Offerings, p.6
Offerings, page 6
“Cass has a lot more to fall back on than we do.” Not long after Ascalon went public, Peter’s partner married one of the Johnson girls of the Fidelity Johnsons. She inherited a hundred million dollars when she turned thirty.
“He’s under a pretty tough prenup, so this is his own money, but I don’t deny what you’re saying. But still, I can’t ask him to carry the whole load. I have twice as many shares as he does. Besides, I just can’t let what’s left of my team go without killing any hope of even the Chinese wanting us, let alone anyone topping them. That’s what this is all about.” He sounded more frightened than convinced.
Three hundred thousand dollars would buy Kate and Peter a good deal of time with their banks. Kate was determined to hold onto their home even if it meant exhausting both her savings and her pension. It wasn’t only for Mack’s sake. She and her mother moved twice after her father died, each time to a smaller and meaner place. Kate slept on the sofa from the time she was fourteen until she left for Penn on a scholarship. She clawed her way out of that life. She would not subject Sarah and Mack to anything remotely close to that.
“I’ve been working through a worst-case budget. Until Sarah came home tonight I was this close to pulling Sarah’s cello lessons out of it because it’s a thousand a month we need just to get by and you’re asking me to let three hundred thousand slip out of our hands like it was water. Tell me how I get comfortable with that idea.” It was a rhetorical question for which Kate expected no answer. “And Mack.”
Peter cut her off in mid-sentence. Peter’s voice showed how close Kate’s question had come to hitting a vital organ. “Didn’t you say we shouldn’t use the children as buffers? I know what I’m asking. I’ll always be able to get a job if Ascalon collapses entirely. I’ll stand on street corners with a squeegee and clean windshields for quarters if that’s what you want. I’ll sell one of my kidneys if I have to. Sarah will have her lessons as long as she wants them. Is that good enough for you, or do you want something in writing? I wish to God I could say the same thing about the house, but this money won’t be the difference whether we stay or go. The only way we can hold onto everything we have is if you get the top job at Drake and the money that comes with it. You know that as well as I do.” Kate took a step away from Peter as he continued talking. “Jesus, Kate, I feel as though we’re going through a divorce here, but I’m not the one leaving. Show some faith in me. That’s all I’m asking. I need to know you still believe in me.”
Kate stopped walking. She kissed Peter and then put her hand on his cheek. “You’re right.” And then she added, “My God, how much has changed since we bought the Leger.”
Peter whispered, “Don’t talk in the past tense, Kate. Whatever you do, don’t remind me of what we lost. I’ve let go of seventy-five percent of my people and I just can’t pull the plug on everyone else yet. Don’t ask me to do that. I’ll make good on the money. Please, Kate. Just this once.”
If she said no, the only thing Peter would hear was that Kate no longer believed in him. The effort to work through the residue of that message would be far greater than the task of having to climb over another three hundred thousand dollars as she worked her way out of the hole they were in.
“One condition, Peter. Promise me you’ll pay our bills with the rest of the loan. It’s important I hear that from you.”
THIRTEEN
A telephone call of introduction, an email saying only that she needed to trace the provenance of a painting that may have been sold by the gallery, and Kate had received an invitation to visit the Galerie Marc just off the Marketplatz in the old town of Basel in two days’ time. She stopped for a minute at the town hall, a red stucco piece of art in itself, hundreds of years old and decorated with medieval figures and a great wooden clock.
The façade of the two-story building housing the gallery once might have been bright yellow, but now was faded to a burnt tan. Two windows on the second floor were framed by dark green shutters. Clay flowerpots on the balcony and boxes on the windows and the railing were filled with red azaleas. The building opened to a small square. Kate hadn’t slept much on the plane. She splashed some water on her face at the airport.
A gentle tin bell announced her entrance. A small woman in a pale green dress greeted her with a smile and a Grüss Gott.
Kate extended her hand and business card. “Hello. My name is Kate Brewster. I’m the woman who called and emailed about your records of sales of works by Gustave Courbet.”
