The Masterpiece

by Fiona Davis

  She pushed it from her mind and went back out, offering tea and cookies, anything to swing Mr. Hornsby’s foul mood.

  “No. I don’t have much time. Where’s the artist?”

  “Levon is running late. But why don’t we start here, with the still lifes?”

  Mr. Hornsby surveyed them, various arrangements of pears and figs in bold, almost garish, hues. They moved on to the drawings, including one of a woman in bed, the covers pulled up to her chin. Then landscapes, a couple of self-portraits. He didn’t speak, didn’t nod, offered no sign of his reaction whatsoever. Finally, they reached the painting of mother and child.

  “That one’s of his mother when—”

  Mr. Hornsby cut her off. “Don’t tell me anything about it.”

  He moved closer, then back. She stayed quiet. Mr. Hornsby was right; there was no need for words. She could tell the figures on the canvas haunted him, just as they had her.

  The rain ended, and a powerful silence descended over the studio, broken by a faint scratching sound.

  For a second, she thought maybe a mouse had skittered across the floor. But no. It was Levon’s key in the lock.

  He entered with his back to them, closing a large umbrella and giving it a final shake in the hallway.

  He turned around, staring at Clara, then Mr. Hornsby, and back again at Clara. She wished she could fall into a hole, disappear.

  Mr. Hornsby held out his hand, practically skipping across the room. “Mr. Zakarian. What a pleasure.” Levon didn’t respond. Mr. Hornsby looked over at Clara. “Is something wrong?”

  She implored Levon with her eyes, keeping her voice measured, pleasant. “Mr. Hornsby is here to see your work. I arranged for him to come by.”

  Mr. Hornsby’s expression turned from confusion to suspicion. “Mr. Zakarian didn’t know I’d be coming, did he?”

  She shrugged, waiting them both out. It was too late now. Let the games begin. Levon barged across the room, and to Mr. Hornsby’s credit, he ignored him. The man clearly had experience with temperamental artists.

  “How did you achieve the luminescence in the background of this one?” Mr. Hornsby pointed to a still life.

  Levon stopped in his tracks. She recognized the desperate look in his eyes. Wanting acclaim. Wanting success. If Mr. Hornsby played him carefully, this just might work.

  They began discussing viscosity and tints. Levon’s words began measured, precise, but soon they tumbled out, just like in his painting classes. The two men shared the same vocabulary, which helped break down Levon’s defenses.

  The still lifes vibrated with energy, the self-portraits murmured with pain and loss. She finally understood why Levon was reluctant to put his work up for inspection. His art was a direct reflection of his very being, which meant an analysis by someone like Mr. Hornsby was in fact an examination of Levon’s soul. Clara’s illustrations were a completely different animal, outside of herself, a separate product. A business, as Levon had put it.

  They approached the mother-and-son portrait. “It’s not finished.” Levon’s words grew clipped again, all goodwill fading away.

  Mr. Hornsby ran his index finger over his bottom lip, staring hard. “No. To finish it would destroy it. It’s the rawness, the empty spaces, that make us grieve for this woman and this boy. It should never be completed.”

  That pinprick of approval, of understanding, shredded Levon’s carefully constructed facade. He stormed away, grabbing a pitcher from the table and hurling it across the room. “I’m done with this. Get out. I didn’t invite you here, and you should never have come.”

  “Levon, he understands. Let him stay. Don’t do this.” Clara shook with disappointment and fury.

  “Out. Now.”

  She grabbed her bag and hat and retreated, Mr. Hornsby skittering behind her.

  To her surprise, Mr. Hornsby accepted her apologies out on the street, patting her hand. “Don’t fret, Miss Darden. I’ve been kicked out of many an artist’s studio in my time. At least I didn’t get hit by a palette covered in wet paint.”

  But she couldn’t let it go. Clara stewed during her illustration class the next day, angry at the unwarranted drama of it all. She’d done Levon a favor, even if he didn’t recognize it.

