Picture This Read online

  ANTHONY HYDE

  Picture

  This

  Grass Roots Press

  Copyright © 2011 Tusitala Inc.

  First published in 2011 by Grass Roots Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  The Good Reads series is funded in part by the Government of Canada’s Office of Literacy and Essential Skills.

  Grass Roots Press also gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Government of Alberta through the Alberta Foundation for the Arts.

  Grass Roots Press would also like to thank ABC Life Literacy Canada for their support. Good Reads® is used under licence from ABC Life Literacy Canada.

  (Good reads series)

  Print ISBN: 978-1-926583-34-1

  ePub ISBN: 978-1-926583-56-3

  Distributed to libraries and educational and community organizations by

  Grass Roots Press

  www. grassrootsbooks.net

  Distributed to retail outlets by

  HarperCollins Canada Ltd.

  www.harpercollins.ca

  To Miss Lynn, Miss Earl, Miss Smith, Miss Mackenzie, and Miss Hendricks, Crichton Street Public School

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Love at First Sight

  “Mr. Stone?”

  “Paul,” I said. “Paul Stone.”

  “I called about your paintings.”

  “Sure. Come in.”

  On the phone, she’d said her name was Zena da Silva. Pretty? She was much more than that: she was beautiful. Curves in all the right places. Big, brown eyes. She stepped into the room and looked around, and I fell in love with her. Sure, why not? I think it was the eyes, mainly.

  Now those eyes widened and she smiled. “So you really are a painter, Mr. Stone.”

  “What were you expecting?” I said. “Isn’t that why you came?” I laughed. I was laughing at myself. Was I really falling in love?

  “I meant that you’re an artist, that painting is your life.”

  “Well, I don’t paint houses.”

  Yes, I was an artist. Poor. Struggling. Not quite starving. Painting was my life, but sometimes making a living was hard. My studio was the top floor of an old warehouse. I paid almost no rent, but the water only worked if you knew exactly how to bang on the pipes.

  Once, I think, my studio must have been used to store spices. After a heavy rain, the air always smelled of cinnamon and cloves. But it was a great home for a painter. High ceilings. A huge window that filled the room with light. My beautiful visitor had a great view of the paintings I’d leaned against the wall.

  I watched Zena as she bent down for a closer look at my work. That was a pleasure, watching her bend down. But don’t get the wrong idea. I fell in love because of her eyes. Turning up to me now, they were touched by sadness. And they made an appeal. A call. Please forgive me, they said. She was pretending. Faking. Acting a part. I’m not a bad person underneath, those big eyes were telling me.

  “I like these,” she said

  She did, too. I could see that. But I could see something else. “You’re not going to buy one,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. I truly would like to.” She paused. “I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed. You see, I really didn’t know you were an artist. A true artist, I mean.”

  “But you came to buy a painting?”

  “What I had in mind was a little different. I’m going back to Portugal soon. I am very close to my aunt and uncle there. They live in Lisbon, and my uncle paints as a hobby. I thought I would bring them paintings, pictures of my life in Canada. I have photographs. Could you paint a picture from a photograph?”

  “Sure.”

  Zena glanced down and opened her purse. I think she was glad to look away. She brought out three photographs and handed them to me.

  One of the photos was a portrait of Zena, a nice shot showing her head and shoulders. The second was the shore of a lake—pine trees, birch trees, huge rocks. The third showed three boys playing catch in a park, one wearing a bright red windbreaker. “I took that picture near where I live,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  You understand, I didn’t believe any of this. I didn’t believe her photographs, I didn’t believe in her aunt and uncle in Lisbon. But I believed her. Not who she was pretending to be but the person she truly was. The person I could see in her eyes. After a moment, I said, “All right. How soon would you want them?”

  “In a week. Is that too soon? I want real paintings, oil paintings. One other thing... I already have the frames. I’m sure that is terrible, asking you to paint a picture to fit a frame—” She broke of and looked at me.

  “Sure it’s terrible. But some people ask me to paint a picture to go with the wallpaper. You have the sizes?”

  She went back to her purse. Again, I think she was glad to look away. She had the sizes written on a slip of paper: 60×73 centimetres, 60.3×72.1 centimetres, 51.3×56.5 centimetres.

  “They’re not too big?” she asked.

  “No, that’s fine,” I answered.

  “Now, you must tell me what they will cost.”

  “How much do you think would be fair?” I said.

  She blushed. “No, no. You must say.”

  “All right. I say $500 each.”

  “Yes, good.”

  “But you should bargain,” I said.

  Her face turned pink. “You’re laughing at me.”

  “No, I’m not. But you’re very pretty when you blush.”

  She looked away again. When she looked back, her eyes had changed. Something hard had come into them, and I could see how strong she was, how tough. “I will come back for the paintings in a week,” she said, “and I will pay you $1,500.”

  “What’s your phone number? I’ll call when they’re ready.”

  “No, I’ll come back in a week. Next Thursday.”

  “Where do you live? I can drop them off.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind coming. I must thank you, Mr. Stone, you’ve been very kind.”

