The Perfect Landscape

by Ragna Sigurðardóttir

  The forged version of Composition in Blue, false from the outset. The painting the bank bought for fifteen million.

  And the painting that lay hidden under The Birches. The original work by Sigfus Gunnarsson, the painting that the forger had not expected would be found after all these years, Composition in Blue.

  There is no painting by Gudrun Johannsdottir; that forgery has entirely disappeared from the surface of Sigfus Gunnarsson’s painting.

  Agusta has strict instructions from Steinn to ensure that neither painting is removed while he is fetching Hanna.

  Hanna looks out over a sea of faces; Steinn touches her arm with his hand. She feels a sense of peace and assurance emanating from him.

  “I’ll send someone to see to the room and take care of the people. We’ll leave this be for the moment. We’ll sort it out this evening,” Steinn says, meaning the broken glass. Steinn looks taller than usual in his white shirt and dark gray suit. Hanna relies on him. She knows it’s reciprocated, and together they edge their way slowly through the crowd toward the stairs where the paintings are waiting. A throng is gathering, and people are flocking to the staircase; many have realized that there’s something unexpected going on. Hanna and Steinn make their way up to the landing, where Kristin looks agitated and Baldur is trying to calm her down. Hanna takes the plunge.

  “In the end there was no alternative,” she says calmly and decisively to Kristin. “It’ll serve to draw more visitors anyway.”

  The press have arrived behind Kristin, and they all fall silent. Steinn makes a brief introduction for the television cameras and points to Hanna. She positions herself in front of the two paintings and waits for silence and a mic. When calm has descended, she opens the third exhibition, an unexpected display of two paintings.

  “Thank you for your attention,” she reads from the sheet she had secreted in her folder like a most treasured possession. She is careful not to look at either Kristin or Baldur; she knows Kristin is furious.

  “About a year ago a large gift was donated to the gallery, one of these paintings that you see here behind me. I expect many of you remember the press coverage of this event and how well attended the opening was when the painting was first shown in public. The painting, which was attributed to Sigfus Gunnarsson, came to us from Denmark. The national bank purchased the painting and donated Composition in Blue to the gallery and thereby to the whole nation.

  “Some months ago the gallery was also given another painting, attributed to the artist Gudrun Johannsdottir, bought for eight million Icelandic kronur at an auction in Copenhagen.”

  She pulls a photograph out from under the sheet she is reading and holds it up for all to see and the press to photograph. A picture that shows The Birches.

  “But before this gift could be made public knowledge, it came to light that everything was not as it should be.”

  Hanna sees the director, Kristin, edge down the steps and disappear into the crowd with Grunewald’s head of silver hair following her. Hanna falls silent. Then she feels Steinn’s gaze on her; she must keep going.

  “Certain things indicated the painting could be a forgery.”

  The newswoman who is holding the mic is beginning to get restless, but Steinn puts his hand firmly on her shoulder. “You need to hear the whole story,” he says quietly. She gives him an irritated look, but Steinn is undeterred; she relaxes and does as she’s told.

  “We were considerably surprised when our investigations revealed that underneath the painting attributed to Gudrun was a painting that resembled Composition in Blue, no less.” Hanna points to the forged painting behind her. “We were faced with a choice, and neither option was inviting. We could leave the painting attributed to Gudrun as it stood, just leave it be. That would have troubled no one but our conscience.”

  She raises her hand to stop the newswoman, who wants to interrupt again.

  “We investigated both paintings thoroughly and then came to the conclusion that The Birches attributed to Gudrun would have to be removed from the painting that lay underneath, because that was where the original painting by Sigfus was.”

  Hanna holds up the photo of The Birches again. A loud hubbub ensues as the press all shout out their questions and everyone is talking at once, but Hanna turns around and points to Composition in Blue, which the National Bank bought for fifteen million.

  “This painting is forged.”

  Through the barrage of questioning Hanna points to the other work of art, which was once The Birches, but in fact is the original piece by Sigfus.

