  “Look at this one, Dad. It’s so little. What’s it supposed to be?”

  Marvin crept out from under James’s collar. The drawing was a tiny framed miniature of a gowned woman kneeling, with her arms around an animal. A lion. She had waves of hair that cascaded down her back, and the lion’s mane flowed in similar waves over its massive shoulders.

  Karl read the plaque. “It says it’s one of the four cardinal virtues: Fortitude. Do you know what that means?”

  “No,” said James.

  “Courage. Strength.”

  “Is she trying to catch the lion?”

  “Well, sort of wrestling with it, I think. Look at the detail, though. Look at the folds of her dress and the lion’s claws. Dürer’s hand is so precise. That’s what made me think of your drawing, James.” Karl squeezed James’s shoulder.

  I could do that, thought Marvin. He was riveted.

  “Karl?”

  They all turned at the voice. Emerging from the loose clusters of people in the gallery was one rumpled-looking older man, walking directly toward them and smiling warmly. “I thought that was you.”

  The Woman and the Lion

  “Denny! Hey! How are you?” Karl grinned broadly, thrusting out his hand. “James, this is Dennis MacGuffin, an old friend from my Pratt days. Remember? The art college? Denny, my son, James.”

  Denny crouched slightly, winking at James. “Not so old, eh, James? It’s nice to meet you. I’m always delighted to see young people at an exhibit like this.”

  “What are you doing here, Denny? I thought you were out west somewhere. . . . California, wasn’t it?”

  Denny nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I’m at the Getty now. Curator of Drawings. The Dürer and this Bellini over here are ours.”

  He gestured to a similar picture of a woman and a lion, hanging next to the one they were staring at. It was the same size, but Marvin thought it seemed less delicate, the pen strokes thicker.

  Denny continued, “We’ve got a number of items on loan for this exhibit, and I’ve been helping Ms. Balcony with the arrangements.” He beckoned to a woman who was skirting the crowds and walking in their direction, her gaze darting over the drawings.

  Marvin edged out from underneath James’s collar. She was slim and tidy-looking, her blouse tucked in, her honey-colored hair drawn back in a neat bun. Black rectangular glasses sat firmly on her small nose. He saw that she was very pretty, but she had the unself-conscious manner of someone who was totally oblivious to that fact—which only made her seem prettier. Marvin liked her instantly.

  “Christina,” Denny called to her. “Come meet my friends Karl Terik and his son, James. You may have heard of Karl’s work. He shows at Ernst Auger’s gallery. In addition to being one of my favorite people, he’s an excellent artist.”

  Christina Balcony approached them, smiling. “Terik? No, I’m afraid not.”

  “My Freedom series was at the Steinholm last fall. Large abstracts?” Marvin thought Karl sounded embarrassed, but hopeful.

  “No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Or maybe you saw some of my work at the Whitney Biennial?”

  Christina shook her head. “But anything less than four hundred years old is quite beyond my area of expertise.”

  “Expertise or interest?” Karl asked, and Marvin was surprised to hear a note of irritation in his voice.

  “Well, both, I suppose,” she said, laughing. “I’m sorry. Please don’t take my ignorance as any sort of verdict on your work. I’m stuck in the late 1400s . . . Germany, Italy, Holland.”

  Stuck in the late 1400s. The time of these drawings. Marvin couldn’t even imagine how long ago that was. Impossibly ancient, in beetle terms.

  Christina took Karl’s extended hand and gave James a wide smile. “Do you like these?”

  James nodded shyly.

  “We do,” Karl said. “Very much. Especially the Dürers.”

  “Yes, they’re lovely. He’s our favorite, isn’t he, Denny? Whenever one of his comes up for sale, we are always fighting over it. Extraordinary attention to detail, and
a flawless touch . . . you can really see it here, compared to the Bellini.” She turned to James. “Same image, different artist. Which do you like better?”

  James looked up at her. “That one,” he almost whispered, pointing to the Dürer. Me too, thought Marvin. The Bellini was prettier in its way, but Marvin preferred the crisp, certain lines of the Dürer.

  “Why?” Christina asked encouragingly. James bit his lip, too shy to answer.

  “Giovanni Bellini was a great Italian artist,” she said. “Dürer called him ‘the best painter of them all.’ ”

  “But he’s not nearly as admired as Dürer,” Karl pointed out.

  “Well, at the time he was. Now he’s often overlooked in favor of the big names . . . Michelangelo, Leonardo, Rembrandt.” Christina studied the two pictures, smiling faintly. “Dürer went to Venice to learn from Bellini, but look how different the pictures are. The best teachers are like that. They don’t teach you how to do things exactly the way they do; they teach you how to be your best self.”

  She pointed at the Bellini drawing. “This one is gentle, all curves and shadings. The woman almost seems to be playing with the lion.”

  Marvin could see what she meant. There was nothing particularly threatening about either the girl or the lion, even though the drawing was called Fortitude.

  “Now look at the Dürer,” Christina said. “He tries to capture Bellini’s ideal of Italian beauty, but he can’t do it. Dürer’s girl is a German peasant, a real person. Look at her shoulders. They’re as massive as the lion’s. It will be a fight to the finish, for sure.”

  Denny laughed. “And my money’s on the girl.”

  James nodded. Half-hidden beneath his collar, Marvin did too.

  “James likes to draw,” Karl interjected. “That’s why we’re here, actually. I gave him a pen-and-ink set for his birthday and, well—look what he came up with.” He held out the drawing for them to see, grinning. “I still can’t believe he did this.”