The Masterpiece

CHAPTER TWENTY

December 1930

The party dragged on well into the next morning. No one had anywhere else to go or anything else to do. Christmas was sure to be dismal compared to holidays past, so what was the point of rushing home? Levon drank more than usual and jumped up several times to perform Armenian dances. To the cheers of their guests, he lumbered about the room caterwauling at the top of his lungs, crashing into the table and sending glassware flying.

Clara didn’t bother to hide her petulance from her place in the corner, where she sat on a pillow on the floor. Every so often, Levon looked at her with his big brown eyes, lips in a pout, trying to rouse her spirits. But she refused to engage. Not that anyone else noticed. Their guests were drinking heavily, the more successful artists in chairs, with various girlfriends and former students sprawled about on the floor around them. Again, the men in thrones simply because they were men. They had access to the best galleries and patrons, and because of that, they became better known, and because of that, they were rewarded with success.

It wasn’t fair.

And not exactly true. Other women had done well. Georgia O’Keeffe, of course, and Mary Cassatt. Even Clara had experienced a blazing, if temporary, success.

One of the artists had brought his small dog along, a stocky terrier who curled up on Clara’s lap. She ran a hand down his spine. The dog looked up at her with soft eyes, then he was out again, snoring softly.

He wore a thin leather collar, flaked with age. No tag. She wondered what he was called. When the crowd began to dissipate, she lifted him off her lap and placed him in the warm chair where Levon had been.

That odd dog in Maine, Clyde, came to mind.

Clyde.

The name she’d used for The Siren, after Oliver’s peevish criticism.

Buzzing with excitement, Clara herded out the last of the stragglers, holding Felix back with another pour of wine. His face was flushed—even better, to break through his defenses. Convince him.

“We can show the work. My work.” She stood, her feet slightly apart, in the middle of the studio. Levon cleared up a broken glass beside the sink, and Felix slumped at the table, hat in one hand and wine in the other.

“How is that, my dear?” Felix exchanged a tired glance with Levon.

“You say that it’s by an unknown painter, one you’ve just discovered. Named Clyde. I sign all the paintings with that. You explain that the painter wishes to stay unknown.”

“Unknown? Why on earth?” Levon laughed at her. Of course, he couldn’t imagine staying anonymous. His big presence was part of his art. But hers was not.

“Why not? You said they’re good. Everyone will assume they’re by a man. They can be judged on what they are, not who I am. Or am not.”

Felix shook his head. “It’s not a parlor trick, exhibiting paintings.”

“Maybe it should be.”

Levon dropped the shards of glass into the trash. They tinkled like wind chimes. “Why not? What do you have to lose, Felix?”

Felix set down his glass. “Do you have any idea how much money it takes to put on a show? You artists, you all think it’s a matter of hanging paintings on a wall and waiting for the crowds to come.” He counted off on his fingers. “I must find a suitable space, arrange to have all the paintings framed, solicit potential buyers in a discreet yet unyielding manner. There’s a kind of magic required. An expensive magic. I can’t take that chance if I can’t guarantee sales.”

She stood her ground. “We know you can do it. You’re the best, Felix, and you love the work. Shouldn’t it come down to that? The work will sell. You’ll be hailed as the man of the hour.”

“Stop flattering me.”

“If it’s about the economics, I can help.” Levon stepped closer. Together, the two of them were circling in on Felix. “I’ll pay for the framing.”

“How? How will you do that?” Clara asked, dreading the answer.

“I’ll take up more private lessons.”

“No. You don’t have to do that.”

Felix took off his glasses and cleaned them with the edge of a napkin. “If you can pay for the framing, we might be able to pull it off.”

“We’ll do it, don’t worry,” Levon insisted.

“I’m not promising anything.” Felix stood and pulled his coat off the coatrack by the door. “And I’m drunk. So don’t count on it, either of you. Stop ganging up on me.”

Clara gave him a kiss before he headed out into the early morning.

“Thank you, Felix.”

“Clyde? Insane. Both of you. All three of you.”