  “And here we have the original painting,” she says. “Composition in Blue, by Sigfus Gunnarsson. It would be true to say that the painting has had a rather convoluted journey to get to the gallery, but here it is.”

  Hanna and Steinn are stuck on the staircase for a while. Neither Baldur nor Kristin is to be seen, and it’s not until the press have fired numerous questions that Hanna manages to get down to the ground floor. She tries to get back into the Annexe, but it’s too crowded. She bumps into Agusta, who is also trying to make her way through the crowd, and Hanna is taken aback to see that she’s looking distraught.

  “Agusta?” says Hanna, but Agusta doesn’t answer; she just turns her back and tries to move away. Hanna hears her talking on her cell phone in German and hears her mention Kolbeinn. It immediately occurs to her that Agusta is talking to his father. If he is a foreigner, then that would explain his absence. Edging nearer, she stops a little way behind Agusta, who is now standing by a large pillar, talking in rapid undertones. Concealing herself directly behind the pillar, without giving it a second thought, Hanna listens to what she’s saying; curiosity has gotten the better of her.

  “You have to believe me, I had nothing to do with this,” says Agusta, clearly excusing herself. She goes silent for a moment because the person on the other end is evidently lambasting her. “You’ve no cause to doubt my faithfulness,” she says. “I had no part in this. It’s nothing about you. I understand it doesn’t look good. Yes, I know that.” She manages to get a word in here and there, but the other person seems to be sounding off.

  Some familiar faces walk past her, and Hanna looks down and pretends she’s fixing something on her boot; she bends almost down to the floor, careful to keep close behind Agusta. She is very upset and lowers her voice, but Hanna can still make out what she’s saying.

  “What about Kolbeinn? Aren’t you going to see him? When are you leaving then?”

  She falls silent for a moment.

  “Herbert?” she says, but there’s no one on the line anymore.

  In a flash the pieces of the jigsaw fall into place. Without thinking Hanna jerks up and steps out into the crowd in front of Agusta.

  “Is Kolbeinn Herbert Grunewald’s son?” she asks firmly, in a low voice so that no one around them will hear. Hanna is still on a high after the exchange with the press on the staircase. Drawing herself up to her full height, she looks straight in Agusta’s eyes, leaving her no escape route. “Was it you who told Grunewald about my idea for a landscape exhibition?” she carries on, almost in a whisper.

  Edda comes up and wants to speak, but Hanna waves her away.

  Agusta also looks Hanna straight in the eye as she replies, “It’s wonderful for the gallery to have this work by Caspar David Friedrich,” she says, ignoring the first question; there’s no need to answer it because Hanna has clearly heard enough to put two and two together.

  Hanna looks at her silently. It would be easy to launch an attack on Agusta now. She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Agusta is only a few years older than Heba. On her own with a child. Hanna has also been on her own with a child whose father was abroad. Herbert Grunewald is not the most desirable father one could think of. Without a doubt he has never acknowledged Kolbeinn. Hanna knows that the boy’s surname is Agustasson. Despite this she can’t quite control her anger.

  “Why didn’t you talk to me?” she hisses. “I would have been willing to
work with you on this.”

  Agusta doesn’t respond; she doesn’t need to because Hanna knows the answer. Agusta is ambitious and she wanted the credit for it. She wanted to show Herbert what she could do. Baldur was the project manager in name only; she did the legwork. Agusta and Herbert have put this exhibition on between them.

  Hanna can’t bring herself to have more of a go at Agusta. Her position is not an enviable one. And then Herbert has just laid into her because of what Hanna and Steinn did, which she had nothing to do with. Of course he’s hopping mad that the gallery he trusted to display such a valuable work as The Solitary Tree should also publicly acknowledge a mistake on a par with Composition in Blue. The gallery should have realized immediately that the painting was a forgery, not a year later. And now it seems that Herbert is heading back home without seeing Kolbeinn. Hanna feels for Agusta and eventually calms down.

