Restoration

by John Ed Bradley

“No.”

  “Then I won’t be either. But why aren’t we worried?”

  “Simple,” she answered. “The mural’s been there for somebody to pirate for sixty years. The odds that Smallwood would discover it now, at the same time we found it, are pretty remote. I think I know why he wanted to see Levette’s file.”

  “Tell me.”

  “An Asmore is the one painting that’s eluded him since he started collecting. He’s been desperate to own one. From what I hear, he’s contacted owners of Asmores and offered obscene amounts of money for their paintings. They’ve all refused him. He’s also appealed to public and private institutions, in every case pleading with them to deaccession their Asmores. In consideration he’s promised huge donations in the upper-six-figure range. None went for it. Although it still hasn’t been consigned to an auction house yet, Patrick Marion has been talking around town about Beloved Dorothy. As you know, Patrick likes to entertain and when he entertains his tongue gets slippery—and not only about his Chambers stove, apparently. It’s even come back to me,” she continued. “Just yesterday a friend of mine who works at New Orleans Auction called and asked if I’d heard about a Beloved portrait that might be up for sale. I confirmed that I’d heard the report. She then asked if I’d had the occasion to see the painting, and my answer was the one I always give when presented with a question that might compromise an existing relationship I have with a client. I said, ‘No comment.’ Which in this business is the equivalent of saying, ‘Yes. I not only saw the painting, I placed it flat on the floor and made wild, passionate love on top of it.’”

  It was a good answer, but I still wasn’t mollified. “Why would someone at New Orleans Auction be looking for the Asmore?”

  “That’s easy. The auction company that lands Beloved Dorothy stands to make an easy hundred grand in commissions if the painting performs as expected. The company also receives more valuable publicity and positive word of mouth than you could possibly calculate.”

  “So if your friend knows about the painting, then it’s likely Smallwood does too?”

  “A player that big? Come on, Jack. Smallwood probably was one of the first to hear about it. And that’s why he went to the research center and checked out Levette’s file. He’s fired up, he thinks he’s finally going to land an Asmore, and he’s casting about looking for information. My bet is that he’s already called Patrick and asked for a private viewing. It would be in Smallwood’s best interest to buy it privately, without the involvement of an auction house. If it goes for sale at auction, there is always the chance he could lose it.”

  “Not from how you’ve described him. And not from what I saw when he went after the Walker.”

  “Shit happens, Jack. What can I tell you? Maybe some guy with twice Smallwood’s personal wealth suddenly decides he’s going to build a collection of southern art and he determines to start with an Asmore. Or maybe a Fortune 500 company wants the painting for its corporate collection, for the spot in the boardroom that heretofore was just a blank rectangle of shiny mahogany. In that event, Smallwood could come up short.” She leaned forward and planted her elbows on her knees. Her eyes went to the image being projected on the wall. “Old Levette was a good-looking sonofabitch, wasn’t he? No wonder all the girls were wild for him. But we’ve already established that, haven’t we, Jack?”

  “We both know you don’t have that picture projected up there to look at Levette Asmore again, Rhys.”

  “Don’t I?”

  I shook my head. “You wanted a better look at the girl.”

  “At Miss Bertie?”

  “No. The girl standing behind Levette.”

  She gave me a look that seemed to indicate she was pleased with me for making such an astute observation. She removed the photograph from under the episcope and replaced it with another, this one a black-and-white studio shot of a young woman who, but for her skin tone, hairstyle and manner of dress, could’ve been Rhys’s twin. The resemblance was beyond uncanny—it was startling to the point of being spooky. “My grandmother,” she said. “Jacqueline LeBeau, age seventeen. Kinda pretty, wasn’t she?”

  “More than that,” I said. “God, Rhys, she’s beautiful.”

  “That she was.” She returned to the first picture showing Asmore and Kinsey, then she walked up close to the screen and lifted a hand and pointed to the woman’s necklace. “See that, Jack? See this piece of jewelry?”

  “I see it.”

