But Simon had been abruptly fired when an FBI task force traced attempts to hack into the systems of several major financial institutions back to his computer. That the task force’s computer evidence had itself been hacked and could not be located was the only thing that kept Simon from an orange jumpsuit and a new address at Rikers. So Stephen inherited the office, along with the odd remnants of Simon he stumbled across: lists of passwords and user names stuffed into a gap at the back of a drawer, e-mails from an unknown sender requesting that Stephen delete the files that mysteriously appeared on his computer, and an olive drab T-shirt, the source of a rank smell, with a picture of a snake and the word Python in black script that was finally, and fortunately, discovered wadded up behind the file cabinet.
Stephen stared at the wall, wondering how long he could subsist on ramen noodles and beer. His confidence regarding his talent was receding at the same rate as his bank account. He studied his wavering reflection in the stainless-steel thermos. It seemed unlikely he’d age well. His black hair was already dashed with white around the temples. At six-three he’d been blessed with height in spite of having two parents of less than average stature, but a doughy paunch hugged his middle, the gym membership having been one of the first things to go. His eyes were bloodshot from a lack of sleep and an excess of bourbon; his skin had acquired the grayish tinge of a soiled dishrag. And he was sadly aware the primary reason he was kept on was his father’s reputation.
Dylan Jameson had owned the small gallery in SoHo for most of his life. Stephen’s childhood was spent running through those beautifully lit rooms, hiding behind oversize canvases; his playthings had been panel clips and L brackets, and exhibition catalogs that he stacked like pillars. He learned about perspective sitting astride Dylan’s shoulders as his father walked closer to, then farther away from the paintings in the gallery, introducing Stephen to a mathematical vocabulary: vanishing points and horizon lines, degrees and axes and curvilinear variants. His fingertips followed the flat sections of paint on a canvas, the channels where firm brushstrokes had tongued out the heavy oil, lipping it to one side or the other. He peered through a magnifying glass as his father quizzed him: glazing or scumbling? Alla prima or underpainting? Wet into wet or fat over lean?
But in spite of his father’s offer, working at the gallery, regardless of the lack of title, would have been a mistake. The airy rooms were colored with disillusion, the cheerful demeanor of the gallery manager an insidious reminder of his own lacking personality. Instead, at the beginning of the summer, Stephen had taken his meager savings and fled to Europe in a state of disgrace, slumming his way across the Continent, staying in fleabag hotels and cheap pensions, scooping the hard rolls and bits of sausage remaining from his breakfast into his knapsack for lunch, drinking cheap wine that gave him a headache, and smoking cigarettes that stained the tips of his fingers yellow. Everywhere, he imagined Chloe beside him. The steady pressure of her fingernails against his palm when she wanted him to stop talking and kiss her. The sound of her heels, pacing, as he studied Titian’s Sacred and Profane Love in the Galleria Borghese. Her fleeting look of disappointment once she’d drained the last from a glass of pinot in a sidewalk café. And the rare expression he caught before she had the chance to substitute it with one more pleasing—a calculating hardness that froze him in his place.
In Rome, he hadn’t bothered answering the call from his mother when he’d seen the number displayed, certain she was calling with her wheedling voice, attempting to lure him back. He’d turned his phone off. Four months in Europe and there were still plenty of wounds to be licked. Then, days later, he’d turned his phone back on and seen the number of messages that had accumulated. It was late autumn, everything already skeletal and bleak, when he flew home for his father’s funeral. There he was, back in New York, more miserable than when he’d left; a pair of his father’s cuff links his most concrete evidence of ever having been Dylan Jameson’s son.
His father’s knowledge had been coupled with a poet’s soul, a deep appreciation for beauty in all its guises. Dylan’s understanding of what an artist hoped to convey, matched by a genuine desire for that artist’s success, won him legions of fans—new artists whose work had yet to be seen, established artists coming off a bad show or hammered by negative press, auctioneers who knew his father would have the inside track, appraisers who valued a second opinion.
