From Black Rooms (15 page)

Mr. Lindstrom sighed. "Just like your mother." Cal ie turned back to Cal and pointed at his head. "So, what's that thing?"

"Huh? Oh." Cal touched the foil, abashed. "It's supposed to keep the... The word did not come easily for him. "souls out of my head."

The little girl swung her legs back and forth, staring at him as if he'd said he'd never learned to walk. "Don't you have a mantra?"

"A what?"

"A mantra." She waited for some inkling of comprehension from him. "You know--the words you say to keep out the bad Whos."

Cal looked to the only other adult in the room for a translation. "Whos?"

Mr. Lindstrom understood his confusion. "That's her word for souls. It's from a Dr. Seuss book."

"It's from Horton." Cal ie stressed the title, emphasizing that it was not just any Dr. Seuss book.

"He was an elephant who could hear the people no one else could."

Cal gave a sage nod. "I see."

"So you don't have a mantra to keep out the bad Whos?" she asked again.

With a cockeyed grin, Cal parodied a swami pose. "You mean, like owah tagoo Siam?"

Cal ie scowled. "Don't be stupid."

"Cal ie! Be polite." Apparently used to doting on his grandchild, Mr. Lindstrom seemed befuddled when he tried to be cross with her.

She went on despite him. "Your mantra has to be special," she told Cal. "Something you believe in. Like mine, for instance: I say, 'Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.' And I keep saying it until the bad Whos go away." The girl put a hand to her mouth in sudden alarm, as if, for the first time, she'd said the wrong thing. "That's a secret, by the way. You're never supposed to tel your mantra to anyone." Cal smiled. "I won't tel a soul. Literal y. I only wish I had a mantra."

Cal ie straightened herself with scholarly rectitude, obviously relishing her position of authority over an adult. "I know you'l find something that works. Just ask yourself, 'What do I believe in?' "

Cal opened his mouth for another clever quip, but the reply that came out was almost inaudible: "I don't know."

Without the safety net of sarcasm to stop him, Calvin plunged into introspection. His parents had shel ed out more than a hundred grand to send him to Columbia University, yet al his talent and education had earned him nothing more than a prison term and a felony

record. His father disowned him after his conviction, leaving Cal with neither a career nor a family.

Tranquil ity Moon served as his latest attempt to pretend that he possessed some sort of connection to this world, but the truth was that he'd reached the age of thirty-five--life's fifty-yard line--without believing in anyone or anything. Heck, he didn't even believe in himself. Why else did he paint others' art, like a mirror reflecting the stars, pathetical y congratulating himself on how wel he aped their bril iance?

Natalie and her friend barged into the condo at that point, sparing Cal further self-analysis. "Got it," Natalie announced, displaying the fake Rembrandt he'd

abandoned.

"Thank heavens!" Mr. Lindstrom stood and handed the stun gun back to Natalie's surly companion. "Serena, I believe this is yours. Can I order pizza now? I'm starved."

Cal ie hopped off her chair. "Me, too." Natalie seemed distracted, her attention divided

between her family and the painting. "Sure...but bring some slices to me when it gets here--I need to get started on this now. Calvin, could you come with me?" He started like a student unprepared for class. "Me?

Where?"

"To my studio." She jerked her head in the direction of the kitchen. "Or at least one of the places I use as a studio. Try not to laugh."

"You want me with you, Nat?" the woman named Serena asked, eyeing Cal.

"No, we'l be fine. Won't we, Calvin?" Natalie smiled with saccharin sweetness.

"Scout's honor." He fol owed her, happy to be escaping Serena, if only temporarily.

Natalie led him through the kitchen and beyond a door into the condo's attached garage. She must have parked her car outside while she worked, for the concrete floor was bare except for an easel bridged across an oil spot. Art supplies shared shelf space with cans of Drano and Roach Pruf.

"It's not much," Natalie said by way of apology, "but my muse cal s it home." She set aside the large drawing tablet that had been on the easel, so she could put his Rembrandt there.

Cal couldn't help peeking at the sketchbook, which lay open on the wooden workbench. He knew the subject, of course, as wel as the bold, almost careless slashes of pastel chalk that composed the picture. "Is this a study for Self-Portrait as a Woman?"

