The Appraisal

by Anna Porter

  Giorgio quieted it with a slap.

  “Well?” he asked. He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands raised in a theatrical gesture worthy of a diva.

  “Very fine,” Helena said. “Although I prefer the view from the apartment in Venice.”

  “Too many people,” Giorgio said. “Can I get you something?”

  “The letter,” she told him. “My plane leaves at six.”

  “Going to?”

  She was studying one of the Rembrandt drawings and didn’t reply.

  “You didn’t tell me exactly where Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem is,” Giorgio said.

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “So little trust.”

  She looked at the Picasso sideways to shut out the reflected light from the windows. “People forget what a fine draftsman he was,” she said, “under all that bullshit.”

  They were both quiet for a few minutes, then Giorgio went to the desk.

  “This whole thing makes me uneasy,” he said.

  “I know.”

  CHAPTER 19

  The letterhead was that of the Gallerie dell’Accademia of Venice, done in fine script, brown ink on off-white paper. It was exactly what Helena had requested.

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I have been consulted by Helena Marsh regarding a painting representing Christ entering Jerusalem. While it is indeed a fine example of Renaissance art, it is my opinion, based on fifty years studying the art of Tiziano Vecellio, known as Titian, that it is not the work of that artist. There is no documentation ascertaining its origins despite the fact that Tiziano Vecellio’s work was documented during his lifetime as one of the premier artists of his century. Nor has subsequent scholarship mentioned the existence of such a work. The Titian Committee, which spent a decade researching all of Titian’s paintings, fails to classify it or even mention it in its final volumes.

  It is difficult to ascertain without submitting the painting to laboratory tests who the artist is. It is possible that it is the work of Tiziano Vecellio’s studio after his demise, but it is more likely that the painting was executed by one of the minor Venetian painters who followed him and tried, in vain, I might add, to fully emulate his style. It is to be borne in mind that Tiziano Vecellio was not only the best-known artist of his time, but that his work was valued more highly than the work of contemporary artists, thus making imitation a lucrative endeavour for dealers and artists alike.

  Yours truly,

  Dottore Giorgio Matamoros, PhD,

  Director Emeritus,

  Gallerie dell’Accademia,

  Venezia, Italia

  She sent copies separately by DHL to Budapest: to Dr. Ferenc Kis on Váci Street, Mr. János Krestin in Buda, and to Mr. Piotr Denisovich Grigoriev, care of the Gresham. She had no idea where Azarov was staying, but sent his copy care of the Ukrainian Embassy in Budapest. They would make finding him a priority. She had read in the Süddeutsche Zeitung that he was running his businesses from Montenegro, because Ukraine had become dangerous for oligarchs, except those connected with the president.

  Later, she would deliver Géza Márton’s copy of the letter, personally. Márton had told her that he wanted the painting even if it cost him more than Krestin’s original price. At his age, he had said, money had little meaning. He was not interested in accumulating more, and was even less interested in his financial legacy. He had already given fine endowments to the Toronto Public Library and the Art Gallery of Ontario and had not asked for any public acknowledgement in return. His two children, he said, could fend for themselves. They had each been given a trust fund and every opportunity to make whatever they wished of their lives.

  However, the original price of the painting had doubled in only a few days. The one hundred million price tag could be too much even for Márton.

  CHAPTER 20

  The flight to Cluj-Napoca was pleasantly uneventful. She was not given to anxiety, but the combination of Azarov’s interest forcing her to track down the new Titian and her concern that Márton would not be able to buy his painting back, had caused her to order a second vodka.

  She took out her Aeneid for the last half hour to settle her nerves. She was beginning to think that she had to replace it with something less taxing, but not so easy that she could whip through it quickly. Reading the Aeneid was a bit like doing the Times crossword puzzle: never too easy, but always diverting. Queen Dido’s obsession with Aeneas and the Trojans reminded her of the obsessions of art collectors, especially those who knew nothing about art.

  Once the airplane landed, she discarded the yellow dress, the hat, and the slingback shoes in the airport’s grimy washroom, where she changed into a black T-shirt, the grey linen jacket, running shoes, rimless glasses, and black pants. She had hidden the Swiss handgun in the massive potted plant in the Four Seasons lobby in Budapest and had left a parcel containing the knife and her extra wigs and passports in the hotel’s safe.

  Cluj-Napoca was not the kind of place where a woman, even one like Helena Marsh, should wander around without adequate protection. So before she left the airport, she bought a prepaid cell phone and called Marcia, who said she couldn’t oblige with a gun, unless a Russian semi-automatic would do the trick, but she did have a very effective Soviet-made army switchblade with a pedigree she would vouch for. The price was not much more than what Helena would have to pay for a normal handgun.

  She took a cab to Marcia’s “shop” on Iulia Maniu Street, close to the National Theatre. It was on the third floor of a faded-yellow baroque building, in an area where all buildings had to be one of a few designated colours and most owners had chosen yellow.

  Marcia opened her door a crack, leaving the triple chain on until she was sure that it was, indeed, Helena. They hadn’t spoken in over a year.

