The Gravity of Birds
In Rome, he hadn’t bothered answering the call from his mother when he’d seen the number displayed, certain she was calling with her wheedling voice, attempting to lure him back. He’d turned his phone off. Four months in Europe and there were still plenty of wounds to be licked. Then, days later, he’d turned his phone back on and seen the number of messages that had accumulated. It was late autumn, everything already skeletal and bleak, when he flew home for his father’s funeral. There he was, back in New York, more miserable than when he’d left; a pair of his father’s cuff links his most concrete evidence of ever having been Dylan Jameson’s son.
His father’s knowledge had been coupled with a poet’s soul, a deep appreciation for beauty in all its guises. Dylan’s understanding of what an artist hoped to convey, matched by a genuine desire for that artist’s success, won him legions of fans—new artists whose work had yet to be seen, established artists coming off a bad show or hammered by negative press, auctioneers who knew his father would have the inside track, appraisers who valued a second opinion.
Stephen, on the other hand, was intrigued only by methodology. What drove someone to create didn’t interest him, but the techniques used, and the idea that skill could be taught and passed on, did. How to distinguish between teacher and exacting pupil, to tell the true from the false? Establishing a work’s provenance was crucial to authentication, and often difficult to achieve. When absolute provenance could not be established, there were other avenues available, and this was where Stephen’s talent lay. He had the broad knowledge of an art historian combined with the hunger of an authenticator to prove the unprovable.
He was happiest engaged in solitary activities: studying pigments, performing Wood’s lamp tests, conducting graphology analyses. Hours sped away from him while he hunched over the signature on a painting, relishing the beauty in the pattern of ascenders and descenders; scrutinizing bold, heavy strokes as carefully as faint, trailing meanderings; deciphering that final touch of brush to canvas. Had it meant pride? Triumph? Or, as he often suspected, merely relief at having finally finished?
It was nothing more than coincidence that he’d been standing next to Cranston at an estate sale two and a half years ago; nothing beyond a fluke that they’d both been staring at the same unattributed painting. And when Stephen started talking, the words that came forth were meant for no one but himself; it was a habit too difficult to break, this reciting of facts as he divined them. The work always gave the artist away, no different than the tell of a gambler. But when the call came from Cranston with the offer of a job, Stephen knew it was not providence but the hand of his father, prodding him to pick up the pieces of his life and move on.
The phone buzzed from where he’d hidden it in the desk drawer. He hesitated, imagining Sylvia’s abrasive voice again insulting his eardrum. But when he looked at the display, he saw the call wasn’t internal. It was Professor Finch.
The last thing he wanted was an evening out with Finch, though Stephen’s options for companionship were few. Finch had limited contacts outside the world of academia, but he made up for it with his general knowledge of art history, and his very specific knowledge on one particular subject: Thomas Bayber. In addition to heading the committee who had authored Bayber’s catalogue raisonné, the professor had written two volumes on Bayber’s work, both lauded and favorably received. Stephen had met him years ago, at one of his father’s gallery parties. No one else at Murchison & Dunne was willing to parcel out the time to listen to Finch’s stories or take him out for the occasional Bushmills, to endure the pipe smoke and the dribble of brown spittle that inevitably formed in the corner of the professor’s mouth. But Stephen had to admit he found the professor’s company enjoyable.
‘Stephen Jameson.’
‘Stephen, it’s Dennis Finch.’
‘Professor Finch, I can’t talk just now. On my way out the door to a meeting. An appointment. An appointment for a meeting, I mean. Another time?’
‘Of course, Stephen. Although, if you could get back to me at your earliest convenience, I’d appreciate it. I wanted to speak with you about another Bayber.’
The air around him grew heavy. Stephen no longer heard the elevator as it groaned past his office, or the hiss of the radiator. Everything was still.
‘You said another Bayber?’
‘I did. I was wondering if you might be interested in authenticating the piece.’