  She clapped her hands together. “All right, class. The break is over; please take your places.”

  Thanks to a favor from a Vogue editor, the students had been treated to a true fashion model today, a sylphlike girl who’d appeared in the pages of the magazine in the latest editorial layout. The model puffed on her cigarette holder before resuming her position on a green chaise lounge that the students had dragged to the front of the room.

  Two more hours of class. Knowing she’d go mad if she didn’t do something with the extra energy coursing through her body, Clara sat down at a drawing table near the back of the room, where she could survey her students’ efforts while keeping her own work private.

  The model wore a cerulean blue Georgette crepe dress with a dropped waist and neckline, wide sleeves, and a matching ring of rosettes that encased her hips. A turban covered most of her black hair. Her features were tiny and pointed, allowing the clothes to take center stage. Clara took up a pencil and sketched an outline, filling in details, taking her typical approach: elongating the neck, sloping the shoulders, and deemphasizing the head. The final rendering was all curves and froth. Out of habit, she signed her name on the bottom right corner, along with the year.

  She stepped back and tried to view it as if it were one of her students’ efforts. Pedestrian. Rote. An object to be looked at once in a magazine and then tossed in the trash. A calling card for a business proposition.

  Turning over the paper, she tried again, this time from a purely artistic standpoint. How would Levon see it? Instead of sketching with fluttering, light lines, she pushed down hard, not caring if it didn’t align with the editorial perspective. The model became an afterthought the longer she concentrated, her focus staying on the paper and the drawing. She wanted to paint like Levon, from the inside. The model was exquisite, which only made Clara’s irritation grow. Why did she have to be pretty? What did it mean, that this woman was considered a beauty?

  The woman in the Van Gogh painting wasn’t pretty, and that was why the artist chose her. Because she had lived a life and it showed on her face, in her posture. A smooth face was a bore. Drawing a set of perfectly bowed lips was fun the first time, but what if this time she made the mouth garishly wide? What then? And what if the fingers were thick stubs instead of long tapers?

  The drawing was a mess, but a good one. She unscrewed some paint jars, chose a flat brush, and swept a light water wash across the background. No. The water diluted the brushstrokes. Working dry, she mixed the blue for the dress and laid it down fast, knowing it was a race against time before it set. The deadline worked in her favor, preventing her from second-guessing her decisions.

  So this is what Levon felt as he worked. Once she banished the running commentary of an editor’s critique from her mind—“The model needs to be thinner,” “Enlarge the masthead”—her imagination was free to play. She took what she saw in front of her and attacked the paper with little forethought. The rush stayed with her until class came to a close. She thanked the model, checked in with her students, and made sure the room was cleaned up before tucking the painting on top of the storage cabinet.

  Oliver was waiting for her by the clock on the concourse floor. They were due to catch the train to Newport, to spend a weekend at his parents’ country house.

  “Oliver, I’ve had the strangest experience.”

  Her words came out in a tumble, how she’d approached the painting in a new way, a more instinctive one. “It was almost mystical, the sense that this creation was erupting from inside me. Not outside. Does that make any sense?”

  He laughed. “Good for you, I guess.”


  “What do you mean?”

  He counted on his fingers. “The magazine work, your teaching, the Studebaker job. Are you about to shoot off in another direction? Maybe you’d rather stay in the city and skip our Newport trip? Again?”

  She would. But she’d never admit it.

  “You’re diluting your energies, Clara. Be careful.”

  He had a point. A physical and mental heaviness weighed on her after those two hours of concentration, unlike anything she’d experienced before.

  As she gave him a reassuring smile, Levon came into view.

  She braced herself for another round of derision. Or maybe he’d just ignore her and walk right by them.

  Instead, he took Oliver’s hand and shook it heartily. “How are you? And Miss Darden?”

  “We’re both well. Off to Newport. And you?”

  “Meeting with my dealer in the restaurant.”

