The Collector's Apprentice Read online

  Lipchitz stands aside and allows them to enter. The apartment is dark and tiny, filled with too much furniture that is too large for the rooms. All worn and tattered, inherited from someone’s grandmother, Vivienne guesses. Yes, he’s not selling many pieces.

  Dr. Bradley smiles at Mme Lipchitz. “And you must be Berthe, the model for Amedeo Modigliani’s Jacques and Berthe Lipchitz. A truly great painting.”

  Berthe is delighted, as Dr. Bradley undoubtedly intended. “Amedeo is a good friend. And a wonderful artist.”

  “He says the same about your husband, I’m sure.”

  Berthe turns to Jacques, who shrugs but looks at her fondly.

  “I’ve heard many accolades about your sculptures, Mr. Lipchitz,” Dr. Bradley continues. “And I was hoping you’d be willing to show some to me despite”—he motions toward his dealer—“whatever argument you might have with Guillaume, here.”

  Berthe gives her husband a little push, and he reluctantly leads them to a small room at the back of the apartment.

  Vivienne is unimpressed with what she sees, mostly bas-reliefs, which aren’t to her liking. Dr. Bradley looks at her, waiting for her opinion, something he’s been doing more often as the weeks pass. She shakes her head.

  Dr. Bradley turns to the artist. “Do you have any more besides these?”

  Lipchitz looks as if he’s going to say no, then apparently thinks better of it and concedes, “There are more in my studio. But it is a long distance from here.”

  Guillaume’s mouth hardens slightly, which Vivienne takes to mean that the studio isn’t far at all. “Do we need to hire a carriage?” she asks.

  Lipchitz seems to notice her for the first time. “I suppose not, mademoiselle.”

  “And we can go there now?” she presses.

  Lipchitz doesn’t look happy, but he escorts them the four blocks to the studio, which is filled with so many sculptures that Vivienne doesn’t know where to look first. Harlequins, guitarists, acrobats, Cubist variations of men and women whose body parts are realigned and fused at odd angles. Made mostly of bronze and stone, the figures are all dynamic yet graceful, their motion conveyed as the light catches their many planes.

  The easiest way to describe the work would be to say Lipchitz is a three-dimensional Picasso, working in stone and bronze. Although this isn’t fair and takes away from the sculptor’s unique eye and style, both men are Cubists taken with the human form, both partial to musicians and musical instruments, so the comparison is impossible to avoid.

  Dr. Bradley’s face is impassive, but there’s a small vein pulsing on his forehead that Vivienne has learned indicates he likes what he’s seeing. She catches his eye and nods to a limestone sculpture of a woman whose elongated arms give the impression of wings. Vivienne has grown up with great art, taught by her father and her teachers to appreciate it. And this is great art.

  Dr. Bradley points to the limestone figure. “How much for this one?” he asks Lipchitz.

  The artist is clearly nonplussed by Dr. Bradley’s abruptness, although neither Guillaume nor Vivienne are. “Ah, that one.” He hesitates. “That . . . that one is ten francs.” A ridiculously low price.

  She writes the figure down as Dr. Bradley approaches a bas-relief of guitars juxtaposed with a basket of fruit. “And this?”

  “Ten francs, also.”

  He points to a large alabaster statue of a woman lying on her side, her limbs as supple as if she were made of flesh. “This?”

  “Twenty.”

  Dr. Bradley points the back of his pen at a tiny figure that appears to be a postman dancing.

  “Thirty.”

  Vivienne walks over to a sculpture of a bather, fascinated with how it plays with the eye. A woman? A man? Coming or going? From the side or the front? She tilts her head toward the piece. Dr. Bradley contemplates the sculpture for a moment, then looks at Lipchitz.

  “Forty.”

  This happens another five times, each time with a ten-franc price increase. Guillaume stands in the corner watching the proceedings, amused by the spectacle. Lipchitz seems to have decided that this is some kind of a game, that Dr. Bradley can’t possibly be a serious buyer.