  “It’s over and done with,” she cuts in when she sees Agusta is about to say something. “We’ll talk about it later.”

  She heads for the Annexe, her mind still on Agusta. After all that, it was Agusta who stole her idea for the exhibition—that’s finally come to light. Hanna hadn’t needed to mistrust Baldur. She can understand Agusta in a way. Herbert is not so old. Around fifty. He’s a handsome man with silver hair, a gleam in his eye, and an attractive smile, very self-assured and influential in the art world.

  Hanna knew that Agusta and her colleagues had had the use of Herbert’s country house three years before, but not that he had been there himself. That would fit with Kolbeinn’s age at any rate, she thinks to herself. And East Borgarfjordur is a unique place, extremely beautiful and romantic. Icelandic spring nights are glorious, heady, each breath intoxicating. And youth and power are attractive opposites.

  Herbert enjoys great respect in the art world, but he is a family man; he is not going to cause a scandal with an illegitimate child out in Iceland. It can’t be easy for Agusta, she thinks. He’s way out of her league and she doesn’t even realize it yet.

  When Hanna finally sees the whole picture, she empathizes with Agusta. She is pleased with the exhibition in the Annexe, which exceeded all her expectations. That is what matters. And now she’s going to head over there and meet her artists and talk to them. She’s done what she could, and there’s nothing to be gained from being angry at Agusta.

  She sees Steinn in the Annexe, standing by the broken windowpane and watching the onlookers and the broken glass.

  “I took both the paintings into the basement,” he says. “People were crowding in far too close, and they were starting to finger the paintings. And I talked to Kristin—she was absolutely livid.”

  He suddenly gives a smile, a genuine one, and she smiles back. It’s hot in the room, and Hanna feels she’s blushing. Out on the street she sees Leifur with some other people, among them Anselma. Through the window she can see that he’s talking about his installation; he’s gesticulating and smiling happily. Inside the room Haraldur is standing by his paintings and a steady stream of people stop to look and have a chat with him.

  Hanna feels a sense of satisfaction welling up inside her. Like after a good battle on the piste. All around her she sees the results of her work. There’s Haraldur, who is enjoying the victory of a little comeback on the fine art scene despite everything. Jon, who effortlessly treads his successful path. Leifur and Anselma, who are just starting out. Leifur has challenged himself, he has challenged her, the gallery, and the visiting public, but his work is good; she had already seen that before the exhibition opened, before he smashed the windowpane. That display only made his work better. She sees Anselma talking to the people listening to her audio installation; she’s talking animatedly, and Hanna can see that she’s satisfied as well. And Steinn is standing by her side, his sight restored as if he had been rescued from the realm of the dead, partially thanks to her. Thanks to Laufey.

  Agusta will do well, with or without Herbert Grunewald’s help. Hanna knows that she can do it without him; at some stage she will realize that for herself.

  And then Hanna doesn’t think any more about the others for the moment. Not about The Birches, which has now disappeared, or about Composition in Blue, not about Gudrun Johannsdottir or Sigfus Gunnarsson. Not about Kristin, Baldur, or Herbert Grunewald. Not about Frederico, not even about Heba. Not about children who suffer and end up in trouble, not about Kari or how he’ll come through. Not about her friends, or about tomorrow. This is her moment.

  16

  IN THE ARTIST’S STUDIO, SPRING 2005

  The painting on the easel is almost complete. Larisa just has a few minor details to go over; the texture on the half-moon could be a little coarser, but not too much so. Sigfus was a meticulous artist and his abstract paintings are no botch job. She has already gone a number of times to the exhibition in the new Cultural House to study his paintings more closely—she can almost tell what size brush he used from the fine details in the brushstrokes. Larisa is a professional.

