The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  Edward was one of the few people he looked forward to seeing at the tedious opening parties and gala’s which lined the agendas of New York’s social elite. The same ones he was always invited to, thanks to his sizable donations to the city’s many museums and cultural funds. He abhorred the schmoozing and one-upmanship but attended them anyway, hoping his vast network would one day provide him with a lead – any lead – to the whereabouts of his family’s possessions. He knew if anyone suspected the true motive behind his apparent generosity they would never have allowed him to penetrate their inner circle, no matter how much he donated to their causes. No, they would have denied having ever known him.

  After a few short sentences filling Konrad in on the latest gossip, Edward quickly turned to the business at hand. I think I recognized one of your family’s pieces at a conference about stolen artwork in Amsterdam a few weeks ago, a drawing by Henri Matisse of a reclining nude. The project manager let me take a snapshot of it hanging in the depot, without a flash unfortunately. Because Matisse made so many sketches of reclining nudes, I told her I’d get in touch with you and let you verify it instead of giving them your name. I know how much you value your privacy. A beta version of their website is active, though not complete. Here’s a link to it so you can check the provenance yourself. Let me know when you’re going to be in New York next and we’ll do lunch. Yours, Edward.

  Konrad’s heart raced as he closed his eyes and allowed himself to imagine it was true, that the sketch he was about to see was really one of the three hundred and twenty-two pieces taken from his uncle during the Second World War. And that this Matisse would somehow lead him to the others.

  He wanted so badly to believe the paintings were still out there, waiting to be found. Yet after all these years of searching, he often wondered if he hadn’t wasted his life looking for artwork destroyed in bombings or fires long ago.

  Konrad opened his eyes and clicked on the photograph. A few seconds later a blurry image of a dimly lit art depot filled the screen. Paintings of various sizes and styles were suspended on a large mesh rack. In the center of the photograph was the Matisse Edward had so kindly brought to his attention. A sigh escaped Konrad’s lips. Even at this poor resolution he could tell it wasn’t his uncle’s piece; this nude was looking over her left shoulder, not straight at the painter. He’d memorized his family’s most important works many years ago. He knew every brush stroke, line and smudge like most men knew the body of their lover. This was not one of his.

  He zoomed in on the Matisse anyway, if only out of a sense of duty to Edward. As the image sharpened, another part of the screen caught his eye. He’d been so focused on the reclining nude he hadn’t really looked at the other paintings hanging on the story-tall mesh rack. To the left of the Matisse was a beautifully rendered pastoral landscape, a single cow dominating the foreground. A Paulus Potter no doubt. But the canvas on the left was something totally different. It was unknown to him, yet so familiar.

  He zoomed in again. When the painting filled the screen, he sprung out of his chair, gasping for air. His eyes were deceiving him, he was sure of it. Yet even with the streaking colors and bad lighting, he recognized the shapes of the woman and flowers immediately. But how could that be?

  His eyes shot over to a framed photograph on the left of his desk; his uncle as a young man dressed in his uniform, standing proudly in the middle of his grandly furnished living room. Gilded-framed paintings and sketches covered the walls behind him. Above one shoulder hung the only modern piece in the room, a small canvas depicting a young woman sitting next to a vase of irises. The same painting now hanging in the Amsterdam Museum’s depot.

  He clicked on the museum’s website address, opening up the database containing information about the stolen art in the government’s care. His hands trembled so badly he had trouble ticking the artist’s name into the search engine. A single canvas appeared on the screen. He gazed in awe at the young woman staring back at him. The image was unmistakable; there was no question in his mind they were one and the same. After all these years, he had finally found one of his family’s paintings.

  He wiped away a tear before breaking down and weeping uncontrollably into his folded hands. Everyone told him his uncle was crazy to keep searching, that his art collection could not have survived the war unscathed. The paintings were gone; he should stop looking and start living. But the man had dedicated his life to finding his stolen masterpieces. With his dying breath, his uncle had urged him to keep looking. Konrad had no choice but to honor the older man’s wishes and take up the hunt. He owed that much to the man who’d raised him. And tonight, he’d found his first. That meant the others couldn’t be far away.

