Athena's Secrets

by Donna Del Oro

  Athena. Her pretty little girl was now a woman. A woman who wanted to be free. And that meant, free of her nosy, interfering mother. Did all mothers have to go through this with their daughters? Anna wondered. Her own mother—Nonna, as ’Thena called her—had complained often of Anna’s rebellious ways. Hadn’t she left Italy to attend school in Britain and then married an Englishman? What was certain, Anna had herself learned of late, was that her lovely daughter was more like her than not. Clairvoyance wasn’t their only common trait.

  Athena had her own stubborn, secretive ways.

  Dio mio, the joys of motherhood.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Athena was happily distracted by her afternoon painting class the following week. Applying techniques she’d studied and copied from the great painters of the Romantic Period and the early Impressionists in Europe, she was putting the finishing shadowing touches on her painting of Martin Larsen’s upper body. Whereas her interpretation was strictly representational, Mikayla had decided to render their model’s exquisite male form in an abstract style.

  “Come take a look, Athena,” her friend said, standing back and allowing Athena to look at her easel. Although Martin was reclining on a chaise lounge, his long arms at his side, hands clasped on top of his firm belly, his long legs jutting out in repose, Mikayla had painted him with one leg cocked to the right as if it were bent upward. About to kick a wayward soccer ball? Thrust out in an ecstatic spasm? Martin’s hands, blocked and angled at his groin, looked as if he were holding his genitals. His balls and bat, as Chris would put it.

  Athena had to chuckle. At the very least, Mikayla’s abstract expressionistic version was humorous and satirical. Modern abstract art was never a favorite style of Athena’s, but it could effectively convey the painter’s inner feelings about his or her topic. Picasso was a master at hidden emotional messages. Besides, Athena approved of her friend’s freedom to paint their handsome, well-formed model in any fashion she chose. Including a kind of artistic ridicule.

  “Hmmm,” Athena murmured, “You should name it Martin’s Balls and Bat.”

  Mikayla laughed. “Had to get back at the dude. He’s too perfect.”

  “I know what you mean. I do like the flesh color you chose, kinda peachy with violet-mauve shadows.” There was nothing more flattering she could add, wondering what Doctor White would say. Did it matter? Mikayla was having fun satirizing their hunky male model. Too perfect, in Mikayla’s opinion. Her portrayal said as much.

  “Thanks,” Mikayla said, pleased. She leaned in Athena’s direction and lowered her voice. “Hey, girlfriend, so share. You haven’t said more than ten words about the guy in California, the sheriff’s deputy. Handsome in a rugged way. My kind of man. Did you get his junk in your trunk? Or at least give him a hand job? Please tell me you at least did that.”

  Mikayla had a crude way of referring to sex that made Athena laugh.

  “No junk, no hand job,” she whispered back. She put her brush down and took a break, but carried her stabilizing stick with her over to one of the windows, Mikayla following her. “We came close, but his father’s heart attack interrupted us.”

  Her friend gasped melodramatically. “No shit! How freaky is that. Did that wig you out?”

  “No, it just splashed ice water on us—“

  “Literally? Who did that?”

  “No, figuratively.” Athena shrugged and absently tapped her stick on the windowpane. Condensation had fogged up the glass, but now white flakes caked the moisture. It was snowing outside, all the more reason to dream of sunny California and the ride on Kas’s Jet Ski. Her thoughts drifted to Kas’s body in his skintight wetsuit, the feel of his broad back and tapered waist as she wrapped her arms around him on the lake. Later that night, how his long body pressed against hers on his soft, warm bed. His kisses, passionate, strong, and insistent as he trailed his mouth and hands down her body.

  Then nothing. No calls, no texting. Nothing. She wondered if Spartacus missed her more than his owner did.

  Mikayla was persistent. “Hmm, too bad. So? Any plans to hook up again?”

  “No. I guess he’ll call or text me if he wants to come to Washington.” Athena was about to sigh but caught herself. “Really, it was just a-a kind of…fling. He was fun to talk to, but…” She shrugged and elbowed her friend as Professor White came their way. “Uh, oh, back to the salt mine.”

