The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  A queen-sized bed was placed diagonally across the large space, nightstands positioned on either side. His and hers armoires stood against one wall. French doors opened onto a small balcony, rays of sunlight spilt through their uncovered windows, warming the sparsely furnished room.

  “We took out the built-in closets last year. It really opens up the space.” Eva said with a touch of pride.

  “There weren’t any closets back then. All five of us girls slept up here. My daddy built bunk beds on both sides of the room and Iris’s bed was set up in the middle,” Rita crossed over to the French doors and opened them. The tiny balcony was filled with plants and two folding chairs. Rita stepped out and looked down into the garden.

  “Oh my,” she said aghast, clutching the balcony’s railing for support. Zelda ran to her side and grabbed her arm, afraid something was wrong with Rita’s heart. She glanced down to see what had upset the older lady so. All she saw was a concrete shed in Eva’s garden below, its crumbling walls in bad need of repair, surrounded by a patch of brown grass. The neighbor’s yard on the left was equally disheveled. Along the right side of Eva’s property ran two strands of barbed-wire, the only thing separating her garden from the construction site. From the balcony, she could see the lot had been leveled and a few holes had already been dug out for the pillars on which the foundation would be built.

  Eva joined them at the window. “Terrible sight, isn’t it? If that project developer goes bankrupt I’m afraid those lots will stay empty for years. Living next to an open pit is not going to help our property’s value.” She clicked her tongue in irritation.

  “Our shed, it’s so dilapidated!” Rita cried, her eyes locked onto the structure below.

  “Oh, that. Klaas is planning on demolishing it one of these days, but he’s so busy with work I don’t know when he’ll have the time. Besides, the walls are so thick he can saw and drill without disturbing the neighbors. You can’t hear a thing, so long as the door is closed.”

  “My daddy sure would be disappointed to see it in such a sad state of disrepair. He was such a good carpenter; he could make anything with those hands of his,” Rita sighed as she sat down on Eva’s bed, her girth sinking deep into the mattress. For the first time since Zelda had met her, Rita looked worn out and fragile, like the seventy-nine-year-old woman she really was. Seeing that shed in its rundown state seemed to have sapped the life out of her.

  “I don’t suppose the dollhouse is still there?” Rita asked, a tremor in her voice.

  “Dollhouse? I’m sorry, I don’t understand this word?” Eva seemed to sense the change in Rita’s mood as well, touching her hand to the older woman’s forehead. “Would you like a glass of water or something to eat? You do not look well.”

  “No, I’m doing fine,” Rita smiled weakly at her host. “I almost forgot seventy years have gone by. Of course things aren’t the same as they were back then, when we lived here, when my daddy was still alive. Nothing is the same as it was.”

  “But this dollhouse?”

  “My daddy built one for us girls, out there in that shed. It was like a miniature house, but with no roof or exterior walls so you could move the dolls and furnishings around inside.”

  “Oh yes, een poppenhuis. I have seen those in the Rijksmuseum before. They are very beautiful.”

  “We thought so, too. Our friends loved to come over and play out there. It was so big it covered most of the floor. But daddy was so clever; he built it in an ‘L’ shape along two of the walls so he could still get to his root cellar. He used to make wine from the grapes he grew in our garden. If there were enough raspberries, he’d make schnapps. And my mama liked to make preserves out of her strawberries and rhubarb. That’s where they kept it all, in the root cellar. I’m sure that’s all gone, too. Though it would be a hoot to find one of mama’s jams or daddy’s wines on a shelf down there.”

  “A root cellar under the shed? The real estate agent did not mention one. And there is no opening in the floor; it’s made of a heavy, concrete tile. It must have been filled in years ago.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Rita said pensively. “There’s not much use for root cellars nowadays. Nobody makes preserves or wines themselves anymore, do they? And with the Cold War finally over, bomb shelters are out of fashion, too.”

