Paint. The art of scam. (24 page)

Polly slid behind
a convenient pillar and watched him, his mouth switching between a silly grin
and dragging scowl as he looked around. He gazed up at the mannequin, his face
looked puzzled and dismissive, as he sipped his glass. His eyes swung around
surveying the room, as if he were doing a head count. Somebody recognised him
and began engaging in formal small talk, that Carva seemed uneasy with.

‘Hi. Polly isn't
it?’

Polly turned
around to see Ed Clancy, a short stocky American art critic for The Easel
magazine that she had chatted with a few times in the past. He had irritated
her. The Easel was basically a magazine for hobby painters. Ed wanted to turn
it around and become a cutting edge contemporary art magazine to be taken
seriously. A mammoth task with a magazine that has articles with titles like:
‘Painting away arthritis.’

‘Oh. Hello. Yes
that's right. Ted isn't it?’ said Polly

‘Ed. Name's Ed.
Remember we met at the Outer Space, a few weeks back.’

‘Oh yes that's
right, how could I forget. How are you?’

‘I'm real good. Great
show huh?’

‘Um. Not for me.
Not my cup of tea I'm afraid.’

‘Cup of tea?’
said Ed. Polly smiled. ‘Oh I see. Oh really! I'm surprised. It's pretty out
there I guess. Kind o' shocking. But I can see where she's coming from.’

‘Well I hope she
can find her way back.’ said Polly attempting to spot Carva again.

‘Yeh? How do you
mean?’

Polly smiled as
she took a sip of her glass, acknowledging someone behind Ed who wasn't there.

‘Oh that's a joke
right,’ said Ed laughing. ‘God. You know? All the months I've been here I still
can't get that Brit humour. All that irony and stuff.’

‘I wasn't joking
actually.’ said Polly

‘Yeh right.’ said
Ed chuckling. ‘Been trying to get to talk to Ingrid, but she's kind of busy I
guess. You know her?’

‘Who?’

‘Ingrid. You
know. The artist who did all this stuff.’

‘No Sorry. No I
don't.’

‘Damn. I reckon I
could do a good piece on her. Helps if you can get an interview. Still I guess
I can get enough just from the work. Pretty intense stuff.’

Ed picked up that
Polly was preoccupied with something across the room and wasn't really paying
attention to his riveting conversation. He looked across the room to see what
on Earth could be more interesting than him.

‘Well I'll be
damned. If that ain't old Simon Carva, first time I've seen him at anyplace
like this.’ said Ed.

‘You know him?’

‘Yeah sure, well
kind of. Been trying to get him to do something about Dutch masters for The
Easel. He's a real expert you know. He's kinda hard to pin down though. Busy
man I guess. Got a gallery near Olympia. He's real interesting. Kinda private
though. Never thought I'd see him here. He told me that he reckons contemporary
art is like. How did he put it?. Oh yeah. Nothing more than expensive
graffiti
. You know him?’

‘No, never met
him.’ said Polly craning her neck to keep him in sight.

‘Yeah well, he's
kinda eccentric. They reckon he inherited a bunch of money from his mom and dad
a few years back and opened up the gallery with his boyfriend. Gotta say, he
don't seem to sell much though. Seems like he's had the same old paintings
hanging ever since I first went there. Nice guy though. Hey, lets go talk. I
can introduce you.’

‘No. No. It's OK.
I'd better be going actually,’ said Polly as she threw back the remainder of
her glass.

‘Hey Pole. Fancy
doing coffee or somethin'?’

Polly grimaced,
but politely smiled, patting Ed's arm. ‘That's very sweet... but no thanks Ed,
I really should get going, my husband is waiting for me.’

Ed nodded with a
disappointed smile. ‘Sure. Well. I'll see you around then.’

Polly wandered
off, once again patting his arm as if to console him. Once clear of Ed's line
of sight she stopped and scanned the crowd to find Carva. She spotted him again
and watched him.

