The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TEN

November 1974

Virginia filtered through the lunch-hour crowds outside Grand Central. Thanksgiving was in two days, and the pedestrians bustled about with pre-holiday zeal. Yesterday, in between stacking brochures, she’d snuck in a whispered call to the Art Students League, one of the top art schools in Manhattan, and to her surprise, she had gotten a meeting with a curator there. She figured if the watercolor was worthless, the curator would tell her without making her feel like an idiot, as opposed to presenting herself as a laughingstock to the people at Sotheby Parke Bernet. If so, that would be fine. She’d frame it and enjoy looking at it just as much as if it were worth a thousand dollars. And if it happened to be worth something, as much as she’d hate to part with it, perhaps she’d have enough to pay off the deductible on the insurance. In any case, she wanted to know more about Clara Darden and Levon Zakarian and how the canvas might have ended up stuck behind a cabinet at the Grand Central School of Art.

She’d been inside the Art Students League many years ago, during a field trip for an undergraduate seminar, but she had never really studied the grandeur of the exterior. The embellished five-story building looked like it belonged on a Paris boulevard, not on Fifty-Seventh Street, but the ornate detailing did seem fitting for an art school. Inside, she encountered a hive of activity, with students of all ages, from eighteen to eighty, passing along the hallways, calling out to one another.

Virginia waited in a second-floor gallery where students’ work was on display, as well as a small pamphlet on the history of the school. It had been founded in 1875, and artists like Pollock, O’Keeffe, and Norman Rockwell had studied there.

A young woman with long black braids approached. “Ms. Clay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Janice Russo.”

“You’re the curator I’m supposed to meet with?” Not what she expected. The girl was young and so pretty.

Janice clearly heard her surprised tone. “That’s right. I have a PhD in art history, and I’m the curator for the school.”

“How fantastic. Good for you.”

“Thanks.”

Virginia kicked herself for assuming it would be a crusty old man, for falling into the trap of assuming such a thing. It made her feel older than ever.

“They said you had something to show me?” Janice led her into a small office off the gallery, where a desk took up most of the space. One wall was devoted to bookshelves, with oversize art books taking up the bottom row, and the thin spines of auction catalogs lined up in date order along the top. “Have a seat.”

Virginia pulled the portfolio out of her bag. “I found this artwork the other day and was curious about it. I noticed it looks a lot like a painting by Levon Zakarian that’s up for auction.” She took out the auction catalog and opened it to the earmarked page. “I was hoping you’d take a look and tell me what you think.”

The curator opened the portfolio and let out a sharp breath. She pulled the painting close and examined it carefully, not touching anything but the very edges, looking back and forth from the catalog to the paper. “What strikes me is that the brushstrokes are quite similar. Like it’s a trial run for the real thing. It’s watercolor, though, not oil. To my knowledge, Zakarian only worked in oil, using the impasto method. He was known to have detested watercolor, for some reason.”

“What’s impasto? Sounds like a noodle dish.”

Janice laughed. “No, it’s a technique where the paint is laid down very thickly, so that the work has a lot of texture. Like Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Basically, it’s the opposite of watercolor.”

“Huh. I was wondering if maybe this is a real Levon Zakarian, what with the auction coming up.” She added, quietly, “That maybe it might be worth something.”

Janice reached into her desk drawer and took out a magnifying glass. She peered through it, paying special attention to the bottom right corner. “Unfortunately, there’s no signature, neither Clyde nor Levon Zakarian.”

“Who’s Clyde?” asked Virginia. “I thought the artist was Levon Zakarian.”

Janice turned and scanned the bookshelf, pulling out a thin catalog. “This exhibition catalog is one of the few remaining records of the Clyde paintings that were shown in New York in the early 1930s, although at the time, no one knew who the real artist was. He preferred to remain anonymous. The paintings were a huge hit, heralded as one of the first direct links between the School of Paris—cubism, for example, or fauvism—and the New York School, where abstract expressionism got its start.”

Virginia’s head spun. If only she’d studied modern art instead of medieval, this might make sense. “Cubism is Picasso, right, and fauvism is Matisse?”

“Exactly. Cubism was an early-twentieth-century movement, where the artists portrayed an image from many different angles, broken up into cubes.” She pulled out a book on Picasso and pointed to the cover. “Girl with a Mandolin is the name of this one.”

“It’s jarring.”