  After seventy years of searching, he finally had a chance to reclaim what was rightfully his. As he looked at his uncle’s portrait, the question he’d never dared ask his guardian in life finally escaped his lips, “But how?”

  EIGHT

  “Are you insane?” Huub Konijn locked eyes with Zelda, staring at her with such intensity she couldn’t help but shiver.

  “No, not that I’m aware of,” she shot back.

  “What were you thinking then?” the curator gestured dramatically towards the project manager’s computer monitor. “You were asked to correct the English language text, not redesign the website. Why did you think it was okay to add this animation to our homepage?”

  Zelda wondered if he’d ever considered a career in theater. She did her best to scowl back at him; sure she was not in the wrong. “To enhance its visual appeal. I used to create websites for a living, you know,” she retorted.

  “Obviously you never stopped to consider the months of work my team put in to get this database ready. Not to mention the countless project meetings needed to gain a consensus on how it should look and function. We designed it in a specific way for a specific audience. It is a resource for investigators, museum curators and legal teams doing serious research into missing works of art, not for every Jan and Janneke to peruse through. Visual appeal is not a priority.” The curator pounded on Bernice’s desk to emphasize his point, wincing as his boney knuckles hit the hard surface.

  “Wait a second; I thought you wanted the owners and their families to search through the database as well, not only researchers and lawyers?” Zelda couldn’t stop the words from pouring out of her mouth, yet she instantly regretted speaking them aloud.

  “You clearly know nothing about this kind of research,” Huub growled, his skin tone reddening by the second. Zelda was afraid his head was going to explode. “Most families hire private detectives, independent researchers or lawyers to search for them. Very few claims are submitted by the owners or their family members.”

  Bernice Dijkstra gazed at the curator over the rim of her reading glasses, a puzzled frown on her face. “Huub, I don’t understand why you are so upset by this one animation. What’s the harm in adding a few images to the database’s homepage? It takes up very little space and adds a touch of color to an otherwise dull page. Perhaps seeing these paintings will help generate interest with a wider audience.”

  Zelda covered her smile with her hand, happy to finally have the project manager’s support. When she’d proposed adding some images to the homepage last week, Bernice had treated her like a real employee, listening carefully to her idea and ultimately responding positively to her suggestion. So why was the curator dead-set against her tiny addition?

  “Did you even look at the paintings she selected before allowing her animation to be added to the site?” Huub asked sullenly.

  “Of course I did. And I rather like her choices, especially the first one, the Wederstein. It’s such a colorful, modern piece. The broad paint strokes, subtle shading, and that girl’s gaze, it’s simply arresting.”

  Huub rolled his eyes at the project manager, opening his mouth to respond when Bernice quickly added, “Don’t forget, all the works in the depot are important to someone, regardless of who painted them.”

&n
bsp; “Oh please, Bernice,” the curator’s tone dripped with arrogance, “stop dancing around the fact the first thing visitors see when opening our website is Lex Wederstein’s Girl with Vase. That portrait does not have the international allure we want to project. And her other choices are just as unknown. Colorful, yes, but still created by artists no one’s ever heard of. You know as well as I do our depots are filled with unclaimed masterpieces worth hundreds of thousands of euros, as well as canvases whose only real value is sentimental.”

  Huub turned to face Zelda, clearly only beginning to dish out his wrath. “If you’re going to choose visual showpieces for our site, don’t pick the most unknown works in the database. Why didn’t you use the Koekkoek, Van Rusydael, Frans Hals, Van Gogh or Jan Steen in your animation? If any paintings are featured, it should be these. I thought you were here to study art history; have you even heard of any of the famous artists I just mentioned? Now any reviewer visiting our site will take one look at the Wederstein and think they’ve stumbled across some shoddy auction house or provincial museum’s website and move on. It makes us look very unprofessional.”