  “It wouldn’t be hard to break down the door,” Helena said when she had extricated herself from Marcia’s overwhelming hug. The woman had arms like a gymnast’s and the body of a weightlifter. She used to work out for a couple of hours every day and, judging by her strength, Helena thought she still did.

  “Oh yes, it would,” Marcia said. “It’s reinforced steel. It used to be in the Securitate’s local jail, as were the windows, in case you’re wondering. And you’ve come from where?” She was speaking an odd mixture of Italian and Russian, a language mashup they had used on previous occasions.

  The windows had thick bars, painted white, and were bracketed by ferns in tall baskets. The walls were ochre and decorated with multicoloured knitted hangings.

  “Your shoes,” Marcia warned when Helena entered. “The wood,” she added, indicating the parquet floor, which was buffed to a shine.

  Helena slipped off her running shoes.

  “How have you been?” she asked.

  “Much the same. Tea or something stronger?”

  “Tea, I think.” She followed Marcia into the kitchen. The kettle was already on the stove, the table laid with a teapot, two cups, and a plate of cheese and olives and thickly sliced black bread.

  “You are still in the security business,” Helena said.

  “But the competition is stiffer. Serbs, Croats, Bosnians, Bulgarians, Hungarians, Russians, and Romanians of course. Sometimes they even work together. They may fight on the streets of their own countries, but here, it’s all a common cause: make quick money and live like a prince — not what we had in mind in ’89. Transylvania led the revolution against the Ceaușescu, you know. We had borne the brunt of the repression by the Securitate. Now the Securitate has its own gangs. Why are we surprised? The most violent members of the old regime are the most violent insiders of our shiny new democracy.”

  At sixty, Marcia was still a looker, with her long black hair, now streaked with white, gathered in a knot at the nape of her neck. She stood tall in a dark-blue top and soft corduroy pants, her hands flying as she talked. She was as ta
lkative as she had been when Helena first met her in Odessa in 1995. In those days, you could purchase Old Masters from concerned Communist apparatchiks trying to raise enough money for a one-way journey to Canada or the United States. Marcia had been the curator of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century European art at the Muzeul Național de Artă in Bucharest, but after the collapse of the old regime, she became a fixer and also offered her services as a bodyguard if one were needed. She had been willing to settle for a percentage of the selling price, no advance payment, and no residuals. Even with the bribes she’d had to pay at the Yugoslav border, Helena made a tidy profit. Helena had hired her as a backstop. They hadn’t had another artwork of mutual interest until the Raphael drawing five years ago, but they had stayed in touch.

  “But you live better,” Helena said.

  “I live better because I work outside the system. If I went back to the museum, I’d have wages, pay taxes and bribes, and I wouldn’t be able to afford a decent pot of tea. No milk, no sugar?”

  Helena shook her head.

  “You don’t change, do you?”

  “Not much. But this time I may need some serious backup,” Helena said.

  Marcia nodded. “And the switchblade.” She produced it in one swift motion from a pouch wedged into her pants at the back. “Did you even notice I was wearing it?” she asked.

  “As soon as I came in,” Helena said. “You walked stiffly and it poked out above your waistline.”

  “You didn’t say.”

  “I have to show a painting to someone tonight. It’s in the home of a man called Braunschweiger. He is anxious to sell, too anxious to show it around. He is worried he’ll be killed for it or the painting will be stolen. Or both. He isn’t sure what it’s worth but he suspects it’s more than enough to live on for the rest of his life.”

  “A Saxon?” Marica asked with a curl of her lip.

  “I never asked.”

  “The name,” Marcia said.

  “He showed me a photograph of the painting when I was in London last year. I came to see it during the winter, and I told him I would find a buyer.”

  “And you have.”

  “The buyer wants to see it first,” Helena said, reaching for the goat cheese.

  “Very sensible. I can find out whether Braunschweiger has shown it to anyone else. And whether it’s safe to go to his place with the buyer.”

  “Okay, but I’d rather you met me there,” Helena said. “Nine this evening. He lives near the cemetery in a big house overlooking the gardens. If there is a problem, leave me a message on this phone. I’ll call you shortly before ten.”

  Marcia took the money for the knife without counting it, and both women stood up.

  “Bring a gun,” Helena said at the door. “I don’t care what kind, just have one with you.” Suddenly, she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten, other than the goat cheese and olives, since Nice.

  Marcia opened the door slowly and looked in both directions before saying goodbye.

  Helena made her way over to the Hotel Opera Plaza, where she dropped her bag, then walked back to the old town.

  She bought a spiced sausage in a rye bun with two generous dollops of mustard and a massive dill pickle from a kiosk on one of the cobblestone pedestrian streets and walked on to Unirii Square. The shops were closed and shuttered, but people were spilling out of restaurants and bars, laughing too loudly and shouting at one another as they parted. Some of the men were wearing football uniforms and yelling that Hungarians had small pricks. There must have been a game here in the past couple of days.

  The last time she had been here, Unirii Square had been dark. St. Michael’s gothic church had loomed over the square like a fortification, and the statue of King Matthias Corvinus on horseback was a dark, menacing hulk in front of the church. The horse, with one hoof raised, as if to step off its pedestal, had seemed part of the seated man, a satyr in mid stride. She had stopped here then, too, and read the inscription on the pedestal: “Hungariae Matthias Rex.”