And he was gone.

“Where are you going now? And what’s in the satchel?”

Clara didn’t mean to sound like a harpy, but she’d been painting for two months straight, ever since they’d hatched the Clyde show idea, and had serious cabin fever. Felix had arranged for an exhibit to take place next month, early April, when he hoped the change of weather from winter to spring would encourage art lovers to open their wallets.

She’d let Levon and Felix handle all the details. Clara didn’t care where, or when, the show would happen, because the pressure to create enough paintings to fill the room was enough to deal with. Some days she didn’t venture outside at all.

Levon gave her a quick kiss. “I’m heading uptown. Do you need anything? More supplies?” The man was adept at changing the subject when it came to his mysterious errands.

But she knew what he was up to. Raising money from his Park Avenue ladies to help get the exhibit mounted, to get enough cash to pay for frames. Earlier that morning, she’d spied a note on the dresser signed Nadine, which had turned her stomach. Sharing him with anonymous old biddies was one thing, but a mutual acquaintance, especially that wretched girl, was quite another. Not that Clara had said anything, knowing she should shut up and be grateful for his efforts on her behalf. He’d even begun filching from his own bookcase when he thought Clara wasn’t looking. The strap of the satchel strained against his shoulder.

“Please stop selling your art books,” she implored, not for the first time. The books were like his children, each one precious. “You don’t have to do that. We’ll find another way.”

He patted the side of the bag. “Never you mind. Besides, once the show’s a great success, I’ll buy them all back, first thing.”

Any talk of the show made her squirm with irritation. “When you return, I want you to paint as well,” she said.

Levon’s doctor had declared his symptoms much improved on his last visit. Yet he’d resisted Clara’s entreaties to pick up a brush. The more he resisted, the more she pushed him. Partly to offset her own nerves, and also because she feared the longer he put it off, the harder it would be to find his footing.

“Stop with that, woman.” Levon waved her away. “Concentrate on your own work.”

“But what about you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Then paint with me.”

He let the satchel fall hard to the floor. “You want to see me paint?” He was beside her in a flash and snatched the brush from her hand with his left hand. “I tried it the other morning, when you were still asleep.”

He held the brush clumsily in his dominant hand. It fell to the floor after only a few seconds.

Such histrionics. “You didn’t even try. You have two hands. Paint with your other one.”

They’d been going at each other for the past couple of weeks, as the pressure ratcheted up. She shouldn’t pick fights, should let him go about his business, but she was desperate for something else to focus on. Something that would take her out of the terrible images she was painting day in and day out. Of the world turned upside down, where no one cared about the child crying alone on the street or the man with one leg shivering in the cold. The works were expressionistic, imprecise, as far away from her earlier work as an illustrator as possible. She imagined the art crowd stunned into repulsion by the sight of them, ridiculing one after another.

“I will not paint with my left hand unless you paint with your toes. Leave me alone.” Levon stormed off.

She let him go. Levon would paint again. Once the show was over, she’d have time to cajole instead of shame him into trying once more. Right now, her work crowded out everything else. It was loud and forceful and took up all the air in the room.

The day of the show, Levon and Felix spent the afternoon at the gallery, putting on the finishing touches, making sure everything was set. Clara had done a quick walk-through the day before, but Felix asked that she stay as far from the place as possible, to avoid giving anything away. He’d insisted they not hang the painting of Levon she’d done, to avoid adding fuel to the speculative fire. Which was fine with her. During her short visit, Felix pulled Levon and Clara into a back room to reveal good news: A third of the paintings had already sold.

The pride on Felix’s face, and the joy on Levon’s, made the past several months of agony well worth it.

Felix’s approach had worked beautifully. He’d shown the paintings to a select group of still-wealthy collectors and the city’s art critics that morning, and the mystery around the identity of “Clyde” had upped the ante.

The evening of the opening, Clara put on her peacock dress, her one fine frock, and headed uptown. A crowd surrounded the entrance to the gallery, and she slipped in unnoticed. She thought back to her first show, at the Grand Central Art Galleries, where her illustrations had been relegated to a back office. Not this time. She’d clawed her way to the top back then. Against all odds, she would be famous once more by the end of tonight.

