The Muralist: A Novel Read online

  It has taken them almost a year and a small fortune to acquire visas to enter Cuba. They will take a ship called the SS St. Louis, wait on the island for the American visas to arrive and then come to New York. They are scheduled to leave on May 13. Tante is worried baby Gabrielle is too young for the crossing, but Babette will hear nothing about it. I am sure they will contact you as soon as they arrive.

  Although things are not so bad in France, Babette predicts the Germans will invade Poland and come here next. Most here believe if Hitler dares to step on French soil he will be immediately vanquished, but Oncle and I are not as convinced that we will be victorious against the armies of the Third Reich. So although none of this can be considered good news, you will be happy to hear that Oncle and Tante will come with me to America as soon as my exams are completed. And of course Alain.

  I have already approached the authorities and discovered that French visas cannot be granted unless we have papers allowing us to enter the United States. Although we have heard this process can be challenging, it seems that as you are a US citizen you should have little difficulty. The sooner you can get the visas for us the more quickly the officials here will be able to work, and the sooner the whole family will be together again.

  Please think of me often as I think of you and send a wire when you have the visas so we can prepare. I will let you know our plans as soon as they are set.

  Ton frère qui t’aime,

  Henri

  Was it possible? Everyone here with her, in New York? Everyone she loved. She couldn’t imagine anything better, and her mind raced. She would find an apartment. No, better to find two. One for Tante, Oncle, and Alain, the other for Babette and her family. If they weren’t able to afford it, one would do to start. Henri could stay with her until he found a job.

  Family dinners. Those beautiful little girls. Sophie would be almost four, full of words and opinions, a real person. Alizée had never met Gabrielle, and tears filled her eyes at the thought of nuzzling the baby. Of Henri’s teasing. Of shopping with Babette. Tante’s worry and hugs. Oncle’s calming presence.

  She reread the letter, and her exhilaration faded. Were things in Europe really that bad? Could her family be in danger this very minute? But no, Henri had always been overcautious, something their mother used to tease him about, referring to him as her “wise old man” when he was just a young boy: sober, thoughtful, ferretting out the cloud in every silver lining—another of her mother’s lines. But Babette was a completely different story.

  Babette was the wild one in the family, and everyone said she was just like Alizée’s father: impetuous, fearless, a mathematical savant. She was four years older than Alizée, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and when Alizée arrived in France, she’d followed her flamboyant cousin around like a puppy. It almost broke Alizée’s heart when Babette married Pierre and went to Berlin for graduate school, but after her cousin made a few trips back to Arles, Alizée was relieved to find that married or not, Babette was still Babette.

  And this was the problem. For if Babette was afraid to stay in Germany, was willing to put her small children on some rickety boat to some godforsaken island, it meant the danger was real.

  As she pushed through the door of the Jumble Shop, her eyes went directly to “their” table, long and narrow, covered with a flowered cloth. Artists of every ilk and political leaning filled the place nightly, but she and her cadre of modernists sat at a table where only those who thought Picasso was god were welcome.

  It was late. She hadn’t been ready to talk about Henri’s letter, not the good parts and definitely not the bad. Nor had she been up for being cheerful and flirty, feigning lightheartedness where there was none. So she’d stayed home for another hour, circling the flat again and again, shards of ideas—steps to take, people to contact, potential problems—shooting through her head. Making plans helped her keep the darkness at bay.

  Mark was at the table, along with Lee, Gorky, and Bill. Although the Shop was open until three in the morning, most of the artists had day jobs, usually on the project, so they came early and left early to work in their studios—also known as their apartments—at night. She waved to them and turned to the bar. She was going to need a drink, more likely three or four, to get through an evening of pretending nothing in her life had changed. She bought a beer and sat down next to Bill.