Stephen, on the other hand, was intrigued only by methodology. What drove someone to create didn’t interest him, but the techniques used, and the idea that skill could be taught and passed on, did. How to distinguish between teacher and exacting pupil, to tell the true from the false? Establishing a work’s provenance was crucial to authentication, and often difficult to achieve. When absolute provenance could not be established, there were other avenues available, and this was where Stephen’s talent lay. He had the broad knowledge of an art historian combined with the hunger of an authenticator to prove the unprovable.
He was happiest engaged in solitary activities: studying pigments, performing Wood’s lamp tests, conducting graphology analyses. Hours sped away from him while he hunched over the signature on a painting, relishing the beauty in the pattern of ascenders and descenders; scrutinizing bold, heavy strokes as carefully as faint, trailing meanderings; deciphering that final touch of brush to canvas. Had it meant pride? Triumph? Or, as he often suspected, merely relief at having finally finished?
It was nothing more than coincidence that he’d been standing next to Cranston at an estate sale two and a half years ago; nothing beyond a fluke that they’d both been staring at the same unattributed painting. And when Stephen started talking, the words that came forth were meant for no one but himself; it was a habit too difficult to break, this reciting of facts as he divined them. The work always gave the artist away, no different than the tell of a gambler. But when the call came from Cranston with the offer of a job, Stephen knew it was not providence but the hand of his father, prodding him to pick up the pieces of his life and move on.
* * *
The phone buzzed from where he’d hidden it in the desk drawer. He hesitated, imagining Sylvia’s abrasive voice again insulting his eardrum. But when he looked at the display, he saw the call wasn’t internal. It was Professor Finch.
The last thing he wanted was an evening out with Finch, though Stephen’s options for companionship were few. Finch had limited contacts outside the world of academia, but he made up for it with his general knowledge of art history, and his very specific knowledge on one particular subject: Thomas Bayber. In addition to heading the committee who had authored Bayber’s catalogue raisonné, the professor had written two volumes on Bayber’s work, both lauded and favorably received. Stephen had met him years ago, at one of his father’s gallery parties. No one else at Murchison & Dunne was willing to parcel out the time to listen to Finch’s stories or take him out for the occasional Bushmills, to endure the pipe smoke and the dribble of brown spittle that inevitably formed in the corner of the professor’s mouth. But Stephen had to admit he found the professor’s company enjoyable.
“Stephen Jameson.”
“Stephen, it’s Dennis Finch.”
“Professor Finch, I can’t talk just now. On my way out the door to a meeting. An appointment. An appointment for a meeting, I mean. Another time?”
“Of course, Stephen. Although, if you could get back to me at your earliest convenience, I’d appreciate it. I wanted to speak with you about another Bayber.”
The air around him grew heavy. Stephen no longer heard the elevator as it groaned past his office, or the hiss of the radiator. Everything was still.
“You said another Bayber?”
“I did. I was wondering if you might be interested in authenticating the piece.”
Thomas Bayber was a recluse who had stopped painting twenty years ago and one of the most brilliant artists alive. One hundred and fifty-eight cataloged works, all in museums except for three in a private collection in Spa
in, one in Russia, and four others privately owned by parties in the United States. The possibility he might be the one to authenticate another caused Stephen’s hands to tremble. A find like this would all but erase any past mistakes. There would be interviews and promotions, expensive restaurants; he’d be taking the elevator to the top floor, if only to offer his resignation. The myriad possibilities caused him to break out in a sweat, and his nose ran. Then doubt began swirling in his head. Of all people, Finch would know whether a Bayber was authentic; he’d devoted his life to studying the artist’s work. Why not call Christie’s or Sotheby’s? A sour germ of suspicion curdled Stephen’s insides. Someone was setting him up. His tattered reputation would not survive a second humiliation.
“Why me?” he asked flatly.
“Thomas asked for you, specifically. Since I’ve already compiled the catalogue raisonné and this is a piece unknown to me, he feels it would be better for someone less—shall we say, prejudiced?—to examine the work.”