She relished the idea as she wandered through the rooms, unremarked upon, invisible.

A young, new illustrator was now the hotsy-totsy Vogue cover artist. A man had supplanted her at Studebaker. Everyone could be replaced, but Clara refused to be forced down and out. Not by her father, by Mr. Lorette, nor by Oliver.

Oliver. If he hadn’t destroyed The Siren, it would have been the highlight of the show. She’d tried to replicate it but couldn’t and finally had given up. That painting had sprung from a particular place and time, of cool Maine sunrises and her rising awareness of her love for Levon.

Levon stood in the middle of the main room, surrounded as usual by admirers, men and women. A man nudged her on the elbow, and she turned to see Mr. Bianchi.

“Miss Darden, are you here to find out who this mystery artist is, like the rest of us?” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his shiny forehead. “They better do it soon or the place will explode from anticipation.”

“I’m sure it’ll be soon.” She spied Felix in one corner, adjusting his tie and murmuring to the critic from Art in America magazine. “What do you think of the paintings?”

“They’re exquisite. I’m kicking myself for having spent money on a painting just last week. If I hadn’t bought that, I would pluck one of these right off. But times are tough.”

Right. So tough he could only afford one painting, instead of two. She tamped down her anger. Not now. He’d learn the truth soon enough. “What painting did you buy?”

“A Zakarian. Felix turned me on to it. A private sale, and Felix said it’s one of his best.”

Levon hadn’t mentioned any sale.

No. He couldn’t have.

“Which Zakarian was it?” She knew the answer before Mr. Bianchi opened his mouth.

“One of a boy standing next to his mother. It’s strange and kind of eerie, but Felix assured me it would go up in value in another ten years. That I just have to hold on to it.”

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Levon had sold his best work so that her exhibit could go on. She looked around to find him, but he’d disappeared.

Mr. Bianchi continued. “I’ve stashed it in the carriage house on the estate for now. I don’t want it in my apartment or my weekend house; it’s not a happy painting, you know? I’ll wait until the market recovers and it rises in value, before selling it to the highest bidder.”

The thought of that painting sitting in a damp carriage house, abandoned and probably eventually forgotten, made her ill. How could Levon have done this?

She made her excuses and turned to go outside, to get some air, but it was too late. Felix was calling for everyone’s attention. Levon stood a little apart from him, off to the side.

The time had come. She hoped she wouldn’t be sick.

“I know everyone is here to learn the identity of my new discovery.” Felix’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “I have quite a secret and am very eager to share it with you.”

The crowd was silent, almost worshipful. Clara hated them all. Hated them for how easily led they were, not by artistic merit but by whatever was the latest craze. Clara was the next big thing, the fur coat on the cover of Vogue, the art deco door handle on a car. They would eat her up and spit her out again.

Felix held up both hands. “However, I can’t tell you just yet.” He waited until the crowd’s groans and protestations died down. “We’ve been asked to do an exhibit in Chicago in two weeks. The works of Clyde are traveling across the country so that even more people will be able to see firsthand these astonishing and provocative paintings. Then, and only then, will we reveal the identity.”

Somehow, Felix found his way to Clara through what was almost an angry mob. Levon caught up and pulled them into the back hallway, closing the door behind him.

“What are you doing, Felix?” Levon demanded.

Felix patted them both on the shoulder. “This will widen our reach.” He looked at Clara. “You’ll not only be a New York sensation but a national one. Trust me. Two weeks, and you’ll be at the pinnacle of success. By stretching this out, we’ll increase the value of the unsold works even more. We’ll add in that one of Levon you did, sell out completely. You’ll be rolling in it, have enough money to ride out this Depression in fine form.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Clara asked.

“I didn’t want to raise your hopes before I knew for sure. They committed to us just now. We’ve done it, though.” He was practically levitating with excitement. “We’ve done it.”