  He gave her a slow, welcoming smile and touched his glass to hers. “And how is our lady of the mural tonight?” Bill was a beautiful man, tall and blond, with perfect features and an intense ice-blue gaze. Too pretty for her taste. She preferred Mark’s large frame and crooked smile, his deeply intelligent, if brooding, dark eyes.

  “Bushed.” She threw her arms out in a theatrical gesture, flinging herself into the well-worn role of carefree Alizée, acting as if there had been no letter from Henri, no trips to Cuba, nothing to fear. “Totally and completely bushed.” She looked at the sandwich Bill was holding. “And hungry.” Which she wasn’t. Her stomach was squeezed into such a tight fist that she wondered if she’d ever be able to eat again.

  Gorky pointed his cigarette at Bill. “De Kooning here was just saying he was going to buy a few more for the table.”

  Bill, who couldn’t work for the WPA because he wasn’t an American citizen, was a commercial artist as well as a carpenter and made more money than the rest of them combined. He winked at Alizée. “I said no such thing.”

  “I thought you were coming straight from the warehouse.” Lee eyed Alizée’s dress and scarf with a smirk, then threw a glance at Mark. “What took you so long?”

  She was saved from answering when Jack walked through the door and plopped himself down across from her. He was already tight, as was often the case, despite his fling last year with Jungian psychoanalysis and a lengthy stay at Bloom Sanatorium that was supposed to cure his drinking. Not that the others couldn’t hold their own: by the end of the evening Mark, Gorky, and Bill would be, too. But Jack had an edge the others didn’t have; he was volatile, and you never knew from moment to moment what kind of a jam he’d get himself in.

  She’d met him at a party at Bill’s. Jack, who she’d never seen before, grabbed her and whirled her onto the improvised dance floor. Slurring his words, he demanded, all loud and slobbery, to know if she liked to fuck. She told him she did but not with him. Everyone, including Jack, had roared. He was considered a wastrel by many, but she was fond of his bad-boy foolishness.

  “Hey Pollock,” she said with a grin she hoped didn’t look as forced as it felt. “Heard you punched in yesterday wearing your pajamas.”

  “It’s a rotten shame that those untalented government assholes expect an artist to be awake at eight in the morning.” Jack waved his cigarette dismissively. “Or expect us to ‘punch in.’ ” Both Jack and Mark were on the easel project, which allowed artists to work in their own studios during the day, checking in at the WPA office each morning.

  “Especially when said artist has been tying one on all night,” Lee noted dryly.

  Jack raised his glass and gave Lee one of his most winning smiles. She colored slightly.

  “Were your balls all shriveled up from the cold when you got home?” Gorky taunted Jack. “Did Ellie mind?”

  “Hey, what about that sandwich?” Mark asked Bill. “Poor Alizée here is starving.”

  For the first time that evening, she looked directly at Mark. He locked his eyes onto hers, and although warmth began to spread between her legs, she turned away and quickly polished off her beer. She wasn’t getting involved with a married man. Not now. Not ever.

  “Can’t have our most charming and talented artist succumbing to starvation,” Bill said to Mark. Pretending to be sore, he pulled a dollar from his wallet, which Alizée plucked from his hand, glad for an excuse to leave the table.

  She’d planned to get another beer along with the sandwich, but when she reached the bar she ordered a double shot of bourbon instead.

  4

  ALIZÉE


  First thing the next morning, she went to the cramped, overheated office of the Emergency Rescue Committee, a private relief organization that arranged visas for European immigrants. A month earlier, she’d read about it in the New Militant, a Socialist Party newspaper, and was surprised she’d remembered the article. The plight of the workers was her concern, not European refugees. Until now.

  She cleared her throat impatiently as she waited for the man at the desk to finish his phone call. He was slumped in his chair, tie loose around his neck, long hair curling into his collar. He was older, probably forty, with bloodshot eyes and a thick mustache. He looked as if he’d been up all night. And not because he’d been having fun.

