The Art Forger (5 page)

Everything in here is painted that sick pea-green always associated with institutions. Does blue cost any more than green? Or how about a cheery yellow? When I first started doing this, I thought maybe the walls were green because it was the green block. But no. Turns out the entire place is the color of decomposing vegetables. That’s what gave me the mural idea: Maybe losing some of the green would help the kids. I’m told the recidivism rate is at 73 percent. There’s not much to lose.

The deal on the mural is that each kid has to draw something from the outside that he misses using charcoal on newsprint; pens and pencils aren’t allowed because they have sharp points that can be used as weapons. When the drawings are finished, we’re going to project them on the wall of the dayroom, trace them, then paint them. Good-bye rotting veggies.

I don’t tell the boys what to draw or make any judgments about its value. I don’t even give them pointers on technique unless they request it. My theory is that the boys—“youths,” as they’re always referred to in here—have lots of art inside them and that my job is to give them materials and let it rip. Xavier is drawing one hundred cans of beer, and Christian is doing a remarkably good sketch of a needle and a dime bag of heroin. All I ask is that they work during class and remain true to themselves. The kids have no problem with the latter. They’re burning to express their own private truths.

The boys are led into the room by a social worker I haven’t seen before. Burnout is common, and it’s easy to see why. There are only ten boys today, down from thirteen last time. One is new. Four missing. I don’t ask where they are, as I don’t ask what they’ve done to get themselves in here. I don’t want to know.

I say hi to Jonathan, Xavier, Sean, Johan, Christopher, Reggie, Brian, Christian, and Andres. Most of them respond appropriately. The new social worker, Kimberly Deeny, introduces herself and Manuel, a tough-looking, pumped fireplug of a kid who refuses to look me in the eye. I’m guessing he’s about twelve. With a swagger, Manuel takes a piece of charcoal and the blank sheet of newsprint Kimberly offers, then waits, his face set to cover his anxiety, for everyone to take their seats. Woe be to the new guy who sits where he shouldn’t.

Kimberly, who has no idea which drawing belongs to whom, hands them to me to distribute. She’s pretty and young, with a wild mane of reddish-brown hair pulled back into a staid bun; it escapes in tendrils around her face, an unfortunately sexy look. Her baggy clothes do as good a job at covering up her cute little body as the bun does her hair. The boys check her out and elbow each other in the side. Way too pretty and way too young for this job. I wonder if she’ll be here when I come back next week.

Everyone but Manuel and Xavier start to work. I spend a few minutes explaining the assignment to Manuel and then squat next to Xavier. He’s well over six feet, lean but muscular. Although he must be a star on the basketball court, he has such a sweet face and demeanor that it’s difficult to imagine him trying to beat anyone or, for that matter, doing anything that would put him in here. Clearly, looks are deceiving. Because of his height, Xavier appears to be at least eighteen, but I’ve got him pegged at fourteen or fifteen. A very tender age to be missing a hundred cans of beer.

“What gives, X?” I ask.

He shrugs.

I examine his drawing. The cans themselves look as if they were drawn by a small child, but the labels are quite intricate. He’s got the Budweiser script down.

“Looks like you’re almost there. How many more you need?”

“Too many.”

“You don’t have to do a hundred if you don’t want. That was just one idea.”

Xavier shrugs again.

“It’s not the number?”

He looks down at the drawing, shakes his head.

Squatting is starting to hurt my quads, but sometimes you’ve just got to say nothing and wait. When this doesn’t work, I touch his arm, which I’m not supposed to do.

He looks up.

“What?” I ask.

“It’s the silver.”

“Silver?”

He jabs his finger at the cans. “Bud’s silver. Those are the ones I miss, and you said it’s got to be true. And there’s only gonna be red, blue, and yellow.”

He’s got a point. The budget is extremely tight, but Al, of Al’s Art Supply, offered a discount if I took only primary colors. Something about overstock. I figured I could mix the three and get all the colors we needed, but Xavier is right: There’s not going to be any silver. These kids always surprise.

