The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

March 1975

Friday, Clara decided to give her notice to Terrence. She waited until Virginia took her afternoon break and then turned her WINDOW CLOSED sign around.

“Terrence, I want to tell you some news.”

Terrence held up one finger. “Hold on, I just have to figure out the answer to this question on the crossword. ‘Old Russian ruler known as Moneybag.’ Do you know the answer to that?”

She shook her head.

“Anyone else in this godforsaken booth know the answer?” He repeated the question.

“What? Money what?” yelled Doris.

This would not do. “Terrence, it’s important.”

“So is this.”

“Ivan I.” Winston, of course.

“It fits!” Terrence yelped, scribbling in the answer.

Virginia emerged from the tube that hid the spiral stairway and barged over to Clara. “Come with me. Quick.”

“I already took my break.”

Virginia was panting as if she’d taken the stairs three at a time. “No. You have to come. Quick. They’re here.”

“Who?”

“The Lorettes. I spotted them heading up here from the lower concourse. Look.”

She pointed to an older couple in coats with their backs turned. Clara couldn’t be sure. She hadn’t seen them in decades.

“Let’s go.” Virginia turned to Terrence. “I need Totto’s help; we’ll be right back.”

They left Terrence beaming at his completed crossword and hightailed it across the concourse, skidding to a stop right as the couple was about to take the stairs to the West Balcony.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lorette.” Virginia’s voice boomed out, surprising even Clara. She didn’t know the girl had it in her. “Stop.”

The Lorettes turned around. Forty-five years had gone by since Clara set eyes on them. They each carried a handsome old leather suitcase and were similarly weathered, wrinkled and spotted with age, like shriveled crab apples. Not that Clara hadn’t also lost the bloom of youth years ago. The dry heat out west had that effect.

Mr. Lorette’s voice, when he spoke, had the same affected accent, a mix of Maine and continental Europe. The shakiness of age heightened the aristocratic effect.

“Who are you?”

Virginia stepped in. “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Lorette. We’d like to talk to you. Come this way, please.”

“Why should we? We’ve really had enough of your nonsense.” Mrs. Lorette waved them away.

Clara edged closer. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

Mr. Lorette peered at her. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am. Clara Darden.”

“Clara Darden?” Mrs. Lorette peered at her through smudged glasses. “But Clara Darden is a woman.”

Clara was about to answer when Virginia jumped in. “We can’t talk here. Follow me.” She led them around the corner to a small waiting area that Clara recalled was once known as the Kissing Gallery, where reunited sweethearts were allowed to kiss as long as the smooch lasted less than five seconds. Today, the ornate lamps flanking the departure board were dark, the room drafty. A couple of homeless men slept along one wall on thin strips of cardboard that offered minimal protection from the cold marble floor.

“How do we know you’re really her?” Mr. Lorette drew closer. “No one’s heard from her in years.”

“Who else would know that you banished my illustrations at the faculty exhibit?” snapped Clara. “Who else would know that the sketch was done during one of my illustration classes, based on the model we were lent by Vogue?”

Mr. Lorette’s face changed in an instant, from dark to light. “You are Clara Darden. I can see it. Your face, you’re her.” He came forward and held out his hand. “What a pleasure to know you’re still alive. There’s not many of us left. After all these years.”

Clara exchanged glances with Virginia. This man was not to be trusted.

But maybe all was not lost. After all, they’d shared a history, of a time and place that could never be repeated. A love for art. They spoke the same language. Maybe now that the Lorettes knew they were dealing directly with Clara, they’d relinquish her watercolor. Indeed, the theory that they were the sellers of The Siren could be way off base. For all she knew, Virginia had alienated them and forced them to abscond with her work. They probably thought she was as nuts as Clara did.

“Why the disguise?” asked Mr. Lorette.

“It’s an art project.”

“Like Bowie.” Virginia looked around, pleased.

The Lorettes answered in unison. “Who?”

“Never mind.” Clara had to find out more. “What happened that summer? Did Oliver take the painting? Or did you find it?”

“Honestly, Clara, we don’t know.” Mr. Lorette leaned hard on his cane. “We have no idea how it ended up at auction.”

“What about the watercolor?” Virginia again. “You took it from me.” The woman had no idea when to tread lightly.

“You originally took it from the art school,” said Mrs. Lorette. “We don’t know who you are. If anything, we’re protecting it.”

Mr. Lorette grew stern. “This is about more than possession. It’s about protecting art, protecting a legacy.”

“Whose legacy?” asked Clara.

“Levon Zakarian’s.”

“The watercolor is mine. You can tell from the sketch on the back. Which means the oil painting is also mine.”

“Did anyone else see you painting it?”

“Oliver, of course. Levon.”

“Both are long gone. Did anyone who’s still alive see you painting it?”

No. No one. There was no point in saying the words out loud.

Mr. Lorette shook his head. “Then there’s really no proof at all that it’s yours. I’m sorry, but how do we know you’re not trying to claim Zakarian’s legacy for your own? You were an illustrator. That’s all. No one ever saw you paint, really paint. You did magazine covers and car advertisements and that sort of thing. Then you appear out of the blue, claiming a watercolor that you say proves you’re Clyde? Fishy, all around.”

Clara couldn’t believe his audacity. “Why would Levon not use his own name for those works? You know as well as I do what an enormous ego that man had. Besides, he couldn’t paint at that time. Lead poisoning. His arm was numb. I did the paintings. All of them. Including The Siren.”

Mrs. Lorette shook her head. “Is that what you’re calling it? But no one saw you paint any of them.”

“What about the existence of the watercolor?” asked Virginia.

“The watercolor is nothing.” Mr. Lorette dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “We had it evaluated. It’s meaningless. Artists copy each other all the time. Levon was copying Picasso for ages, until he hit his stride. For all we know, you were copying Levon.”

A policeman peered in on them. “Everything all right in here?”

Mr. Lorette continued, emboldened. “You were a second-rate illustrator, selling your name and your work for the masses. Not like Levon, who was a genius. Then you show up decades later, trying to ruin him?” He drew Mrs. Lorette closer to him and started edging in the direction of the policeman. “We are the protectors of his legacy, and we’ll do everything we can to keep you from meddling. Including calling lawyers.”

“I know lawyers.” Virginia, barging in again. “I have friends who will take up our case. We’ll track down the watercolor and get it back and prove to everyone that Clara is Clyde. Don’t think we won’t.” But her voice trailed off as the policeman offered to escort Mrs. Lorette up to the street.

The Lorettes were right. The last thing the art world wanted was someone coming in and upending what would be a deliciously rich sale of a work by a master. How Levon would have loved this, being called a genius, selling a painting for gobs of money.

That afternoon, Clara gave her notice to Terrence. He pleaded with her to stay on past the Easter rush, and she relented. On top of not wanting to let down a friend, she also wanted to prove to herself that she wasn’t running blindly away, like she had the last time.

Four weeks and then she could leave all this behind her.

It was time to seek solace out west, just as she’d done before.