  When he finally put the receiver back in the cradle, he identified himself as Daniel Fleishman, the assistant director, and told her that yes, the fledgling group was trying to get refugees out of Europe.

  “My brother, uncle, aunt, and cousin want to come here,” she explained. “To New York. From France.”

  He nodded.

  “They’re afraid the Germans will invade France and make things difficult for the Jews.” She paused for him to correct her assumption. When he didn’t, she added, “Which I’m sure is an exaggeration.”

  He didn’t correct this assumption either. “Are they originally from Germany?”

  “They’re all French, including my brother.” She frowned. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not necessarily. But we’re focusing on people in the most immediate danger of persecution by the Nazis. Citizens, both Jewish and non-Jewish, of Germany, Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland. People who’ve angered Hitler in some way and are trying to get out of the German-occupied countries. Does your family fall into any of those categories?”

  “I can’t imagine they’ve angered anyone. Which means they’re safe, right?”

  He ran his hand through his unruly hair, making it even more unruly. “At least for now.”

  She caught her breath. “For now?”

  “To be frank, the visa situation isn’t good.” Mr. Fleishman laced his fingers together. “And probably isn’t going to get any better. Not here and not in France. The US immigration laws are restrictive, and there are powerful individuals who want it to stay that way.”

  “What exactly does that mean?”

  “People are afraid immigrants will take jobs from Americans. Or worse, that they’re German spies in disguise, the Fifth Column, they call them. There’s a lot of opposition.”

  “It doesn’t have anything do with being Jewish?”

  “Many of the people we hope to save aren’t Jewish,” he said, clearly weighing his words. “They’re prominent politicians, artists, scientists, and others who’ve spoken out against the Third Reich.”

  She went rigid. “Are you saying the ERC’s only getting visas for important people?”

  Mr. Fleishman played with a pen on his desk. “It’s our first priority at the moment.”

  “My uncle’s a full professor at Université d’Arles,” she told him. “Written many scholarly books and articles. My brother’s just completing medical school. Is that important enough for you?”

  “Have any of them written or said negative things about the Nazis?”

  She crossed her arms. “I could tell them to.”

  Mr. Fleishman chuckled, but his eyes didn’t look as if he’d found what she’d said particularly funny. “I’m not sure that would help—and it might put them in more danger.”

  “But according to you, that would be good.”

  He gave her a wry smile. “Miss Benoit, I admire your spunk, but you need to understand the situation we’re up against. ERC’s current plan is to raise at least three thousand dollars in contributions, which we hope will be enough to get nine, maybe ten, people out of Europe—if we’re lucky enough to be able to get anyone out.”

  “And my family wouldn’t be in that nine or ten.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So who else can help me? I’ve got to get the visas as quickly as possible.”

  “You could try the State Department, but I’m not sure they’ll be of much use. The assistant secretary of state who oversees visas, a man named Breckinridge Long, appears to be more interested in keeping immigrants out than helping get them in.”

  She scrambled for a solution, her mind racing from one bad option to another. “What if I could pay for the visas? Three hundred dollars for each one? That would be twelve hundred dollars. My aunt and uncle have some money,” she said, hoping this was true. “You could just add them to the list of people you’ve already raised the money for. Get four more visas.”

  “I’m sorry but—”

  “I’ll send them a telegram today,” she interrupted, not wanting to give him the opportunity to turn her down. “They’ll send the money right away.”

  “That’s not what we do. Not how it works.”

  “But it’s something you could do.”

  “There’s another group you might try. They’re pushing for the US to take in more European refugees. It’s called Americans for No Limits, ANL. They’re larger and more political than we are. They hold rallies, run letter-writing campaigns, things like that.” He scribbled down an address and handed it her. “They have weekly meetings. On Mondays, I think.”

  “Thank you.” She took the paper. “But I still want to buy the visas. I’ll bring you the money as soon as it’s wired.”

