by Levy, Marc
“Along with my father,” Hanna added.
“You know . . . they suspected me. They thought I was the one who sold everyone out because I managed to stay alive. Good-for-nothing gossips and their careless accusations. It was only because I had lost my own brother that they were convinced I wasn’t the rat. And the American, do you know what became of him?”
“Indeed, I do. He married me, as soon as we crossed the border into Spain,” Hanna explained. “And what about Titon? Did you see him again?”
“Never. Perhaps he was the one who turned on the others.”
“Perhaps nobody did,” Hanna replied. “It’s not the only time those butchers spilled blood out in these woods.”
“Of course, anything’s possible,” said Jorge.
“What about the hunting lodge?”
“It’s just sitting out there, abandoned. We cleared out the weapons, and I don’t believe anyone has set foot inside since. I’m not even sure I’d have the heart to go there myself. I walk by it often, and I always steer clear. The soil up there is still black with their blood. That place is worse than a graveyard.”
Hearing this, Hanna knew the next favor she had to ask Jorge would be difficult for him to grant. She wanted him to take her up to the lodge. She needed to set foot in the place where her father died. Only then would her mourning truly be complete.
“All right,” replied Jorge after a moment. “Perhaps it would do me good as well. Maybe going together will make us stronger.”
They rode his motorcycle to the trailhead, then climbed up the same rocky path that Hanna and Robert had used to flee in the dead of night just two years before. Several times, Hanna grew short of breath and had to stop, the memories making her weak. She would take a deep breath to stop her body from trembling, and then press on.
After what seemed like an eternity, the hunting lodge finally appeared at the top of the hill. No smoke rose from the old stone chimney now. Everything was calm, so much calmer than Hanna could have imagined.
Jorge was the first to cross the threshold. He stood in the exact spot where his brother died, kneeled, and made the sign of the cross. Hanna entered her old bedroom. The wardrobe had been reduced to a heap of rotting plywood, the box-spring mattress nothing but a tangle of rusty spirals. And yet, strangely enough, the chair in which Hanna had sat for hours on end had survived intact, just like Hanna herself. She sat in the chair once more, with her hands in her lap and her eyes drifting out the window into those woods just as she used to, what seemed like a lifetime ago . . .
“Are you all right, Hanna?” asked Jorge, poking his head into the room.
“I think I’d like to see the cellar now,” she whispered.
“Are you . . . sure about that?” he asked.
Hanna gave a solemn nod and Jorge pulled up the trapdoor. He sparked his lighter and climbed down first, testing the rungs of the ladder to make sure it wouldn’t snap under their weight. Luckily, the stone cellar had kept it dry. Hanna climbed down to join him.
“So, this is where you hid . . . the whole time—”
“Yes,” Hanna cut in before he could finish. “I hid down there at the end of the tunnel. Follow me.” Taking Jorge’s lighter in hand, Hanna took the lead, tracing the length of the tunnel and stopping before her father’s hiding place.
“That wooden beam. Give it a nice hard tug, please. It should slide out. Just a few centimeters is all I need.”
Surprising as her requests were, Hanna looked so beautiful in the glow of the flickering flame that Jorge would have moved heaven and earth for her at that moment.
“You know, whenever I came up here with provisions or laundry, just getting one single look at you would give me strength. Every time. Knowing you were waiting at the top of the path was the only thing that made the climb worth it.”
“I know,” Hanna replied. “I’ve always known. Looking at you gave me strength, too. But that was a long time ago. I’m married now.” Jorge shrugged and pulled out the beam to reveal the cavity dug into the wall. Stepping in closer, Hanna gave Jorge back his lighter and asked him to give her some light.
Jorge did as she asked, and Hanna slid her hand into the crevice until her fingers closed around the metal tube. She pulled the precious container out of its hiding place and announced that it was time to leave.
Jorge was not an especially talkative man, but he couldn’t resist asking Hanna a few questions as they climbed back down the trail.