  Dr. Bradley takes Vivienne’s notebook and adds up the numbers, hands it back to her. She checks his arithmetic and writes: “This is a steal. Give the man a little more?” He glances at Lipchitz and proposes a figure 10 percent higher than the total. It’s still a steal.

  The artist couldn’t have been more surprised. “You want all ten?”

  “All ten.”

  Lipchitz looks over at Guillaume, who shrugs.

  “Yes, yes, it is a fine offer,” Lipchitz says. “But it is not, it is—”

  Dr. Bradley hands the sculptor his card. Lipchitz reads it carefully, but the unfamiliar name does nothing to quell his reservations. Lipchitz is a relative newcomer to the Paris art scene.

  “Do not be a fool, Lipchitz,” Guillaume tells him. “No one else is buying your work.”

  Lipchitz glares at Guillaume, then holds out his hand to Dr. Bradley. “Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

  “As soon as you can, send all the pieces to the address on the card,” Dr. Bradley instructs, as if he’s purchased a load of lumber instead of some of the finest sculptures Vivienne has ever seen. “I’ll pay the freight.”

  She finds it inspiring to work with a man who makes momentous decisions with such speed and certitude. Papa schooled her to take her time, to choose nothing randomly or arbitrarily, to select only the best pieces in an artist’s oeuvre that fill a hole in the collection. But now she wonders if incorporating some of Dr. Bradley’s spontaneity might have its place.

  They stop back at Lipchitz’s apartment to gather up Berthe and head over to celebrate at the Café de la Rotonde, a haunt of writers and artists, both famous and not. While Picasso and Modigliani are frequent customers, the owner, Victor Libion, is known for allowing struggling artists to sit for hours sipping ten-centime coffees; he pretends not to notice when they eat the bread reserved for diners. If a man can’t pay his bill, Libion takes a painting or drawing in exchange for what’s owed and keeps it until the man can buy it back. The walls of the café are a veritable pawnshop of art.

  As soon as Libion spies Dr. Bradley, he conjures a table and five chairs out of nowhere and places them at the center of the small room. Vivienne huddles in the middle of their group, the collar of her coat pulled high, hoping to hide her presence from the other customers, all of whom appear keenly interested in their arrival.

  When they’re seated, Libion brings over a bottle of wine, bows, and says, “On the house for one of my favorite customers. Welcome back, Monsieur Bradley.”

  “It is my pleasure, Monsieur Libion.”

  The restaurateur fills the glasses. “À votre santé.”

  Vivienne tips her glass to Lipchitz and Berthe. “Pour la gloire et la fortune.”

  After they order dinner, the procession begins. One by one, and in small groups, artists and dealers approach, either introducing themselves or greeting Dr. Bradley, exclaiming over his recent purchases, inviting him to view their work. Lipchitz and Berthe watch the parade with bemused fascination.

  At one point, a tall, ungainly man in paint-splattered overalls slaps Lipchitz on the back. “How’d you manage a seat at this table, Jacques?” he demands, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

  “Monsieur Bradley was kind enough to purchase a number of my sculptures this afternoon.”

  The man glances from Lipchitz to Dr. Bradley to Lipchitz again. “No,” he says, crushing his cigarette butt under his boot.

  “Yes,” Berthe informs him.

  The man steadies himself on the table and mutters, “Congratulations.” Then he slinks away.

  Berthe, who’s sitting next to Vivienne, asks softly, “There is something here we do not completely understand, yes?”

  “You have no idea who Dr. Bradley is, do you?”

  Berthe dips her head. “I am sorry.”


  Vivienne places her hand over the other woman’s, pleased to be the one to give her the good news. “He’s in the middle of amassing a large, possibly important, art collection.”

  “In America?”

  “In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He’s already acquired many works by Picasso, Gauguin, Toulouse-Lautrec, Matisse, and Cézanne. He’s planning a grand museum.”

  Berthe grabs for her husband’s hand and turns to Dr. Bradley. “Thank you so much for what you have done for us today, Monsieur Bradley. I cannot tell you what it means to us that you have understood Jacques’s work and seen the merit in it. We have been waiting a long time for this moment.” Tears glisten in her eyes, and she whispers, “May God bless.”

