The Masterpiece

CHAPTER NINETEEN

October 1930

Take a load off; with this rain, no one’s coming in anytime soon.”

Clara nodded to her boss—a former anarchist with the heart of a dove named Romany Marie—untied her apron, and settled into a booth at the back of the empty restaurant. A week after she’d moved into the fleabag hotel, Romany Marie had seen the desperation in Clara’s eyes as she sat at a table and offered her a waitress position.

The restaurant had once been the artistic heart of the Village, but these days few folks came by. Those who did knew that Romany Marie would let them gorge themselves on free rolls and all the coffee they could drink. She clanked around the small restaurant with her jangly necklaces and full skirts and confided to Clara that she came from Red Hook, not Romania. But she lent the place an air of mystique that other diners lacked.

After an unseasonably warm couple of days that made winter seem far away, the temperature was supposed to plummet that evening. These days, cold weather was a threat, not a nuisance. The radiator in Clara’s hotel room clanged constantly but emitted no heat, and a cold spell meant it would be impossible to paint, even if she wore fingerless gloves. Her waitressing shifts left her too exhausted to paint, anyway. Really, there was no point.

Closed galleries, slashed museum budgets. No one in their right mind would waste money buying a painting these days. Artists were at the bottom of the food chain. They had nothing of value to offer; they didn’t bake bread or knit scarves. They put liquid on paper and watched it dry. That was it.

But guardian angels were out there, if you looked hard enough. Like Romany Marie, who frequently ushered pale, trembling artists into her back office—men who had been heralded twelve months earlier—and bought a work or two off them.

The reverberations from her father’s fall from grace had stayed with Clara throughout the heady days of success, prompting her to sock away everything she could, but nothing could have prepared her for the futility of the times. The highest-paid woman artist in America. What a joke.

She looked up to see a blurry figure at the door. A man swept in as if on a tidal wave.

Levon.

She ran to the kitchen, told Romany Marie she wasn’t feeling well, and hid behind a column where Levon couldn’t see her, peeking out to watch their exchange.

He wore the finely cut jacket that had replaced his ratty wool one soon after he began to sell, and raindrops tipped off a sleek black fedora. In his stylish ensemble, she could have sketched him into one of her editorial illustrations back in the day, accompanied by a woman holding the leash of a slick greyhound.

She didn’t want him to see her like this. Sallow. Skinnier than ever.

Miserable.

Romany Marie breezed by and shot her a quizzical look. “You go take care of him now. He asked for you.”

Clara inched over like a child about to be punished. He looked up and bellowed, “Clara,” before wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off her feet.

“Nothing’s changed, I see.” She pulled away and wiped the rain off her sleeves. “You’re a beast still.”

“I am a beast. But a hungry one.”

Up close, she could see his cheeks were gaunt, his old ruddiness now a pallor. No doubt a stick figure lurked beneath his beautifully cut suit. His fine clothes had distracted her from the truth.

And here she was hiding from him. “What can I get you? Did you give your order already?”

“Just some hot water is fine.”

She knew what he meant. The other artists did the same: Order hot water, then add to it whatever was on the table—ketchup, salt, pepper—to make a thin soup.

“No. You need something more substantial.”

“Really, hot water will do. I don’t have anything.” The last sentence came out in a whisper.

She retreated into the kitchen and pulled a big chunk of cheddar out of the icebox and a roll from the basket. “For a dear friend,” she said to Romany Marie. “You can take it out of my pay.”

Romany Marie shrugged her off.

Clara sat down with two cups of coffee and pushed one over to him. “It’ll warm you up.” He took a few sips before picking up the cheese. The whole time, his left hand stayed in his lap.

“What’s wrong?” She indicated his arm.

“Lead poisoning. Damn pencils.”

A memory of Levon gripping a thick chunk of pencil lead in his fist popped into her head, the pad of his hand as gray as an angry ocean. He’d light a cigarette and take a smoke break without washing it off, practically ingesting the poison. For a fastidious man, such carelessness.