In the week and a half since the exhibit, Felix’s predictions had come true. All of New York was talking about Clyde, and newspapers across the country had picked up on the story of the mystery artist, with experts weighing in on who the painter might be.

“Did you remember to pack your good suit?” Clara yelled out from inside the taxi, as Levon and the driver jammed their suitcases into the trunk of the cab.

Levon slid in beside her and pulled the door shut. “Of course I packed it.” He paused, scratching his chin. “Or did I leave it hanging up on the bedroom door?”

“You left it. Since you’d already headed downstairs to catch a cab, I put it in my suitcase.”

“You’re a doll.” He kissed her on the nose. “Grand Central, please.”

The cab pulled out, the driver careening around the other cars as if they were in a race. She checked her watch. They had a good forty minutes before the train to Chicago—the 20th Century Limited—would pull out. Plenty of time. She couldn’t help but tease. “I was tempted to toss it out the window to you. How could you forget your one good suit?”

“I have other things on my mind.”

She couldn’t tell if he was kidding her or not. Levon’s name had been one of many bandied about in the press as a possibility. Better to address the situation now, rather than when they were trapped in a Pullman car with Felix. She shifted in the seat so she faced him. “A lot of people think you’re Clyde, Levon. Do you wish you were the artist? Have I put you in a strange position?”

He chuckled. “I don’t mind one whit. All the better to surprise them with the truth when the artist is revealed. To be honest, it’s a relief not being the artist du jour for a change. I find I’m bursting with ideas these days. Once you’re established, I’ll be on my way.”

“Once we have the money, we’re paying for you to see the best doctor in town.” She still regretted forcing him to pick up a paintbrush.

“I have a surprise for you. Look.” He held out his left hand, palm down.

Even with the bumps of the taxi, she could see he had control of the limb, finally.

She yelped and hugged him to her. “No tremors! That’s wonderful.”

“Progress, my dear. When we return, we’ll move to a bigger studio.”

She shook her head. “You’re probably sick of me by now. We could get two studios if you like.” The city zoomed past; she looked out the window and watched it go by rather than check his reaction.

“One. I don’t want to change anything.” He threw his arm around her, and she curled into him, breathing in the scent of smoke and spice.

“We’ll buy all your books back, and more.” She paused. “And we’ll get your painting back from Bianchi.”

Levon went rigid with anger. She hadn’t broached the subject yet, unwilling to break the charm of happiness between them, the glimmer of hope. “How do you know about that? Felix, running at the mouth again?”

“No. I saw Mr. Bianchi at the opening.” She put one hand over his heart, unable to look up at him. “I know you did that to help me, and I also know how difficult it must have been. But I’ll talk to Mr. Bianchi; he’ll be happy to sell it back. We’ll pay whatever we have to.”

She took his silence for agreement and didn’t press him further.

The cab lurched to a stop on Forty-Second Street, where a redcap took their bags and led them down the ramp to the main concourse. “Track 34, leaves six o’clock sharp.” He pointed to the right. “Enter that way.”

Levon gave Clara a sly smile. “Thanks, we know the station well.” He tucked a tip into the porter’s hand.

“I’m going to buy an Evening Post before we board,” said Clara. “Do you want anything from the newsstand?”

“Not a thing. I’ll march ahead and make sure Felix hasn’t had any trouble with the crates.”

“See you in a few.”

The newsstand had an unusually long line for a Saturday. She paid for the magazine and turned to go.

“Clara.”

Oliver hovered just outside the newsstand, his hands in his pockets. A rough stubble covered his cheeks.

“Oliver. What are you doing here?”

“I saw in the paper that Felix was on this train. I figured you’d be, too. Since you’re Clyde.”

She tried not to react.

“Clara, I’m here to apologize.” Oliver’s brightness and confidence had dropped away since they’d last seen each other, replaced with a weary heaviness that Clara knew all too well. “When I realized what you’d accomplished, how amazing this has been, I had to see you and say I was sorry. Can we talk?”

She looked at her watch. Ten minutes to six. “Only for a moment.”