  “It’s a Spratling necklace, made with silver, rosewood and tortoise-shell. Spratling is William Spratling, the former housemate and friend of William Faulkner who left New Orleans in 1929 and moved to a place in Mexico called Taxco. He started out as an artist, architect and writer, but he had so much to give to the world he couldn’t be satisfied with simply three important careers, so he launched a fourth, that being silversmith. Because of the city’s former connection to the man, Spratling jewelry in the thirties was all the rage in New Orleans. Even during the Depression here, when most people couldn’t afford such luxuries, they were buying Spratling.” She took a step back and made sure I was looking at the necklace. “It was especially popular among the bohemian crowd of the French Quarter. Most of them couldn’t buy diamonds and gold, but they somehow could scratch enough money together to buy Spratling. Now remove that picture and let’s ’scope the other one. There’s something else you need to see.”

  I did as I was told and the second image came up. Partially standing in the bolt of projected light, Rhys raised an arm and pointed again, now at what looked like the same necklace in the portrait of Jacqueline LeBeau. “The other one again if you would. Go back to the first picture.” I put in the first picture and she pointed out the jewelry again. “Now the second one, Jack. Last time, I promise.”

  The necklace appeared to be the same in both images.

  “This particular Spratling piece is very rare, mainly because it was heavy and uncomfortable to wear and, as a result, it didn’t sell well. See how bulky it is? Imagine lugging that thing around on your neck. What materials appear to make up the necklace my grandmother is wearing in this picture, Jack?”

  “I can’t answer that for sure.”

  “Oh, yes, you can. Would you say it’s the same Spratling piece the woman in the other picture is wearing?”

  “How would I know that?”

  “How? Jesus, Jack, from the pictures…”

  I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of being right. I knew where this was headed and I was beginning to feel nervous and uncomfortable. I said nothing until she walked away from the screen and sat back down in her chair. “Rhys, you’ve proven that your grandmother owned a Spratling necklace and that the woman in the second picture also owned a Spratling necklace. That’s all you’ve proven.”

  “No, Jack, I think I proved more than that. If it’s the same necklace, then those two women are the same person. And if they’re the same person—”

  “For God’s sake, don’t say it, Rhys. Don’t you dare say it.” She was laughing when I brought both hands up in front of me as if to stop her. “Let me ask you this,” I said. “How do you even know the woman in the snapshot has a relationship with either Levette Asmore or Alberta Kinsey? She could be somebody walking down the street whose curiosity brought her to watch a couple of artists at work. I know when I see an artist out painting I usually go and have a look at what he’s up to.”

  She leaned back in the chair, creating a loud squeak. The portrait of her grandmother was being projected on the screen now. “She never finished high school, Jack, never graduated, but she was in line to be valedictorian, tops in her class. At this time, when this picture was made, Howard University in Washington, D.C., has offered her a scholarship, but then in the summer of 1941, not long before the start of her senior year in high school, she becomes pregnant with my mother. In September of the same year, Asmore dies in a fall from the Huey P. Quite a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “A fall? I thought he jumped.” />
  “Is it a coincidence or isn’t it?”

  “Rhys, Jacqueline LeBeau and Levette Asmore were people from different worlds living in the same city at the same time. Jacqueline’s world was populated with black people, Levette’s with white people. I might add there were half a million other people living in New Orleans in the summer and fall of 1941. I can’t calculate the odds of their knowing each other, let alone their paths even crossing.”

  “Why do you think she turned her head away, Jack? Was she trying to hide her face? Did she want to obscure her identity?”

  “Maybe she was starting to leave. She knew whoever was taking the picture was shooting the artists and she didn’t want to intrude on the shot.”

  “That isn’t it,” she said. “She turned her head away because she was a young black woman in love with a white man in the Deep South at a time when people died for a love like that.” Rhys’s eyes shone bright with tears against the light from the episcope. “Levette Asmore was my grandfather.”

  “Oh, God, she said it,” and I hopped to my feet. “I’m turning on the lights.”