His interest appeared to embarrass Natalie. "Oh...no, we actual y did that afterward. Munch's such a

perfectionist, he just can't let it go." She turned to his forgery, putting her hands on top of her head as if being frisked by police. "Can you help me with this?" Cal tapped the sketch. "If you can do this, you don't need my help."

"But I can't do that. And I can't do this, either." She shook her head, gazing at his phony Storm. "Not without a real artist to guide me."

"You are a real artist. I saw those drawings in your living room."

Natalie's pal or turned a fetching shade of pink, and she put a hand over her face. "Those aren't Rembrandt. And I've never worked with him, so I can't summon him. Can you help me?"

Cal hung his head. "Wish I could. It's this stupid treatment--it's screwed up my eyes. I can't get the colors right."

Natalie bit her thumb, her expression becoming

increasingly glum as she considered the unfinished forgery. "I don't know how you do his style so perfectly. I don't think I could ever... The pinched anxiety in her face eased a bit, and her gaze darted toward the Munch sketch on the workbench. "Amis had a whole list of paintings he wanted copied. Does the Rembrandt have to be the next one you give him?" Cal scratched his goatee. "No, I don't see what difference it would make."

"What if we gave him The Scream instead?" Her mischievous smile inspired his own. "You think Munch'd do it for you?"

"Why not? He did four copies of it when he was alive, not counting prints and woodcuts." She indicated the
Self-Portrait sketch. "As I said, he's kind of obsessive-
compulsive. Good thing for us, 'cause van Gogh

wouldn't have the patience."

He stared at her as she took Storm off the easel and replaced it with a rectangle of cardboard. "You--you worked with van Gogh?"

"Did I ever! Every time, I swear I'l never deal with the jerk again, but he's such a good sel er, what can I do?"

"I hear that," Cal murmured. Van Gogh had been a mainstay of his forgery business, as wel . It felt surreal to be discussing such things with a woman he barely knew--or anyone else, for that matter--but it felt good, too. Refreshing.

Natalie reached to a high shelf to grab some jars of tempera, and Cal couldn't help noticing how her T-shirt rose from the waist of her jeans to expose a glimpse of her ivory midriff and the shal ow shadow at the smal of her back. She was real y very pretty, he thought. In fact, Munch's so-cal ed Self-Portrait didn't begin to do her justice. And the more he became aware of her

attractiveness, the sil ier his own appearance seemed to him.

He covered the foil on his head with his hands under the pretense of holding it in place. "Uh...is there anything I can do?"

She arranged the paint bottles beside her rack of pastel chalks on the workbench. "Tel you what, if you get us some pizza and make me some coffee, you can sleep on the couch instead of the floor tonight. I'm going to stay up and work, anyway."

Cal supposed he should have been grateful for the courtesy she offered. Instead, he slumped his shoulders like a kid left on the bench in Little League. "Would it be al right if I stayed and...watched?"

He wondered if he turned as pink as she had, for

Natalie's violet eyes sparkled with merriment. "You speak any French?" she asked with a saucy arch of her eyebrow.

Cal held his right thumb and forefinger about a quarter inch apart. "Un petit peu."

"Good. Then you can help me handle the crazy Norwegian." She grabbed a pencil from a jar on the workbench and began to mutter something under her breath.

13

Prelude to a Scream

MUNCH TO REDO THE SCREAM than Natalie

anticipated. "No, no, no! I am done with that monstrosity," he complained aloud in French, her voice guttural with his accent. "It is the new Self-Portrait that requires effort. I must make changes--"

We will make the changes, Natalie promised him,
speaking to him inside her skul . But it is vital that we
paint The Scream again.

He threw up her hands in exasperation, shouting to the ceiling as if her admonition emanated from Heaven.

"Why should I bother with old work when there is so much new work to be done?"

"Because The Scream is...lost," Calvin answered, halting when he struggled to find the right French word.

"Someone stole it. Without it, The Frieze of Life is incomplete."

He neglected to mention that the picture had since been returned.

Munch had al but ignored the scruffy young man

beside him until then, but the news of the theft struck the painter as if it had been a death in his family. "Is this true?" he demanded.

"Yes." Calvin managed to keep his face solemn, regretful.