“Sure is. That’s the School of Paris, an umbrella term for all the remarkable artists who lived and worked there at the beginning of the twentieth century. The New York School, which includes abstract expressionism, came later, after World War II, with men like Pollock and de Kooning, who turned away from using a figure entirely. Pollock’s drip paintings, for example.”

“You’re saying that this Clyde artist was a bridge between the two?”

“Yes.” She pointed to the watercolor. “Look at the way the figure is barely suggested. Even less so than the Picasso painting. It might not be a figure at all.”

“How are Clyde and Levon Zakarian related to each other?”

“As I mentioned, at the exhibit in New York in 1931, the artist behind the Clyde paintings insisted on remaining unknown. Not until a second exhibit in Chicago was he supposed to step forward. Of course, there was great speculation, as the paintings had made an enormous impact with art critics.”

“What happened?”

“The train carrying the works from New York to Chicago crashed, ended up in a river. A horrible accident. All the paintings were destroyed, and the art dealer who represented the artist died on the train, along with Levon Zakarian. It was easy enough to put two and two together. Ever since, Clyde’s work has been attributed to Zakarian.”

Levon Zakarian must be the ghostly presence that Totto had mentioned her first day on the job.

“How terrible.” She thought for a moment. “You said all the paintings were destroyed. But what about the one that’s for auction?”

“That surfaced recently. Happens every so often; something comes to light that’s been stored in an attic for decades. Usually, the owner’s family never realized it was valuable. Even though the one that’s for auction wasn’t listed in the original exhibition catalog, the experts examined it and agreed it’s a Zakarian Clyde painting.”

“What are the chances mine is also a Zakarian Clyde? A study for the oil painting?”

“Hard to say. As I mentioned, he didn’t like watercolors. It could be a really good reproduction.”

Virginia turned over the watercolor. “What about this drawing on the other side?”

“How strange. Clara Darden, of all people.” Janice’s brow furrowed. “Darden was an illustrator who did magazine covers and that kind of thing. During her day, she was considered a huge commercial success.” She picked up a history of illustration from her bookshelf, turned to the section on Clara Darden, and handed it to Virginia.

In the black-and-white image, Clara Darden was wraithlike, her pale eyes, hair, and eyelashes hardly distinguishable from the gray background. The defiant look on her face, though, was familiar. Virginia recognized it from the illustration of the secretaries she’d seen on the wall of the art school her first day. The model in the center of the drawing had been a self-portrait, she was certain.

Janice continued. “Both Zakarian and Darden were on the faculty of the Grand Central School of Art, but Darden wasn’t in the same league as Zakarian, artistically.” She examined the signature at the bottom right-hand corner of the drawing, then did the same for the image in the auction catalog. “This is odd, though.” She picked up the magnifying glass again.

“What’s that?”

“The letter C in the signature lines. Take a look.”

Virginia examined both signatures, Clara Darden on the sketch and Clyde in the auction catalog. Both C’s had an extra swirl at the top. “They both curl around, more like a swirl than a letter C.”

“Yes.” Janice looked up and blinked a couple of times. “That’s unexpected. Astonishing, really.” She turned the page in the illustration book. “Here’s one of Darden’s illustrations for Vogue.”

Virginia’s eyes went right to the signature. “A curly C.”

“A curly C.” Janice pointed to the watercolor. “Your drawing is dated as well, 1929.”

“But the exhibit wasn’t until 1931.”

“Right.”

Virginia couldn’t contain herself. “So it probably wasn’t a reproduction. What if Clara Darden was Clyde?”

Janice raised her eyebrows. “The similarity in the name is interesting. However, it could be that Clara Darden did the sketch, and then Levon Zakarian took the paper and made this as a kind of study, in watercolor, for the final work. Artists often reused supplies and canvases in order to save money. The whole thing is quite odd.”

“But you said yourself he didn’t like watercolor. And why would they both use a curly C?”

“The curly C points to both works being by the same person, that’s true. I have to admit I’m stunned by the close correlation between the drawing and the watercolor.”

The way Janice drank in the painting, practically devouring it with her eyes, gave Virginia a surge of excitement. She really should be getting back to work, but this was worth being late. She might be in possession of a valuable work of art. To hell with Terrence’s scolding. “In that case, Clara Darden might be the original painter, not Levon Zakarian. After all, the train crashed before the artist was officially revealed, right?” Virginia’s thoughts rushed over one another. “Why would Levon Zakarian want to stay anonymous in the first place?”