  “Sit your ass back down, Jack.”

  “Rhys?”

  “There’s something else, another detail, you’ve failed to pick up on. Look closely, now, Jack. Come on. Look. Really look.”

  It took a while but she patiently went from one image to the other until I came up with it. I still wasn’t ready to make the concession.

  “The portrait of my grandmother is signed,” Rhys said. “There’s a signature in the lower-right corner. Have a look. What’s the name you see there?”

  “Whitesell,” I answered.

  “Whitesell,” she repeated, talking to me now as though I were a child. “And why is that name significant to us today, Jack?”

  “Whitesell was the studio photographer who also shot the portrait of Levette Asmore that’s in the artist file at the Williams Research Center.”

  Rhys put another photograph under the episcope and suddenly the aforementioned picture of Asmore filled the screen, the photographer’s signature identical to the one on the portrait of her grandmother.

  “Big deal,” I said. “They went to the same photographer to have their portraits made. So, probably, did scores of others. Yet another coincidence.”

  “You’re an idiot,” she said in small voice. “You’re an idiot and I trusted you. Rhys,” she said, “you’ve put your trust in an idiot. Worse, you kissed the sonofabitch.”

  “Why does kissing me have anything to do with it?”

  “Boss?” It was Joe Butler, standing at the door. “Mr. Marion on the line.”

  For all her apparent anger with me, Rhys showed poise as she picked up the phone and greeted Patrick. As before, I was struck by her ability to change moods, or, more accurately, to disguise a troubled one. They were discussing the fate of Beloved Dorothy. Rhys flipped through her personal calendar, throwing out dates, until they seemed to agree on one.

  “Did Tommy Smallwood call you yet?” she said and glanced at me. “He did, did he…? Well, of course he wants to see it and of course he’d say that. But, Patrick? Don’t do it, Patrick. Don’t you dare do it.” She nodded and scribbled on a notepad. “Take my advice on this, Patrick. You’re certain to make a lot more money by putting it up at auction. Let me tell you why… No, let me tell you, Patrick. Forget what you’ll be giving up in commission to Neal. Forget that. Smallwood will tell you anything to get his hands on that painting. You let him in the door and he’ll show you auction records for past Asmore sales and then offer you twenty-five or fifty percent more than the highest result. That’s still not enough, Patrick. The last Asmore sold a decade ago, and the market for regional art, southern paintings especially, has exploded since then. We can’t possibly know what Beloved Dorothy is worth without letting everyone take his best shot at it. Do you understand? Right… Uh-huh… But the price Smallwood would offer to pay you is not his best, Patrick. He might say it’s his best, but, believe me, it isn’t. He won’t really know his best until he’s being challenged for that painting in the heat of battle, and that’s at auction—when other buyers with as much money as he’s got are challenging him. Sit tight, Patrick. It’s all you can do now. Be patient. Check your Caller ID and avoid solicitations from Smallwood and any others if that’s what it takes. Because this is just starting, Patrick. It’s just starting…”

  When she hung up, I said, “You guys schedule a date when you plan to consign the Asmore?”

  She was writing in her calendar. “I’m sorry, Jack. But that’s between my client and me.”

  “May I join you when you do consign it, Rhys?”

  She continued writing, eyes still focused on the page. “No, you may not. But you can come with me now to Wheeler. It’s time for your haircut.” She closed the book and walked to within inches of where I was standing. She tilted her head back and stared at me as if trying to make an honest appraisal. From her expression I concluded it wasn’t a good one. “Levette Asmore was my grandfather,” she said, “and I’m going to prove to you that he was my grandfather.”

  “Me? There you go again, Rhys. Why do you have to prove anything to me?”

  She intentionally bumped against me as she walked to the door.

