sounds as if you have things organized already.”
Amanda went quiet, and Ava wondered if she had somehow upset her.
“Ava, I need to tell you how much I appreciate the fact that you and May are standing by me and Ah-Pei and Chi-Tze.”
“There’s no need to talk about that anymore.”
“Still —”
“Amanda, listen to me. I don’t want to have to say this again,” she said. “I was in business with Uncle for more than ten years. We never had a contract and we never had a personal disagreement. It worked because we never second-guessed one another. We each understood that both of us were doing our best, and if things didn’t always work, there was no reason to point that out. There was total trust between us. We were partners in the complete sense of the term. Now, I would never have agreed to get into this business with you and May if I hadn’t felt the same way, and I know those are May’s feelings as well. So I don’t want to hear you ever again thank us for standing by you. We are in this thing together. There will be ups and downs, but if we all carry the load, it will be bearable.” She paused. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ava.”
“Then go and calm the sisters and get this business back on track.”
Ava hung up and then climbed the stairs again. The security guard stared at her cellphone. She held it up and punched the off button. He nodded and she slipped it into her pocket.
The Rembrandts occupied one large room in the centre of the Philips Wing. Ava headed there with purpose, passing some Van Dycks, Vermeers, and Hals. Vermeer’s The Milkmaid caused her to pause for a second, but no more than that.
The Rembrandt room had paintings on three walls. The fourth was devoted to a written history of the man and his work, in ten languages. Six cushioned benches ran the length of the centre of the room. One was occupied by a Japanese couple. There was no one else in the room except for a security guard positioned at its single entrance and exit. Ava sat down. For the next ten minutes she took in the entire nineteen paintings from a distance.
Ava wasn’t an art scholar. Most of what she knew technically about paintings she had learned only months before, when she was involved in running to ground some art forgers. But she loved art in general, in the same way that she appreciated good books and fine films — as the end result of creative processes she didn’t understand and could never emulate. It amazed her what human beings could extract from their imaginations.
After absorbing the totality of the works on display, she stood and walked towards the nearest wall. Then, painting by painting, she worked her way around the room. She had no idea how long she spent with each, and she had no schedule. Each painting drew her in on its own merits and then released her to move on to the next.
How did he do it? she asked herself. How could anyone use just a brush and paint to create such complicated, layered, nuanced, multihued images, so awash in light and shadow? She got as close as she could to every painting, her neck stretched forward, her eyes searching for brushstrokes.
She circled the room once, sat on the bench to reinvigorate her senses, and then went around again. None of the paintings paled on second examination. If anything, their complexity increased. She was in front of The Night Watch — she had no idea for how long — when the security guard appeared at her side. His presence startled her, and for a second she wondered if she had ventured too close.
“Miss, the gallery is closing,” he said.
She looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to six. “Sorry, I had no idea of the time.”
“That’s common enough here.”
She pointed at the painting. “What a genius he was.”
“I’ve seen tourists come here every day for a week and never leave this room,” he said.
“I can understand why.”
“So perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow. But for now, you do have to
Amanda went quiet, and Ava wondered if she had somehow upset her.
“Ava, I need to tell you how much I appreciate the fact that you and May are standing by me and Ah-Pei and Chi-Tze.”
“There’s no need to talk about that anymore.”
“Still —”
“Amanda, listen to me. I don’t want to have to say this again,” she said. “I was in business with Uncle for more than ten years. We never had a contract and we never had a personal disagreement. It worked because we never second-guessed one another. We each understood that both of us were doing our best, and if things didn’t always work, there was no reason to point that out. There was total trust between us. We were partners in the complete sense of the term. Now, I would never have agreed to get into this business with you and May if I hadn’t felt the same way, and I know those are May’s feelings as well. So I don’t want to hear you ever again thank us for standing by you. We are in this thing together. There will be ups and downs, but if we all carry the load, it will be bearable.” She paused. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ava.”
“Then go and calm the sisters and get this business back on track.”
Ava hung up and then climbed the stairs again. The security guard stared at her cellphone. She held it up and punched the off button. He nodded and she slipped it into her pocket.
The Rembrandts occupied one large room in the centre of the Philips Wing. Ava headed there with purpose, passing some Van Dycks, Vermeers, and Hals. Vermeer’s The Milkmaid caused her to pause for a second, but no more than that.
The Rembrandt room had paintings on three walls. The fourth was devoted to a written history of the man and his work, in ten languages. Six cushioned benches ran the length of the centre of the room. One was occupied by a Japanese couple. There was no one else in the room except for a security guard positioned at its single entrance and exit. Ava sat down. For the next ten minutes she took in the entire nineteen paintings from a distance.
Ava wasn’t an art scholar. Most of what she knew technically about paintings she had learned only months before, when she was involved in running to ground some art forgers. But she loved art in general, in the same way that she appreciated good books and fine films — as the end result of creative processes she didn’t understand and could never emulate. It amazed her what human beings could extract from their imaginations.
After absorbing the totality of the works on display, she stood and walked towards the nearest wall. Then, painting by painting, she worked her way around the room. She had no idea how long she spent with each, and she had no schedule. Each painting drew her in on its own merits and then released her to move on to the next.
How did he do it? she asked herself. How could anyone use just a brush and paint to create such complicated, layered, nuanced, multihued images, so awash in light and shadow? She got as close as she could to every painting, her neck stretched forward, her eyes searching for brushstrokes.
She circled the room once, sat on the bench to reinvigorate her senses, and then went around again. None of the paintings paled on second examination. If anything, their complexity increased. She was in front of The Night Watch — she had no idea for how long — when the security guard appeared at her side. His presence startled her, and for a second she wondered if she had ventured too close.
“Miss, the gallery is closing,” he said.
She looked at her watch. It was ten minutes to six. “Sorry, I had no idea of the time.”
“That’s common enough here.”
She pointed at the painting. “What a genius he was.”
“I’ve seen tourists come here every day for a week and never leave this room,” he said.
“I can understand why.”
“So perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow. But for now, you do have to
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