“That tube, is that what you came here for?”
“I came to mourn my father,” she replied, resting her eyes on the precious cylinder. “This is part of that.”
The two arrived at the end of the trail and hopped back on the motorcycle. “Where to now?” the blacksmith asked.
“The station, if you’d be so kind.”
As the motorcycle roared down country roads, Hanna gripped Jorge’s waist firmly with one hand and clutched the metal tube with the other. The wind biting at her cheeks filled her with a sense of freedom she hadn’t felt in ages, as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.
Jorge accompanied her all the way to the platform and stood by her side to await the train. When at last Hanna boarded, he grabbed her hand and stopped her halfway into the train carriage.
“Tell me what’s inside that tube,” he said.
“My father’s personal belongings.”
“In that case, I’m glad they stayed hidden in that hole all this time, and that you were able to reclaim them.”
“Thank you, Jorge. Thank you for everything.”
“You’re never coming back, are you?”
“No, never.”
“Just passing through. I figured as much when I saw you didn’t even bring a bag. Safe travels, Hanna. Goodbye.”
Jorge stayed planted on the platform, watching as the train pulled away and Hanna leaned out to blow him a kiss.
Back in Paris, Hanna opened the cylinder and carefully unrolled the canvases on her hotel room bed. Once more, her father had proven wise and farsighted by using the waterproof tube; the paintings were completely undamaged. One by one, Hanna examined each of them, a sense of dread growing in the pit of her stomach as she made a chilling discovery.
There were only nine paintings. One was missing. Hopper’s Girl by the Window had vanished into thin air.
The next morning, Hanna paid for her hotel room, boarded an Air France Constellation flight to New York, and never looked back.
34
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, Baltimore
That was it, the end of the chapter. George-Harrison finished just moments later and suggested grabbing a coffee, but all I wanted was to find out the rest of the story and to understand why Morrison hadn’t written it down. Why would it end so abruptly? I checked my watch. It was almost six . . . Still a slim chance we’d have time to corner the slippery professor in his office.
“Follow me,” I said, my commanding tone catching George-Harrison off guard.
“You’re certainly your grandmother’s granddaughter,” he said, rolling his eyes.
We bolted straight out of the library and sprinted down the campus walkways side by side without slowing for a single moment. If not for our clothes, we could have been mistaken for a pair of runners vying for the finish line, which was how our wild chase actually came to an end. George-Harrison and I ran neck and neck until I spotted a shortcut and split off, leaving him in the dust, with him yelling that I was a cheater. We burst straight into Morrison’s office without bothering to knock, out of breath and triumphant. The professor nearly leapt out of his chair, shocked to find us panting and dripping with sweat in his office.
“Somehow, I doubt it was my manuscript that left you two in such a state,” he said, wryly.
“No, it’s what it was missing! Why would you decide to cut the story off like that, right in the middle of the chapter?” I implored.
“It wasn’t a decision at all, as I told you. Hanna str
ictly forbade Robert to proceed any further with the project. But our friendship did continue thereafter.” Morrison glanced at his watch with a sigh. “I’m famished, and eating too late wreaks havoc on my digestion.”
“Fine, let’s have dinner together,” George-Harrison offered. “You choose the spot. Our treat.”
“Hmm . . . in that case, might I suggest the Charleston?” Morrison replied, averting his eyes. “It’s a fine establishment. Since you seem unable to wait until tomorrow, I’ll accept your offer.”
One glance at the menu and I knew why the professor had been so sheepish about his restaurant choice. The prices nearly made me faint. And there was no way I’d be able to get the meal cleared as an expense, even if I managed to bring my editor Edgar Allan Poe’s femur in a takeaway bag. But the table was now set, with something in store that was far more valuable than the market-price lobster Morrison had ordered. As soon as the waiter delivered our food and left our table, I fired the opening salvo.
“What happened to the missing painting? What did Hanna do when she got back from Europe?”