“Good question. Maybe because it was so unlike his earlier work, for shock value. Bear in mind this was during the Depression, when no one was buying art. At the time, a lot of folks wrote it off as a publicity stunt to boost sales.”

Virginia shifted to the edge of her seat. “Is Clara Darden still around?”

“I’m afraid not. Nothing was heard from her after 1931.”

“The same year of the train crash. Maybe she was on the train.”

“You would think it would’ve made the newspapers. After all, she was one of the most successful female illustrators of that era. What’s really strange is that we know what happened to all the other illustrators in this book, but for her, there’s nothing. Like she just disappeared.” Janice touched the painting, gently, as if it were a relic. “You’ve discovered something important, I think.”

“Is it valuable?” Excitement rose in Virginia’s belly, like the quickening she’d felt while pregnant with Ruby.

“If it’s a Zakarian, a study like this could fetch more than a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Wow.” The number floored Virginia. It was more than she could have imagined. She took a moment to gather herself. “What if it’s a Darden?”

Janice sat back in her chair and blew out a breath. “Then all bets are off. It means that a little-known female artist had an instrumental influence on the progression of art in the twentieth century. A revelation like that could be incredibly valuable.”

To prove that a woman had been the driving force between two art movements was exciting, and not only because then the watercolor would be worth even more. Virginia had followed with great interest the news coverage of the women’s movement, how the Equal Rights Amendment was certain to be ratified. When Chester made stupid jokes about women marching in the streets, she and Ruby had scolded him into submission.

For more than forty years, Clara Darden had been shoved to the sidelines, overshadowed by a man. Just as Virginia had felt overshadowed by Chester during their marriage. Perhaps this was Virginia’s chance to make something of herself in the wake of Chester’s desertion, and bring Clara out into the light.

“There is someone who could help you figure this out, who knew them both,” said Janice.

“Who’s that?”

“Irving Lorette. He used to run the Grand Central School of Art. I saw him recently at an opening. He and his wife live downtown and are still active in the art world. You could start there, to get a sense of whether Darden and Zakarian knew each other well, get some backstory. They’d be able to point you in the right direction.”

“I’ll do that.”

“Use my name when you do. I have to admit, this is exciting, what you found.” She paused. “Where did you get it again?”

Virginia’s mind went blank. What should she say? That she’d accidentally trespassed into the Grand Central School of Art? The truth was complicated. “Um, an aunt of mine had it for years. We just discovered it after she passed away.”

“Good for her for saving it. When you think of the remarkable works that have been lost to the garbage heap.”

“So true.” In fact, if Virginia hadn’t found the watercolor, it would have eventually been destroyed by a demolition crew. The thought alleviated her guilt a smidgen. Virginia tucked the portfolio under her arm and left, promising to keep Janice in the loop.

“I’m calling for Dennis Huckle, please. It’s Virginia Clay.”

Virginia covered the mouthpiece with her hand as she waited to be connected. Privacy was not an option in the information booth, and she certainly wasn’t supposed to use the phone for personal calls. But she’d been sweet-talking Terrence since she arrived that morning and had delivered the ten-thirty coffees to the staff at ten fifteen, even stealing a couple of sad-looking donuts from the employee kitchen at the back of the Station Master’s Office.

She’d already called the Lorette residence and briefly explained the situation to Mrs. Lorette, who seemed quite kind and set up an appointment for Virginia to stop by on Friday. But that was two days away, and in the meantime she’d decided to reach out to Dennis, stop waiting around for him to call her. After all, she was a modern woman.

This morning at breakfast, her brother and Xavier had cracked each other up, laughing at some story in the paper, and their silly joy had made her miss having a partner. She wouldn’t mind trying another round of sex as well. The first one had stirred up something in her that she hadn’t felt in years. On top of all that, she was dying to show off her new haircut. The crew in the booth had given it two thumbs up. Well, all except Doris, who told her she looked like a boy.

Long lines starfished around the information booth. Thanksgiving was the next day, the concourse brimmed with passengers, and Doris had even put down her nail file in order to keep up with the constant inquiries. These weren’t the regular commuters, who knew where they were headed and wouldn’t be caught dead asking a question. Instead, the terminal teemed with train travel neophytes who showed up at the information booth helpless and harried, unsure of where to buy a ticket or how to get to the correct platform. But the swarm kept Terrence off Virginia’s back for being on the phone twice in one morning.

“Virginia!” Dennis sounded pleased to hear from her, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Terrence glanced over at her, and she held up one finger and mouthed, I’ll be quick. A man in line at Terrence’s window rapped on the glass to get his attention, complaining he’d been pickpocketed.

