by Ian Hamilton
She walked into the lobby and looked out onto the harbour. It was set in a cove, three sides surrounded by mountains of bare rock split here and there by streams of water tumbling into the sea. The mountaintops were shrouded in mist, and in the distance she could see a faint rainbow.
“The Faeroe Islands: nothing but mountains, rain, and sheep,” a voice said behind her.
She turned and saw a burly man with a thick black beard; he was wearing a heavy black sweater. “I am the captain of the fishing boat out there,” he said. “My name is Mikhail.”
“I’m Ava Lee.”
“I have been coming here for years and I never get used to how barren and isolated it is,” he said. “When we could catch all the cod and haddock we wanted, it wasn’t so bad. But now all we get is some perch and bluefish, and I am beginning to wonder if I’m not long for this place.”
“Does it always rain like this?”
“No. Sometimes it rains harder, sometimes it just drizzles.”
“I’m a sunshine girl.”
“Then this isn’t the place for you.”
“I’m leaving today,” she said. “You can have your room back.”
“I am sorry about last night,” he said.
“Me too.”
“Those three men will not crew with me again. I have been at sea for twenty-five years, and I have always been aware that people think fisherman, think Russian, and then think animal. That is not me, and it won’t be any man who signs on with me. So they will be gone.”
“That’s not necessary on my account.”
“It is on mine.”
“And I probably overreacted. I could have handled it better.”
“The nose will mend, the other two will live. What will be worse for them is that the crew will taunt them for the rest of the trip about being beaten up by a hundred-pound girl. And then word will get around to the rest of our fleet and they will be joked about for years.”
“I overreacted,” Ava repeated.
“They are sitting in the restaurant. They would like to apologize to you.”
Ava looked out again at the harbour. The rain was finally letting up and she figured she could make it to the Sørensens’ without getting soaked. “No, that’s not necessary,” she said. “And now I really have to go; I have a meeting. But thank you.”
Before the Russian could say a word she was gone out the door, making a hard right turn, and heading up the hill.
Helga Sørensen greeted her at the door. She was wearing a nicer dress, pantyhose, and a layer of makeup, and her hair was brushed back and coiled in a bun. Ava knew which one she would be negotiating with. “Where is Mr. Sørensen?” she asked.
“Upstairs. We do not need him.”
“No, I do. There are questions I need answered, papers I need signed.”
“Let us settle the money first,” Helga said.
“I need to know that he’ll answer my questions.”
“As best he can.”
“And that he will sign the papers.”
“You said he would be kept out of this.”
“I can’t go to the person or people who organized this fraud with only his word. I’ve prepared a statement that I would like Mr. Sørensen to sign. It isn’t perfect and it isn’t meant to be legal. It’s just an admission that he painted some of the artwork in question. I need to know what he painted, when, for whom, and how much he was paid. It won’t go any further than me.”
“Can I see it?”
Ava pulled a copy from her Double Happiness computer bag and passed it to Helga.
“The point is that they need to know that I actually know what happened, that I’m not guessing or making any charges that are unsubstantiated.”
“There is no money mentioned in here.”
“I didn’t think you would want them to know you’ve been paid to cooperate. Don’t you think it looks better all around if they believe you did this out of good conscience?”
“Better for you too.”
“Yes, that’s part of it.”
“So what about the money?”
“I’ll have twenty thousand wired to any bank account you want, once he signs.”
“Twenty is not enough.”
“I thought we had agreed —” Ava said.
“No, I said that my husband and I needed to talk. That is how things were left. And now we have talked and twenty thousand isn’t enough.”
She’s good, Ava thought. “What number do you have in mind?”
“Eighty.”
She wants forty, Ava thought. “That’s more than you received for doing the paintings.”
Helga sat stone-faced.
“I’ll send you twenty-five.”
“Eighty.”
“Thirty.”
“My husband insists on eighty.”
“You need to meet me halfway. I’m quite sure my people will never approve eighty.”
“Halfway?”
“Forty. Mrs. Sørensen, I’ve already doubled my original offer.”
“All right, we’ll settle for forty.”
“Okay, I’ll send you forty, but I want Jan to go over these papers right away, fill in the blanks, and sign three copies. If he can do that in the next hour, I can have the money in transit to you today. It might even hit your bank account by lunch. If he dawdles, I won’t be able to get it out of Hong Kong until tomorrow.”
Helga Sørensen stood up and walked to the foot of the stairs. “Jan!” she shouted.
Ava heard footsteps above her.
“Come down here,” Helga said.
When he appeared, his wife grabbed him by the elbow and led him into the dining room. “We have to fill out these papers for the woman.”