  Zelda could see Rita was trying to make light of the situation even though it was clearly painful for her. She couldn’t imagine the emotional turmoil Rita must have been experiencing since she’d set foot in her old family home and been confronted with all the changes that had taken place since the Second World War. With nothing tangible left for her memories to grab onto, Rita had to face the fact that all she had left were the photographs and stories of how her life once was, when her father was still alive.

  The older lady rose from the bed, grabbing onto Zelda’s arm for support. “You know, I think the jet lag’s finally catching up with me,” she tried to grin, unsuccessfully. “Maybe you could walk me back to my hotel?”

  Zelda nodded.

  Rita turned to her host. “I sure do appreciate you letting me see my family’s home, Eva.”

  Before she could respond, Rita wrapped her arms around the Dutch woman and squeezed her tight.

  As she dislodged herself from Rita’s embrace, Eva said, “It was a pleasure meeting you and hearing more about the history of my home. Are you sure you are feeling well enough to walk back to your hotel? I can call a taxi for you.”

  “Heavens, no. A walk will do me good.” With a sad smile, Rita started down the stairs towards Eva’s front door, Zelda following close behind.

  FOURTEEN

  Oh, how cruel the fates can be! Finally finding one painting after a lifetime spent searching, only to have it snatched away from him by another. Konrad Heider glared at his computer screen, cursing the photo of the Amsterdam Museum’s board of directors huddled around Rita Brouwer as she held her father’s painting tight. News of the sensational discovery went viral immediately, with most European and American news sites using this photograph to illustrate their story.

  In light of the coverage her claim had received, he was surprised Edward hadn’t mailed again to ask him about the painting. But then again, someone like Edward would only remember the masterpieces; the Wederstein’s of the world were easily forgotten.

  Konrad wracked his brain, trying to come up with another way to acquire what was rightfully his. Think man; what would your uncle have done? As he ground the stump of his cigar out, an idea popped into his head. He turned it slowly over in his mind, contemplating every angle before a broad smile spread across his face.

  With a little help, he could probably sail around the other claimant and get the museum staff on his side in one fell swoop. But who could he trust to help him? And could he get all the documents forged in time?

  Konrad opened the humidor and took out another Montecristo, lighting it as he mulled over his plan like a glass of fine wine.

  FIFTEEN

  Zelda snapped open Het Parool and leaned back in bed, a smile on her lips as she carefully re-read this morning’s front page story. The photo of Rita’s tiny round face beaming as she held Irises up high was priceless. From her ecstatic expression it was clear the museum’s first claimant was pleased, honored even, to be the center of attention. The Amsterdam Museum’s board of directors was crowded around her, their joy rivalling Rita’s.

  Saturday had definitely been a night to remember for all involved, herself included. Thanks to the free champagne and knowledge that one painting had already been spoken for before the exhibition officially opened, the party ended up being an extremely joyful and drunken affair. She hadn’t talked with Rita since, but hoped the older woman had seen the Dutch newspapers this morning. After all, it was because of her family’s heart wrenching past that the media had covered the exhibition’s opening so extensively. She would have to buy some extra copies for Rita, just in case.

  She took a long sip of coffee, spilling a little
on her blanket when her phone began to ring. Speak of the devil, that must be Rita, she thought. Wiping the dribbles off her only afghan with one hand, she answered her phone with the other, fully expecting to hear the older lady’s southern drawl on the line.

  “I’m glad I caught you at home,” an altogether different person said. It was Bernice Dijkstra and she sounded stressed out.

  Zelda glanced at the clock; it was just after eight in the morning. She was surprised to hear from the project manager at all today; Zelda figured both she and Huub Konijn would take a few days off as payback for their hard work on the exhibition and website.

  “There’s been an, uhm, unexpected development.”

  Zelda sat upright in bed as the project manager struggled to express herself. It was the first time she’d ever heard Bernice fumble her words before. Something must be really wrong to have rattled her so badly, she thought.

  “Could you possibly come to the museum? We could use your help.”

  “Okay, sure. Do you mean today?”

