The Empress of Tempera

by Alex Dolan

  Paire was caught in something she could no longer stop.

  She had tricked herself into thinking of Derek Rosewood’s installations as rule-breaking instead of law-breaking. But they were all crimes, this one simply more blatant than the rest. Paire Anjou’s worst fear was coming to life. She was becoming her parents.

  • • •

  As a teen, Katie Novis sniffed out her parents’ ugly history on her own. Gilda Abington had purged Lake Novis’s trial from the press, but Katie found a reporter at the Portland Press Herald who periodically wrote about the Abington family. After teaching herself to drive before legal age, she brake-lurched her way down to Portland with one of Gilda’s extra vehicles.

  At the Herald offices, Katie asked for Wayne Braden. She waited in the lobby for hours until she caught him on a coffee and tobacco break. Wayne was tall and bulky, with thick glasses and a receding hairline. Once he saw her, he was empathetic. In retrospect, he must have wondered whether Cissy Novis’s daughter had inherited her mother’s illness. Several times, he asked if she needed to see a doctor.

  After some encouragement, as well as her insistence that Gilda Abington had not put her granddaughter up to this, they went to Wayne’s office and he answered her questions. Wayne had been one of the victims of Gilda’s purge. Perhaps he spoke to Katie because he felt it would only be fair for the girl to know the truth, and perhaps he just wanted to get even with Gilda Abington for expunging so much of his work.

  Wayne described Cissy Novis as an eccentric child. From a young age, she had conversations with imaginary friends, or, as Wayne described it, “You know, ordinary weird kid stuff.” Then, more serious incidents occurred here and there. At a fundraiser, she lit the drapes on fire, causing little damage but a lot of hysteria. She wounded the family dog with a pair of scissors because she said when she was alone with it, the corgi turned into a crocodile and tried to eat her. Cissy started psychiatric care when she was twelve. The Abingtons kept it quiet. Doctor visits were given the code name “dance class,” in case someone had to explain where their daughter was.

  Cissy Novis escalated her problematic behavior when she hit puberty. She stole from some of the local shops on Abenaki’s King Street, named not for the British monarchy but for William King, the first governor of Maine. Some shopkeepers overlooked it. The Abingtons had to pay others to keep mum. They returned the stolen items, and once, they brought Cissy for a staged apology. When she got her license, Cissy pilfered spirits from the house supply and drove drunk around town with one of the unused family cars. This was considered another forgivable eccentricity, until she crashed a Bentley into the courthouse.

  “When you look at photos of her from the time, you’d never think she’d be anything but the perfect daughter. She looked like a porcelain doll. I mean that part in a good way. She was beautiful, like you.” Wayne said. Reading Katie’s discomfort, he said, “You don’t see it yet, do you? Don’t worry, you will.”

  After the courthouse, the Abingtons tried inpatient therapy. Cissy was committed to the Portland Center for Psychiatric Care. Wayne believed that once she was out of the house, the family, and in particular Gilda, felt relieved. Cissy’s parents were more visible in public. Wayne showed Katie photographs taken during this period, and Gilda smiled more freely than she’d ever seen.

  Lake Novis was an attendant at the hospital. Wayne explained, “They have plenty of rules to keep the men and women apart, but people break rules, and things happen.”

  Five months into the pregnancy, Cissy’s belly began showing, and the hospital couldn’t ignore it. It didn’t take long to identify the father, and the hospital fired Lake Novis. The Abingtons were furious.

  “They might have sued the trousers off that hospital, if it wouldn’t mean a heap of bad press,” Wayne said.

  The family kept this a closely guarded secret, so he had to speculate about the next bits to fill in the gaps. Wayne knew the Abingtons didn’t favor abortion to begin with, and by the time Cissy got home she was into her third trimester. The plan, he supposed, would likely have been to keep Cissy under a sort of house arrest until she gave birth, then find an orphanage for the baby. With an acute sense of irony, Wayne said, “That’s how we do it in Maine.” But Cissy ran away. She found Lake Novis, and they drove north to Caribou. Lake pumped gas until the baby was born. He eventually held up his own gas station for three hundred dollars, and occasionally held up liquor and convenience stores. The full roster of those robberies would come out during his trial. They gave the baby Gilda’s middle name, Katherine, but Wayne couldn’t be sure if this was to honor her mother or spit in her face.