“He’s afraid you’d be inclined to denounce it, since it wasn’t included earlier?”
There was a pause. “I’m not certain of his reasoning, Stephen, but I agree with him. Having someone other than myself look at the piece would be best.” The professor’s voice sounded strained. “There’s something else. Assuming you confirm the work as Bayber’s, Thomas wants it put up for auction immediately. He wants Murchison & Dunne to handle the sale. You may need to bring Cranston along.”
Stephen didn’t relish the idea of involving the president of Murchison & Dunne without first knowing the situation. On the other hand, if Cranston found out he’d examined the work on his own, he’d suspect Stephen of acting as his own agent instead of in the best interests of the firm. Better to talk to Cranston right away. If they both saw the piece at the same time and it was a fake, Stephen could expose it as such, saving Murchison & Dunne any humiliation. If the piece was a Bayber, it would not be lost on Cranston that Thomas Bayber himself had asked Stephen to authenticate it.
“When?”
“I was hoping tomorrow afternoon. If you can make yourself available, that is.”
Stephen ignored Finch’s rather pointed dig. “We can be available.” They set a time, and Stephen copied the address on a scrap of paper before hanging up the phone. His hands shook as he punched in the numbers of Sylvia’s extension, and he wiped his palms on his trousers while waiting for her to pick up the phone.
“Sylvia.” His voice reverberated with strange authority. “I will meet with Cranston this afternoon, but not in regards to the Eaton estate. We’ll be discussing something else. Something confidential. Book a conference room.” He hung up without saying anything more, and pictured Sylvia’s shocked expression, her mouth like that of a beached fish, opening and closing in a stunned, breathless sort of O.
FOUR
The following afternoon at exactly 1:15, Stephen found Cranston pacing the marble floor of the lobby, the heft of his belly riding over his belt, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his camel’s hair coat. Beyond Cranston’s grousing about the rain, little conversation was exchanged during the car ride, for which Stephen was grateful. Cranston had made it clear the previous afternoon he thought it unlikely anything would come from this meeting, but on the slim chance Bayber and Finch weren’t attempting to pull off some sort of scam, the firm had an obligation to assess the situation before contacting the authorities and reporting the two of them for attempted fraud. Despite his declarations to the contrary, Stephen could see Cranston was imagining the possibilities should there be any truth to the story. Murchison & Dunne had never played at this level; the thought of what an acquisition like this would do for the firm’s reputation, for future business, and for the guaranteed good fortune of Mr. Cranston himself was not lost on the man.
“Before we go any further, let’s be clear. I’ll do the talking, Mr. Jameson. I’m still not sure I understand why the query came directly to you, but since it has, I feel it only fair you be there. Strictly in the capacity of an observer, of course.” The car pulled over. The sidewalk was obscured by several bags of trash and the shell of an old television set. Cranston sniffed. “Let us hope for your sake, Mr. Jameson, this turns out well.”
Stephen groaned inwardly and nodded. Cranston’s tone made clear his tenuous position. Since Finch’s call yesterday, Stephen had suspected something was up, wondering if he heard the catch of deception in Finch’s halting speech. But even this wariness couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm for meeting Bayber. That the two of them would be in the same room at the same time had guaranteed him a giddy, sleepless night.
They picked their way up the front stairs, avoiding the bits of garbage twisted around the bases of the stair railings, and were buzzed in promptly when they rang the bell; no one asked for their identity. The elevator was tiny, and Stephen, holding his tool case to his chest, was forced to stand between Cranston and a stooped woman carrying a thinly furred cat, a long leash dangling from the collar around its neck.
Finch answered the door while Stephen was still knocking. The professor grabbed his hand before Cranston’s, shaking it firmly and pulling him across the threshold.
“Come in, but mind where you walk. Thomas keeps it dark in here. I rolled over a pencil earlier and saw my life flash before my eyes.”