  Mikayla shot her a look of astonishment. “Fling, huh? You’re pining for the guy, aren’t you? I can tell. Bet hunky Martin now looks ’bout as hot as a slab of codfish. Girlfriend, you’ve sure changed your tune after a so-called fling.” She giggled all the way back to her easel.

  A half-hour later, Martin took another five-minute break in his thicker velveteen robe, his flip-flops slapping on the hardwood floor as he made his rounds of the large room, warming up his naked body. When he stopped in front of her easel, Athena greeted him with a smile. He no longer made her pulse race, but she was genuinely interested in him, having heard that he was the assistant manager of a Georgetown gallery. Modeling for art students was his freelance moonlighting—or afternoon job, in this case. Strange, for he could have made so much more money modeling for fashion photographers.

  “What do you think, Martin?”

  He took his time, all the while shaking his head. She wondered if he hated her rather traditional representational rendering.

  “Remarkable, your play of color and light on the body. Reminds me of an Ingres, a Corot or Manet. Realism with a hint of romanticism. Love it, absolutely love it.” His voice was quiet and calm, but the look he gave her was fierce and intense.

  Apparently, Martin knew his art history, for that was exactly the style Athena was trying to emulate. She’d been a Corot and Manet lover since high school art class when, on a field trip to the Metropolitan Museum in New York, she’d bought a poster copy of Manet’s masterpiece, The Bar at the Folies Bergeres. She’d read about Corot’s influence on some of the French Impressionists and had studied his techniques as well.

  “Thanks.” She meant it.

  “Listen.” He gave her a level stare. “I have a business proposition for you. Meet me afterwards. I’ll buy you an early dinner. I don’t have to be at the gallery until seven. Please, this is important.”

  Intrigued but gun-shy, she touched Martin’s arm and leaned toward him. His thoughts and images convinced her that he was serious. She saw in his mind a gallery book of photos of Manet’s paintings.

  “Business proposition?”

  “I hear you work part-time at a coffeehouse,” he whispered, his head inches from hers. “How would you like to earn five-to-twenty-thousand per painting?”

  She dropped her hand, incredulous, forgetting to read him. “Why would someone pay that much for an unknown artist?”

  His gaze traveled back to the painting. “You’ll have to meet me to find out. I can’t go into it here and now. Meet me in front fifteen minutes after the end of class, okay?”

  Her curiosity piqued, she finally nodded. Martin didn’t want her. He wanted her skills as a painter of romantic realism, and if what he said was true, he’d pay her that much for a painting, she was definitely interested. She could earn more in one month than she could earn as a barista in six. Okay by her.

  Nevertheless, she could just hear her father: If it sounds too good to be true, it most likely is.

  ****

  When she exited the front double doors of the Institute, Martin was already there, stamping his feet and blowing on his gloveless hands. So unaccustomed to seeing him in clothes, it took a second or two before she recognized him. His cropped-short blond hair was covered by a black wool cap, snug to his head. He was all in black wool, jacket and muffler over black jeans and black boots. In clothes, he looked taller and stockier, the bulkiness concealing his slim core, his well-defined muscles and sinewy arms and legs. Unmistakable, Martin Larsen was a guy who could make a girl dizzy with desire or longing. She wondered why he was having such a clini
cal effect on her when two weeks ago, he’d sent her heart palpitating.

  The vagaries of the human heart. Who said that, she wondered.

  No one, just the effects of Kas Skoros.

  She was hauling her hobo bag and a big case of paints and brushes, having determined already that she’d start on Alex Skoros’s portrait that evening. Then she’d have an excuse to communicate with Kas without appearing to be a desperate, lovelorn female.

  Martin took it from her and motioned her over to his car. A new model Ford Explorer waited in the nearest parking lot in one of the guest stalls.

  “Look, I know a nice Italian place about a mile from here. It’s too cold to walk, and I’ll drive you home afterwards. Where do you live?”

  She started to tell him, then remembered her mistake with Tony Grabowski. “That’s not necessary, Martin. Actually, I have an evening class tonight, then a friend’s picking me up.” Actually, it was one of her father’s security details, the same man in the red knit-hat who’d followed her home on Saturday.

  “Okay, I’ll have you back in time for your class.”

