“Now let us consider some examples,” continued Anton, “and see if you can detect the hand of a lesser mortal. The first is of a painting currently on display at the Frick Museum in New York.” A slide was beamed up on the screen behind Anton. “Rembrandt, I hear you cry, but the Rembrandt Research Project, set up in 1974, would not agree with you. They believe that The Polish Rider is the work of at least two hands, one of which may — I repeat, may — have been that of Rembrandt. The Metropolitan Museum, just a few blocks away from the Frick on the other side of Fifth Avenue, was unable to hide its angst when the same distinguished scholars dismissed the two portraits of the Beresteyn Family, acquired by them in 1929, as not executed by the Dutch master.
“Don’t lose too much sleep over the problems faced by these two great institutions, because, of the twelve paintings attributed to Rembrandt in London’s Wallace Collection, only one, Titus, the Artist’s Son, has been pronounced genuine.” Anna became so engrossed that she began taking notes. “The second artist I would ask you to consider is the great Spanish maestro, Goya. Much to the embarrassment of the Prado in Madrid, Juan Jose Junquera, the world’s leading authority on Goya, has suggested that the “black paintings,” which include such haunting visions as Satan Devouring His Children, cannot have been the hand of Goya, as he points out that the room for which they were painted as murals was not completed until after his death. The distinguished Australian critic Robert Hughes, in his book on Goya, suggests they are the work of the artist’s son.
“And now I turn to the Impressionists. Several examples of Manet, Monet, Matisse, and Van Gogh currently on display in leading galleries around the world have not been authenticated by the relevant scholars. Sunflowers, for example, which came under the hammer at Christie’s in 1987, selling for just under forty million dollars, has yet to be authenticated by Louis van Tilborgh of the Van Gogh Museum.”
As Anton turned to display the next slide, his eyes rested on Anna. She smiled, and he put up a Raphael instead of the Van Gogh, which caused a ripple of laughter among the students. “As you can see, I am also capable of attributing the wrong painting to the wrong artist.” The laughter turned to applause. But then, to Anna’s surprise, he looked back and stared at her. “This great city,” he said, no longer referring to his notes, “has produced its own scholar in the field of attribution, who currently works out of New York. Some years ago when we were both students, we used to have long discussions into the night about this particular painting.” The Raphael returned to the screen. “After attending a lecture, we would meet up at our favorite rendezvous,” — once again he fixed his gaze on Anna — “Koskies, where I’m reliably informed many of you still congregate. We always used to meet at nine o’clock, following the evening lecture.” He turned his attention back to the picture on the screen. “This is a portrait known as The Madonna of the Pinks, recently acquired by the National Gallery in London. Raphael experts are divided, but many are concerned by how many examples there are of the same subject, attributed to the same artist. Some argue that this painting is more likely to be ‘school of Raphael,’ or ‘after Raphael.’ ”
Anton looked back into the audience to see that the seat on the end of the second row was no longer occupied.
Anna arrived at Koskies a few minutes before the suggested hour. Only an attentive student would have noticed that the lecturer had departed from his prepared script for a few moments to let her know where they should meet. She could not mistake that look of fear in Anton’s eyes, a look that is obvious only to those who’ve had to survive in a police state.
Anna glanced around the room. Her old student haunt hadn’t changed that much. The same plastic tables, the same plastic chairs, and probably the same plastic wine that couldn’t find an exporter. Not a natural rendezvous for a Professor of Perspective and a New York art dealer. She ordered two glasses of the house red.
Anna could still remember when she had considered a night at Koskies so cool, where she would discuss with her friends the virtues of Constantin Brancusi and U2, Tom Cruise and John Lennon, and have to suck a peppermint on the way home so that her mother wouldn’t find out that she’d been smoking and sipping alcohol. Her father always knew — he’d wink and point to whichever room her mother was in.
Anna recalled when she and Anton first made love. It was so cold they both had to keep their coats on, and when it was over, Anna even wondered if she would bother to do it again. No one seemed to have explained to Anton that it might take a woman a little longer to have an orgasm.
Anna looked up to see a tall man coming toward her. For a moment she couldn’t be sure that it was Anton. The advancing man was dressed in an army greatcoat too big for him, with a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, topped off by a fur hat with flaps that covered his ears. An ideal outfit for a New York winter, was her immediate thought.
Anton took the seat opposite her and removed his hat, but nothing else. He knew that the only heater that worked was on the other side of the room.
“Do you have the painting?” asked Anna, unable to wait a moment longer to find out.
“Yes,” said Anton. “The canvas never left my studio the whole time you were away, as even the least observant of my students would have noticed it wasn’t my usual style,” he added, before sipping his red wine. “Though I confess I’ll be glad to be rid of the damn man. I went to jail for less, and I haven’t slept for the past four days. Even my wife suspects something is wrong.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Anna, as Anton began to roll a cigarette. “I shouldn’t have placed you in such danger, and what makes it worse is I have to ask you for another favor.” Anton looked apprehensive but waited to hear what her latest request would be. “You told me you kept eight thousand dollars of my mother’s money hidden in the house.”
“Yes, most Romanians stash the cash under their mattress, in case there’s a change of government in the middle of the night,” said Anton, as he lit his cigarette.
“I need to borrow some of it,” said Anna. “I’ll refund the money just as soon as I get back to New York.”
“It’s your money, Anna, you can have every last cent.”
“No, it’s my mother’s, but don’t let her know, or she’ll only assume I’m in some sort of financial trouble and start selling off the furniture.”
Anton didn’t laugh. “But you are in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?”
“Not as long as I have the painting.”
“Would you rather I held on to it for another day?” he asked, as he took a sip of wine.
“No, that’s kind of you,” said Anna, “but that would only mean that neither of us was able to get a night’s sleep. I think the time has come to take the canvas off your hands.”
Anna rose without another word, having not touched her wine.
Anton drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette, and left a few coins on the table. He pulled his hat back on and followed Anna out of the bar. She couldn’t help remembering the last time they’d walked out of Koskies together.