Thomas Bayber was a recluse who had stopped painting twenty years ago and one of the most brilliant artists alive. One hundred and fifty-eight cataloged works, all in museums except for three in a private collection in Spain, one in Russia, and four others privately owned by parties in the United States. The possibility he might be the one to authenticate another caused Stephen’s hands to tremble. A find like this would all but erase any past mistakes. There would be interviews and promotions, expensive restaurants; he’d be taking the elevator to the top floor, if only to offer his resignation. The myriad possibilities caused him to break out in a sweat, and his nose ran. Then doubt began swirling in his head. Of all people, Finch would know whether a Bayber was authentic; he’d devoted his life to studying the artist’s work. Why not call Christie’s or Sotheby’s? A sour germ of suspicion curdled Stephen’s insides. Someone was setting him up. His tattered reputation would not survive a second humiliation.
‘Why me?’ he asked flatly.
‘Thomas asked for you, specifically. Since I’ve already compiled the catalogue raisonné and this is a piece unknown to me, he feels it would be better for someone less—shall we say, prejudiced?—to examine the work.’
‘He’s afraid you’d be inclined to denounce it, since it wasn’t included earlier?’
There was a pause. ‘I’m not certain of his reasoning, Stephen, but I agree with him. Having someone other than myself look at the piece would be best.’ The professor’s voice sounded strained. ‘There’s something else. Assuming you confirm the work as Bayber’s, Thomas wants it put up for auction immediately. He wants Murchison & Dunne to handle the sale. You may need to bring Cranston along.’
Stephen didn’t relish the idea of involving the president of Murchison & Dunne without first knowing the situation. On the other hand, if Cranston found out he’d examined the work on his own, he’d suspect Stephen of acting as his own agent instead of in the best interests of the firm. Better to talk to Cranston right away. If they both saw the piece at the same time and it was a fake, Stephen could expose it as such, saving Murchison & Dunne any humiliation. If the piece was a Bayber, it would not be lost on Cranston that Thomas Bayber himself had asked Stephen to authenticate it.
‘When?’
‘I was hoping tomorrow afternoon. If you can make yourself available, that is.’
Stephen ignored Finch’s rather pointed dig. ‘We can be available.’ They set a time, and Stephen copied the address on a scrap of paper before hanging up the phone. His hands shook as he punched in the numbers of Sylvia’s extension, and he wiped his palms on his trousers while waiting for her to pick up the phone.
‘Sylvia.’ His voice reverberated with strange authority. ‘I will meet with Cranston this afternoon, but not in regards to the Eaton estate. We’ll be discussing something else. Something confidential. Book a conference room.’ He hung up without saying anything more, and pictured Sylvia’s shocked expression, her mouth like that of a beached fish, opening and closing in a stunned, breathless sort of O.
Chapter Four
The following afternoon at exactly 1:15, Stephen found Cranston pacing the marble floor of the lobby, the heft of his belly riding over his belt, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his camel’s hair coat. Beyond Cranston’s grousing about the rain, little conversation was exchanged during the car ride, for which Stephen was grateful. Cranston had made it clear the previous afternoon he thought it unlikely anything would come from this meeting, but on the slim chance Bayber and Finch weren’t attempting to pull off some sort of scam, the firm had an obligation to assess the situation before contacting the authorities and reporting the two of them for attempted fraud. Despite his declarations to the contrary, Stephen could see Cranston was imagining the possibilities should there be any truth to the story. Murchison & Dunne had never played at this level; the thought of what an acquisition like this would do for the firm’s reputation, for future business, and for the guaranteed good fortune of Mr. Cranston himself was not lost on the man.
‘Before we go any further, let’s be clear. I’ll do the talking, Mr. Jameson. I’m still not sure I understand why the query came directly to you, but since it has, I feel it only fair you be there. Strictly in the capacity of an observer, of course.’ The car pulled over. The sidewalk was obscured by several bags of trash and the shell of an old television set. Cranston sniffed. ‘Let us hope for your sake, Mr. Jameson, this turns out well.’
Stephen groaned inwardly and nodded. Cranston’s tone made clear his tenuous position. Since Finch’s call yesterday, Stephen had suspected something was up, wondering if he heard the catch of deception in Finch’s halting speech. But even this wariness couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm for meeting Bayber. That the two of them would be in the same room at the same time had guaranteed him a giddy, sleepless night.
They picked their way up the front stairs, avoiding the bits of garbage twisted around the bases of the stair railings, and were buzzed in promptly when they rang the bell; no one asked for their identity. The elevator was tiny, and Stephen, holding his tool case to his chest, was forced to stand between Cranston and a stooped woman carrying a thinly furred cat, a long leash dangling from the collar around its neck.