Once again, I think of Markel’s offer. If I took it, I wouldn’t have to stick to the state’s stingy, line-item allocation—art classes for juvenile offenders not being an easy sell. I’d have money, $50,000 worth of money. I’d have the means to augment the government’s narrow-minded tightfistedness. Or maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to strike back at an art world I believe has wronged me. Claire Roth, a twenty-first-century Han van Meegeren. Hopefully, Markel doesn’t know any Nazis.

I stand. “No problem, X. I’ll figure out a way to get you your silver.”

He looks at me blankly, clearly not used to getting what he needs.

So many good uses for ill-begotten gains.

Five

I climb the four flights to my studio thinking about Xavier’s paint, Crystal’s astonished face, and my paintings hanging at Markel G. I think about doing good—whatever good might be—and how there’s no crime in copying a painting. Markel’s a local celebrity, and if anything unscrupulous had ever been linked with his name, I, and the entire city of Boston, would be aware. Even Isaac, who tended to see the worst in everyone, trusted him.

I call Markel. “How good is good?” I ask without preamble.

He chuckles. “It’s something I’m sure you’ve wished you could make happen.”

“Like world peace?”

“Maybe not quite so grandiose, but in a smaller way, yes.”

“Could you be any more vague?”

“Probably not.”

There’s nothing to be said to this, so I ask, “Tell me again how many people we’d be helping?”

When he says hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, I figure he’s running a bit hyperbolic. “Really?”

He laughs. “I know it sounds nuts, but yes, really.”

I hesitate.

“It’s your call, Claire,” he reminds me. “I can get someone else if I have to . . .”

Someone else? “Okay,” I tell him. “I’m in.”

A few days later, a wooden shipping crate is delivered. It’s huge, at least twelve foot by twelve foot. It’s thick, too, as if it could hold half a dozen canvases, although I’m guessing there are only two, at most four, inside.

If there are three or four, it’s likely Markel wants me to create a pastiche, an “undiscovered” painting the forger compiles based on past works of a well-known artist, like John Myatt did. But if there are only two, it’s Ely Sakhai’s paradigm I’ll be following, and one of the paintings will be an original by an established artist—or a minor work by someone more famous—and the other canvas will be the same age as the original. After I strip the paint off the second one, I’ll paint my copy onto it so the forgery is on a canvas and frame authentic to the artist’s era and carbon dating won’t give us away.

I’m dying to know whose work is in the crate, but Markel said not to open it, that he would be here within the hour. He made me promise. But what’s a promise among thieves?

I check the crate on all sides, notice there’s a rip in the tape at the top left corner. I climb the stepladder, stick my finger in and pull. I manage to make a hole an inch round and press my eye to the opening. Of course, I see nothing. I grab a hammer and a crowbar, hesitate, then use the back end of the hammer to jab the tape again. There’s not much give left—the whole crate is held together by nails—but I dig in and double the size of the hole. Now I see bubble wrap.

I hardly ever get to base my Repro paintings on originals, as most of the real McCoys are in Paris or London, and Repro sure isn’t sending me across the Atlantic. Once, I was doing a Botticelli for them—
Tragedy of Lucretia
—which is owned by the Gardner Museum, so I got to work from that original. Unfortunately, the Gardner is incredibly stodgy, allowing only pencil drawing and no cameras. Still, the repro came out better for it.

The idea of a high-quality piece of artwork in my studio both electrifies and terrifies me. If I were a betting woman, I’d wager Markel is playing the Ely Sakhai game, and the painting is a lesser work I’m to forge so he can sell it to some unsuspecting collector as the original. Seems an odd thing for Markel to be involved in. He’s way too rich and philanthropic, not to mention supportive of struggling artists, for his motive to be greed. But as I’ve no idea what the “good” is, I’m in no position to judge.

