Picture This by Anthony Hyde Page B

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