Julia

by Marty Sorensen

  *

  Karl Epple stood in the hallway of the house, holding the door open, as he gestured for the three of them to enter. He was very tall and thin, with round black glasses, his impeccable black double-breasted suit offset by a European-style charcoal cravat showing around his neck. “Guten Tag, Hans,” he said, then, suddenly aware he had spoken German, smiled to himself. “Please introduce our guests.”

  “Karl, may I introduce Hugh and Julia Stuart. Grace Stuart, Hugh’s mother, you remember, I mentioned she might come, but it’s not the case.”

  “Please, come in,” Karl said. He held out his hand to Julia, and when she took it, he made a short bow and feigned kissing her hand. Then he stood straight and offered his hand to Hugh. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Hans informs me that you are connoisseurs of art.”

  “That’s very nice of him,” Julia said, arching her eyebrows at Hans. “That implies more experience than we have.” She turned to Hugh to let him continue.

  “I think,” he said, “it’s more accurate to say we appreciate art, and we understand you have some paintings available for purchase.” He in turn faced Hans. “That’s what we understand.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right. That’s why Hans has brought you to my small gallery. It has only been open for several months. I am using my home, you see, because-well, you see-why don’t we go into the living room and I can explain a little further.” He gestured to the room open from the hallway. The long room featured white walls with black furniture, and along the walls hung several recognizable paintings.

  Julia held her breath, but kept her face passive. She recognized two by Matisse and leaned closer to read the titles, Oriental Woman Seated on Floor and Woman Seated in Armchair. Then she saw Toulouse-Lautrec, even a Picasso, Standing Nude. The last painting appeared to be Manet, but she wasn’t sure. She walked along the wall. Then she turned to Karl. “And these paintings are for sale, Mr. Epple, is that correct?”

  He stepped forward next to her. “You seem surprised, Mrs. Stuart.”

  “Yes, I am. But only because Mr. Seifert didn’t tell us that you had work of such great painters. We expected to find art of less distinction.”

  “Oh, yes, of course, I do have many such paintings. I’m sure you would find them very acceptable. I have lesser impressionists, post-impressionists, abstract expressionists, certainly, and other modern art, too. It’s just that, you see, I want to display my most important works first for people to see. I have to know what your interest in. There is always the matter of the financial engagement you wish to make.”

  “Karl,” Hans broke in. “you must not be such a salesman. Mr. and Mrs. Stuart are here at my invitation, and you should not treat them as buyers. Mrs. Stuart is an artist herself and-“

  Hugh raised his hand. “Not at all. Not about being an artist, I mean. Julia is a very good artist. No, I mean we are indeed here to purchase art. But, I grant you this, we are not accustomed to choosing between lesser and greater art.” He put his hand on Julia’s arm. “Isn’t that right, Darling?”

  Julia felt uncomfortable with this display of possession, but she didn’t want to react publicly. She looked up at Hugh. “I think what my husband means, if I may be very frank, we have not discussed how much we are prepared to spend, and further, we have not researched the current art market. That, you of course understand, is an important element.”

  “But on the other hand,” Hugh said, “we do know great art when we see it. I think my wife’s opinion will be helpful in choosing among some other works of art you may have. I myself would be very proud to hang one of these magnificent pieces in my office.”

  Karl turned to Hans, but his expression said nothing. Then he spoke. “Since you have been so frank, Mr. Stuart, let me be forthright. Are you interested in one particular piece?”

  Hugh said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. It’s the--“, he leaned forward, “-Degas, Portrait of Gabrielle Diot.” He straightened up, one arm across his chest, the other resting on it and holding his chin up, studying the pastel drawing. “It’s the only one I like, I’m afraid, among all these. I would very much like to have it up on my wall.” He turned to Karl in anticipation.

  Karl nodded. “I see. It’s my most recent acquisition. I won’t pretend I am favoring you. This drawing is available for $40,000.”

  “Let me talk to my wife for a few moments, if you don’t mind.”

  “Just call, we’ll be in the back.” Karl took Hans out of the room.

  When they were gone, Hugh said, “That doesn’t seem too much.”

  “You can certainly afford it. I honestly don’t know if you’re paying too much. To me, that’s not the question. It’s not a huge sum. It is, after all, a Degas. Maybe it’s not a painting, but to me, it’s clear you want it. That’s what you have to think about. Do you want to try and get a Degas for less? Or go somewhere else?”

  “Yes, you have it absolutely right. I know what I want. Let’s call them back.” He raised his voice. “We’re ready out here.”

  Karl and Hans returned, Karl watching Hugh’s face as he entered.

  “We are very interested in this Degas drawing,” Hugh said. “My wife agrees with me. I will leave the details of provenance and authenticity to her. For myself, I feel that the authority of Mr. Seifert in bringing us to meet you is authority enough.”

  “Thank you for your confidence. It’s true, you are also showing confidence in Zurich International Bank. Their reputation is on the line just as much as mine. But as far as the price is concerned, may I bring to your attention that there is much talk of war in Europe. If that does happen, the art market will come to a complete stop. In that case, the price of everything will only go up substantially.”

  “Yes,” Hugh said, “I am aware of that. But I am buying art for my own pleasure, not as a business proposition.”

  “I shall arrange for this drawing to be delivered tomorrow to your house, and if you wish, we shall assist you in placing it in your desired location.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now,” Karl continued, “if you would like to follow me, I have work from other artists to show you.”

  Karl led them out of the room and up the stairs to the next floor, to a room empty of furniture but with walls covered with paintings of all the categories Karl had mentioned before. Hugh watched as Julia went around the room observing every painting with a careful eye. When she had finished, she talked with Hugh, then selected paintings by André, Michel and Reinhold, along with several drawings. They returned downstairs and prepared to leave, but Hugh insisted on one last tour of the living room. He walked up and down and then stopped to examine The Letter by Toulouse-Lautrec. He stepped back, his face showing admiration, then he turned to Julia and said, “This one, also.”

  Karl walked up to Hugh and Julia. “I can see you appreciate this piece.”

  “Yes,” said Hugh, “it reminds me of my grandmother. I did not expect to feel this way about Toulouse-Lautrec, but, there you have it. How much, Mr. Epple.”

  Karl did not hesitate. “It’s not a Degas, of course. To me, it is worth $20,000.”

  Hugh smiled. “Fine. I am prepared. I will write you a check now. And you say, delivery and installation tomorrow?”

  Karl nodded. Hugh walked with pride out the door, Julia holding on to his arm.