  “I mean now. Are you available?”

  She’d made no real plans, except to meet up with Friedrich later for a coffee. “I’m free for the day.”

  “Tell Susan at reception I’m expecting you. She’ll bring you to me.”

  “Is anything wrong?” Zelda asked.

  “I’ll tell you everything once you arrive,” Bernice hung up the phone without waiting for a response.

  What in the world is going on? she wondered as she sprung out of bed and dressed in record time, running down the four flights of stairs and out to her bike. Why was Bernice being so vague? Did something happen to the painting? Or worse, Rita? Visions of the seventy-nine-year-old claimant having a stroke or heart attack as a result of all the excitement Saturday night popped into her head. When Zelda left at two in the morning, Rita did look pretty tired but was enjoying herself so thoroughly she refused to leave until the party was well and truly over. If something had happened to her, Bernice would have told me over the phone, wouldn’t she? What else could have freaked her out so badly? A plethora of scenarios raced through her mind as she willed her legs to peddle harder over the bike paths and bridges connecting her apartment to the Amsterdam Museum.

  Susan knocked loudly on the conference room door, in spite of the angry voices coming from within. Seconds later Bernice threw it open, apparently relieved to see that Zelda had arrived.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” the project manager said, as she gestured for her intern to sit down next to her. Huub was seated across from them but refused to meet either woman’s eye as they took their places at the table. The project manager looked pale and withdrawn, while the curator seemed to be red in the cheeks and neck. Zelda’s arrival had obviously interrupted a heated conversation. What the heck is going on here, she wondered for the umpteenth time since Bernice had called her at home, thirty minutes earlier.

  “We find ourselves in an embarrassing situation. Late Sunday evening a lawyer contacted Leo de Boer,” Bernice’s voice trembled, capturing Zelda’s full attention. “He claims Irises was actually the property of a Dutch art dealer who was killed during the war. He represents the man’s granddaughter. Last night he and his client flew in from New York City. They should be here any minute.”

  “Leo de Boer wants you to take notes of this meeting for us. From his conversation with the lawyer, it’s clear his client is upset that Rita Brouwer was presented as the legal owner at the opening, before we had verified her claim. We will be recording this meeting as well, but it is important to have someone take notes in case the recorder malfunctions. Your being a native speaker makes you a natural choice. Would you be willing to do this for us?” Bernice was practically begging her to say ‘yes’.

  A second claimant? She could hardly believe her ears. Does that mean Rita Brouwer lied to us? Recalling the old lady’s sincere joy at seeing Irises once again, she couldn’t believe she’d lied about anything. She had to hear this second claimant’s story for herself. “Sure, I can take notes for you.”

  Satisfied with her answer, Bernice turned back to Huub, apparently resuming the conversation Zelda’s arrival had interrupted. “Let us not forgot to remain open to the information we are about to hear,” she said in Dutch, forgetting her former intern could understand far more than she could speak.

  “I told you before, I don’t trust Rita Brouwer,” the curator protested.

  “Again, I urge you to wait until after we’ve heard what this new claimant has to say before you judge the validity of Mrs. Brouwer’s claim,” Bernice replied sternly, looking relieved when he nodded slightly.

  “Zelda, may I remind you that you are only to take notes during this meeting, not participate in it,” the project manager added in English.

  Zelda knew this was for Huub’s benefit so she nodded solemnly. “Of course,” she said, trying to look humble as the project manager handed her a notepad and two pens.

  The conference room’s telephone buzzed, Bernice picked it up on the first ring. “Okay, send them up.” She looked over at the curator, “They’re here; Susan is escorting them upstairs.” Moments later a knock on the door brought them all to their feet.

  “Come in,” Bernice called out.

  As the door opened, cinnamon-tainted perfume wafted into the room. A tall, thin woman in a fur coat and five-inch heels sauntered in, a distinguished looking older man trailing closely behind with a large black case in one hand. Her makeup was catwalk ready, her hair swept up in a loose bun with just the right amount of strands falling playfully around the nape of her neck. Zelda hated her immediately.