  It was Hrafn Arnason who unwittingly gave her the idea to move into the Icelandic market. Until that point she and Masha had focused on the Russian market, but it was becoming increasingly dangerous to get valuable pieces into circulation. However, a small market, like the Icelandic one, is undeveloped and buyers are not connoisseurs, so the danger is minimal. This is where Masha comes into it; one word from her about a desirable painting on auction is enough for the investor to buy blind over the phone. Masha knows vast numbers of investors, and Icelanders are no different from others in such matters. Her art collection is incomparable and praised for its rare and valuable works. She shows it now and again and only then for individuals who move in influential circles and can have a word in the right ear.

  The two women complement one another and they don’t correct the common misconception that Masha is the boss and Larisa is her assistant. In reality it’s the other way around. Not even Masha is aware of Larisa’s assets or the scale of her business dealings in the art world. Larisa doesn’t only handle her own paintings; she is a big-time arts trader, although very few people are aware of these transactions as they are rarely done in her name.

  The painting is finished. Larisa takes a few steps back, satisfied with her initial attempt at the style of the Icelandic artist Sigfus Gunnarsson. She took a long time studying the blue color his paintings are famous for. Larisa isn’t familiar with this shade of blue; she can’t compare it with anything else in the environment around her, neither in the light nor the landscape, but then she’s never been to Iceland, where this color blue springs from. On her palette it always became too dull; she had to discipline herself very firmly to allow the cobalt blue to light up the canvas with its clean, clear tone. The same can be said of the color yellow, but in the end the painting worked extremely well. Now it needs time to dry, and Larisa has all the equipment and materials needed to make it age convincingly by about seventy years in a matter of days. Masha will then take care of the auction house, where she has reliable contacts on the staff.

  Larisa looks with satisfaction at the results. She appreciates a job well executed. She is a prolific and versatile artist whose work methods are polished and disciplined. Her knowledge is extensive; she was outstanding at school, at university, and then in her job as an art historian. It was in this role back home in Saint Petersburg that she was often asked to examine paintings, to assess their origin and their worth and whether the painting was genuine. More often than not they were forgeries, and this trend was ever increasing, in direct proportion with the nouveau riche in Russia who were intent on buying a part of their national history to hang up on their walls at home. The nineteenth-century romantic painters were always particularly popular, and their paintings, forged or genuine, sold just as fast for huge sums.

  In the end Larisa wanted her share as well. She didn’t care to live her life on a civil servant’s salary, shut in an art gallery, and she began to study the forgers’ methods. One of the most popular was to buy a reasonab
ly priced German or Danish painting by a little-known artist from the eighteenth or nineteenth century. A painting of a rural scene that was easy enough to make a bit Russian. Add some hens or a Russian country cottage into the picture, something characteristic of paintings by Russian artists. Who can possibly distinguish a Russian country lane from a German one? And she was very good at it. In just a few years she built up contacts internationally and then moved to London and Copenhagen.

  Now standing here, she admires her own skill. The next painting that awaits her is of a different nature, and, unusually, Larisa is not working for money this time. She intends to capture a man who she can’t get out of her head. He hasn’t let himself be seduced yet, but she knows it’s only a matter of time. She has seen the look in his eyes and felt the way he shrinks back, as if from an open fire. Larisa isn’t bothered about his wife and children; that sort of life and those who lead it are of no interest to her. Hrafn is different. She’s expecting a parcel from him any minute. She’s going to give him a painting, but he doesn’t know it yet—maybe he’ll never know.

  When the deliveryman arrives with the painting wrapped in brown paper, everything is ready. Numerous prints of Gudrun Johannsdottir’s paintings have been pinned up on a large wall in the northern light; on the slanting roof of the studio is a specially made window that can be covered or opened to let the light in as desired. Larisa opens the parcel and puts the painting up on the easel. A Danish painting of a birch copse on a summer’s day, the bright sky in the background, the forest floor vibrant with varying shades. Not a bad painting, but about to take a quantum leap; a mountain is about to rise up from the birch trees, the treetops will bend and become gnarled. Gudrun’s passionate rhythmic brushstrokes suit Larisa well. She will carry this off without a hitch, and all the while she’s painting she thinks about Hrafn.

  17