  When the dinner dishes are cleared, Vivienne asks M. Libion to call her a carriage.

  “No dessert for you tonight, mademoiselle?” he asks in French. “This is a grave mistake. Chef has made a lovely plum tart for us this evening.”

  “It’s okay, Libion,” Dr. Bradley tells him, before Vivienne can translate. “She’s had a long day, and I will eat two tarts.” He turns to Vivienne. “Will you join me for breakfast at my hotel tomorrow? We have much to discuss.”

  She’s more than happy to oblige. Much to discuss. This is promising. M. Libion helps her into her coat, promises the carriage will arrive momentarily, and she steps into the cool October night. It feels good to be outside, by herself, after the noise and stuffiness of the café. She takes a deep breath, wonders what the morning will hold.

  Behind her, the door to La Rotonde opens and closes, and she steps to the side so the patrons can pass, her eyes on the street.

  “Paulien,” a voice says softly.

  Vivienne freezes. No. Yes. She whirls around, and he’s there. She throws her arms around him. “George,” she sobs. “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”

  He wraps her in his arms, holds her tight. “It’s all right, doll,” he soothes. “It’s all right. No need to cry. No need at all.” Then he kisses her. It’s as it has always been, and she loses herself in the dense, rich deliciousness of him, the deliciousness of the life she can now reclaim.

  “But . . . but what happened?” She presses a hand to his chest, not at all certain that he’s real. “Did you find the Swiss banker? Did you get the money?”

  “Hush, my Paulien. Everything is going to be just fine.”

  “I love you so much, and I was so afraid.” She covers his face with kisses. “So you have the money? Everyone will get paid back? Oh, Papa and Maman will be so happy.” She thinks of Alexandre’s brother and realizes that not everyone will be happy, but she pushes the thought away. “Thank God,” she says again.

  He pulls her gently into the shadows of the next building. “I want you to come with me.”

  “Come with you where?”

  “Anywhere you want. Let’s leave right now.”

  She steps out of his embrace, wipes her tears with her handkerchief. “But we have to go back to Belgium first. Set everything right. We can get married there, as we planned. Move to London until you close down Everard Sureties, and then . . . then we can go wherever we like.”

  “There’s nothing to close down. I was thinking New Zealand or Australia or maybe even America. Which one would you like best?”

  “Nothing to close down?”

  “It’s complicated. But the only thing that matters is that now we can start our life together. Without any entanglements.”

  “Entanglements,” she repeats. “I . . . I don’t understand.” But she fears that she does.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you?”

  “Is there a banker?” she demands.

  “There are many bankers.”

  “My father, his friends, everyone . . . you didn’t do this, did you?” Her voice rises an octave. “Did you?”

  “Oh, Paulien,” he says, laughing. “I gave you enough hints. You knew exactly what was going on.”

  The world disappears. No wind, no cold, no noise, no cooking smells. All she sees is an opaque mist of white. It occurs to her that this must be what it’s like to die, that she has died, and she goes calm. But when her vision clears and George’s smirking face wobbles above her, she knows she’s all too alive. “I knew nothing!” she says, and slaps him hard across the face. “You’re a horrid, horrid man.”

  He presses his hand to his cheek, clearly surprised. “Does that mean no?” he asks with a slight smile.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she cries. “I’m not going anywhere with you. Ever. Never.”

  George pulls her into a tight hug, then just as quickly releases her. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that. As you know, I can be very persistent.” He touches his finger to the brim of his hat, dimples, and walks into the shadows.

  Her carriage pulls up in front of the café, and she dives for it, her body gouged out by the pain. A piece of her knew from the moment George disappeared, and more so with each passing day, but if she already knew, why does it hurt so much?

  “Do you think you’ll be back here soon?” Vivienne asks Dr. Bradley when they settle into the booth.