  This was how Katie Novis learned the circumstances of her birth. Not only was it statutory rape, Cissy Novis might not have been able to establish the mental competence requisite for sexual consent even if she had been of age. Katie had come into the world as the daughter of a rapist and a criminally dangerous schizophrenic. The story would only get worse.

  • • •

  Sealed in her library conference room, Paire dialed another number, and connected on the second ring.

  Melinda Qi said, “I’m surprised you called.” She hesitated, her voice tinny through the speaker. “But happy you did.”

  “I’m sorry for how I left the other night.” Paire felt a rush of relief cascade down into her gut. “I hope I didn’t make you feel bad.”

  “I misread the situation,” said Melinda, now atonal. Possibly Mel had hoped Paire was calling because she’d enjoyed that kiss and wanted more.

  “I think you’re wonderful.”

  “And?”

  “I wasn’t in the same place, but that doesn’t make you any less…” she tried to find the right word, “…it doesn’t make you any less.” Paire felt like she needed to add something, to steer this talk to something more benign. Even now, she was slightly dumbstruck that she’d even placed this call. The things guilt can make us do, she thought. “I loved your work. I wish I could create something that unique on my own.”

  “Are you calling on behalf of the Fern right now?”

  “I’m calling on behalf of myself.” Paire remembered watching how Melinda’s hips swayed as she walked down the long corridor to the Museum of Asian Art and Culture administrative offices. “I never asked. How did your meeting at the MAAC go?”

  “Well.”

  “Are they going to show your work?”

  “I wasn’t there to talk about my work.” Mel paused, giving Paire a moment for her stomach to squirm. “Are you in touch with Abel Kasson?”

  Paire frowned as she thought about the banker. “Only when he comes by to harangue us. I’m not calling you because Abel Kasson wanted me to.”

  Melinda warmed. “So I can trust you, then?”

  Absolutely not, Paire thought. I am stealing your painting right now. “Of course you can.”

  Static filled a long pause. Paire had reached the point of shame where she didn’t want to attract more attention, so she didn’t talk. She folded her spare arm across her body and squashed her boobs against her ribs. That old habit from high school.

  Melinda said, “Give me your email. I’m going to send you something.”

  Paire gave it to her, and waited. A half minute later, a message appeared in her inbox. No subject. PDF attachment. Paire opened it and scrolled through a legal document. It had been scanned askew, and the Courier type ran downhill.

  “What is this?”

  “A contract between my father and Gabriel Kasson.”

  Paire skimmed the contract for details, but ultimately the signature page told the story. Two scribbles, one in English and the other in Chinese characters Paire couldn’t understand, ran above the typed names of Gabriel Hartford Kasson and Qi Jianyu. Dated February 23, 1973.

  Paire remembered the photo of Pat Nixon in Beijing, the red coat bursting out of the gray wardrobes of the Chinese and Americans. Somewhere in the background, slightly out of focus, the lean pillar of Gabriel Kasson looked on through
his thick-rimmed spectacles.

  “Did they meet during the 1972 Beijing visit?”

  Melinda said, “So you did look him up.”

  “What is this contract for? An art commission?”

  “In 1973, Gabriel Kasson spent a lot of money to commission a museum in Manhattan. He made a point to secure a prominent architect. With enough money, they hired I. M. Pei to design the building. That was a score. The museum was built for the primary purpose of housing the works of Qi Jianyu.”

  “You’re kidding.” Paire wanted to call bullshit, but didn’t risk speaking ill of the woman’s father. Just the same, she waited for Melinda to tell her she was joking. “That doesn’t make any sense. A building that big was built to house one artist’s work?”