“One question at a time, please,” the professor replied, as he wrapped a napkin around his neck like a bib.
Morrison devoured over half his lobster without coming up for air. Watching him crack through the shell and lick his own fingertips instantly killed my appetite. George-Harrison seemed fine, though, judging from the way he attacked his T-bone steak.
“When Hanna returned to New York, she told no one about the paintings,” the professor began at last. “Not even Robert, who never knew the details of what she’d done in France. Hanna had good reason to hold her tongue. To see her plan to completion, she would have to part with one of the nine remaining paintings without her husband or employer finding out.
“She chose Fragonard’s masterful Happy Accidents of the Swing, a sixty-by-eighty-centimeter canvas, to which she applied a new and simpler title: The Swing. Out of all the paintings of her father’s collection, it was the one that Hanna liked the least. She found the rococo painting frivolous, and just a bit sentimental. She didn’t tell Glover out of fear that he would want to acquire the piece for himself at market price, whereas she could earn twice as much by selling directly to a collector. And for her plan to succeed, lovely Hanna needed to raise over five hundred thousand dollars. Adhering to a strict code of ethics, she refused to solicit any existing clients of Glover’s gallery. For Hanna, that would have crossed the line. She owed the English art dealer total loyalty after all he had done for her, and she would never dream of attempting anything underhanded. Since Sam’s name still carried weight amongst his wealthy former clientele in New York, Hanna had other avenues to pursue outside of Glover’s circle.
“She set up a Saturday meeting, knowing Robert would be busy carrying out his weekly inventory, and presented the Fragonard to the highly esteemed Perl family. Hanna agreed to leave the painting with them for a few days after receiving initial payment. After closing the deal, she opened a bank account the following week by forging Robert’s signature. In those days, married women needed consent from their husbands to open even a basic checking account. She deposited the full six hundred and sixty thousand dollars she had received for the Fragonard, a sum she achieved only after hard-fought negotiation. She deposited the other eight masterpieces in a bank safe.”
“And then what? What did she do next?” I asked.
“Shortly thereafter, she hired a chauffeur to drive her down to Baltimore. She used the payment for the painting to buy back the Stanfield estate from the banks that had seized the property. It was a gift to Robert, but she couldn’t tell him about it—not yet—for fear he’d seek to move in straightaway. After all, Hanna had always dreamt of an apartment overlooking Central Park. She refused to settle for withering away in a second-rate city like this, not with her new life close enough to touch.
“In early 1948, Glover wanted to return to his native England and so resolved to sell his New York gallery to the right buyer. He let Hanna know, for the sake of transparency, and the young woman quickly made an offer to become a partner herself. While Hanna was the perfect choice, and he had complete trust in her, Glover knew she couldn’t provide any up-front payment, and instead would need to pay for her stake through future art deals. He promised to give the matter some thought. Hanna, fearing she might miss out on a rare opportunity, offered Glover one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, with the promise to pay the rest within two years. Glover was shocked to learn she had such cash on hand, but decided to let the matter lie.
“On the day they signed the papers, he invited her out to dinner to celebrate their partnership. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the meal, he asked her point-blank if she had been behind the sale of the Fragonard to the Perl family. He playfully reminded his speechless young protégée of one of his cardinal rules of the trade: always remember, the world of art dealing is small, and everyone knows everything.
“Glover packed his bags and set off for London. A few months later, the day came at last—one chosen quite deliberately—and Hanna drove Robert to the gallery. He noticed the facade was covered with a tarp. ‘I had no idea it was under renovation, you never even told me,’ he complained, but his tenor changed immediately when he noticed the look of elation on Hanna’s face. She passed her husband the rope holding the tarp in place and told him to pull on it with all his might. It dropped to the ground, revealing the gallery’s new name: Stanfield & Glover.”
“How did Robert react?” asked George-Harrison.