  Zelda was too shocked by his dressing down to respond verbally. She hunched up her shoulders slightly and looked down at the floor. One more comment and a flood of tears would burst loose. In her enthusiasm to impress Bernice – and thus Marianne and the university’s selection committee – she hadn’t considered the work Huub’s team had already done to get such a large site up and running. Nor how many toes she had stepped on by circumventing him and going straight to Bernice with her idea for the animation. Even Friedrich had tried to warn her and she blew him off. She had a lot to learn about working in a museum, where exhibitions were created through group consensus. She was so used to leading projects and setting their parameters she’d forgotten what it was like to work as part of a team.

  Huub stared at the computer, shaking his head as he spoke. “Bernice, I still don’t understand why you didn’t call or email me last week before you changed my team’s design.”

  “You were presenting a paper at that conference in Portugal and I saw no reason to disturb your trip.” The project manager’s voice was calm but stern. “Besides, I like Zelda’s animation. You know I was not in favor of your somber design.”

  “But it loads faster.”

  “It is a visual database containing more than a thousand works of art. People can’t expect it to load instantly. I like the animation, and so does Leo de Boer.”

  The curator looked like a little boy caught peeing in a swimming pool. “Leo? Why did you get him involved?”

  “After your email outburst demanding Zelda’s head on a stick, I thought it prudent to ask him what he thought of her animation. He is, after all, the director of the museum and by default the head of every project we take on.”

  “And?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “He likes the idea of an animation, but agrees with you, Huub; works by more important painters should be shown. And the images should be larger and spread across the top of the page as a banner. Agreed?”

  Bernice pressed on before the curator could respond. From her tone she was obviously done debating this; Leo de Boer had spoken and she was simply relaying his message. “You can pick out the artwork yourself and have your team create the new animation before the end of the week, when the site is officially launched. Considering Zelda made this one in a matter of minutes, I assume it will not be a challenge for you to meet this deadline.”

  Zelda felt like a pawn being expertly played by the project manager. No wonder Bernice had been so receptive to her idea; she’d wanted to change the database’s homepage all along and used Zelda’s suggestion as an excuse to do it.

  “But Bernice,” Huub protested, “the site has been live since the conference. And today, advertisements are appearing in art magazines all over America. The website’s address is listed on our publicity materials. We can’t prevent the general public from looking at it. We need to take the animation down right away, before the media sees it.”

  “There’s no reason for panic. Have your team remove her animation from the site now and replace it with a new one later this week. I doubt anyone has, or will see, her version. The advertisements list the opening of the exhibition as this Saturday. Most people won’t bother to look at the site until then.”

  Huub gave Bernice a tight-lipped nod.

  She nodded back before clearing her throat, “Zelda.”

  The expression on the older woman’s face told Zelda things were about to go from bad to worse.

  “Thank you for your help,” Bernice said. “We appreciate your enthusiasm.” She started to rise. “I’ll be sure and tell Marianne what good work you’ve done for us; creating the animation was a fine idea.”

  Zelda knew she should be thrilled they were going to use her concept, regardless of the fact that Huub was going to re-design it. Yet she felt more embarrassed than triumphant. Was editing some English language copy really enough to wow the university’s selection committee?

  She tried desperately to think of a way to stay involved a little longer. “The official opening is this Saturday, right? Do you still need volunteers to greet guests and check their invitations? I’d be happy to help out.”

  “We have enough volunteers already. You are welcome to attend the official opening as our guest; I’ll have an invitation mailed to your home.” Bernice leaned over her desk and stuck out her hand, clearly ready to end this meeting.

  “That would be great!” Zelda knew her time was up, yet remained planted firmly in her chair, unable to accept her role in this project was truly over.