Helga came back into the living room. “I need to help him,” she said. “I have this information filed and he doesn’t remember so well.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ava said. “But if you give me your bank information, I’ll get things started on my end.”
“I’ll be back.”
She disappeared up the stairs. When she came back a few minutes later, she handed Ava a blank cheque from a Tórshavn bank. “I thought you had an account in Skagen,” Ava said.
“Haven’t used it in years,” Helga said.
But you didn’t close it, Ava thought. How lucky is that?
As Helga and Jan Sørensen began to fill in the gaps in the statement, Ava called Hong Kong.
“Wei.”
“Uncle, it’s Ava.”
“Where are you, Denmark?”
“No, the Faeroe Islands.”
“Where is that?”
“Somewhere in the North Atlantic, between Iceland and Norway.”
“You had success in Denmark?”
“Some. I think I’ve located one of the artists.”
“Have you told May Ling?”
“No, and I’m not going to.”
“Probably best.”
“Uncle, I need you to call the accountant to organize a wire transfer. It’s for forty thousand U.S.”
“When do you want it sent?”
Ava looked at Helga and Jan huddled together at the dining room table, he writing intently as she read from various files. They were going to give her what she wanted. “Send it now and get him to scan the wire confirmation and email it to me.”
“I will have it done . . . Are you getting close?”
“Maybe once removed.”
“Keep me informed.”
“I will,” she said.
She hung up and pulled her notebook from the bag. She opened it to the page where she had listed the paintings. If she was correct in her assumption, Sørensen had started painti
ng the fakes five years ago. The Wongs had stopped buying two years ago. During the three-year gap, they had bought seven paintings that Torrence thought were fakes. Those paintings were what she expected to see on Sørensen’s statement.
Helga came into the living room with Jan in tow. He looked sheepish, like a kid who had been caught doing something naughty. “Here,” she said, thrusting the papers at Ava.
Six paintings were named, the last six, in the exact order in which the Wongs had purchased them. Sørensen had been paid ten thousand dollars for each one. She turned to the second page and saw the name Glen Hughes, with a London address.
“How did this Hughes find you?” Ava asked.
“Through Maurice O’Toole,” Helga said. Her husband nodded in agreement.
“We got a letter from Maurice when we were still in Skagen,” Helga continued. “He said he had been doing some work for a dealer and that he was going to have to give it up. They were looking for a replacement and he wanted to give them Jan’s name. He wanted to make sure we were okay with it.”
“How did Jan know O’Toole?”
“They went to art school together and kept in touch afterwards. They had a lot in common, Maurice and him, both of them drawn to water, to seascapes.”
“And they could both copy.”
“Of course, it was part of their training. Jan told me he and Maurice spent many hours in galleries copying the masters. They were at the top of their class. When they graduated, they went their separate ways but always kept in touch with letters and cards. Jan had some success in Skagen but poor Maurice could not find a market for his work and became very frustrated, bitter. That is when he started to play around with forgeries. It was just a way to make a living, to get by until his own work made its mark. He wrote to Jan about it — that was before he started on the Fauvists. He developed quite a reputation, he did, in some parts of the art world. It wasn’t surprising that those people sought him out when they decided to concentrate on Fauvist art.”
“So why did he give it up?”
Jan spoke, his eyes welling. “He was dying — brain cancer.”
“Did you know that around the same time you got your first ten thousand dollars, O’Toole’s wife was sent a hundred thousand?”
“No. How would I know that?” she said.
“Why do you think it was sent?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. We were happy to get ten. It bought us this house. It got us out of Skagen.”
“How did Jan and this Hughes person connect?”
“Maurice wrote to Jan and explained his problem. He knew we were hard up for money and he thought Jan could pick up the assignment. That’s when Hughes wrote to us.”
“And you agreed?”
“Obviously.”
“Then what happened?”
“Hughes came to Skagen to meet Jan. He brought one of Maurice’s Fauvist paintings with him and asked Jan to duplicate it. It took him only two days. Hughes asked us to take over the project when he saw the result.”
“Did he explain what the project was? I mean, you knew you were doing something that was probably illegal. Weren’t you curious about what he was doing with the paintings?”
“We didn’t care.”
“No curiosity at all?”
“You have to understand how hard it was for us in Skagen. We lived hand-to-mouth, we never had enough money, and I was tired of Jan begging his brother for loans. We didn’t care what Hughes was doing with the paintings as long as he kept paying us ten thousand for each one.”
Ava could hardly imagine what it would be like to care for seven children. “How did Jan decide what to paint?” she asked.
“Hughes would write and suggest an artist, maybe a theme, and then leave it to him.”