“He was overcome with emotion. He wasn’t well versed in his wife’s business, but just seeing the word ‘Stanfield’ in gold letters across the window was an incredible honor, and he couldn’t imagine what she had gone through to make it happen. That Sunday was one of the best days of his life, a date chosen by Hanna because it had been four years to the day since the couple had stepped off that cargo ship from Tangier onto American soil.”
“One might have thought he would have suggested using her maiden name for the gallery,” I observed. “After all, it was Sam’s legacy that allowed Hanna to buy her stake in the gallery.”
“Yes, but Robert wasn’t aware of that. And at times, generosity means not questioning what is given to you. Even so, Robert did make that very suggestion, but Hanna explained that she wished to develop a career on her own merits, to make her own way. Goldstein was in her past. Stanfield was her future.”
“And then?”
“First, allow me a small interlude to peruse the dessert menu. People say the chocolate soufflé here is to die for. Perhaps a nice sweet wine to wash it down, as long as I’m not overstepping my bounds, of course. I must admit all this talking has left me positively parched.”
I flagged down the waiter, and George-Harrison made a signal for the sommelier. With his conditions met, Morrison continued.
“The Stanfield & Glover gallery thrived in New York, eclipsing even its sister location in London. The economy in postwar England didn’t bounce back quite as assuredly as our own, you see. In late 1948, Hanna and Robert moved into a new home on the top floor of a building at the corner of Seventy-Seventh Street and Fifth Avenue. Hanna had always wanted a view of Central Park, but this was beyond her wildest dreams. The Upper East Side has always been considered swankier than the Upper West, with snobs flocking there in droves, although why, I can’t say. Hanna should have been the happiest woman in the world, and yet the city began to choke the life out of her. Robert’s own business was growing exponentially. They’d already opened locations in Washington and Boston, with a third on its way in Los Angeles. Hanna barely saw her husband anymore and spent most of her evenings alone in their vast apartment. While once the stuff of dreams, the view out her window at night became a nightmarish ocean of darkness. The situation put their marriage at stake, even though Hanna still loved Robert deeply. She felt that only a drastic change—like having a child—would save their marriage.”
“I thought she was unable to be
ar children.”
“As did she, but there are always ways for the wealthy to get around infertility. In July of 1949, in honor of the five-year anniversary of their arrival in New York, Hanna presented Robert with the deed to the family estate in Baltimore, at last ready to make the move. Robert took no offense at her buying the property in secret. Hanna had just given him the keys to the legendary Stanfield estate! It was a dream come true, one he had long since abandoned in defeat. For him, it was a gift born of pure love.
“While the estate was being renovated and restored to its former glory, the couple made arrangements to relocate their entire lives to Baltimore. New York was only two and a half hours by car, and Hanna had staff in place at the gallery to whom she knew she could entrust the business from a distance with total peace of mind. Besides, most of the major deals of that time tended to close outside the city or at major fine art auctions.
“In 1950, around the same time your mother came into the picture and not too long after he moved back to London, Glover’s health took a turn for the worse. He was diagnosed with a severe form of pancreatic cancer that would swiftly claim his life. He called Hanna and begged her urgently to pay him a visit, all without revealing anything about his condition. As soon as she arrived in London, Glover informed her that he had decided to retire and offered her the chance to buy him out of the business altogether, with an initial asking price so low that Hanna refused outright. Glover’s inventory of art alone was worth double what he was asking for the entire business! Yet, the art dealer reminded Hanna of a second cardinal rule in their trade: the true market value of a piece is only as high as someone is willing to pay. He knew that running a gallery from the other side of the ocean would be a source of unnecessary grief for Hanna, especially since she now had a child and had set down deep roots in Baltimore. The gallery itself meant nothing to Glover. It was just a space he rented, nothing more. He led Hanna down to the safe where he kept his most cherished and valuable works of art, and asked her to make an offer on each and every last painting. In reality, Glover reminded her, as his partner, she already owned half of each painting anyway.”