  “We’ll see you Saturday, okay?”

  Bernice’s hand was still extended, looming over her wide desk. Zelda knew there was nothing to do but shake it and walk out. She nodded slowly, tears welling in the corner of her eyes, telling herself to keep it together. Most Dutch people couldn’t handle open displays of emotion and breaking down now would only make her look stupid. With a loud gulp, she leaned over and took Bernice’s hand.

  One of the museum’s receptionists knocked on the door then stuck her head inside without waiting for a response. Sheepishly glancing at the group before apologizing for interrupting, she said in Dutch, “Mrs. Dijkstra, there’s a telephone call for you from America that sounds rather urgent. Her accent is so strong I’m having trouble understanding her, but it sounds like she’s saying she ‘won’t wait forever.’” She pronounced the last three words carefully in clipped English.

  The project manager glared at Zelda, clearly displeased she was still in the room, but said nothing. Instead, she picked up her telephone and sunk back into her chair.

  “Yes, this is Bernice Dijkstra.” As she listened, she scratched at her head, unintentionally jerking her curly wig left then right. “Irises? What do you mean? Please speak more slowly. Yes? What? On our website? A girl with a face?”

  Her perplexed expression turned to surprise as she bolted upright in her seat. “Did I hear you correctly? Please repeat.” Listening intently, Bernice grabbed a pen and began scribbling wildly while her face drained of color. “Of course. Yes, that would be possible. If you want to. Really? That is wonderful news. What? Yes, we look forward to meeting you, too.”

  Bernice let the phone drop from her hand, keeping her eyes focused on the notepad in front of her. Slowly, she found her voice. “Huub,” she whispered, “we have our first claimant.”

  The curator’s expression switched from irritation to euphoria in a millisecond. “That is wonderful news! Was that one of the curators from the conference calling? Which piece is it?”

  The project manager continued to stare at her notepad, avoiding eye contact with the other two, plainly still in shock. “No, a woman saw her father’s painting on our website. You were right Huub; the advertisements are already out in America.”

  “Well, which one is it?” he asked, impatience creeping back into his voice.

  “Lex Wederstei
n’s Girl with Vase. She recognized it immediately, from Zelda’s animation on the homepage.”

  NINE

  Zelda was practically dancing with impatience. In a few moments, the owner of a painting once stolen by the Nazis would be walking through the conference room door. What would she look like? Or sound like? Zelda closed her eyes, imagining the claimant to be tall and elegantly dressed with a slight European accent, probably the sort who winters on the Costa Brava or the French Riviera. All she knew for certain was that Rita Brouwer was flying in from Columbia, Missouri via Chicago and London; a grueling flight itinerary to be sure.

  Her jangling knee bumped against the conference table, waking the laptop humming in the middle of it. She couldn’t help but smile when she glanced at the screen and saw the Stolen Objects database already open. Thanks to her own naivety – as Huub Konijn had so kindly put it – they had their first claimant. After all of the curator’s ranting and raving about what an unimportant piece it was, she couldn’t help but feel justified the ‘worthless’ Wederstein got recognized first.

  Zelda looked over at the painting, now resting on an easel in the corner of the conference room. She was entranced every time she looked at it, the way the woman looked so directly – almost defiantly – at the painter. Yet there was the slightest curve to her lips and a sparkle in her eye, as if she knew something the viewer didn’t. Even the way it was painted was mysterious. The artist used a minimalistic approach, an almost abstract way of painting, yet the girl’s delicate features and the irises’ purple blossoms were so clearly defined, it was as if he’d copied the image from a photograph. The broad strokes of color and sturdy lines defining the shapes seemed to dance off the canvas. That’s why she’d placed it at the beginning of her animation; so when the database loaded, the user would be as captivated as she was. Of course Girl with Vase was no longer featured on the homepage. As soon as humanly possible, Huub’s team had replaced her animation with a larger version rotating through works made by internationally-known artists.