The Collector's Apprentice

by B. A. Shapiro

  “Mr. Gusdorff?”

  Jacob stands and smiles at the judge. “I will keep it short and sweet, Your Honor. The Bradley School of Art Appreciation was awarded tax-exempt status because it meets the legal definition of a school, which is ‘a place or establishment of instruction.’

  “A variety of courses are offered to hundreds of students each year at the school. These classes are taught by trained and qualified educators who use the collection’s artworks to aid in their instruction. No grades or diplomas are given because that is not, and never was, the school’s mission. The objective of its educational curriculum is the acquisition of the skills needed to appreciate art, not the acquisition of a piece of paper. This was true from the first day it opened, and it will always be such.”

  Vivienne watches the judge’s face, but his eyes are closed and his mouth clenched in a firm line, so there isn’t much to give away his thoughts.

  “As to Mr. Martin’s contention that the Bradley isn’t a museum,” Jacob continues, “I completely agree: it is not a museum, nor was it ever meant to be. Dr. Bradley purchased the artwork himself, paid for and built a building to house the collection, and is the single benefactor funding its educational operations. There is no violation of the law here. Dr. Bradley is not committing fraud. He is running a school. Just as he promised he would. Just as the commonwealth expected him to do.”

  They are running a school. Jacob is too damn good.

  The judge slowly opens his eyes and watches Jacob take his seat. The silence grows as oppressive as the heat. “Mr. Gusdorff,” he finally says, “what’s your response to Mr. Martin’s contention that the Bradley School doesn’t fit this criterion because it’s unaccredited?”

  Jacob smiles serenely. “Your Honor, when Mr. Martin refers to the Bradley School’s lack of accreditation as outlined by the University of Pennsylvania, he’s speaking of the university’s contention that the school is not an accredited college. This is true, and I will add that the Bradley School of Art Appreciation never attempted to, nor wanted to, be such. As is clear from its name, it is a school teaching art appreciation—nothing more and nothing less.”

  The judge flips through a pile of files in front of him, presses his handkerchief to his face. “I’ve read the Bradley trust agreement as well as the papers granting it tax-exempt status.” He pauses. “Nothing that’s been said today convinces me that it is not in compliance with these regulations. It is clearly a school and therefore is under no obligation to either pay any additional taxes or open to the public.” He languidly hits the gavel. “Case dismissed.”

  Vivienne closes her eyes in defeat. The only way the Bradley collection will ever be shared with the world is if she makes it happen.

  Edwin comes into her office the following week. “Ada accused me of breaking our contract. She claims you and I were ‘together’ in Paris.” His voice is as unruffled as if they were discussing the day’s mail.

  Vivienne lights two cigarettes, hands him one. “What did you tell her?”

  “I told her no.” He raises an eyebrow. “Not that I don’t wish it were true.”

  “She didn’t believe you?” Vivienne asks, ignoring his inference.

  “She forgot all about it when I told her I changed my will and made you my beneficiary. Apparently this is more upsetting than being cheated on.”

  “Why lie about that?”

  “No lie. I signed the papers last week.”

  Vivienne worries he can see her heart pounding through the thin cotton of her blouse. “You did?”

  “I did.”

  “But . . . but why now?”

  He blows smoke at the ceiling, coughs a few times, hesitates as if he has something difficult to tell her, and then says, “I could have an accident. A heart attack. Quinton’s suit made me realize that I can’t take the chance of the collection ending up with anyone but you.”

  “Thank you, Edwin,” she says. “Thank you so much. I promise I’ll live up to your expectations. But”—she smiles at him—“you’re so damn cantankerous, you’ll probably live to be a hundred. You’ll probably outlast me.”

  “Cantankerous, am I?” he interrupts with mock indignation. “Take that back, woman!”

  “I cannot tell a lie.”

  “Not even a little one?”

  When Vivienne shakes her head, Edwin knocks on her desk and walks down the hall, whistling. She tries to keep her expression neutral in case he returns. She made it happen, albeit with a little know-how acquired from George. She’s the beneficiary, the successor. The collection will be hers. She’ll be able to return her father’s paintings, focus the vision, open the Bradley and its multitude of masterpieces to the world community of art lovers. Of course, she’ll have to wait for Edwin to die. She wonders how long this could take and hates herself for the thought.