Carva downed the
glass of wine as subtly and as quickly as he could, turned, head down, aimed
for the door and left.

Polly thought it
strange, not remarkable, but worth a smile.

She looked around
at the ever louder but thinning crowd. The booze was kicking in. Gesticulating
arms lashed like leaping fish emphasising fascinating insights. Impatient
partners shifted listlessly from one leg to the other, their futile attempts to
look interested, fading.

Polly looked
across at Harry. He was, as usual, about to be kidnapped by the ultra right
wing faction of the Saga popular peoples front, taken to a restaurant by force
and made to suffer unimaginable torture by unwanted attention.

It was time to
leave. It was only on the way out that Polly discovered that quite a few people,
she had met at previous openings, were there. But by then it was too late to
talk at any length. Groups were established. A few acknowledge her with a
smile, a wave or a blown kiss.

Polly went
outside The Warehouse. It was a pleasant evening, the air felt fresh and clean.
She drew in a long breath and slowly released it through her nose. Polly
watched with amusement as Harry was bundled into the back of a taxi by the gang
of grey gigglers. Seymour would be worried. She knew that. Maybe a walk would
be good.

By the time Polly
got home that night her mind was clear, she was focused. Seymour on the other
hand, had reduced himself to a squirming insecure mess, having decided that
Polly had, quite rightly, reached her limit with him. That he had taken it too
far this time and his need to get a reaction was about to destroy him yet
again, and he was really, really sorry. It was OK about the ginger too, he'd
found some in the bottom of the fridge, it was a bit mummified, but he'd soaked
it in warm water and rescued it.

The next morning
Carva struggled with several keys to the several locks on the door of the
gallery. His overweight frame didn't lend itself to tackle the bottom locks
easily and they were never used these days. Besides, they were the ones that
dogs pissed on and drunks vomited gallons of lager and Chinese food on.

At last he pushed
open the door, picked up another pile of post and entered the gallery; felt his
way to his desk in the dark, opened a small cupboard and disarmed the burglar
alarm. In all the years he had been there, nobody had ever attempted to break
in. It never did occur to him why.

Still in the
dark, he slumped in his office chair and sat quietly. Almost as if he had to
drum up courage, he reached across the wall and turned on a bank of light
switches that softly illuminated the whole gallery with a glum yellow tinge.
The desk in front of him was a mess, the red bills stood out.

Reaching down to
the floor, he grabbed the cardboard tube, slid out its contents and held a
print of Seymour's work in front of him. He was battling with it, twisting
himself to like it. It was hard to dislike Seymour's work, the strong, striking
organic colours and simple lines always seem to smile at you and if you gave it
a moment of your time there was a good chance you'd smile back. He placed the
prints on the desk, covering the bills, reached for the phone and dialed.

‘Ah. Polly, Simon
Carva here. Just thought I'd give you a ring so that maybe we could arrange a
meeting about your, um, proposal.’

‘Oh hi Simon.
Sure. Sorry I didn't call you back. When did you have in mind?’

‘Lunch maybe? Why
don't you drop by the gallery at about one or so and we'll take it from there.’

‘Sure, Ok. I'll
see you then. Bye. And thanks for calling.’

Carva put the
phone down slowly and sat back in his chair; hands behind his head, until the
pain of the pose got the better of him. He had never done it before. Looking
around the glum gallery, he smiled, stood up and, taking one of Seymour's
paintings, held it up in front of a particularly grim oil painting in a chunky
gold leaf frame.

It stood out. It
was called ‘The Flower Tree.’ Its utter loudness of colourful flower like
leaves that appeared to move in the wind, laughed at the sombre, faded gold
leaf frame; that had spent its life surrounding a miserable old peasant woman
gutting a chicken. Carva nodded to himself. His smile, although uncomfortable
at first, remained.

Carva had had a
difficult night. After his brief visit to The Warehouse, he went home to his
empty flat and spontaneously burst into tears. The convulsions and outpouring
of deep, long suppressed emotions, flooded his head with hot blood. It took
some 10 minutes to recover; with the help of gulps of Scotch, straight from the
bottle.

