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 this 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
“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 this 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
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