“Hi, Dennis. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

“It’s a madhouse up here.”

“Down here as well. Everyone’s heading out of town at once.”

“We’re preparing to file a brief with the court next week, so I’ll be lucky if I get any turkey at all.”

She heard the sound of shuffling papers through the phone. “What are you filing?”

“We’re asking the judge to declare the landmark designation unconstitutional.”

“If you have time for a quick break, I was hoping I might pop up and take a look at the model of the new building, like you’d promised.” She hoped she didn’t sound too needy.

The pickpocket victim spotted a policeman and barreled over to complain to him instead. Terrence peered over at Virginia.

Dennis took a beat. “Sounds great. It’d be nice to see you.”

She hung up the phone, unable to hide the huge smile on her face.

“One of your paramours?” asked Terrence. Totto’s ears perked up, and Winston shifted around so he could keep one eye on his line and the other on what was going on inside the booth.

“No. That was just a friend.” She offered him the last donut, but he shook his head.

“How’s the studying going?” Terrence pointed to the binder.

“Fine.” While she loved the historical summary, the dry facts bored her. “How long did it take you to learn all this?”

“About a week.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Terrence has a photographic memory,” offered Totto. “Sees something once and never forgets it.”

“Do you as well?” asked Virginia.

“Me?” Totto looked confused. “No. Why would I?”

“I thought you were brothers.”

Totto laughed. “You kidding? I’m way better-looking.”

“He is,” added Terrence. “I’ll give him that.”

By now, Virginia knew what to expect from her coworkers: Doris bemoaning her sciatica and the sister-in-law who lived with her and her husband in Queens; Totto’s constant cursing how the city had changed and how rude New Yorkers were these days; Winston missing the warmth of Savannah; and Terrence keeping them all in line. Once she’d gotten over her initial claustrophobia, she’d found it was nice to be with people during the day, even if the job was a bore. Back when her days were wide-open, she’d filled them with nonsense, like committees that accomplished nothing.

She opened the binder but wasn’t in the mood to study. “Terrence, have you heard about this plan to demolish part of Grand Central and put up a skyscraper on top of it?”

Terrence propped up the WINDOW CLOSED sign and directed the next customer over to Totto. “Never gonna happen.”

“What do you mean?”

“This place has a legacy; it’s an important part of New York City’s history.”

“I happen to know one of the lawyers involved in the court case, and he says it’s a shoo-in.” She didn’t mean to sound like such a know-it-all. “I mean, the place isn’t exactly a shining example of New York City anymore. Everyone tries to avoid it if they can.”

She thought Terrence would get mad, as he seemed to take any affront to the terminal personally. But instead, he lowered his voice. “You don’t see it the way I do. You know how when you’ve known someone a long time, you still see them as youthful?”

She knew exactly what he was talking about. To her, Ruby was frozen in time, the happy girl with grand plans and knobby knees, even when she knew Ruby was a grown woman. “I get what you mean.”

“I still see this place as it was in the forties.” Terrence looked about, and she did as well, trying to picture what he described. “Gleaming and beautiful. A masterpiece. The red carpet rolled out for the Twentieth Century Limited to Chicago right there on track 34.”

She smiled as if she hadn’t heard the same thing a week earlier from Dennis. Boys and their trains.

“You see up there?” He pointed to the blackened ceiling. “That used to be a vivid turquoise color.”

Virginia laughed. He was teasing her. “No way. I don’t believe that one bit.” But he didn’t crack a smile. “In any event, it’s like a cave now, dark and scary. I don’t think many other people see it the way you do.”

“I suppose so.” His face took on a sad cast.

An irate man in a black top hat banged on the window. Terrence sighed, removed the WINDOW CLOSED placard, and patiently explained that the man’s mastiff would not be allowed on the train to Greenwich, under any circumstances.

After work, as Virginia waited for the elevator to the Penn Central offices, the metal grillwork above the doors caught her eyes. Like the filigree, the design was complicated and showy. A slew of wrought iron vines twisted around the floor indicator, and recessed in the marble trim immediately above was a leaf-and-acorn wreath in bronze. The terminal was like a giant gallery of hidden art; you just had to know where to look. What was that expression from her art major days? Memento mori, where an object in the artwork served as a warning of death. Usually, it was a skull or an hourglass, a bowl of rotting fruit. Grand Central, in its decaying splendor, was the embodiment of a memento mori work of art. If it came down, Terrence’s heart would be broken.