  “He had a lot of work. Gabriel Kasson was a fan. A big fan, with a lot of resources and influence.”

  Paire stated the obvious. “But the museum isn’t showing any of your father’s work.”

  “Correct.”

  “So where is it?”

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it?” Melinda asked. “It all disappeared. No one knows where. It’s probably boxed up in the archives. And with a museum like that, the archives could be in the basement, or they could be in some offsite facility. Point is, no one’s seen that work for decades. But the Kasson family owns it.”

  Paire scrolled through the document, trying to pull out details. “Is that what’s in this contract? The museum deal?”

  “Oh, God no. That’s just the contract that got him out of China.” Melinda narrated as Paire read the text. “My father lived outside of Beijing, and he was poor. He didn’t read English, and only spoke enough to get by on stilted conversations. He never read the terms of this contract, but as it was explained to him, this was going to give him a new life. That contract promises my father a house, a new car, and a nice salary every year until he dies. That contract also commissions twelve new original works to help open a new institution dedicated to promoting modern art from Asia. Effectively, a new exhibit to open what would become the MAAC.”

  Paire was confused. “That sounds like a good deal.”

  “That contract also states that every piece of work he produced would become the property of Gabriel Kasson. Every nickel he could generate off his work would go into Gabriel Kasson’s bank account. And upon his death, all of my father’s estate would transfer to the Kasson Foundation. That’s what that contract says. Even if he could read English, he might not have been savvy enough to navigate the legalese. But he signed his life away without knowing it.”

  Paire wondered where Rosewood was right now, and if she could get him to respond, whether she might still call off the theft. Her insides felt rancid. “He figured it out when he got to the U.S.”

  Mel said, “Pretty soon afterwards. There’s always been a big Chinese community in New York. Someone helped him figure it out. Turns out, my father was just another servant. Just the help. Not so different from a gardener who grew the right ivy to ornament a mansion. So he did what any sane rebel would do. He refused to paint.”

  “Just like that?”

  “He produced some half-assed pieces to fulfill his contract, but they were nothing compared to what he had been doing in Beijing. He told Gabriel Kasson that he was homesick, but the truth was he painted crap out of spite. Kasson knew it too. The museum opened with a little fanfare, but the critical reviews of my father’s new work were lackluster. Pretty soon after, the museum decided that to make money it needed to showcase other artists, so they did. My father’s work came down, and got tucked away. That was the end of his flash of fame. That was the end of him.”

  Paire repeated what she’d read. “Then he went back to China.”

  “That’s how the story ends.” Mel paused. “Funny. The way they talked about it, you’d think it was this big political power play. Mao had died by then, and China had the new open door policy. It was a coup to get a Chinese artist to come back to Beijing, and a big slap in the face to America. But it had nothing to do with politics. Gabriel Kasson had exploited my father, and my father didn’t want to be exploited.”

  Paire wanted to call Rosewood so badly she’d have used telepathy if she could. She had set her golem in motion and now she couldn’t reign him back in. “The Empress Xiao Zhe Yi—the painting of your mother…” Paire trailed off.

  “Is the last known piece from my father.”

  “Did you always have it?” Paire remembered the date. 1980. After Qi had moved back to Beijing.

  “It came to me after he died. And that’s the only reason it’s on display now. My father had hidden it for years.”

  Paire stared at her yellow dress in a reflection, grateful that Melinda Qi wasn’t sitting across the table from her right now. Dogs could smell fear and people could smell guilt. She would have to pretend not to be twisting inside. She sent an email to Rosewood, knowing he would get it on his cell. STOP. She knew police would discover it when they investigated, but she didn’t so much care.

  “Does Mayer know all this?”