  Edwin calls for a dinner for fifty to celebrate his court victory, and he taps Ada to oversee it. Although Ada is rarely involved in Bradley events, Edwin deems this more social than business, and he knows Vivienne dislikes lavish displays. Ada is pleased with both herself and the task, clearly believing it signifies Edwin’s reliance on her and his loss of interest in replacing her with Vivienne.

  The dinner party is far too excessive for Vivienne’s tastes, reminiscent of the affairs orchestrated by George or her mother: the china and heavy silver; the harp and the flutes; the vintage wines; the gowned women and tuxedoed men, all overly impressed with themselves. She’s glad she has her role representing the Bradley, which she much prefers to hovering over the chef and waiters. And she’s basking in her new, if secret, status as heir.

  Edwin appears happy with the proceedings, drinking scotch and mingling with his guests. He comes up to her often during the cocktail hour, introduces her to the few she doesn’t know. Extols her virtues. “My esteemed colleague,” he calls her.

  “The Bradley wouldn’t be the Bradley without her,” he confesses to Bill Glackens, the post-Impressionist painter who introduced him to art collecting. Then he puts his arm around her shoulders. “I honestly don’t know where I’d be without her.”

  As always, Vivienne and Ada studiously ignore each other, and Vivienne isn’t surprised when she’s seated as far from Edwin as possible. Vivienne is surprised, however, when Ada comes toward her just as dessert is being served, a man with a distinctly British air in tow.

  “This is Mr. Terence S. Williamson,” Ada says with a perky smile. “He’s an artist. From London.”

  Vivienne stands and holds out her hand, wondering what Ada is up to. “I’m Vivienne Gregsby.”

  “Lovely to meet you, Miss Gregsby,” he says with an accent that could come only from a childhood in Liverpool.

  “You went to the Slade School of Fine Art, didn’t you, Vivienne?” Ada asks sweetly. “You said from 1920 to 1922, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Vivienne never told Ada anything about her life in England, but perhaps Edwin did. “Yes,” she admits.

  “Well, so did Mr. Williamson.” Ada frowns. “And he claims he doesn’t remember anyone called Gregsby there at the time.”

  “There were lots of students passing through,” Vivienne says as smoothly as she can. “It would be tough to remember everyone—especially me, as I kept pretty much to myself.”

  “And I have got a bad noggin for names,” Terence says, clearly uncomfortable with the situation. “Our mum was always saying.”

  A chill freezes Vivienne. Not because of what he said, but because she recognizes his voice: Scotty Williamson. He called himself Scotty then, not Terence S. A sculptor, if she remembers correctly, a good one. He dated her friend Bernice.

  Scotty shifts back and forth on his feet.

  “But it couldn’t have been that big,” Ada exclaims. “I can’t imagine that you two wouldn’t have at least run into each other.”

  Vivienne sits back down, picks up a spoon, and pulls her dessert toward her, hoping Ada and Scotty will leave before he gets a closer look at her face. But she senses
he’s studying her. Far too carefully.

  “Paulien!” he cries. “I do know you. You’re Paulien Mertens.” He hesitates. “Aren’t you?”

  Vivienne tosses her hair in the same exaggerated manner she used when Antoinette Lavigne recognized her at Gertrude’s. “Nope,” she says, dipping her spoon into the parfait. When neither Scotty nor Ada responds, she smiles and adds, “I’m pretty sure I’ve always been me.”

  “And just who is this Paulien Mertens?” Ada asks.

  Vivienne cringes at the curiosity in Ada’s voice. At how repeating the name will most likely sear it into Ada’s brain.

  “She was mates with . . .” Scotty pauses. “No. You sound a bit like her, but her hair was blond. Pretty thing but with more meat on her. Got mixed up with the wrong bloke, Paulien did. A real mess she got herself into. Got to be in jail or dead by now.” He chuckles. “Or maybe hiding out on some deserted island with a pile of cash.”