  “Karen O’Neil,” the new claimant stated, as she looked down at Bernice and offered her a limp hand. “And this is my legal counsel, Konrad Heider.” The woman waved vaguely in her lawyer’s direction. A brief smile passed over her lips as she turned to shake Huub’s outstretched hand. Apparently aware Zelda was only there to take notes and therefore not important, Ms. O’Neil ignored her completely, setting her purse at the head of the table before walking over to the painting, once again resting on an easel in a corner of the conference room. The lawyer, however, offered his hand and business card to all three. Zelda glanced at it before taking her seat: Konrad Heider, founding Partner of Heider, Schmidt & Weber Law Firm. Under his name and title were addresses listed for offices in Düsseldorf and New York City.

  As the new claimant leaned down to examine the painting, Zelda saw no look of love or even recognition in her eyes, only a cold, business-like gaze. Without a word, the woman picked up the painting, flipped it over and scratched her manicured nails across the back of the canvas then round the frame, staring intently at her handiwork.

  “What are you doing? Put that painting down!” Bernice Dijkstra shouted.

  Karen slowly placed Irises back on the easel. “I was simply checking to see if my grandfather’s stamp was on the back, that’s all. The painting obviously hasn’t been cleaned properly in quite a while.” With a pout on her lips, she settled into her chair, her lawyer already seated on her right-hand side. She dug a nail file out of her tiny purse and began flicking bits of dirt from under her fingernails onto the table.

  “Well, we would appreciate it if you would ask before picking up the painting again. It is not your property, at least not officially.” Bernice tried not to look as ruffled as she clearly felt thanks to Karen’s unexpected actions. “There are no gallery stamps or markings on the back, only the address of Rita Brouwer’s father, the first claimant.”

  “Oh yes, her,” Karen said with disdain. “How dare you announce to the press that you’ve found the rightful owner without even verifying her claim first! Some media stunt. How are your newspapers going to react when they hear my side of the story? How is your museum going to look then?” Karen went for the jugular without batting an eyelash.

  “First of all, we didn’t know you existed until yesterday. Our research team was unable to find any official records concerning this painting’s
provenance. We had no way of knowing it had been sold to an art dealer, your grandfather, during the war. And secondly, we had no reason to doubt Rita Brouwer, given the documentation she provided.”

  Huub looked over at the project manager as if to interrupt; one glance at Bernice’s expression and he held his tongue.

  Continuing in a more composed voice, the project manager added, “Today we hope to learn more about your grandfather’s gallery and his purchase of the Wederstein so we can fill in this painting’s history.” Bernice made eye contact with both the lawyer and his client, waiting for them to make the next move.

  “You’ll have to excuse my atrocious manners. I know you’re just doing your job. I do apologize for jumping all over you,” Karen purred, more to the curator than project manager, batting her eyelashes and leaning forward so he had a better view of her surgically enhanced breasts. “You can’t imagine what a shock it was to finally find my grandfather’s painting then seeing it in that woman’s hands.”

  Her performance achieved its desired effect. Huub rushed to her defense. “It is an understandable reaction,” he said in a subdued tone. “We are glad you came forward so quickly.”

  Bernice broke in, “You are here now and, from what Mr. Heider said on the phone,” she gestured to the lawyer as she spoke, “you have a valid claim on this painting. Let us start with your proof of ownership. You believe this to be one of the pieces taken by the Nazis from your grandfather’s gallery during the war. His name was Arjan van Heemsvliet, is that correct?” The project manager was clearly back in control.

  “Yes, that’s right. Galerie Van Heemsvliet on the Spiegelgracht, number 7. My grandfather, Arjan van Heemsvliet, was the owner. I have all of the documentation with me: his inventory lists, ledger books and a few bills of sale.”

  “How did you find out the Wederstein painting was here in Amsterdam?” Bernice asked, obviously curious how such an unknown work had come to the attention of this jetsetter.