  Twenty minutes later, they were sitting down at a red-and-white checkered table, lit by a quaint candle fixed in an empty Chianti bottle. An Italian flag was draped in one corner, an American flag in the other. Framed photos on the walls showed family members, who she assumed were the owners of the restaurant.

  “Doesn’t look like much,” Martin said, “but the food—the lasagna and ravioli, especially—are sublime. Are you old enough to drink wine?”

  “I’ll be twenty tomorrow. My parents have served me wine at dinner since I was thirteen.”

  “Well, you look old enough, so Giovanni won’t ask for your ID. How about a Syrah?”

  They ordered then chatted a little about their backgrounds. Martin had a Master’s in Fine Arts from Columbia, sculpted a little, painted a little, but his primary interest was the business of artwork. Buying, selling to art collectors, provenance validation and authentication, preparing a piece for auction, discovering new artists and promoting them. His uncle owned the Visions Gallery in Georgetown, near town center—a great location for catering to high-minded and deep-pocketed art collectors. He’d never met a diplomat, politician or lobbyist who didn’t want to collect art. Most knew nothing about the art world, but it was fashionable to pretend an interest, and even more prestigious to boast about a deal made with an up-and-coming artist on the cusp of fame.

  By the time their plates of butternut squash-filled raviolis and an eggplant-and-zucchini lasagna were placed in front of them, wafting of garlic, pesto sauce and vegetable aromas, Athena felt subdued. For a few minutes, they ate in silence and relished every forkful. The wine Athena sipped helped her forget the constant ache in her heart. Wouldn’t you know? Broken-hearted but still a virgin. You had to love the irony of it. She now understood why people drank.

  Forget him. Have more wine.

  Then Martin launched into his pitch.

  “Have you heard of pastiches?”

  She had.

  Martin smiled and continued. “There’s a lot of money to be made in the field of genuine fakes, or pastiches. It’s a perfectly legal business, as long as you declare it a hand-painted pastiche, fake, imitation, copy—whatever you choose to call it. People are willing to pay up to twenty to forty thousand or more for a well-done pastiche of one of their favorite artists. The French Impressionists, of course, are always top of the list for Americans, but there’s a demand for Post-modern paintings, too. The Peter Maxes, Kaminsky, Picot, Pino, Tarkay, Shvaiko, Warhol, even the early Kinkades. It’s impossible to find anyone who can do justice to a Rembrandt or Vermeer convincingly enough for a top-quality pastiche. We don’t even try to reproduce the works of the masters of the Italian Renaissance, Botticelli, Michaelangelo, Tintoretto, Da Vinci. We stick to the famous but do-ables, like the French Impressionists, the Romantic Realists. The originals of those nineteenth and twentieth-century masters are out of sight, even for the wealthy, but a good pastiche is a conversation piece, an icebreaker at a social gathering. They’ll exhibit it for their guests and then wait for one of them to finally figure it out.” He smirked before taking in another mouthful of lasagna.

  She was stunned. And captivated. Up to forty thousand for a well-done pastiche? Was he for real?

  “That’s a very expensive ice-breaker.” The wine was making her a little drowsy. Better stop with one glass, if I want to stay awake during European Civ class tonight.

  “A trifling amount when you’ve got millions to burn.” He shrugged. “Which brings me to you, Athena, and your extraordinary skill at painting the human figure. I’d like to hire you on a commission basis to paint Manet pastiches. Maybe later, a Modigliani or Renoir if you think you’re up to it. Do you have the time? I know you’re three credits short of full-time status at the Institute. I’ve checked you out.”

  That got her attention. She put her fork down.

  “Really? How?”

  His handsome face broke into a wide grin. “Doctor White. She works for me. Her specialty pastiche is Cezanne.”

  Athena’s jaw dropped. This was news, as was the revelation that legal art fakes were such big business. “Are you sure this—painting pastiches—is legal? I mean, I would have to sign my own name for it not to be a forgery. Right?”

  “Of course. You sign your name under the master’s fake signature and on the backside of the canvas. My business partner and I—we call our business, Genuine Pastiches of the World’s Greatest Painters. GPWGP. Here’s our card. We attract customers through our web site, through the gallery, word-of-mouth, what-have-you. The demand for high-quality pastiches is huge. We can’t keep up with it. So, Athena, are you interested? Five thousand to do your best and give us a look?”