  “Paul,” I said. “You should call me Paul.”

  She hesitated, but then she nodded. “Paul.” She held out her hand, and I took it. Small, warm, firm. I liked her hand. I liked her hand and I liked her smile and I liked her eyes, even when they had gone a little hard. She was tough. Strong. Sad. They were all part of who she truly was.

  She closed the door behind her. I quickly crossed the room to my big window and watched as she reached the sidewalk and turned up the street.

  She didn’t want to give me her phone number, or tell me where she lived. Who was she? What was she up to? Two questions. Here was a third: Who did she think I was? I’d been a surprise, something she hadn’t expected. I’d never seen or heard of her before. How had she heard of me?

  I watched as she reached her car, a blue Toyota. She opened the door and slipped inside.

  I believed her eyes and her hand, but I didn’t believe anything else.

  She drove away and was gone, but when I closed my eyes I could see her perfectly.

  Like everyone else, you’ll think I did thi
s for the money, but you’re wrong. I was convinced by those beautiful eyes, from beginning to end.

  Chapter Two

  Victor, a Crook

  Three paintings, even small ones, are a lot of work for a week. I started right away.

  I began with the landscape. Probably the most famous Canadian painters are the Group of Seven. In the years after the First World War, they hiked and paddled their canoes through northern Ontario, drawing and painting. Zena’s photograph reminded me of their pictures, the rugged rocks and the dark shapes of the pine trees, the sun flashing off the waves on a lake. Looking at their paintings, you can almost feel the wind in your face. I did Zena’s painting in the same style, broad strokes, full of colour.

  Then, Saturday morning, I began on her portrait, from the head-and-shoulders shot she’d given me. It was a beautiful photograph. No, actually. It was a terrible photograph, but she was beautiful. I took my time. I could see a little sadness in her eyes—even though she was smiling—and I wanted to catch that. What was she sad about? Who was she, really? Why hadn’t she wanted me to know where she lived? All the questions I’d asked before flowed through my mind as I worked.

  That afternoon, the phone rang, and a few of my questions were answered.

  “Dear boy,” my caller said. I knew him well: Victor Mellish. “I haven’t seen you in weeks. Why don’t you drop in? I have a little work for you.”

  The sign on his store said Victor Mellish, Antiques. But the store wasn’t really a store, and the “antiques” weren’t really antique. They weren’t even old. Victor wasn’t even a shopkeeper. He didn’t sell much of the junk that was piled up behind the dirty window or on the dusty shelves. His shop was full of wobbly chairs, scratched tables, fake gold jewellery, and “vintage fashions” that were just used clothes.

  Victor was a merchant, a trader—but what he sold was information. Did you have a fine piece of silver you wanted to sell? Victor would know someone—perhaps even a museum—that wanted to buy it. A rich banker had lost a fortune in the market? Victor would know where he could sell his million-dollar Picasso painting to pay off his debts.

  Like any dealer, Victor brought buyers and sellers together, and they paid him a commission for the service. Was he honest? Well, he’d never gone to jail, so he wasn’t a criminal. Not quite.

  He was waiting for me in the back of the store. Behind the scenes, as always.

  “What do you think, dear boy? What do you think?”

  Victor’s little back room held two big leather chairs and a desk that was always covered with books and papers. On a small table sat his hot plate. A kettle was whistling; the air was damp with steam. Victor loved coffee. Now, he bent over the grinder and began grinding the beans, whirr, whirr, whirr. “Arabian Midnight,” he said, “very good.” With Victor, there was always some new, fancy blend.

  “What do you think?” he murmured again.

  The room, lit by one bare bulb in the ceiling, was dark and full of shadows. Stacked against the walls and leaning against the chairs were five of the worst paintings I’d ever seen in my life. They were huge, in heavy frames. A landscape, with trees like green umbrellas and cows like black and white rats. A naked lady dipping her toe in a pool—or at least I thought it was a pool. Perhaps it was a cloud and she was trying to fly. A ship sailing through a storm in a sea that looked like spinach and mashed potatoes. The fourth—but it was too painful to look.

  “Where did you find them?” I asked.

  Victor turned around. His face was plump and pink, like a baby’s. He always wore the same grey suit and grimy white shirt, with a tie knotted like a piece of string. And on top of his head, indoors or out, rain or shine, sat the same shapeless grey hat.

  “Halifax,” he answered me. “They’re all by a dear old businessman. He thought he was a painter, but he was forced into the family firm.”

  “The family should have pushed harder, I’d say.”

  “But surely something can be done with them,” Victor said. He handed me a cup of coffee. I’ll give him credit. The coffee was good. “If you put on a layer of varnish, and did some careful re-painting...”

  I must now make a confession. Every once and a while, I did a little work for Victor. Even if your rent is low, you have to pay it, right? I’d re-work paintings, Victor would clean up the frames, and they’d become “Old Masters.” What is forgery? What is fraud? He wouldn’t say that the landscape with the cows that looked like rats was by some famous French artist. He’d only say it was “after” or “in the school of” some famous French artist.