“Ah, yes. Gustave Courbet. The revolutionary.” The woman took Kate’s hand in return. “Chloe Marc. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, Miss Brewster.” Chloe was in her mid-sixties. Her white hair was pulled back in a bun. Her voice was textured. She had the same small stature, the wrinkles around her eyes that Kate remembered in her mother.
“Please, let me show you where your boxes are located,” Chloe said.
Kate would have told her mother about the trip, maybe even asked her to throw some things in a bag and to come along. Her mother had always claimed she didn’t understand what Kate did all day long and yet always found the right thing to say, the right tone, a little touchstone of judgment. But looking at Chloe didn’t remind Kate of her mother as much as it reminded her how much she missed her.
Chloe took Kate’s elbow. “If I may ask, Miss Brewster, I presume you’re attempting to authenticate a painting that has a gap in its provenance, is that correct? Such a terrible thing, what those Germans did. I hope you are able to find what you are looking for.”
She showed Kate into a small office in the rear of the gallery. The walls were filled with textile art in a rainbow of colors. There was a white table in the middle of the room surrounded by four red chairs. Kate showed her a picture of the painting; Chloe said that as cameras didn’t exist at the time the painting was sold they had no copies in their records. She wished Kate well in her efforts.
After some time (an hour? more? Kate seemed to be sleepwalking through the morning), Kate felt her BlackBerry vibrate in her bag. It was a message from Leslie Elliot.
Kate: I just called your office and found out you’re in Europe. I feel awful I didn’t have time to get to this before you left, but this all came up so quickly and I was in Seattle until this morning. I went back through some old newspapers. Franklin’s father was a sergeant in Germany after the war. He was arrested for stealing some artifacts the Nazis had looted and the army was gathering up. I didn’t find any reference to a painting, but that could explain his reluctance to discuss its history. I’ll write this up in more detail so you’ll have it when you return. Have a safe trip.
Kate shook her head. She rubbed her eyes and read the message a second time to be certain she hadn’t fallen asleep and dreamt the whole thing. How ridiculous it was to be sitting here only to read this report. How absurd.
It wasn’t Leslie’s fault. She had other things to do and couldn’t have known Kate’s schedule. But the idea that Franklin’s father stole the painting meant it couldn’t possibly be used in the deal.
Kate needed to stretch her back. She’d been fighting the time change, but Leslie’s message made her whole body sink into itself. She walked into the main portion of the gallery. There were two large rooms, bleached white walls and oak floors worn to the color of charcoal. They were so sloped and uneven they must have been original to the building, the very floors Courbet himself might have walked on.
Both rooms were filled with Paul Klee watercolors, skeletal trees, leaves seen as if through an x-ray machine. A small sign read L’art ne reproduit pas le visible; il rend visible. Kate thought for a moment Klee was talking directly to her. Peter’s bullish determination to hold onto the Leger at whatever cost to Mack and Sarah exposed a blind selfishness she’d never seen in him. What Leslie learned about Franklin’s Courbet made it obvious—visible—Drake would have to look elsewhere to start getting back on its feet.
Kate felt her BlackBerry vibrate once again in her pocket. It was Leslie asking if Kate needed anything more. She responded with a simple thank you. There was no point saying anything more.
Chloe approached Kate with a cup of tea in her hand. “It will be raining shortly. The weather will keep the patrons away. If you’d enjoy the company, I’d be happy to help you.”
“Thank you. I really never thanked you enough for your generosity in seeing me. Especially on such short notice. I truly do appreciate your kindness.” She didn’t need to be at the airport for several hours. She might as well finish the job that brought her here. It would be impolite to Chloe to do otherwise.
Chloe waved her hand. “It was nothing. I rummaged through the basement and found some old boxes, that’s all. It’s the least I can do. Other families have had similar requests and I’m only too pleased to help. If I play even the tiniest role in reuniting a family with a painting that’s rightfully part of its heritage, I would feel I’d done a great service.”