  Five thousand dollars was a lot of money for her. For maybe a month or two of work in the evenings? Maybe forty to sixty hours of highly concentrated painting? She could accelerate her courses of study if she had her mornings free. Perhaps even graduate in one year’s time instead of two. That would save her parents a lot of tuition costs.

  “Let me do a little research first, okay?” She would ask her father to inquire with one of his contacts in the FBI or Interpol or Embassy security. It had to be legitimate and legal, since Doctor White was involved, and she couldn’t imagine her participating in a fraudulent business. The idea appealed to her. Not only would it be a challenge for Athena in developing her painting skills, but she might be able to make a career of it. After all, she couldn’t depend financially on her parents forever. “It sounds like something I’d love to do. How long would I have to complete a pastiche?”

  “As long as it takes to produce a credible piece of work. A couple of months. We’ll try it out, see if your work measures up to a high enough quality. The imitation has to be convincing. All oils, of course. Brushstrokes have to be as accurate as possible. Color, tone, composition all must be accurate. If it’s not, chalk it up to experience, and I’ll pay you five thousand, and we’ll call it a day. No more commissions. Sound good?”

  She nodded vigorously and held out her hand. “We’ll give it a try, and I’ll do my best. Which of Edouard Manet’s works would you like me to try to copy?”

  His wide mouth curled up on one side. “The Bar at the Folies Bergeres? It’s his masterpiece.”

  She groaned. “That’s so difficult. Can I start with something easier? The Balcony? Breakfast? The Waitress?”

  “Sure, why not? Let’s try The Waitress. If you need a place to paint, come to my gallery. I’ve got a well-lit upper room where some of my painters work.”

  The gallery in Georgetown? Too far to go. She’d use the Institute’s studio whenever she had free time. It was open to the students on a first-come basis.

  “No, that’s okay. I’ve got a place.”

  “Come Sunday afternoon, on December sixteenth. We’re launching our new line of Genuine Pastiches to the public with a gallery soiree. Four to eight. Champagne, hor
s d’oeuvres. Our painters will be there to greet the public and put live faces to our famous fakes. Our collectors like to meet the pastiche painters. You have my card. So, shall we try each other out?”

  Athena nodded. They shook hands while she read him. He was envisioning her handing over the Manet painting, and another pastiche of Gauguin’s Tahitian Idyll—she recognized the painting—by another new painter in his stable of artists-for-hire. This artist’s name was Dan. Another young painter he’d recruited. A Gauguin copier. Another image flickered in his mind: After a long day followed by tonight’s close of gallery, he’d welcome his lover, Mark, into his arms. M & M was embroidered on all of their towels, even on the sheets of their king-size bed. She shut off the image.

  Not even a trifle disappointed—how strange that was!—Athena let go of his hand and smiled at him.

  Wouldn’t you know…

  ****

  Family birthday celebrations at a restaurant were a Butler tradition. Thus, Saturday evening, Athena had the spotlight and the full attention of her busy parents. Even Chris had come home to join the celebration, no doubt at their mother’s insistence. Each of them was celebrating a personal triumph in addition to Athena’s birthday. Her mother had just finished a translation of a New York Times bestselling novel from English into Italian and French. Her father was celebrating a kind of respite from the worry and confusion of what to do to ward off the terrorists’ upcoming attack. As he explained, the Embassy and its security team had finally developed a strategy, one prong of which was the misinformation spearheaded by cultural attaché Butler. That was as far as he could go, of course, the details being classified.

  Chris was celebrating his soccer team’s win over their rival academy’s team. And so, they raised their glasses of wine and one of fizzy Coca-Cola, and toasted their continued good health, and Athena’s twentieth birthday.

  She’d saved up her cards and gifts for this moment, wanting to open up each present in front of her family. One by one, she read the cards, showed the gift card or opened the box. Always practical, Mikayla had given her a card and gift card to an art supply store near the Institute, which Athena appreciated to no end. Art supplies were constantly going up in price, and the costs were mounting each year. Especially oil paints.