Finch answered the door while Stephen was still knocking. The professor grabbed his hand before Cranston’s, shaking it firmly and pulling him across the threshold.
‘Come in, but mind where you walk. Thomas keeps it dark in here. I rolled over a pencil earlier and saw my life flash before my eyes.’
There was a quick nod of acknowledgment to Cranston as he shuffled in, then Finch closed the door behind them, striding across the room and claiming his spot—a badly frayed bergère with a high back and sagging cushion.
Stephen looked around in astonishment. It was like a movie set, a strange splicing of horror film with twentieth-century period piece. Heavy, floor-length curtains shut out most of the light. The walls were a dull blood red with strips of paper spiraling away from the corners as if trying to escape, the ceiling moldings flocked in dust. The air blowing from the register ferried smells of old food and whiskey. Chairs were scattered around the room in no discernible arrangement, and Oriental carpets, all of them frayed and worn, several with bare patches interrupting the pattern, had been laid at odd angles. It was a drunk’s nightmare—an indoor field sobriety test composed of a maze of furniture and hazards at differing heights.
Bayber was nowhere to be seen, but Stephen heard repeated sounds of rustling and periodic crashes in one of the back rooms, as if an animal was trapped in too small a space. The thought that a man whose talent he had long admired could be so close, that he might actually be shaking his hand in a matter of moments, caused his throat to go dry. He tried to compose something to say by means of an introduction to indicate he had at least a modicum of intelligence when it came to the man’s body of work.
‘I’m glad you could join us, especially with so little advance notice,’ Finch said.
‘We could hardly ignore such an invitation.’ Cranston gave Finch a tight smile, but Stephen could see he was on his guard. A previously unknown Bayber surfacing now, appearing to be consigned to Murchison & Dunne to dispose of, viewed in the dim light of a derelict apartment. It made no sense. Cranston had the uneasy look of someone who suspected he was the mark in a game of three-card monte.
But Stephen could barely contain his enthusiasm. No matter the outcome, the day had already surpassed any of those he’d muddled through in the past thirty months. For whatever reason, the fates were dangling an opportunity for deliverance in front of his nose.
‘Is he here?’ he asked Finch, gesturing toward the rooms at the back of the apartment.
‘He’ll join us shortly. In the meantime, can I offer you gentlemen a drink?’
Stephen clutched the glass of whiskey Finch handed him as if it were something sacred. Cranston demurred. ‘Need to keep my wits about me,’ he said, frowning at Stephen, who noted his superior’s expression, but nonetheless downed the whiskey in short order.
‘Perhaps,’ Cranston started, ‘while we are waiting, you could provide some background. Mr. Jameson did not seem to have many details to offer.’
Finch’s face remained placid, and Stephen marveled at his calm demeanor. Surely he must be upset? On the phone, he’d claimed not to have seen the painting, nor did he know anything of its subject matter, when it had been painted, or where it had been. Stephen thought him remarkably restrained considering the catalogue raisonné he had spent years compiling was no longer complete or valid, the omission by his friend appearing to be intentional.
‘I’ll allow Thomas to provide additional illumination, since my knowledge pertaining to the piece is limited. I can only say that yesterday the existence of another Bayber was made known to me. Per Thomas’s wishes, I contacted our colleague Mr. Jameson here.’
Cranston flashed him a quick glance and nodded slightly. Stephen was unsure whether the look was one of admiration or merely a reminder that as chief representative of the company, Cranston would do the talking.
Ignoring Finch’s reticence, Cranston continued his queries. ‘This piece, a study, perhaps? For a work already in the catalogue?’
Finch’s eyes narrowed before he turned toward the bar to refill his glass.
‘No, not a study. A rather large oil from what I understand.’
‘I see.’ Cranston rubbed his thumb across his chin. ‘You can understand my surprise, Professor, although I hope you will not take it as any lack of interest on the part of Murchison & Dunne. Past auctions of Mr. Bayber’s work have been through larger houses, and I admit to having some curiosity as to why we, alone, would be the fortunate party to be considered.’
‘I imagine Thomas has his reasons. Artists. Eccentrics all of them, yes?’ Finch paused and tipped his glass toward Cranston. ‘You don’t feel unsure of your ability to get a good price for the piece, do you?’