Kate returned the boxes she had examined to the basement at Chloe’s direction, making room at the table where she had been working. Chloe brought another chair. Each woman sat in front of a box, each with a cup of tea. “These smells remind me of my grandfather. I still can smell his pipe smoke on the papers.” Chloe held a folder to her nose and closed her eyes, as if in a dream. “For what name am I searching?”
The question embarrassed Kate. She somewhat naively hoped she simply would be given access to the gallery’s records.
Chloe presumed her faulty English was the reason Kate hadn’t responded. “I apologize. I don’t use English often enough. Is there a family name I should be looking for? On whose behalf are you researching the painting’s provenance?”
“The current owner has requested privacy,” Kate lied.
“Privacy? I’ve never heard of such a request.” Chloe’s voice rose in amazement. Her reaction was so spontaneous, so genuine, it took Kate a moment to recover. She hoped above all else Chloe didn’t press for more details. “I’ve been asked to look through these papers before under similar circumstances. In each case, the family wanted its interest in the painting under question as widely known as possible. I trust your client has posted its inquiry in one of the Internet sites devoted to reuniting families with stolen art. If they haven’t, I can give you details.”
“That won’t be necessary. Thank you.”
Chloe looked incredulous, but didn’t press for details. “This gallery has been selling the finest quality art out of the same building since the eighteen fifties. We have records going back to the beginning. Switzerland wasn’t drawn into either world war, of course, so the records never have been disturbed.”
Chloe held a receipt in her hand, but not for a painting by Courbet. Kate sensed she looked puzzled, that she hadn’t fully accepted Kate’s explanation that the family she had made up as her client wanted privacy. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken out of turn. I presumed you were searching on behalf of a particular family. I obviously don’t understand the purpose of your visit. Perhaps the painting’s current owner wants to know its provenance. It’s not my place to pry. However, if I am not searching for a particular family name, am I looking for a specific painting?”
“I believe it was named Le Dent de Midi, after the peak in the Alps.” Kate felt chastised.
Chloe shrugged, as if to say with her body what she’d just said in words, that it wasn’t her place to do more than be a gracious host. Kate apologized, said the long flight and the time change were catching up with her. She was afraid of saying anything more than she had to. The two women searched through the remaining boxes with very little conversation for the better part of an hour. The shuffle of papers was the only sound in the room.
Chloe’s voice eventually broke the silence. “Have you ever heard the name Hirsch associated with this painting?”
Kate was surprised, both by the sound of Chloe’s voice after such a long period of silence and by the commonness of a name. She was slow to react.
“Do you have evidence, Chloe, linking that family to the painting?”
Chloe was holding a receipt. It had been prepared by her great-grandfather in November, 1870. The receipt was for a painting by Gustave Courbet named Le Dent de Midi. It had to be what Kate came here to find. The receipt was to a Karl Hirsch, of Linz, an industrial town in Upper Austria on the Danube River, about an hour’s drive west of Vienna.
“It appears Herr Hirsch paid around three hundred Swiss francs. He made an excellent investment. I suspect a piece by old Gustave could fetch many millions today. He’d be pleased with that news. He was quite the showman, but he died penniless.”
Chloe opened the top of her small copy machine. A green light danced along the wall behind her for a moment. The printer whirred to life and three copies of the receipt slipped onto its small plastic tray. Kate closed all of the other boxes. She put them on the floor. Chloe put the three receipts on the table. Both women ran their fingers over Karl Hirsch’s name. Neither spoke for the longest time.
“Is it possible, Chloe, you have other records relating to Mr. Hirsch? Did your family keep letters or records of the people with whom they did business?”
“I wouldn’t know where to look if they’re not in the boxes which I found for you. You’re welcome to go back through them to see if there are any letters. I’d be surprised, very pleasantly so, I might add, if any member of a family named Hirsch from Mr. Hitler’s birthplace is alive at this point.”
Chloe’s reference was obvious. The odds of a Jewish family getting through that period were almost nonexistent.
Kate felt if she didn’t change the focus of their conversation she’d be unable to breathe. “Chloe, how does one authenticate a painting under these circumstances? What passes for a legitimate provenance?”