  I bent down, studying the paintings more carefully.

  “They’re filthy,” I said. “I’ll have to clean them before I can re-paint them.”

  Victor grunted.

  “And they’re big,” I said.

  He grunted again.

  I stood up. “$300 each.”

  “Oh dear,” said Victor. He eyed me—like a shark eyes a fish. “$250.”

  “$275.”

  “Done.” And then he added. “How long will it take?”

  “I can’t do it right away. I’ve got another rush job.”

  “Really? So you’re busy. How nice.”

  I looked at him carefully. There was something in his voice, something going on behind that baby pink face. Then I understood.

  “Victor,” I said, “do you know a girl called Zena da Silva?”

  He pursed his lips. “Zena? Da Silva?”

  “Victor, a crook like you should be a better liar.” All at once, a lot of my questions were answered. How had Zena heard of me? From Victor. Why had she been surprised that I was “a real artist”? Because she was expecting someone like Victor, someone as crooked as he was.

  Now, without saying a word, he pressed his face close to mine. I looked into his eyes—small, blue, watery. “Discretion,” he said. “It’s the first thing you learn in this business.”

  Discretion. A fancy way of saying, keep your mouth shut.

  I stared backed at him. “Is that right, Victor?”

  “It is, dear boy. Don’t you forget it.” And his finger tapped hard on my chest.

  Chapter Three

  Harold Green, Man of the World

  On Thursday, when Zena picked up the paintings, she looked even more beautiful than she had the week before. And there was that same hint of sadness—but hardness—in her lovely eyes.

  “These are very nice, Mr. Stone.”

  “Paul,” I reminded her.

  “Yes—Paul. Thank you.”

  “The portrait, the painting of yourself. Will your aunt and uncle like it?”

  “My aunt and uncle—? Oh yes. They will, I’m sure.” She looked away. She knew she’d made a slip, a tiny mistake. She opened her purse and took out some bills. “Thank you again.”

  I took the money. I thought she wanted to say something more, perhaps to explain, but she didn’t say anything. I wanted an explanation, too. I would have liked an answer to this question: How is a girl like you mixed up with a crook like Victor Mellish? But I was taking Victor’s advice and being discreet—keeping my mouth shut. I wrapped up the paintings.

  From my big window, I watched as Zena reached the street. I had a decision to make. Was I just going to let her walk out of my life? The answer to that question was easy. No. I raced down the stairs.

  I don’t have a car, but I own a motorcycle, a rusty Suzuki. Like most things in my life, I had to give it a kick, but then it worked. As Zena’s car pulled away from the curb, I was right behind her. She led me straight across town and parked in front of an older apartment building, one of those square things, like a Kleenex box. I watched her take the paintings from the back seat of the car and then go inside.

  As soon as the door closed, I chased after her. Peering through the door, I saw her get into the elevator. I watched the light above the elevator, and saw that she got off at the fourth floor. But what was I going to do? I didn’t know the code to buzz her apartment. Still, I now knew w
here she lived.

  And then, almost by accident, I discovered something else.

  As I walked back to my Suzuki, thinking things over, I took a quick glance inside Zena’s car. On the shelf behind the back seat, I saw the usual litter: a book of maps, a folding umbrella, a crumpled flyer. And a glossy catalogue from an art exhibition at the Art Gallery of Ontario. I leaned closer to the window, shading my eyes with my hand. The exhibition had one of those fancy titles they give art shows: The Natural Eye: The Painted World. It was on now.

  I hadn’t been to the gallery in months. I love art galleries and museums, those marble floors, the echoing halls. I bought a ticket and a copy of the catalogue. A lot of kids were there on a school field trip. They were loving it. But I wasn’t sure about their teacher. “No running!” she kept pleading.

  I let them get ahead of me and walked slowly past the pictures. Some were by very famous painters: Monet, Pissarro, Turner, Corot. These were the artists the teacher was telling the kids about. But some had been painted by men whose names were not so well known. Three caught my eye:

  1.Florida, Two Hummingbirds, by Martin Johnson Heade. The birds sparkled like jewels. But what interested me was the size, 60×73 centimetres. Exactly the same size as my painting for Zena of the boys playing ball.

  2.Jungle Moon, by Wilfredo Lam. A landscape in his mind, strange, haunting, spooky. Beautiful. My favourite. But what excited me, again, was its size: 51.3×56.5 centimetres, exactly the same as my portrait of Zena.

  3.Red Lake, Sunset, by Tom Thomson. The first photograph Zena had given me, the pines and rocks on the lakeshore, had made me think of the Group of Seven painters. Well, Thomson had influenced their work so much that you might call him their artistic father. And I had a little laugh, because my painting, again, was exactly the size of his, 60.3×72.1 centimetres.

  Three paintings, exactly the same size as the paintings I’d done for Zena. Chance? Luck? Coincidence? I didn’t believe it, especially because there was one more coincidence. The three paintings in the exhibition were all owned by the same man. Beside each entry in the catalogue was a little thank-you note: Kindly loaned by Harold Green, Toronto.