‘Not at all. Should we decide to accept it, the auction would receive our utmost attention. No detail would be overlooked.’
Stephen bit the inside of his cheek. As if there was any question they would accept the piece.
Finch shot Cranston a hard look, unfazed by his disclaimer of caution. ‘I’m sure that will set his mind at ease.’
The heavy curtains hanging from an archway leading to the back rooms parted. Stephen saw first the hand that held the drape aside—the long fingers, the speckled skin against the deep red fabric of the drapes. Then the rest of Thomas Bayber entered the room. He was as tall as Stephen, only slightly bowed with age, and he moved deliberately, not as if the act of walking required specific effort, but as though strategy was associated with each step. His eyes darted among the company gathered as he navigated his way toward a chair next to Finch. He settled into it without a word and held out a hand, into which Finch promptly placed a glass. For the first time, Stephen pitied the professor. He performed the role of lackey seamlessly, and Stephen understood that he and Cranston were witnessing behaviors finely honed from years of repetition.
The air in the room was stifling. Unable to control the tickle at the back of his throat, Stephen coughed emphatically, his face flushing as he tried to find the glass he’d set down earlier.
‘Perhaps, Mr. Jameson, it would be prudent to switch to water at this point,’ Cranston admonished after thumping him hard on the back.
‘Yes,’ Stephen said, running his thumb between his shirt collar and his neck. ‘That would be prudent. My apologies.’
Finch and Bayber looked at each other and to Stephen’s profound humiliation, began laughing. He felt the flush in his face deepen as whatever confidence and enthusiasm had shored him up earlier ebbed away.
‘I apologize, Mr. Jameson, but it’s as true now as it ever was. Another’s misfortune is always the easiest way to break the ice. Regardless, I am delighted to finally meet you.’
Bayber’s voice carried the resonance of a well, and in spite of Stephen’s resolution to remain indifferent he was entranced by the man staring at him intently. He knew Bayber was in his early seventies and had assumed, perhaps because he’d been out of the public eye for such a long period, that the artist’s physical stature would have diminished. But aside from his complexion, which was deathly pale, and a degree of hesitation in his movements, he was much as he was in the pictures Stephen had seen: tall and lean, his head erect, his hair now a thick crest of white. His manner was imperious but at the same time charming.
‘I knew your mother through the gallery, Mr. Jameson, though not your father. He was a rare man, I believe, someone worth admiring. The world would be a kinder place for artists, indeed, for people in general, were there more like him. Allow me to express my sympathies.’
It was unexpected to hear his father mentioned at the precise moment Stephen was thinking of him, his fingers rubbing the cuff links he kept in his jacket pocket. His father would have been thrilled to be in such company: his friend Finch, the pompous Cranston, and Bayber, a man whose talent he had lauded in spite of the artist’s renowned moral lapses. If only he’d allowed me that much latitude, Stephen thought, quickly ashamed of himself. Bayber was studying him. To think the man had been in his father’s gallery and Stephen had never known.
Bayber cleared his throat. ‘Pleasantries aside, let’s get down to business, shall we, gentlemen? I have a painting I want to sell. I’m assuming it’s a painting you will be happy to sell for me, yes?’
‘Once we have an opportunity to examine the piece and verify its authenticity, we would be delighted,’ Cranston said.
Bayber held his hands together as if in prayer, the tips of his fingers resting against his lips. Stephen realized he was attempting, poorly, to hide a smile.
‘Of course, Mr. Cranston. I would expect nothing less. And here we have with us, in this very room, two men who should be able to provide you with a definitive answer as to the authenticity of the piece, do we not? Mr. Jameson, would you mind?’
Bayber gestured to the corner of the room, where a pile of tarps covered the floor. Stephen walked over and gingerly lifted a corner of the top tarp, only to find another beneath it. He rolled back five in total before the faint gleam of a gilt edge made him catch his breath.
The room was silent. Stephen shook his head and fixed himself firmly in the moment, shutting out all but the work in front of him. Fighting the desire to pull the entire tarp away from the painting, he focused initially only on the frame, and gently nudged the tarp to the side until the entire vertical edge of it was exposed.