If she'd had control of her mouth, Natalie would have grinned at his cleverness. Munch had always been

notoriously possessive of his paintings; indeed, he'd refused to sel the originals during his lifetime, but chose instead to leave his entire oeuvre to the city of Oslo upon his death. The Frieze of Life was the

thematic series of artworks to which he'd devoted his entire career, and Calvin must have calculated that nothing would rankle a perfectionist like Munch more than knowing that a crucial piece of his masterwork was missing.

"This is intolerable," the painter muttered, kneading Natalie's hands together and pacing the garage floor. He stopped and jabbed a finger at Calvin. "You! You wil see that my Scream returns to its family?" Calvin bowed like a proper servant. "Of course, Monsieur Munch."

"Very wel !" Munch snatched up the pencil Natalie had laid out for him on the lip of the easel and started sketching on the cardboard she'd cut to the proper dimensions. Ghostly outlines of the familiar

composition appeared: the bleeding sky, the ominous boardwalk vanishing to infinity, and the asexual figure openmouthed in endless horror.

The artist worked with a manic speed driven by the irritation of one who feels his precious time is being wasted. Several times, Natalie had to restrain him from

"improving upon" his original design, and he nearly quit in outrage when she dared to refer him to

reproductions of the original in some art books she'd opened on the workbench.

"I know what it looks like!" he shouted, flinging a piece of chalk onto the concrete floor so hard it shattered.
Forgive me, Monsieur Munch, she pleaded.

Please...continue.

While she coaxed and cajoled and subtly steered the brittle artist, Calvin sat on stool nearby and watched in mute fascination. Natalie assumed he was starstruck to be in the presence of the Norwegian master, but he continued to stare at her when, at about five in the morning, she sent Edvard Munch back into the void and amended some of the finer details herself to make the forgery more accurate.

Calvin's scrutiny made her self-conscious, and she stepped back from the drawing, scanning it nervously.

"What? Is it bad? Am I screwing it up?" He chuckled. "No. No, it's...beautiful." But he wasn't looking at the picture.

"Thanks." Natalie didn't know whether to take his flattery as a compliment or a pickup line, and she was too tired to think about it. Now that she'd retaken control of her body, she could feel how her legs and feet ached from standing in one place for hours, how fatigue weighed on her eyelids every time she blinked. She added a few more accents to the phony Scream--which she had sarcastical y titled The Whine--then tossed the pastel she'd been using back in the rack, smearing her skin with indigo chalk dust as she rubbed her face.

"Wel ? Think it'l fool Carleton Amis?" Calvin nodded, tugging at his annoying goatee. "Close enough for government work...so to speak."

"But it hasn't been weathered or distressed," Natalie groaned as she compared the forgery with reproductions of the original in her art books. Munch, she knew, was infamous for abusing his artworks, leaving them out in direct sunlight and rain, scratching them with tools, even flagel ating them with a whip to "improve their character."

"Let me handle that," Calvin suggested. "It's my forte, after al ." He got up from the stool. "Why don't you go get some rest?"

She gave him a weary smile. "But I promised you the sofa."

"I'l take the next shift."

"Okay. Maybe just a catnap." Natalie deflated as she exhaled the last of her caffeine-fueled energy. "Good night, Calvin. Or should I say 'good morning'?"

"Both." His joker's face turned serious. "Thanks for taking me in. For...everything."

She bowed her head in acknowledgment. "You're helping me, too. More than you know."

And I hope you never find out, she added silently as she
left the garage, thinking of Carleton Amis and Evan Markham and what they would do to Calvin if they ever discovered that he had helped her track them down. When Natalie final y awoke from her "catnap," she rol ed over on the unfolded sofa bed and found Serena glowering down at her.

"Good afternoon," her friend said.

The greeting jolted Natalie upright. It was later than she thought; after keeping watch over the house during the night, Serena usual y dozed al morning in Wade's bed upstairs. With her fingers, Natalie combed out the tangles in the red wig she'd been too exhausted to remove before going to sleep that morning. "What time is it?"

"Three."

Natalie could hardly believe it. Residing in the living room usual y precluded oversleeping, since her father and daughter would come stomping down the stairs in the morning on their way to breakfast in the kitchen.