“I’m sorry. How are you doing? What do you do now?”

“No shows, of course. I teach some private lessons, mainly society ladies who feel sorry for me. I can’t paint again until the numbness goes away.”

“When does your doctor think that’ll happen?”

“Soon, I hope.” He lowered his voice. “I am sorry about what I did. In Maine. That Oliver left you because of my silliness.”

His silliness, and her own stupidity. She’d been greedy, wanting both Levon and Oliver to herself. Her arrogance had rivaled Levon’s, and in the end he’d found her disappointing. Which served her right. Even in the darkness, she’d caught the look of distaste on his face after they’d pulled away from each other.

How long ago it seemed. “Don’t be sorry. Oliver didn’t even give me a chance to explain. I hear he’s out in California, now, with that actress girl.”

“I ruined it for you, and you miss him, I can tell.” Levon wiped his mustache.

“Not that, exactly. But it’s hard.” Hard to be alone. Hard without anyone else to share the burden of not knowing what was to come.

“What do you do?” Levon asked. “Besides this.” He gestured around the empty restaurant. “Do you paint?”

She shivered involuntarily. “No. It’s too cold in my room.”

“Even Fifth Avenue landlords are being stingy?”

“I’m not living there anymore. I had to move out.”

“Where, then?”

“The Hotel 17.”

He took her hand. “You’re freezing, even here. Come with me. We must warm you up.”

After checking in with Romany Marie, she left with Levon. His studio was exactly as she remembered it, immaculate and ordered, except for a bowl of fruit rotting on a table. A blackened banana had caved in on itself, and three apples were patchy with mold. Fruit flies fluttered about, and a sickly scent permeated the entire room.

“How can you stand it?” She held her nose while he picked up the bowl of fruit and dumped it out a window. “Are you in a memento mori phase these days? I can’t blame you.”

But when she saw the canvas on his easel, she regretted her flippant response. Levon had attempted to draw the fruit when fresh, but the lines were shaky, feeble. He’d abandoned the drawing halfway through and, knowing him, refused to throw out the fruit as a fetid punishment for his ineptitude.

Levon put some wood on the fire and sat Clara in the armchair in front of it, draping several blankets over her.

“Coffee?” He held up a familiar blue-and-gold can.

“You have Martinson’s?”

“Of course. I don’t skimp when it comes to my coffee. Only the best. I have to keep up appearances.”

“You do a good job of it. I was sure you were a wealthy man when you walked into the restaurant. How do you manage?”

“My private classes. My society ladies treat me like a pet. They bring me cans of coffee and their husbands’ old hats, bestow gifts on me for my services.”

“Your services?”

“An introduction to the world of beauty. They are my patrons, and I grovel accordingly.”

She studied him as he made the coffee, tried to keep her tone light. “Why do I suspect the lessons involve a serious examination of anatomy?”

He shrugged but didn’t answer her question.

“How thrilled the ladies must be to have a distinguished painter visit them in their parlors and provide attention that their distracted husbands cannot.” She checked herself, her sarcasm unwarranted. “You’ve kept the studio, though. Must be worth it for that alone.”

“True. My services are much appreciated.”

She could have sworn that was a smirk on his face.

Clara pushed off the suffocating blankets. “Lucky you, remaining solvent by being able to charm old ladies.” She hit the word charm hard.

He leaned against the table, waiting for his fancy coffee to brew. “You’re angry with me for that?”

“Only because I don’t have the chance. If the situation were reversed, and I was asked by the idle, rich men of New York to tutor them in the ‘painterly arts,’ I could never boast of it. I would be considered a disgrace, a prostitute, whoring myself out. Yet you get to indulge in the same behavior and strut about like a rooster with no repercussions.”

A look of shock crossed his face at her crassness. “These women, they are sad. They are devastated and unsure. Just like you.”

“Does that mean you’re going to mess about with me, too?” She glared at him. “Don’t even think about it.”