  Clara threw Levon a look. His dealer? What was he talking about?

  Levon stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m working with Felix Hornsby after all. Two landscapes to start. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

  “When did all this happen?” she asked.

  “I went to his office, after you left. Told him I wanted to work with him. He made a couple of calls and, like that”—he snapped his fingers—“I was flush.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “I needed to eat.”

  That would do it. She was glad he came to his senses. “And?”

  “And I guess I should thank you for making the introduction.” He bowed in her direction. “And for breaking into my studio and showing my work without my consent. At the time, I was worried I’d allowed goats on my roof.”

  “Goats on your roof?” She had no idea what he was talking about.

  He gave them both a hug, smiling broadly, before striding away. The old Levon was back.

  “Strange man.” Oliver shook his head as Levon disappeared into the crowd. “Let’s just hope his English skills improve soon.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  November 1974

  Overnight, the scare Virginia had at the defunct school of art faded slightly. The sound was probably rats scurrying around. Not a person. As a matter of fact, she’d seen several large rats scrounging for food around the terminal’s garbage cans. In her head, she replayed the scene. Had those been footsteps? No, just scurrying. What about the bang on the door? Just an old paint can that had gotten knocked over by a rodent.

  Virginia stumbled out of bed and into Finn’s brightly lit kitchen, where Ruby sat eating a bowl of cornflakes. Finn poured her coffee without saying a word, knowing that it took her ten minutes before she was fully cognizant. Xavier tossed the newspaper on the table, and they each took a section. “Are we ready for Turkey Day?”

  That’s right. It was Thanksgiving. When Finn had suggested last weekend that they all go to a restaurant for Thanksgiving dinner, Virginia insisted on cooking instead. She wanted to give Ruby a traditional holiday, as a way to prove that they were still a family, even if they were missing her father. At the same time, drumming up a feast was a perfect way to thank Finn and Xavier for letting them crash at the Carlyle.

  Xavier continued. “I bought everything we need, but I’m not lifting a finger to cook. You do not want me in the kitchen.”

  “True.” Finn patted him on the arm. “Last time he tried to cook a steak, it ended up so raw I swear it moved.”

  “That’s truly disgusting.” Ruby turned to Virginia. “I want marshmallows on the sweet potatoes.”

  “That is the plan.” Virginia almost chastised her for not saying “please” but held her tongue, not wanting to embarrass her.

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” asked Finn.

  “Not a thing. I’ve got this.”

  After showering and fluffing her hair per Xavier’s detailed instructions, Virginia threw on an apron and got down to work: prepping the turkey and getting it in the oven, figuring out where the pots and pans were, and deciding which serving dishes were most festive. She could hear Finn, Xavier, and Ruby in the living room watching the Thanksgiving Day parade on the television, cheering when their favorite balloons drifted by.

  After Xavier announced the Bloody Marys were ready, she joined them in the living room, setting a tray with some Ritz crackers and cheddar cheese on the coffee table.

  Finn patted the cushion beside him. “Sit, Vee, and tell us about your new job.”

  She tucked her bare feet underneath her and sipped the Bloody Mary. Strong but good. “It’s interesting, more so than I expected. But it’s pretty straightforward. I help out, make sure the supplies are filled, get coffee.”

  “Where do you work in Grand Central?”

  “I’m in the information booth.”

  Xavier leaned forward. “The one with the clock on top of it? Right in the middle of that big space?”

  “The concourse. Well, yes.”

  “How on earth did you end up in there?” asked Finn.

  She stifled the familiar drumbeat of defensiveness. “Long story. The people who work there are a quirky bunch, to say the least, but I don’t mind it. The building has so much history behind it, I like being part of it.”

  Ruby wiped some crumbs off her skirt, not looking her mother’s way. “That time I took the train back from Sarah Lawrence, I was so scared. The place is creepy.”

  “It’s not creepy once you get used to it. Although I am careful. In any case, it’s a paycheck.” She shrugged. “Who knows how long I’ll be there.”