  “He’s seen the contract,” said Mel. “He’s kept Abel Kasson at bay.” Mel laughed without much humor. “It’s been a pleasure watching little Kasson whipping himself into a frenzy. He knows what that painting represents. It’s the family secret. For decades, the Kassons have been able to make the world forget about my father.” Paire couldn’t help but think of Gilda destroying the stories about Lake and Cissy Novis. “That painting could be my father’s revenge. It could be the one time in New York where poor trumped rich, or where a Chinese family got one over on whitey. No offense.”

  Paire wondered aloud, “Who was Nicola Franconi?”

  “The man who stabbed himself? I didn’t know him. I assume he worked with Gabriel Kasson, but I’ve never met the man.” Melinda sounded defensive, like she didn’t want to be blamed for his death.

  Paire hadn’t heard back from Rosewood, but she assumed by now he probably had the painting. The thought comforted her. Because if they possessed the painting, they could return it to Melinda. If they couldn’t give it to her publicly, they could always break into that compound in Long Island City and find a place to leave it. Like a baby on a doorstep. Police might probe, but if the portrait went back to its owner, it wouldn’t be a protracted investigation.

  This was a simple and elegant solution. Paire was even proud of herself. For the first time all night, her shoulders dropped and her belly filled with air.

  • • •

  Paire treated herself to a taxi ride instead of the subway. Rosewood hadn’t texted her, but she would see him soon enough. Once she explained everything, he’d probably be angry with her. She wouldn’t blame him, considering the risk he’d taken, but he would come around. They’d move beyond it, she was certain of that. Or at least, she kept telling herself so.

  As her taxi pulled in front of the brownstone, she couldn’t see any windows lit up. The whole place was dark, and her heart sank. But it wasn’t yet midnight. He was planning on dropping off the painting at another location. So she waited up for him.

  Over the course of the evening, her adrenaline ebbed. The immediate panic faded and a more insidious dread crept into her. Her nerves made her hands tremble. She never made it to the bedroom. Sometime around five, she passed out for an hour on a few sofa throw pillows in the first-floor studio. She woke up when the sun came through the windows, and downed a liter of water to quench her dry throat. No messages on her phone. Her morning call to Rosewood bounced to voicemail.

  Rosewood never made it home.

  Her shift at the Fern started at ten, but she felt compelled to arrive early. She wanted to prepare herself for running into Mayer. Less triumphant this morning than she had felt when she came home the night before, she rambled into the city on the subway like everyone else. It sprinkled this morning, and the drips from all the folded umbrellas made the floor of the car slippery.

  Two police cars were parked in front of the Fern, their blue
swirling lights dancing throughout the gallery. Paire walked across the street from the entrance, prepared to stroll past and then come back, but she saw cops inside, and she needed to know exactly what happened. Yellow plastic tape drooped down like Christmas tinsel across the windows and door. She half-expected to see broken glass, even though Rosewood had said he would enter through the back.

  Inside, two police officers examined the floor behind the desk. It made sense they would be here, but it amplified her sense of dread. Her hands were shaky, and she thought about heading back to the subway, but it would seem more suspicious if she didn’t come into work. She had to do the hard thing, even if her body trembled.

  Now that she was here, she needed to face Mayer. She wouldn’t be any more prepared than she was at this moment. With other people in the room, he might not blow into a rage. But Mayer wasn’t with the officers. Likely, he was in the back office, where the rear door had been pried open, wondering how much it would cost to repair. Her blood drained from her forehead as she understood that she was responsible for all of this.

  Paire didn’t have keys for the front door, but it wasn’t locked. She walked under the tape and pushed it open. The lights hadn’t been turned on. Sunlight hadn’t made it into the Fern this early, and but for the blue lights, the gallery was still a cave.

  “What the hell are you doing?” said one of the officers angrily.

  She’d hoped these would be the same policemen whom she’d met right there at the Fern, the day Nicola Franconi expired on the sidewalk. The ones who would remember her, who would be sympathetic. No such luck. These were tall white guys, one WASPy and the other southern Mediterranean, both with the same closely shorn hair. They wore loose raincoats, and the blue flickers of light glinted of their waterproof sheen.