Levon poured the coffee into two chipped, mismatched cups, set them on the small table beside her, and knelt down.

“Don’t be angry, Clara.”

Her anger came from all sides, from Mr. Bianchi’s words, which still smarted, from Oliver leaving her to flounder, from the fact that she had had so much and squandered it all.

He took her hands in his. “You must live here, with me, from now on. I’ll keep you warm.”

She’d done everything she could to push him away. Her eyes burned with tears. “I have nothing to offer you.”

“I have nothing either. But I’ve already lived through this kind of hunger, day in and day out. We sucked on stones, we ate grass, anything to fill that void, even if nothing would come of it. But there are other ways to fill the void. With painting, with art. I’ll show you.”

“How to suck on stones?”

“No, no. You don’t understand.”

“I do, Levon.” Her tone softened. “I do understand.” She studied the artworks against the side wall, where he stored his best. “Where’s the painting of your mother?”

“It’s in the bedroom, turned to the wall. I can’t bear to look at it if I can’t work on it.”

He looked like he was about to cry, his eyes big and round, like the boy’s in the portrait with his mother.

Clara’s petty resentments subsided. “I shouldn’t judge you on your students, your arrangements.” She kicked off one shoe and rubbed the arch of her foot, wondering what to say next. She’d never been at a loss for words with him before, and their friendship would never be the same if she didn’t address what happened in Maine. Best to get straight to the point. “The night on the beach, I’m sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“Disappointing you.”

“Yes, I was disappointed.” His forcefulness made her heart sink. “With myself, for having stepped over the lines of friendship. I couldn’t help myself, though, and I don’t regret it. Well, yes. I regret not chasing after you, telling you to stay with me, not Oliver.”

They sat in silence for several moments. She could hear her heart beating.

“I’d like to paint you, Levon.”

He stared hard at her, a challenge, but she knew he’d give in.

He rose and gestured to the art supplies on the worktable. “Help yourself. Might as well get some use out of them. Where do you want me?”

“Sit on the model’s stand. With your arms on your knees.” He did so. The white of his shirt accentuated his darkness: olive skin, black hair falling over his forehead, the thick mustache above his lips. He gazed across the room at the rain falling outside, lost in a reverie as she worked. Satisfied with the sketch, she squeezed lines of paint onto the palate, mixed and remixed them, before dipping her brush and applying paint to canvas. She worked fast, knowing that he wouldn’t sit for her again. This was her one chance.

Later, as the paint dried, they made love on the pile of blankets in front of the fire, a chaotic feast of long limbs, bony elbows, and hunger.

The next couple of months flew by. The painting Clara had made of Levon that first evening was stored in the tiny bedroom, as neither of them wanted any of their friends to see it. It was too personal, a window into their shared pain and pleasure. They satisfied their desires as often as they could as the weather grew cold, as if the friction of their bodies might stave off the harsh winter ahead.

Whenever Romany Marie had leftover food, she’d give it to Clara to take home, and she and Levon invited all the artists they knew over for dinner. Clara provided the household with food and cash, while Levon offered shelter and paint supplies. She harangued him when he insisted on the best: Lefebvre paints and Winsor & Newton brushes. At least once a week he came home with an art book tucked under his arm, an extravagance they could not afford, including a rare edition on Brueghel, which she threatened to toss out the window but surreptitiously curled up with in front of the fire whenever she knew he’d be out for the afternoon.

The only other fights were over his meticulous management of his art supplies. She was used to the chaotic splatter of watercolors, of the mess of paint on her work clothes. He put up with that, flinching whenever a drop of paint fell on the floor, but insisted she place each brush back in the correct pottery vase along the windowsill when finished, arranged by size, the bristles clean and dry.

When he was called for a lesson uptown, they didn’t speak of it. He wandered off, and she didn’t question him when he returned looking rumpled and abashed.