  “I don’t have the authority to approve something like that. I’d have to clear it with the director. But even if he okayed it, which is unlikely, I don’t know how many visas we’re going to be able to get our hands on. As I told you, the State Department is essentially working against us.”

  She jumped up. “Thank you. I’ll send my uncle a telegram right away.”

  “I’m not saying we can do anything for you.” Mr. Fleishman stood and held up his hands as if to stop her. “Most likely won’t be able to help you. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

  She left before he could say anything more.

  5

  DANIELLE, 2015

  My ex-husband always claimed I would never become a great artist because I had a happy childhood. I blamed Sam for a lot of things, but he wasn’t the one who donated my brushes and paint tubes to the middle school on Bleecker Street. Nor was he the one who went out and got a real job.

  Frankly, it had been a relief to put down my palette. It was liberating to allow myself to be, rather than constantly striving to become, living with the fear I’d never get there, the humiliation that would follow when I didn’t. Still, when I find myself caught up in some bureaucratic boondoggle or catch a whiff of turpentine or feel that gnawing emptiness in the back part of my brain where I imagine my creativity lives, I wonder about my choices.

  I was trying not to wonder about choices as I mentally prepared for my meeting with Anatoly Armstrong, my boss’s boss. I needed his permission to pursue Alizée as a possible candidate in the quest to identify the artist responsible for the squares hidden behind the paintings. He and everyone at Christie’s wanted them to belong to Mark Rothko, especially my own boss, George Bush—yes, that was actually his name, he was some kind of third cousin three times removed from the other three—and especially, especially the Farrell family, the owners of the carton. Everyone wanted me to butt out.

  But I didn’t want to butt out. Even though I was far from certain the squares were my aunt’s, I needed to know either way. And if I didn’t push it, no one else would give her a fair shot. It had taken me over a week, but I’d finally convinced George, who lived in terror of making a bad call that would halt his rise up the corporate ladder, that Anatoly should make the final decision. It was maneuvering like this that made me wish I’d inherited more of Alizée’s talent so I could stay in my apartment and paint all day.

  My family says I take after her. Or that’s what Grand-père Henri always said, and he’s the only one who actually knew her. Unfortunately, he d
ied before I was old enough to figure out the right questions to ask. There are a few grainy photographs of her in her late teens, and even I can see the resemblance: the blonde curls, the excessively large mouth, an overabundance of freckles, the slight tilt of her head at the same angle as in photos of me. The genes work in strange ways.

  As I said, she was the reason I studied art in the first place, and ever since I discovered a handful of historians who believed an unknown artist was integral to the development of the school of Abstract Expressionism, I’d imagined that artist was my missing aunt. These experts claimed, and I agreed, that there was an inexplicable gulf between the Abstract Expressionists’ early work and their later work and that none of the artists’ own work bridged that gap. Hence, the missing link.

  I couldn’t remove the squares from the building, as that would get me fired and possibly arrested for theft, so I’d taken photographs and then checked them against Alizée’s paintings in my apartment. Not a particularly definitive means of authentication but also not without some redemptive value.

  The semi-abstracted animals in one of the squares looked a lot like the semi-abstracted children in Turned, and the dying sunflowers in another had a similar attitude to the drooping clouds/lilies/fish in Lily Pads. The strongest support for my Alizée theory was the most elusive; there was an evolution in the third square, a subtle shifting from one form to another, which matched the emergent qualities of both Lily Pads and Turned. And then there was the restrained energy of the brushstrokes, the unusual mixing of styles.

  Turned was too big for the subway, so I brought Lily Pads into work to support my argument and headed for Anatoly’s office, a few floors higher but a skyscraper’s distance in power from mine.

  He frowned when I knocked on his half-opened door. “Oh, yeah. George said you’d be by. I thought you were coming later in the afternoon.”

  “He told me you said eleven o’ clock.” I walked in and rested Lily Pads on the edge of his desk so he wouldn’t be able to put me off. “Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”