  Vivienne places a small bit of parfait into her mouth and manages to swallow it. “Guess she’s not me then.” She shrugs. “Seeing as I’m here.”

  Scotty apologizes again for not remembering her, and then for believing she was someone she isn’t. Vivienne tells him not to worry about it, and he appears happy to let the incident go. But not so for Ada, who watches Vivienne carefully, her eyes narrow and her smile smug.

  22

  Vivienne, 1925

  Henri is nominated to sit on the jury for the Carnegie International Exhibition in Pittsburgh and plans to visit Merion when the competition is over. He reluctantly gives in to Vivienne’s pleas and promises to act as if they are nothing more than friends. But given his propensity for high jinks, she’s far from certain he’s going to keep his promise.

  It’s well over ninety the day of his arrival, and Vivienne can’t decide what to wear. She rifles through her closet, which is stuffed with colorful dresses, and then walks to the closet in the second bedroom. Edwin keeps increasing her salary, and she’s been able to buy a small house in Merion, about half a mile from the Bradley. It’s a charming Arts and Crafts cottage, with deep mahogany floors and moldings, a fireplace, and a tiny garden out back, where she’s planted some of Ada’s best bulbs and bushes. It’s nothing like the estate she grew up on, but she’s proud of having purchased it by herself, using money she earned through her own hard work.

  Vivienne’s hand lingers over a mauve dress with tiny peach flowers, a couple of years old, a bit faded and not her best color. This is the safest choice, but she reaches for the orange one she bought in Paris with the low waist and short skirt. She’ll pair it with a double string of long blue beads. Henri will appreciate her nod to complementary colors.

  Henri has never been to Merion, and she and Edwin wait on the front steps of the Bradley for him. Edwin hasn’t mentioned anything, but she knows he’s nervous about Henri’s reaction to the collection and the ensembles, especially the artist’s response to how his own work is displayed. When the car pulls into the drive, she rests her hand on Edwin’s elbow, a gesture that would be interpreted by anyone watching as that of an assistant keyed up by the arrival of a famous artist. A gesture that will remind Henri of his promise.

  Henri leaps from the car and approaches them with a wide smile, spry and animated. She holds on to Edwin’s elbow more tightly.

  The two men slap each other on the back, and then Henri turns to her. Their eyes meet and she feels a warm thrill deep within her.

  “Vivienne,” he says after they kiss each other on both cheeks. “You look exquisite. Not many women have the eye or the gumption to pair orange with its complement.”

  She hurries up the stairs to the front door. “Come,” she cries. “We want to show you everything.”

  Henri wants to see everything. She’s almost forgotten how vibrant he is, so energetic, with no checks on his enthusiasm. Edwin’s seriousness and composure pale in contrast. As does his vitality. She and Edwin bring Henri up the stairs to view The Joy of Life and stand silently on the landing while he appraises its commanding position. Alone on the large wall, lit by the skylight above. Henri’s eyes glisten. “Thank you, my friend,” he says to Edwin. “Thank you.”

  As they wander through the rooms, Henri bubbles with compliments. The splendor of the building. The brilliance of the art. Vivienne knows he finds symmetry dull, so she’s not surprised when he doesn’t praise the ensembles. But he does admire the rare combinations unrestrained by classical rules of chronological display. “You have created a home for the old masters of the future,” he tells Edwin.

  They complete the tour in the main gallery, where they started, and Edwin points to the south wall. “See that?”

  Henri follows Edwin’s finger. Two narrow walls—one holding Henri’s Seated Riffian and the other Picasso’s The Peasants—separate three twelve-foot-tall windows. An oddly shaped portion of plaster roughly forty-five feet wide and seventeen feet high sits atop the windows: flat at the bottom, separated about a quarter of the way up by two projecting masonry supports that buttress the vaulted ceiling and form three rounded arches. It’s an awkward expanse, too high to be seen in its entirety from the ground, irregular, and horribly lit.

  “I want a mural there,” Edwin says, pointing. “Above the windows. Something that flows across the three spaces, but that’s a single painting. Something active, continuous, that isn’t stopped by the supports. I’m going to commission it.”