There was a quick nod of acknowledgment to Cranston as he shuffled in, then Finch closed the door behind them, striding across the room and claiming his spot—a badly frayed bergère with a high back and sagging cushion.
Stephen looked around in astonishment. It was like a movie set, a strange splicing of horror film with twentieth-century period piece. Heavy, floor-length curtains shut out most of the light. The walls were a dull blood red with strips of paper spiraling away from the corners as if trying to escape, the ceiling moldings flocked in dust. The air blowing from the register ferried smells of old food and whiskey. Chairs were scattered around the room in no discernible arrangement, and Oriental carpets, all of them frayed and worn, several with bare patches interrupting the pattern, had been laid at odd angles. It was a drunk’s nightmare—an indoor field sobriety test composed of a maze of furniture and hazards at differing heights.
Bayber was nowhere to be seen, but Stephen heard repeated sounds of rustling and periodic crashes in one of the back rooms, as if an animal was trapped in too small a space. The thought that a man whose talent he had long admired could be so close, that he might actually be shaking his hand in a matter of moments, caused his throat to go dry. He tried to compose something to say by means of an introduction to indicate he had at least a modicum of intelligence when it came to the man’s body of work.
“I’m glad you could join us, especially with so little advance notice,” Finch said.
“We could hardly ignore such an invitation.” Cranston gave Finch a tight smile, but Stephen could see he was on his guard. A previously unknown Bayber surfacing now, appearing to be consigned to Murchison & Dunne to dispose of, viewed in the dim light of a derelict apartment. It made no sense. Cranston had the uneasy look of someone who suspected he was the mark in a game of three-card monte.
But Stephen could barely contain his enthusiasm. No matter the outcome, the day had already surpassed any of those he’d muddled through in the past thirty months. For whatever reason, the fates were dangling an opportunity for deliverance in front of his nose.
“Is he here?” he asked Finch, gesturing toward the rooms at the back of the apartment.
“He’ll join us shortly. In the meantime, can I offer you gentlemen a drink?”
Stephen clutched the glass of whiskey Finch handed him as if it were something sacred. Cranston demurred. “Need to keep my wits about me,” he said, frowning at Stephen, who noted his superior’s expression, but nonetheless downed the whiskey in short order.
“Perhaps,” Cranston started, “while we are waiting, you could provide some background. Mr. Jameson did not seem to have many details to offer.”
Finch’s
face remained placid, and Stephen marveled at his calm demeanor. Surely he must be upset? On the phone, he’d claimed not to have seen the painting, nor did he know anything of its subject matter, when it had been painted, or where it had been. Stephen thought him remarkably restrained considering the catalogue raisonné he had spent years compiling was no longer complete or valid, the omission by his friend appearing to be intentional.
“I’ll allow Thomas to provide additional illumination, since my knowledge pertaining to the piece is limited. I can only say that yesterday the existence of another Bayber was made known to me. Per Thomas’s wishes, I contacted our colleague Mr. Jameson here.”
Cranston flashed him a quick glance and nodded slightly. Stephen was unsure whether the look was one of admiration or merely a reminder that as chief representative of the company, Cranston would do the talking.
Ignoring Finch’s reticence, Cranston continued his queries. “This piece, a study, perhaps? For a work already in the catalogue?”
Finch’s eyes narrowed before he turned toward the bar to refill his glass.
“No, not a study. A rather large oil from what I understand.”
“I see.” Cranston rubbed his thumb across his chin. “You can understand my surprise, Professor, although I hope you will not take it as any lack of interest on the part of Murchison & Dunne. Past auctions of Mr. Bayber’s work have been through larger houses, and I admit to having some curiosity as to why we, alone, would be the fortunate party to be considered.”
“I imagine Thomas has his reasons. Artists. Eccentrics all of them, yes?” Finch paused and tipped his glass toward Cranston. “You don’t feel unsure of your ability to get a good price for the piece, do you?”
The Gravity of Birds: A Novel Page 6