In truth, aside from the interactions I had with Markel as Isaac’s dealer—some extremely taxing, to say the least—as well as the usual rumor mill and media hype, I know very little about Aiden Markel. A decade ago, in his midtwenties, he was an art wunderkind, bursting onto the Boston scene, making it big, and staying here, rather than taking off to New York or Paris. He represents many renowned national and international artists, which has pulled Boston from the art backwaters and into the light. Although he’s only six or seven years older than I am, he’s so accomplished, it might as well be decades.

I drop the hammer, grab the crowbar, and contemplate the crate. I climb back up the stepladder, stick the crowbar in the hole, and give it a good yank. The crate lets out an almost human shriek and starts to come apart. I do it again, get a bit more leverage, and the space between the two pieces of wood widens. But I see that I’m going to have to remove most of the nails first, so I switch back to the hammer.

As I methodically work through the nails, I think about the money Markel’s bringing with him. Almost $17,000. This is more money than I’ve ever had at any one time. I owe about twenty-five grand on my student loans, and a chunk will go toward that. Then I’ll pay the landlord the last two months’ rent and cover the tab I’ve been running at Al’s Art Supply. Al and the landlord have been really good about it, but witty, self-deprecating stories will only get a girl so far. Plus, I’m running low on pigments and mediums, not to mention brushes, and there’s no way Al will front me any of that if I don’t pay up.

I look around the studio. A real bed, instead of a mattress. A couch a person could sit on without slipping a disc. A computer that doesn’t take twenty minutes to boot up. A cell phone that isn’t in two pieces. The list is endless.

The phone rings, and I see it’s Markel. I go down and let him in. This time, he’s not at all chatty. When we walk into the studio, he immediately notices I’ve started in on the crate but doesn’t seem surprised.

“So you couldn’t wait,” he says, without the slightest touch of irritation.

I shrug. “Haven’t gotten very far.”

“So I see.”

This visit, I offer no wine or nuts. We stand in front of the towering crate for a long moment, not speaking. Finally Markel says, “We should talk.”

I point to the rocking chair and take a seat on the couch. I fold my hands in my lap and wait.

He pulls an envelope from inside his jacket and places it on the table between us. It’s quite thick. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says, as if he’s discussing the weather, “but most of it’s in cash.”

Seventeen thousand dollars. I feel lightheaded. “Of course not, no problem,” I say, in what I hope is a casual tone, although I can hear that it’s not.

He puts his feet flat on the floor and leans toward me. “I don’t want you to think I’m patronizing you, but we need to go over how you’ll handle the money.”

I do think he’s patronizing me. “I’m quite capable of handling the money.”

“Based on what you told me about your pay scale,” he says, as if I haven’t spoken, “I’ve written you a check for eight thousand dollars on the Markel G account. This is official payment for your services, which you will deposit in your regular business account and report to the IRS. Just in case anything goes wrong, this will prove we had a standard reproduction agreement and will put you at arm’s length from anything else I’m involved in. The rest is cash.”

I glance at the envelope and then look quickly away. Nine thousand dollars in cash.

“You’ll have to set up a couple of accounts in different banks,” he continues. “Don’t deposit more than a few thousand in each so as not to raise suspicion. There’s two thousand in fifties you should just keep. But don’t spend them in the places where people know you. Use them at the supermarket or the mall.”

“Is all this really necessary?” I’m not much of a money person, having never had any, and my palms are beginning to sweat.

“It’s my job to make sure there are no mistakes.” He counts out the next directions on his fingers. “No major purchases, no expensive vacations, and no undisciplined gestures like an extravagant gift for your mother or treating everyone at your favorite bar to a drink.”

“I’m not a child,” I say, feeling patronized again. “I understand what we’re doing here.”

“No.” He stands up. “I don’t think you do.”

I stand, too. “Maybe it’s time you enlightened me.”

He walks over to the crate and grabs the crowbar. “You keep on with the nails, I’ll work with this.”