Hemlock Bay
Page 103
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
“But now you’ll never get the other four,” Lily said. “They’re out of your reach. You won’t be hanging onto those you do have very long. Surely you know that.”
“You think not, my dear?” The old man laughed, then said, still wheezing, “Come, I have something to show you.”
Three long corridors and five minutes later, Lily and Simon stood motionless in a climate-controlled room, staring at fourteen-foot-high walls that were covered with Sarah Elliott paintings. The collection held at least a hundred fifty paintings, maybe more.
Simon said as he stared at the paintings, slowly taking in their magnificence, “You couldn’t have bought this many Sarah Elliott paintings legally. You must have looted the museums of the world.”
“When necessary. Not all that difficult, most of them. Imagination and perseverance. It’s taken me years, but I am a patient man. Just look at the results.”
“And money,” Simon said.
“Naturally,” Ian Jorgenson said.
“But you can’t see them,” Lily said as she turned to look at Olaf Jorgenson. “You stole them because you have some sort of obsession with my grandmother, and you can’t even see them!”
“I could see them all very well until about five years ago. Even now, though, I can see the graceful sweeps of her brush, shadows and sprays of color, the movement in the air itself. Her gift is unparalleled. I know each one as if I had painted it myself. I know how the subjects feel, the texture of the expressions on their faces. I can touch my fingers to a sky and feel the warmth of the sun and the wind caressing my hand. I know all of them. They are old friends. I live inside them; I am a part of them and they of me. I have been collecting them for some thirty years now. Since I want all of them before I die, it was time to turn to you, Lily. If I’d only known at the beginning that you were so like my Sarah, I wouldn’t have allowed those fools to try to kill you. Because you are resourceful, you saved yourself. I am grateful for that.”
Lily looked down at the old man sitting in his wheelchair, a beautiful hand-knitted blue blanket covering his legs. He looked like a harmless old gentleman, in his pale blue cashmere sweater over a white silk shirt with a darker blue tie. She didn’t say anything. What was there to say, after all? It was crazy, all of it. And rather sad, she supposed, if one discounted the fact that he was perfectly willing to murder people who got in his way.
She looked at the walls filled with so many of her grandmother’s paintings. All of them perfectly hung, grouped by the period in which they were painted. She had never seen such beauty in one room before in her life. It was her grandmother’s work as she had never seen it.
She watched Simon walk slowly around the large room, studying each of the paintings, lightly touching his fingertips to some of them until he came to one that belonged to Lily. It was The Swan Song, Lily’s own favorite. The old man lying in the bed, that beatific smile on his face, the young girl staring at him.
Olaf said, “That was the first one of yours I had copied, my dear. It was always my favorite. I knew it was at the Chicago Institute of Art, but I couldn’t get to it. It was frustrating.”
Simon said, “So it was the first one you stole from the Eureka Museum.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Ian Jorgenson said, coming forward. He laid his hand lightly on his father’s shoulder. “Mr. Monk, the curator, was quite willing to have the painting copied. He simply gave it to our artist, replacing it with a rather poor, quickly executed copy until the real copy was finished. Then they were simply switched. No one noticed, of course. You know, Mr. Russo, I had hopes for you, at least initially. You yourself own a Sarah Elliott painting. I had hoped to convince you to join me, perhaps even to sell me your painting in return for a generous price and my offer of a financially rewarding partnership in some of my business ventures.”
Ian looked toward Simon and his eyes narrowed, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly pleasant. “My father realized you wouldn’t agree after Nikki and Alpo described your behavior on the long trip over here. You were in no way conciliatory, Mr. Russo. Actually, my father’s desire to make use of you in his organization was the only reason we bothered to bring you to Sweden. My father wanted to test you.”
“Give me a test,” Simon said. “Let’s just see what I would say.”
“Actually, I was going to ask you to give me your Sarah Elliott painting, The Last Rites; it is one I greatly admire. In exchange, I would offer you your life and a chance to prove your value to me.”
“You think not, my dear?” The old man laughed, then said, still wheezing, “Come, I have something to show you.”
Three long corridors and five minutes later, Lily and Simon stood motionless in a climate-controlled room, staring at fourteen-foot-high walls that were covered with Sarah Elliott paintings. The collection held at least a hundred fifty paintings, maybe more.
Simon said as he stared at the paintings, slowly taking in their magnificence, “You couldn’t have bought this many Sarah Elliott paintings legally. You must have looted the museums of the world.”
“When necessary. Not all that difficult, most of them. Imagination and perseverance. It’s taken me years, but I am a patient man. Just look at the results.”
“And money,” Simon said.
“Naturally,” Ian Jorgenson said.
“But you can’t see them,” Lily said as she turned to look at Olaf Jorgenson. “You stole them because you have some sort of obsession with my grandmother, and you can’t even see them!”
“I could see them all very well until about five years ago. Even now, though, I can see the graceful sweeps of her brush, shadows and sprays of color, the movement in the air itself. Her gift is unparalleled. I know each one as if I had painted it myself. I know how the subjects feel, the texture of the expressions on their faces. I can touch my fingers to a sky and feel the warmth of the sun and the wind caressing my hand. I know all of them. They are old friends. I live inside them; I am a part of them and they of me. I have been collecting them for some thirty years now. Since I want all of them before I die, it was time to turn to you, Lily. If I’d only known at the beginning that you were so like my Sarah, I wouldn’t have allowed those fools to try to kill you. Because you are resourceful, you saved yourself. I am grateful for that.”
Lily looked down at the old man sitting in his wheelchair, a beautiful hand-knitted blue blanket covering his legs. He looked like a harmless old gentleman, in his pale blue cashmere sweater over a white silk shirt with a darker blue tie. She didn’t say anything. What was there to say, after all? It was crazy, all of it. And rather sad, she supposed, if one discounted the fact that he was perfectly willing to murder people who got in his way.
She looked at the walls filled with so many of her grandmother’s paintings. All of them perfectly hung, grouped by the period in which they were painted. She had never seen such beauty in one room before in her life. It was her grandmother’s work as she had never seen it.
She watched Simon walk slowly around the large room, studying each of the paintings, lightly touching his fingertips to some of them until he came to one that belonged to Lily. It was The Swan Song, Lily’s own favorite. The old man lying in the bed, that beatific smile on his face, the young girl staring at him.
Olaf said, “That was the first one of yours I had copied, my dear. It was always my favorite. I knew it was at the Chicago Institute of Art, but I couldn’t get to it. It was frustrating.”
Simon said, “So it was the first one you stole from the Eureka Museum.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” Ian Jorgenson said, coming forward. He laid his hand lightly on his father’s shoulder. “Mr. Monk, the curator, was quite willing to have the painting copied. He simply gave it to our artist, replacing it with a rather poor, quickly executed copy until the real copy was finished. Then they were simply switched. No one noticed, of course. You know, Mr. Russo, I had hopes for you, at least initially. You yourself own a Sarah Elliott painting. I had hoped to convince you to join me, perhaps even to sell me your painting in return for a generous price and my offer of a financially rewarding partnership in some of my business ventures.”
Ian looked toward Simon and his eyes narrowed, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly pleasant. “My father realized you wouldn’t agree after Nikki and Alpo described your behavior on the long trip over here. You were in no way conciliatory, Mr. Russo. Actually, my father’s desire to make use of you in his organization was the only reason we bothered to bring you to Sweden. My father wanted to test you.”
“Give me a test,” Simon said. “Let’s just see what I would say.”
“Actually, I was going to ask you to give me your Sarah Elliott painting, The Last Rites; it is one I greatly admire. In exchange, I would offer you your life and a chance to prove your value to me.”