“You sent him the paintings?”
“Yes, to London.”
“Did Jan sign them?”
“Of course.”
“Did you meet Hughes, Mrs. Sørensen?”
“Yes, that one time in Skagen.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“I didn’t like him.”
“Why not?”
Jan Sørensen was shifting uncomfortably, his eyes on the floor.
“He was one of those overly polite people, the kind who knows he’s better than you and lets you know it by talking down to you. And he was too friendly, saying how wonderful our family was when I knew he didn’t mean it, and talking about what a great partnership he and Maurice had, and how he was sure he and Jan would be great mates. That’s the word he used, mates.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is a tall man, a full head above Jan. He’s thin, bony, his face is long and pointy, and his eyes I found very strange.”
“His eyes?”
“Yes, they were so close to his nose, pressing in, almost running into each other. When he looked at me, I had the sensation that he had one big eye instead of two like the rest of us. But one eye or two, he still looked sneaky.”
“He kept his word, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“He always paid you in full, on time?”
“He did.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It was almost two years ago. He wrote to say he had terminated his agreement with the person buying the Fauvist art and that he was going to have to stop buying from us. We wrote back saying there had to be a market somewhere for the forgeries, and that if he wanted, Jan could paint in other styles. He responded by saying that we misunderstood the nature of the commission — that he wasn’t in the business of selling forgeries, that the customer he had was knowingly buying fakes. He said they loved the Fauvists, couldn’t afford originals, and were very happy to hang Maurice’s and Jan’s interpretations. He underlined interpretations.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Was it true?” she asked. “What Hughes said about the customer?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it was true,” Ava said.
Helga looked at her husband. “I told you it was a lie,” she said, then turned to Ava. “My husband is too trusting at times. He believed that story.”
“Have you heard from Hughes since?”
“No, and we wrote to him twice, and to the gallery. No answer.”
“Did you keep his letters?”
“All of them.”
“Can I get the one he sent two years ago to end your relationship?”
“I’m not sure —” Helga began.
“I’ll make a photocopy. You can keep the original.”
“I think that will be okay.”
“Good. Why don’t you get it for me.”
Helga returned with a fistful of letters. “I thought you might as well have the other ones too, the ones asking him to paint this guy and that guy.”
“Do you want to walk down to the hotel with me?” Ava said.
“Why not?”
Jan Sørensen sat quietly as his wife got her coat. He’s like a child, Ava thought, one of those men who can’t survive without a strong woman. And Helga fit that bill.
Helga reappeared with a coat and a Burberry umbrella that was ratty even for a fake. “I shouldn’t be long,” she said to Jan.
He stood and walked with them to the door. “Excuse me, but do you still want some of my paintings?” he said to Ava.
“Jan, the business is done,” his wife said.
“But last night she said —”
“Actually, I wouldn’t mind having a painting,” Ava said. “The thing is, I don’t want to take it with me.”
“We’ll send it,” he said.
Ava gave her business card to Helga. “Send it to this address. Choose any painting you
want and send me an invoice.”
Helga glanced at her husband and then turned to Ava. “I see no need for an invoice.”
Ava smiled. “Thank you.”
They walked down the hill side by side, Helga’s arm linked with Ava’s for support. She outweighed Ava at least two to one and wasn’t completely steady in a pair of shoes with small heels. Helga kept glancing left and right, as if anxious about who was observing them, or maybe hoping that someone would see her walking side by side with the exotic young Chinese woman.
The same man was behind the desk at the hotel, and he nodded as they walked into the lobby. “Can I use the office again?” Ava asked.
“Sure.”
Ava went into the office with Helga. She sat at the computer and signed on while Helga hung over her shoulder.
“Do you know how to use a photocopier?” Ava asked.
“No,” Helga said.
Ava took one of the letters and placed it face down on the glass. She pointed to the copy button and hit it. “That’s all you have to do,” she said.
While Helga copied the letters, Ava checked in to her email. The wire had been sent. She opened the attachment and pressed print. “Your money has been sent already,” she said.
“Thank you,” Helga said, focused on the photocopier.
It was just past nine o’clock — three a.m. in Toronto —
and Ava knew there was no way she could reach her travel agent. She logged on to the Atlantic Airways site and searched for a flight that would get her to London. There was a 2:45 p.m. flight from Vagar to Copenhagen that would connect with a Cimber Sterling flight to Gatwick, getting her into London just before nine in the evening. “I’m thinking I would like to leave today,” she said, pulling the copy of the wire confirmation from the printer and handing it to Helga, “but if you want to me stay until the money is in your bank account, I will.”