Sometimes, he had to give a lesson in the studio, and she’d return to find her painting of him turned to the wall, the covers of their bed pulled up tight, even though they never bothered to make it otherwise. Or she’d come home to him with his shirt off, violently scrubbing the studio floor, the easels and chairs and tables pushed to one side, as if he was trying to erase all signs that another woman even walked upon the parquet. A small price to pay, she told herself.

She continued painting, Levon strolling behind her every so often with encouragement or a suggestion, miming with his hand the correct brushstroke to use. Some days it was as if she were channeling him, channeling their energy together. She painted whenever she could, making up for his own lost time in a way, never knowing how long their luck would last. How long they’d be able to hold out here without the landlord raising the rent and sending them packing. Her work was more dreamlike than anything she’d done before, save The Siren. She was determined to push herself as far from illustration, from realism, as she could go.

On Christmas Eve, they invited several friends over. The celebration would be lackluster compared to years past, the china mismatched and the linens frayed, but at least it was something. A sense of humility permeated the discussions these days, as the economic devastation had leveled the field. Salacious topics—artist affairs, gallery scandals—were replaced with more elevated discussions on politics and art. Levon no longer spoke over everyone else with his commandments and pronouncements. Nor did anyone else, for that matter.

Romany Marie had offered two roasted ducks for their Christmas Eve celebration. Levon balanced them in his arms while Clara fiddled with the lock to the studio.

“Hurry up, woman.”

“I am. It’s not working. No, it’s unlocked.” She pushed open the door. “You’ve got to remember to lock it; what if someone came up here and stole everything?”

“Like what?”

“Your fancy art books. To burn in a fire to keep warm. You’d be upset.”

“Now, now, children.”

Felix stood on the far side of the room. He shrugged. “It was unlocked.”

“You’re an hour early.” Clara walked over to give him a kiss.

“You both seem well.”

“As well as we can be.” Levon set down the ducks before pouring them all a drink from the bottle of wine he’d received from one of his Park Avenue students. “Any good news on the horizon?”

Felix wandered about the room, his eyes darting from canvas to canvas. Clara had planned on hiding the paintings away before anyone arrived. “The government is considering financing a program where artists get paid to work. To paint murals for new buildings, build sculpture for public spaces, that kind of thing.”

“How much would they pay?” she asked, trying to divert his attention.

“Who knows? It’s a long way off. Artists are low on the list of people to be propped up these days.”

She put the drink in Felix’s hand. “Here, come sit by the fire.”

He dropped heavily into the chair and raised his glass. “I have good news for you, Levon.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m glad I came early, before you cleared the room. They’re glorious. I can find a buyer for these. Even in this market, this is phenomenal. The Museum of Modern Art will want to see them. You’ve made great strides.”

Clara froze.

Levon took a sip of his wine and responded coolly. “Do you think so?”

“Absolutely.”

“What do you like about them? Why do you like them?”

“How do I sum it up? They’re glorious, free, and yet they show so much pain. It hurts to look at them, but I couldn’t stop. I can’t stop.” He leaned forward. “Your arm must be much improved. Thank God for that.”

“They’re not mine. They’re Clara’s.”

“No.” Felix blinked. He looked at Clara, then back to Levon. “Yes?”

“They’re all hers. I can’t paint yet. Soon, but not yet.” He held up his bad arm, letting it tremble.

Felix sat back in his chair, contemplating the news. “That’s a shame.”

“What’s a shame?” Clara wiped off her hands on a dishrag and joined them, leaning against the mantel above the fire. “You say they’re good. They can be sold.”

“Not until the Depression’s over. Your timing is off. Heck, even if you were a man, the fact that you’re known for drawing clothes and cars makes it an unlikely leap.”

Levon stood. “It’s the art that matters, not the person who made it.” Clara held out her hand to calm him down, but he shook her off. “We’ve been talking for months now about the purity of art. How this Depression has rid us of our commercial obsessions. Her work is as pure as it gets.”

“I agree, it’s not fair. But in this climate, no gallery would take a chance on a woman illustrator these days.” Felix turned a skeptical eye on Clara. “Even if she were as good as Picasso.”