He guided her to the side of the doorway, out of the way of the foot traffic. “I knew the artist was you when I saw the paintings were by Clyde. The stubborn dog, up in Maine, right?” He scuffed one heel on the marble floor. “There I was telling you to quit, when it’s what’s made you famous.”

“I’m not famous, not yet. How’s your lovely bride?”

“Violet’s still in Los Angeles. It didn’t work out.” His mouth started to twitch. “I miss you.”

A memory of their last car ride together swept over her: the two of them skidding along a Maine dirt road, carefree on a windy summer day, Clara whooping for him to go faster. They’d shared an easy way of traversing through the world back then that had since been decimated.

Clara laughed harshly. “Really? Now, all of a sudden, you miss me?”

“I became too protective, like you were my creation, not a person in your own right. I shouldn’t have done that. But I did help you, right? Early on?”

“You were very helpful, Oliver.” He had been. As his ambitions had faltered, he’d tried to pull her closer to him, to tie her down. In return, she’d cut him open with that kiss on the beach. “I’m sorry for what happened in Maine.”

“I acted like a fool.”

“As did I. You were right to be jealous. I didn’t understand myself what was going on between me and Levon. I was confused.”

“I heard you’re with Levon now.”

“True.” She didn’t elaborate, not wanting to hurt him further.

He frowned. “You’re too much alike. Do you think he’s going to be able to take your fame? We both know he’s full of himself. Always has been. Maybe for now it’s working, but there’s no way it’ll continue without resentment.”

She recoiled. “We’re fine. You don’t know the half of it. Don’t forget that you’re the one who destroyed my painting. Levon would never have done that. Ever.”

“I walked down the beach to find you, to tell you I wanted to announce to everyone around the fire that we were engaged. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Only to come upon you kissing him.”

“It wasn’t like that. Not then.” There was no point in explaining.

She began to walk away, but he grabbed her arm. “No, wait. I lied about the painting. The one you were working on in Maine. I never destroyed it.”

The painting she’d mourned for the past year, watching it swirl by in her dreams, night after night. She shot him a hard look. “Where is it?”

“I hid it in the attic. I’ll get it back; I want to make this up to you.”

She had no idea if he was lying or telling the truth. Her watch read six minutes to the hour.

A strange look glinted in Oliver’s eyes, one she’d never seen before. If she walked away, would he deliberately destroy it just to spite her?

Clara desperately wanted to have The Siren back. The artwork was the touchstone to everything she’d done since. She had two options: She could catch the train and never see her painting again. Or stay in New York, find out if Oliver was telling the truth, and possibly recover The Siren. If she took option number two, she could send a telegram to the Chicago train station, to be delivered to Levon and Felix upon their arrival, explaining everything and saying that she’d be arriving a day later. Of course, Levon would be fuming by then. Or crazy with worry.

She thought of Levon’s lost painting, buried somewhere in Bianchi’s carriage house. Levon had given that up, voluntarily, so she could have her chance.

And now she had to do the same. She’d give up The Siren.

“You can keep it. Do whatever you want with it. I don’t care.”

His face fell. “We were good together. I helped you; I helped you get to where you are now.”

“Where I am now is late.” She checked her watch. Five minutes. A man yelled out in the middle of the concourse, and Clara looked over in time to see a woman run into his arms in front of the information booth. As they kissed, her eyes traveled up to the large clock on top.

No. It couldn’t be.

The clock read six o’clock on the nose. Which was when the 20th Century Limited to Chicago was due to depart.

Her watch read 5:55. Five minutes slow.

She took off, as fast as her Mary Janes allowed, sprinting across the marble floor and through the entryway to track 34. The train was still there; it hadn’t left yet. But she tripped on the edge of the crimson carpet that lined the platform and lost time recovering her balance.

Imperceptibly at first, so that she wasn’t sure if she could trust her eyes, the train began to move. She screamed for it to wait, but the roar of the engine muffled her cries.

She stared after it, tears in her eyes, watching as everything she loved disappeared into the black tunnel.