  “Why the uncertainty?” Xavier asked.

  “The building might lose its landmark status, in which case the owner wants to put up a skyscraper. They’d move the train station down belowground and build up above it.”

  “They shouldn’t tear Grand Central down,” said Finn. “They’ll just regret it, like with Penn Station.”

  “But why keep something that’s old and crummy?” asked Ruby. She’d been edgy since waking, flinging her clothes around their shared room because she couldn’t find the right outfit. She was probably missing her father for the holiday, Virginia realized with a rush of guilt.

  “It’s not all old and crummy.” Virginia couldn’t help but spring to the building’s defense as if it were an aging, disagreeable dowager, one who deserved a grudging respect. “Parts of it are gorgeous. If they tear it down, it would be like taking down the history of New York with it.”

  “What if they said that back in the eighteen hundreds?” countered Ruby. “New York would still have cobblestone streets, farms, and tenement buildings. It’s called progress.”

  “Your daughter has a good point,” said Finn.

  “I guess so. Maybe we can find some kind of happy medium.” She thought of Dennis’s model, with the skyscraper perching on top of the terminal. Would that qualify as a happy medium?

  No. The more she considered it, the more she wanted the terminal to stay as it was. Not only for Terrence, Totto, Winston, and Doris. But so that in fifty years, the city’s residents could appreciate the grandeur of the olden days the same way she did now.

  Finn laughed. “Remember when Mom and Dad took us to the Oyster Bar?”

  The memory flooded back. “But then wouldn’t let us order oysters, because the month didn’t contain an r? We had minestrone soup instead.”

  Finn turned to Xavier. “She was certain that if an oyster passed our lips in July, we would fall deathly ill. Never mind all the advances in refrigeration. Our mother was always one for a potential crisis. Whether it was that our dad might be robbed at gunpoint, or the city was about to fall into the sea, she was always thinking three steps ahead. She didn’t see the glass half-empty; she saw it as laced with angel dust, which she’d heard on the news made you want to jump off buildings.”

  Virginia waggled
a finger at him. “There wasn’t angel dust back then. Now you’re being ridiculous.”

  Finn shrugged. “You know what I mean. To give her a little credit, it really didn’t bother her much when I came out. She took that in stride. Blowing off Juilliard, however, that caused an earthquake.”

  The earthquake had occurred on a sweltering Indian summer of a day, when Finn was seventeen. He’d been banging away on the upright piano all afternoon, struggling through a Bach piece, slamming his hands down hard on the keyboard when he made a mistake, the neighbors below pounding on the ceiling with a broom handle. Everyone’s nerves were frayed. When their mother told Finn to get his act together and stop behaving like a child, he’d erupted, telling her that he wanted to go into theater, not to Juilliard. Their parents had cut him off right there and then, and he’d run away, heading to Europe with only a backpack.

  “Here’s to Meryl O’Connor, flawed as she was.” Virginia raised her glass in a toast.

  “Here’s to Meryl.” Finn echoed her, and the others joined in.

  “Her funeral was nice. So was Dad’s. All the neighbors came, at least the gang that was still living from the pub days.”

  A shadow crossed Finn’s face. They were moving into dangerous territory, but Virginia couldn’t help herself. She was two-thirds of the way through the Bloody Mary, and the vodka made her brave.

  “Right,” he said. “I just couldn’t swing it.”

  “We missed you.”

  As children, they’d played together constantly, either with Finn’s tin soldiers in the middle of the living room or lounging out on the fire escape in the heat of summer while Virginia read out loud from her Nancy Drew books. But once his musical talent was discovered, she’d lost him to the piano and the daily practice that ate up all his free time. She’d hoped, after their parents’ deaths, that she and her brother would become closer, but that hadn’t happened. No doubt Chester’s conservative outlook hadn’t helped matters; the man was far from welcoming. In any event, they had spun in completely different orbits until now.