  Now the word “Hungariae” was missing.

  Helena stood in front of the great Renaissance King, dead for more than five hundred years, and wondered why the mayor hadn’t just removed the statue altogether. It would have been so much simpler. Had he been afraid the Hungarians would invade again to restore their king to his pedestal?

  She called Marcia, who confirmed that the place seemed safe and the Saxon had not tried to sell the art. They would meet later.

  She felt someone come up quickly behind her, and she tensed. She slid her right hand over the handle of the knife, raised her left hand, palm forward, and swirled around. She was facing a man with a hoodie over his head in mid reach for her shoulder bag. He dropped his arm when she pulled the knife, pointed it at his chest, and told him to scram, in Italian.

  Whether he understood the words or not, he certainly understood the gesture and ran off to the accompaniment of soft laughter coming from under one of the king’s armoured men.

  “Brilliant,” Vladimir Azarov said, laughing. “You’re still the toughest lady in the Eastern bloc. Good thing I didn’t try to surprise you.”

  “One of yours?” she asked.

  “Mine are older and wiser, and they don’t frighten so easily.” He came closer and offered her a cigarette. “You know Miroslav.”

  “Your idea of a joke?” she asked.

  “A happy coincidence,” he said. “Street theatre.” He lit the cigarette, cupping the match in his hand.

  “Did you come alone?” she asked, looking behind him.

  “Should I have brought a bodyguard? This is a dangerous city. It’s always been a bit tricky, what with people not having enough food and their nasty state-security police. It’s no better now that it’s become the backwater of organized crime syndicates. Democracy hasn’t been kind to the Romanians. They still don’t have enough to eat, and in the old days at least they knew whose hand was in their pockets.” He paused and looked around for a moment. “Should we have supper first and then you show me the Titian?”

  “We’ll see it now,” she said. “Then we can decide whether we still feel like eating supper.”

  She started to hail a taxi, but the driver of a big, shiny Infiniti JX35 parked by the side of the square was already opening its rear door for them. Of course Vladimir would have a car and driver, Helena realized. That’s what he was looking around for.

  ***

  The Braunschweigers were waiting at the entrance to their building. He was a short, stocky man dressed in a blue shirt and brown tweed suit, once favoured by Party bosses, and she was wearing a loose print dress with a bow at the neck. They were both excited and very nervous. They exchanged greetings in Romanian and German, with a few words of Russian. He said he’d learned Russian at school but had forgotten most of it. Vladimir expressed his regret in Russian that neither his German nor his Romanian was up to par. Marcia would be their interpreter.

  She was inside, standing at an open window, her back to the room. The apartment smelled of cooked cabbage and cleaning fluids.

  The Braunschweigers had moved the painting to the centre of the living room and leaned it up against the couch. They had rigged a lightbulb over it and moved a lamp close so you could see one corner better than the other.

  “We store it under the bed,” Braunschweiger said in German. “It does no good to display something like this. There have been robberies on this street, and if anyone knew we had something of value . . .”

  His wife nodded vigorously and offered everyone a glass of Silva.

  Marcia declined. Vladimir drank his in one gulp. Helena sipped hers, while searching the painting for scratches. The driver stood with his back to the door, eying Marcia.

  The painting was about four feet long and three feet high. It was difficult for Helena to tell exactly, as the clunky, black, wooden frame was covering at least t
wo inches of its top and bottom. Christ was in a blue-white gown, standing high above the fray of rising and falling figures. White clouds behind him illuminated his head and face. The rising bodies were identifiable saints and prophets, typical of the Renaissance, all lit by Christ’s light. None had haloes above their heads. In the lower left, the doomed struggled in murky green-purple darkness, some still reaching up in hope of redemption, others being pulled down by black figures that dissolved into an inky darkness.

  The figures were all finely detailed, not painted in the impressionistic rush of Christ’s Entry into Jerusalem.

  “It’s earlier than the other,” Helena said. “As I told you, probably commissioned by Mary of Hungary. Clear lines, lots of brushwork. It’s in the records as missing.”

  Vladimir was sitting on his haunches next to her. “It looks different,” he said.

  “Not so different from his work of this decade,” Helena said quickly. “It’s before he started to use his fingers and the handles of his brushes. You can see how carefully he outlines each figure. But it’s hard to tell what the original colours were. It needs a cleaning and maybe a bit of restoration, but it’s remarkable that it has retained so much of its original vigour.”

  “Vigour,” Vladimir said. “I don’t see that. It’s static, staged, and very gloomy.”

  “What do you expect? It’s a Last Judgement.”

  Vladimir told his man to help him hold the painting up to the tasselled lamp, then pulled the lightbulb down closer and examined every inch of it, while the Braunschweigers hovered anxiously.

  “How did you get this painting?” Vladimir asked in Russian then again English.

  Braunschweiger raised his shoulders and spread his hands to indicate he was helpless in the face of these languages.

  Marcia asked him in Romanian.

  “I bought it,” he said after much nodding and sighing.