  Edwin has mentioned his desire for a mural before, but Vivienne had no idea he was planning to offer it to Henri. He may not have known it himself before this moment.

  Henri follows Edwin’s finger. “Are you offering it to me?”

  “If you think you can do it.”

  “The light is impossible.”

  “Nothing’s impossible.”

  “Look at it.” Henri points upward. “The shadows from the ceiling vaults fall over at least a third of it—and the light from those windows obscures it from below.”

  “Are you saying you can’t do it?”

  “Is that a dare?”

  “That’s just what it is.”

  “I cannot do it here. I would have to create it in Nice.”

  “Take all the measurements you need now,” Edwin instructs. “I’ll have paper templates created based on your figures. Then I’ll ship the cutouts over to France. You can work from them there.”

  “I will need complete control of the form and content.”

  “It’s yours.”

  Henri ponders the irregular space. He walks along the north wall, inspects the other three, climbs the stairs, and stands at the open railing, eye level with where the mural will be.

  “It may take years,” Henri says when he comes down to rejoin them. “I refuse to rush.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “How much are you willing to pay?”

  “Thirty thousand dollars,” Edwin replies without hesitation. “In three installments. Before, during, and after.”

  Henri blanches, obviously taken by surprise at the amount proffered. It’s a lot of money, probably more than he’s ever been offered before. But he recovers quickly. “I think we should be able to work out the details in a manner we are both happy with.”

  Ada joins them for dinner that night, which has the effect of creating two couples: Edwin and Ada, Henri and Vivienne. Awkward, to say the least. Vivienne feels as if she’s caught in some kind of bizarre double love triangle, although she supposes that Mme Matisse would have to be with them for that to be the case.

  Ada is completely absorbed in Edwin, smiling up at him lovingly and hanging on to his arm, shooting Vivienne sharp glances of triumph. Despite his promises to the contrary, Henri is completely absorbed in Vivienne, repeatedly filling her wineglass, laughing at everything she says. It’s obvious Edwin is uncomfortable with Ada’s attentions and jealous of Henri’s. They’re only on the salad course, and Vivienne wonders how she’s going to make it through to dessert with her status as the Bradley heir intact.

>   Henri says to Edwin, “You better get back to Paris as soon as you can, my friend. There is a new collector in town—although probably new only to us. Very wealthy. He is from Australia, a man named Ashton King, and he is buying up every Cézanne, Modigliani, and Picasso he can find. Many of mine, too.”

  “I’m sure there are enough for both of us,” Edwin says, but Vivienne can see from the set of his mouth that he doesn’t like the sound of this.

  Henri recognizes Edwin’s discomfort, and he lets the issue drop. He turns to Ada and compliments her on her delightful home and even more delightful gardens, and then lifts yet another glass. “To Edwin and Ada,” he cries. “To their many long years of marriage and to their continued happiness together!”

  When Henri’s hand strays under the tablecloth and finds Vivienne’s knee, exposed by her short dress, she throws it off with the flick of her leg. “I’ve hired a copy editor who’s about halfway through the corrections to the manuscript,” she tells them. “We’re hoping the book will be published in the early spring.”

  “A triumph for all three of us,” Henri declares, and runs his finger along the sensitive skin on the underside of her thigh.

  This time, Vivienne doesn’t move. Because she can’t move. Because she doesn’t want him to stop. Edwin is watching her closely. Without looking at Henri, she jerks her chair beyond his reach. His hand drops away, and she’s filled with a hollow sadness that rushes in to fill the space where the wanting had been.

  Henri is staying at the house with Edwin and Ada, and Edwin does everything he can to keep Vivienne and Henri apart. After their dinner he requests Henri’s advice on an addition to one of the ensembles and shoos Vivienne home. The visit is for two days, and Edwin is masterly in his scheming: lunch and dinner to which she isn’t invited; a museum trip in which she isn’t included; late nights drinking scotch and smoking cigars at Edwin’s club, which doesn’t allow women. Plus a list of menial tasks, which she must complete immediately. Then, in a final coup d’état, Edwin has his chauffeur drive Henri to New York to board his ship so early in the morning that she has no chance to say good-bye.