  It had been a trying night, but now that she’s been forced to confront the reality of her situation, it’s even more imperative that she leave Paris, that she persuade Dr. Bradley to take her to Italy. George did destroy all those lives, including hers, there’s no denying it. On purpose. Out of greed. And however unwittingly, she was a part of it. She’s responsible for her own obtuseness, for her inability to see what even George claimed was right in front of her. She now understands why people believe she shares the blame. Because she does.

  “I come to the city at least twice a year,” Dr. Bradley is saying. “But it will be a bit more often in the next year or two. I have my eye on many works.”

  She pushes down her shame and heartbreak, forces herself back into the moment. “You’ve done so well in the short time you’ve been here. I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed the whole experience, but I suppose you know that.”

  “Good. Because I have a proposition for you.”

  Vivienne tries to appear blasé. “Oh?”

  “I want to extend your employment for another month.”

  He does want her to come with him. “What do you mean, ‘extend’?”

  “As you know, I’m leaving for Rome tomorrow, but I’d like you to follow up on some of the works here that I’m still interested in.”

  “In Paris?”

  “You have a good eye for quality art, and you can do some scouting for me. When I come back from Italy, you can show me what else I might want to buy.”

  She doesn’t think she has the stamina for four more weeks. Especially now that her last fantasy has been stripped away, her culpability revealed.

  “I’ll double your salary.”

  She bites her lip. There really is no choice. Her jobs at the millinery shop and the restaurant have been filled. But even more important, this opportunity will give her the chance to impress Dr. Bradley with her skills and work ethic and maybe persuade him to offer her a position at his new museum.

  Vivienne visualizes herself on a mighty ship. She’s standing at the railing of the highest deck, watching France, all of Europe, slip into the mist. She turns from stern to bow, facing into the future, away from her mistakes and regrets, away from those she’s hurt, away from those who might want to hurt her. She’s remained invisible for the past three weeks; she can remain invisible for another four.

  Dr. Bradley crosses his arms over his chest. “Well?” he asks.

  “I’d be happy to.”

  He pulls a pack of papers from inside his jacket and lays them down on the table. “These are the artists and galleries I want you to visit. Guillaume will help you.”

  4

  Paulien, 1920

  Paulien was so engrossed in her work that she never heard him approach and only slowly became aware that someone was standing behind her. It was late spring, one of the first days without rain, and she’d set up
her easel at the edge of a wood not far from campus. When she turned, he was staring at the painting, seemingly oblivious to her.

  “I like what happens with the yellow here.” He pointed to the top left of the canvas. “How it leads the eye to the yellow below without actually telling it to go there.”

  She was put off by the fine cut of his jacket, the gold glittering on his watch, and the confidence of his pose, not to mention the inappropriateness of his approaching her. A dandy pretending to be interested in art when he was only interested in flirting with her. She returned to her painting and tried to pretend he wasn’t there. Although she had to admit she appreciated his comment on the yellow brushstrokes—and that he was very handsome. Exceptionally handsome.

  But he didn’t leave, just stayed behind her left shoulder, watching her paint.

  Because she wasn’t very good, she didn’t like to be observed. Especially this closely. “Don’t you have someplace else to be?” She knew it was rude, and that her mother would admonish her for speaking like that to such an attractive and apparently wealthy young man, but he unnerved her.

  “Not when I can stand here and watch you work such wonders.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I don’t mean to bother you, but I’m drawn by the process of creating something out of nothing.”

  Paulien gave an exaggerated sigh, put down her brush, and twisted around. “Are you an artist?” she asked, although she doubted he was. No artist walked around in clothes like that.

  He removed his hat and bowed slightly. His eyes, like warm pools of chocolate, were playful; matching dimples cut his cheeks. “George Everard,” he said in a resonant baritone. “Man of no talent.”

  Despite the arrogance that allowed him to presume he could interrupt her, she felt the tug of him. She stood and dropped into a mock curtsy. “Paulien Mertens, girl of not all that much.”

  “I heartily disagree with your opinion, but I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, Paulien Mertens.” Then he put his hat back on his head and walked away.