‘Little Miss Muffet, sat on a tuffet,’ he recited half under his breath. He began every examination with some rhyming nonsense to quiet his mind and aid his concentration. Finch had been right, it was a large piece. The frame itself was a thing of beauty: a cassetta frame in the Arts and Crafts style of Prendergast, featuring a hand-carved cap with a gently coved panel and reeded ogee lip, furnished in water-gilt, twenty-two-karat, genuine gold leaf.
‘Eating her curds and whey. Along came a spider …’ The gold had been agate burnished over dark brown bole on the cap and lip and left matte over green bole on the panel. The corners of the frame were punched and incised with an acanthus leaf motif, and the gilding had been given a light rub to expose the bole. The joinery appeared solid, and the overall condition of the frame was good. With its size, the frame might be worth ten to fifteen thousand or more.
He glanced over his shoulder. The other three watched him intently. He pushed the tarp away from the painting and pulled a pair of cotton gloves from his jacket pocket. After removing his watch, he waved a second pair toward Cranston, saying, ‘Your watch will need to come off, and your cuff links, as well.’ He looked up at Bayber.
‘Where?’
‘Here, I think. Against the wall.’
Cranston nodded at Stephen, and the two of them lifted the painting cautiously and carried it to the far wall, where a small bit of sun spilled into the room. They gingerly rested the painting there, then stepped back and stood alongside Finch, and Bayber, who had risen and was clutching the back of the chair. Stephen wondered if he felt any anxiety, or if insecurity had long ago left him. But the man looked more pained than anxious, as if his memories of the piece were not happy ones. The three of them looked at the painting and with raised brows, looked at Bayber, studying him quickly before turning to look at the painting again.
A tarnished plate on the bottom edge of the frame read, ‘Kessler Sisters.’ The scene was of a living room in what appeared to be a large cabin—rough-paneled walls, wood floors, a high ceiling with a sleeping loft. A late summer afternoon. Open windows ran across the back of the room, and the curtains had been painted to suggest a breeze. Stephen could almost feel the breath of it on his neck. A fringe of ivy softened the window’s perimeter; a sliver of water was visible in the far distance. Diffuse light dully illuminated various surfaces: a slice of the faded Oriental carpet covering part of the floor, the face of a grandfather clock, the open pages of a book on a coffee table. The room was crowded with objects, each limned with an eerie glow, no doubt from the underpainting, as if everything carried an equal importance.
Three people anchored the center of the painting: a young man, perhaps in his late twenties, and two younger girls. Stephen’s skin prickled. The young man was clearly Bayber. Whether it was the expression on his face or the way the girls were positioned next to him he couldn’t decide, but Stephen felt a flare of discomfort as he studied the canvas.
The artist had captured his own youthful arrogance, rendering himself in an honest if unflattering light. In the painting, Bayber lounged on a love seat, one pale ankle balanced on the opposite knee; there were scuff marks visible on his boat shoes. He wore a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows and the neck unbuttoned, and well-lived-in khakis, the wrinkles and shadows of wrinkles so expertly wrought that Stephen had to fight the urge to reach out and touch the fabric. Bayber’s hair was long, with dark curls framing his face. A throw covered the top of the love seat; one of Bayber’s arms stretched out across it, the other arm rested on his thigh. His expression was certain—that was a kind word for it; smug, a less kind word. He looked straight ahead, as if fascinated by the man capturing all of this.
The girls, on the other hand, were both looking at Bayber. The older of the two had a sly smile of the sort that breaks a father’s heart. Stephen thought she might have been sixteen or seventeen, but her expression made her look older, a hard, knowing glint in her eyes. She was standing behind the love seat to the right of Bayber. Her blond hair was pulled back off her face into a sleek tail that cascaded over her shoulder and turned into curls. Small gold hoops in her ears caught the light but were too dressy for her costume—a pale green, sleeveless blouse and jeans. Her skin was the color of warm caramel, and he could tell at a glance she was the sort of girl things came to without her having to ask for them. Like Chloe, Stephen thought, remembering the pale flesh in the crook of her arm when he turned it over. One of this girl’s hands rested on Bayber’s shoulder, but as Stephen took a step closer to examine the painting, he realized she was firmly gripping him there. The joints of her fingers were slightly bent, the fingernails pale, the fabric of Bayber’s shirt puckering just beneath them. Her other arm hung casually at her side, disappearing behind the fabric of the throw.