It was six months
since Desmond had died. Desmond was everything to Carva, absolutely everything.
They had met back in 60's at a bar in Nice. Both young and well provided for by
families with old money, its origin unknown even to them, and lots of it, they
set off on an adventure that stopped suddenly 6 months ago.

Carva stared at
the photo of them the two of them sat proudly in the centre of a large circular
coffee table. It was black and white, they were holding up full champagne
flutes and wearing smiles that said it all. They had just bluffed there way
into Cannes Film Festival. What a day that was. Carva smiled as the memory hung
for a moment. Everybody thought they were homosexual and it didn't matter a
hoot. In those days, nothing mattered. They were in love, totally, and as they
became physically closer, as they thought was expected of them, that love
changed. The politics changed. They no longer had the greatest friendship
anybody could wish for, but were, somehow, left with an obstacle course. A game
of emotional snakes and ladders. Thankfully they both knew what was going on
and talked endlessly about it, gushing out feelings and emotions that surprised
even them.

Then one night,
out of nowhere, Desmond said.

‘Damn sex. Not
worth the bloody mess!’

They both burst
into a laughter that smashed away everything that had corrupted their love and
they never slept together again. It was all unspoken, no agreements or pledges
asking to be broken, they just snapped back to normal. Beyond the occasional
clumsy, drunken flirting, neither Desmond nor Simon ever slept with anyone
else. They didn't even think about it, they were just too busy with their life.

Simon Carva was
now lost: a moment he had dreaded so much, that he had hoped he would be the
first to die. Desmond would have been much better at being alone than him.

Carva's Gallery
was a birthday present from Desmond, several years ago. Carva was broke, the
result of bungled investments and he needed a cash cow. They had been dabbling
with dealing in antiques and old oils quite successfully for many years and the
gallery was a perfect next stage. They both ran it for years, mainly as a hobby
and often closing for weeks on end for holidays, after selling a masterpiece to
wealthy people who had more money than sense, who spent their entire time
worrying about losing it. Desmond and Simon were well connected in those days
and were often commissioned to hunt down rare and valuable works of art.
Lurking around Europe, in a Bentley, looking for something that may not be
there. God that was fun. Once they were commissioned by the Jewish Council; to
retrieve art, stolen by the Nazis. That wasn't fun at all.

But as time moved
on, one by one, old reliable clients died off, the 80's came along, money
became the new God, Simon Carva's cash cow was dying of starvation and Desmond
was dead. It was a lot to take in.

Carva finished
the bottle of scotch in one swig and opened another sat on the silver tray next
to him. He woke at three in the morning still sat there in the armchair, his
crotch soaked in whiskey from the topless bottle lying on his belly. Carva
steadied himself on the arms of the chair, as he stood up. Desmond would have
been furious with him for getting drunk, alone, like that. It was about the
only thing Desmond objected to. He had never seen Desmond drunk, not like this.
He drank a lot, a hell of a lot, but never too much and always with dignity.

Desmond would
also not approve of the gigantic hole that Carva was digging himself into.

Somehow, when he
woke that morning again, this time in bed, he felt differently about things.
Like he had hit the bottom of the hole and had looked up and seen the light. And
there was Polly.

Carva took 'The
Flower Tree' back to the desk, carefully rolled it up and put it in the
cardboard tube. He looked at his watch, picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Ah Celia
darling, how are you? Good, good...oh you know muddling along.... Desmond?....
Desmond is dead Celia darling remember?.... Yes I told you... I did...I did...
Anyway we'll discuss that another time.... Listen Celia darling I want to talk
to you about the car..... Your car.... Yes you do darling....

Lunch.

That morning
Polly didn't mention her lunch appointment with Simon Carva, but Seymour knew
there was something special afoot by Polly's mood: the way she dressed up in
her 'pro' suit and the cocky air she had about her as she left.