  SIX

  Those wanting haircuts were mostly relatives of the students and people from the neighborhood—poor people, I should say, for they certainly were that. Female guinea pigs outnumbered their male counterparts by four to one. All of the beautician’s chairs were occupied, so a small line had formed in the hallway leading to the room with the mural. There Rhys and I waited. Still rattled by our showdown earlier at the studio, I made no effort at conversation. Had I felt like talking, however, I doubt that she would’ve responded. Even with the riot of activity in the place—the excited chatter, the buzz of electric clippers, a dozen faucets running all at once—Rhys seemed to see only one thing. “You in some kind of hypnotic trance?” I said.

  Staring at the wall across the room, she made no reply.

  The class of novice hairdressers included ten or eleven young African-American women and a couple of Hispanic men, all of them wearing identical blue smocks and white shoes with thick corrugated rubber soles. A single instructor was supervising the event. She stalked the room brandishing a pair of scissors and speaking words of encouragement to the students, most of whom looked determined though terrified. To those of us waiting our turn she offered a gently worded reminder that three dollars was still a bargain no matter how bad the result.

  I’d been to many a barber in my day, but never to one who apologized before you sat in his chair.

  “Government man,” Rondell Cherry said when he saw me. The look on his face let me know he was only joking. To Rhys he said, “I can’t see you letting one of our students practice on you, Miss Goudeau. You’re way too pretty for that.”

  “We’re actually here for Jack.” And she looked away from the wall at last.

  The janitor glanced at the top of my head and I could tell what he was thinking: This one’s already such a disaster a bad haircut won’t make any difference.

  “Think you could introduce us to Mrs. Wheeler?” Rhys said.

  “We can do that. She’s in her office now.” Rondell Cherry nodded toward the instructor with the scissors. “But it looks like they’re ready. Hair grows back, government man. Remember that.”

  The instructor guided me to a chair near the wall lined with sinks. A young woman smacking gum covered me with an apron that clipped at the neck. She lowered my head into a basin and soaked my hair with warm running water, then lathered in a squirt of shampoo. Her fingers worked hard against my scalp—she might’ve been probing for worms, the way she dug—and I was confident suddenly that I’d lucked out and landed a good one. As she was rinsing me off, I said, “My name is Jack Charbonnet. What’s yours?”

  “Bonelle Louvrier.”

  “You seem to know what you’re doing, Bonelle.”

  “My dadd
y’s a barber. I guess it’s in my genes to cut hair.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed in gratitude and relief. Perhaps it wouldn’t turn out badly after all. But then an odd question came to mind: What was in my genes? Surely not to follow Rhys Goudeau wherever she would have me. Surely not to nap under a tree in the afternoon with an art book open on my chest.

  When she finished with the shampoo, Bonelle combed my hair out and started clipping the ends. The more she clipped, the louder she smacked, and the heavier was the scent of pink bubble gum. She used an electric clipper to rid clusters of unruly hair from my neck, then she massaged warm dollops of shaving cream into the same areas and cut away the hair with a straight razor. She gave my sideburns the same treatment.

  “Do you think everybody’s got genes that lead them someplace?” I asked as she was dusting powder on my neck.

  “Huh?” I’d broken her concentration, while at the same time returning to the subject of a conversation we’d had fifteen minutes before.

  “What are genes for, Bonelle?”

  She laughed. “Tell us where to go?”

  To finish, she removed the apron and brushed off my clothes to remove any hair. I was standing now, and when I started to walk away she nudged me back into my seat and held up a mirror to let me look at the back of my head. “You’ve done a marvelous job,” I said. She whirled the chair around. Now I could look in the mirror she was holding and see the view reflected in the mirrors on the wall. “Marvelous,” I said again. I didn’t realize how much I’d been worrying about having a student cut my hair until now. “Thank you, Bonelle. You’ve got a lot of natural talent.”

  “You were sweating it, huh?”

  She let me up out of the chair and I gave her a tip, then walked over to the instructor with my payment. The instructor came up on her toes and studied the top of my head as I pressed three single dollar bills into the palm of her hand. “You got yourself a real talent in that Bonelle Louvrier,” I said.

  “Bonelle’s got a future,” said the woman, then marched off squeezing her scissors.