“That is a very murky area. There was much theft during that period, much confusion. Tracing the ownership of a painting can be hazy after the late nineteen thirties.”
“Hazy?”
“In so many cases, the chain of custody is broken. Tens of thousands of pieces of art and jewelry were appropriated from their rightful owners.” She touched the receipt Kate was holding. “I have no way of knowing with any certainty, of course, whether that was the fate of this painting. I hope Mr. Hirsch enjoyed it for a long and healthy life and then passed it on to his children. I wish life were that simple.”
“How do you authenticate the provenance of a painting in light of what you just told me? How are any of these pieces sold?”
“Business must go on. The art community has adjusted. A dealer will see words such as ‘private collection, London,’ with no other explanation and choose to let that suffice. But we all know what that means.”
Chloe put the original receipt into an envelope. She slid the envelope into the drawer in the middle of her desk. “From time to time you will read of a piece of artwork surfacing, and of course there’s been a bit of litigation over the occasional painting or statue. The issue is far from resolved. Even though the various Internet projects have facilitated the flow of information, there are so many gaps that never will be filled.”
Chloe paused. “You used the phrase ‘current owner’ before. Perhaps I’m reading too much into what you said, but that suggests there may be others who could lay claim to this painting. I’ve read of claims being successful on the basis of less proof than you hold in your hand.”
Chloe’s voice was gentle. “This is all a remarkable coincidence.” Kate looked puzzled.
“Mister Hitler fancied himself quite the collector. He wanted to build the biggest museum in the world to house all of his stolen goods.” She pointed once again at the receipt. “It is quite the coincidence that Herr Hirsch was from Linz. That’s where Hitler wanted to build the museum.” Chloe continued. “It’s also somewhat ironic you’re tracking down a painting by Gustave Courbet.”
“Ironic?”
“When he was younger, Courbet couldn’t get his work shown by the Salon, so he held his own exhibitions. I believe he was the first artist to do that.” Chloe slid all of the copies of the receipt toward Kate. “Hitler considered Courbet’s work degenerate. He wouldn’t put it in his museum.” She reached to whisk away a bit of a cobweb from below the windowsill.
Chloe swept some of the dust the ancient paper left on the table into her right hand. She shook the dirt into a red trashcan next to her desk. “Poor Gustave. First they wouldn’t let him into the Salon because his pictures were too scandalous and then they wouldn’t let him into Linz on the Danube. The dear man knew no peace.”
FOURTEEN
Ed asked to see Kate at ten. He and Steve needed to be in Boston by seven for cocktails and dinner with the head of the Harvard endowment fund. They had slightly less than ninety minutes before they needed to leave to catch the Acela.
The city looked like a postcard, but Kate was too exhausted to appreciate it. Ed wasn’t looking anywhere except at the copy of the receipt on the conference table in front of him. He buzzed Margaret King, asked her to bring him an Alka-Seltzer and then drank it as though she’d brought him hemlock. Steve sat somewhat rigidly next to Ed.
Clive Daley, the general counsel Ed had plucked from Barrington & Carlyle, fingered a copy of the Hirsch receipt. Clive was perhaps fifty, but an old fifty, in need of both an exercise program and hair plugs. But as the only lawyer in a room full of legal problems, what he had to say counted.
“Technically, this proves nothing. A man bought a painting several generations ago. He might have sold it. He might have traded it for another painting. Or a boat. Or a team of horses. His house might have burned down,” Clive said. He was an expatriate Brit who spoke in a clipped accent.
Kate hadn’t been able to shake the image that came into her mind somewhere over the Atlantic when she flipped on the light above her seat and put one of the receipts Chloe had printed on her tray table. It was as though Schindler’s List was streaming before her eyes. A well-dressed family rushing through their home, grabbing whatever they could while fierce men with guns drawn and snarling dogs at their side shouted they would be shot if they didn’t move faster. She said nothing, though. She wanted to see where Clive was taking this conversation.