Virginia put on fresh lipstick as the car rose. She asked the receptionist to announce her to Dennis and planted herself in the same chair she’d waited in a week ago.

Dennis shambled out, looking tired, but when he saw her, he put his hands on his hips and laughed. “Look at that haircut. I love it. Very French.”

“Thanks.”

“Come right this way. I don’t have much time, but I think you’ll be impressed.” He put his hand on the small of her back to guide her, leaving it there a little longer than necessary, and she felt a zing of desire.

On a table inside his office, a large white model rose up three feet. Dennis’s description of the proposed skyscraper was apt. The building literally sat on top of the front half of the station, with long supports like spider legs jutting out onto the transverse. It was rectangular, windowed, and boring.

“What do you think?” Dennis asked.

She thought for a moment. “It’s very modern.”

“You bet. Think of all the rent money that will pour in, as well as the taxes for the city. It’s good for everyone.”

“Where will your office be?” she teased.

“Right there.” Dennis pointed to the top floor.

He leaned in and gave her a quick kiss before his phone rang. “Give me a sec.”

While he spoke, she studied the model further. Grand Central would become even darker, with the new building blocking most of the windows. Terrence and Winston and the others would be stuck belowground, like mole people.

Dennis hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, I have a meeting I have to get to.”

“Of course.”

She wanted to ask more questions about the new building, find out how exactly it would affect the railroad terminal, but before she could speak, Dennis kissed her, long and slow. When they drew apart, she was glad for his arms around her, or she might have wobbled to the floor.

She really shouldn’t have waited as long as she did to get out in the world after her divorce. With men like Dennis around, smart and just the right amount of burly, a woman could get everything that she didn’t get in a marriage: compliments, sex, and downtime when she could just be herself. Of course, he still didn’t know her secret. But for the first time, she could imagine telling him about the cancer. About her missing piece. As she walked down the hall, knowing he was watching her, she added a little kick to her step, a sway to her hips. It was nice being wanted.

Instead of going back down by elevator, Virginia headed to the art school, clutching the can of mace Dennis had given her last week, just in case any hoodlums might be lurking about. She tucked it back inside her purse as she wandered through the rooms, keeping an eye out for anything that might help identify the artist behind the watercolor. The lockers contained ancient paints, brushes with hardened bristles, and other detritus of no value. The narrow wooden slots for storing large canvases were mostly empty, and the few artworks that remained had faded, paint chips forming a mosaic beneath them. How sad for this place to be lost to time, with no one left to mourn it. The same could be said for the entire terminal, if Dennis got his way.

She combed through the desks in the small offices but discovered nothing other than a fountain pen, a jar of dried black ink, and a couple of pencils. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but in any case, nothing jumped out as important.

At the entrance to the storage room, though, she froze. Two new crates had been opened and pulled into the center of the room. The wall of artwork had changed again. Two bright monochromes in orange, which definitely hadn’t been there before, were tacked up in the very center. Someone had been in here, digging through the crates, putting paintings up and taking them down. Looking for something.

This was no ghost.

A muffled moan sounded from another room. She froze, hoping to hear Dennis’s baritone calling out her name. Had she locked the door behind her? She couldn’t remember.

Those thugs, the ones she’d encountered last week, might be back. If she screamed, who would hear her? No one.

She was trapped. She unzipped her purse to retrieve the can of mace, the sound louder than expected, and heard footsteps in response. A shuffling, followed by a loud bang.

Now there was no doubt in her mind.

Someone else was inside the school.

Virginia ran through her options. Whoever else was inside was somewhere between her and the front door. She looked about for a place to hide, a closet or under a desk. But the thought of staying put terrified her.

Running as if she was on fire, Virginia made it to the exit without looking right or left, staring straight ahead at her goal, sure that at any moment an arm would reach out and grab her hair, her clothes, and yank her backward.

She fumbled with the doorknob, breathing heavily, her hands shaking, and finally turned it. Bursting into the hallway, she headed right, to safety.

A man in a suit stood in front of the elevator. Thank God. Not Dennis, but not a thug. She looked behind her for the first time since her sprint. No one was there; no one was coming.

“Are you all right?” The man’s eyes showed a wary concern. She could only imagine what she looked like, rumpled, her face red, eyes wide.

“I’m fine, thank you.” The elevator opened.

“After you.”

She rushed inside, breathing hard, relief setting in only after the doors had closed.