‘Abstract Expressionism, I think. At least that’s what it said on the cover of her magazine.’
‘There must be at least a dozen galleries that specialize in that period. What else can you tell me about her?’
‘She’s beautiful, intelligent . . .’
‘Age?’
‘Early twenties.’
‘Build?’
‘Slim, elegant, classy.’
‘Then what makes you think she’d have any interest in you?’
‘I agree. But if there was the slightest chance, I—’
‘You’re a much better catch than you realize,’ said Paolo. ‘You’re bright, charming, well educated, and I suppose some women might even find you good-looking.’
‘So what should I do next?’ Alex asked, ignoring the sarcasm.
‘First, you have to realize that the art world is a small community, especially at the top end. I suggest you visit the Marlborough on 57th Street, and talk to an assistant who’s about the same age. There’s a chance they’ll know each other, or at least have met at some opening.’
‘How come you know so much about art?’
‘The Italians,’ said Paolo, ‘know about art, food, opera, cars and women, because we have the best examples of all five.’
‘If you say so,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘Not first thing, that would be a waste of time. Art galleries don’t usually open before ten. The sort of clients who can afford to pay half a million dollars for a picture aren’t early risers like you and me. And another thing, if you turn up looking like that, they’ll think you’ve come to collect the trash. You’ll have to dress and sound like a prospective customer if you want them to take you seriously.’
‘Where did you learn all this?’
‘My father is a doorman at the Plaza, my mother works in Bloomingdale’s, so I was educated at the university of life. And one more thing. If you really want to impress her, perhaps you should . . .’
*
Alex was up, dressed and bargaining in the vegetable market by four-thirty the following morning. Once he’d delivered his purchases to the restaurant, he returned home and had breakfast with his mother.
He didn’t tell her what he had planned for the rest of the morning, and waited for her to leave for work before he took a second shower and selected a dark grey, single-breasted suit, white shirt and a tie his mother had given him for Christmas. He then carefully took the Warhol down from the wall and wrapped it in some brown paper before placing it in a carrier bag.
He took a taxi into Manhattan, a necessary expense as he couldn’t risk carrying such a valuable painting on the subway, and asked the driver to take him to West 57th Street.
When he arrived at the Marlborough Gallery, the lights were just being switched on. He studied the painting displayed in the window, which was by an artist called Hockney. When a young woman sat down behind the desk, he took a deep breath and strolled in.
Don’t be in a hurry, Paolo had told him. The rich are never in a hurry to part with their money. He walked slowly around the gallery, admiring the paintings. It was like being back in Lawrence’s home.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ He turned to find the assistant standing by his side.
‘No, thank you. I was just looking.’
‘Of course. Do let me know if I can help you with anything.’
Alex fell in love for a second time, not with the assistant, but with a dozen women he wished he could take home and hang on his bedroom wall. After being mesmerized by a small canvas by Renoir, he remembered that he had originally come in for a reason. He walked across to the assistant’s desk.
‘I recently met a girl called Anna who works at a gallery on the West Side that specializes in Abstract Expressionism, and I wondered if you’d come across her?’
The young woman smiled and shook her head. ‘I only began working here a week ago. Sorry.’
Alex thanked her, but didn’t leave the gallery until he’d taken another look at the Renoir. He didn’t waste his or her time asking the price. He knew he couldn’t afford her.
He moved on to a second gallery, and then a third, and spent the rest of the morning fruitlessly entering a dozen other establishments, and asking a dozen other young assistants the same question, but with the same result. When the bells of St Patrick’s Cathedral rang out once, he decided to take a break for lunch before continuing his quest. He spotted a small queue waiting outside a sandwich bar, and headed towards it, still clutching his Warhol. And then he saw her through a restaurant window.
She was sitting in a corner booth, chatting to a handsome man who looked as if he knew her well. His heart sank when the man leant across the table and took her hand. Alex retreated to a nearby bench, where he sat despondently, no longer feeling hungry. He was just about to go home, when they came out of the restaurant together. The man leant over to kiss her, but Anna turned away, not smiling. Then she walked off and left him standing there without another word.
Alex jumped up from the bench and began to follow her along Lexington, keeping his distance until she disappeared into an elegant art gallery. As he walked past N. Rosenthal & Co. he looked inside and saw her taking a seat behind a desk. He waited for a few moments before turning back. He then sauntered into the gallery without even glancing in her direction. A customer was speaking to her, and he pretended to be interested in one of the paintings. Eventually the chatty woman left, and Alex walked across to the desk. Anna looked up and smiled.
‘Can I help you, sir?’
‘I hope so.’ He took the Warhol out of the carrier bag, removed the wrapping and placed it on the desk. Anna took a careful look at the painting, and then at Alex. A flicker of recognition crossed her face.
‘I was hoping you might be able to value this picture for me.’
She studied it once again before asking, ‘Is it yours?’
‘No, it belongs to a friend of mine. He asked me to get it valued.’
She took a second look at him before saying, ‘I don’t have enough experience to give you a realistic valuation, but if you’d allow me to show the painting to Mr Rosenthal, I’m sure he could help.’
‘Of course.’
Anna picked up the painting, walked to the far end of the gallery and disappeared into another room. Alex was admiring a Lee Krasner called The Eye is the First Circle, when a distinguished-looking grey-haired gentleman wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit, pink shirt and red polka-dot bow tie emerged from his office carrying the painting. He placed it back on Anna’s desk.
‘You asked my assistant if I could value this picture for you?’ he said, looking closely at Alex. The words ‘slow’ and ‘measured’ came to mind. This was not a man in a hurry. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you, sir, that it’s a copy. The original is owned by a Mr Lawrence Lowell of Boston, and is part of the Lowell Collection.’
I’m well aware of that, Alex wanted to tell him. ‘What makes you think it’s a copy?’ he asked.
‘It’s not the painting itself,’ said Rosenthal, ‘which I confess had me fooled for a moment. It was the canvas that gave it away.’ He turned the painting over and said, ‘Warhol couldn’t have afforded such an expensive canvas in his early days, besides which, it’s the wrong size.’
‘Are you certain?’ asked Alex, suddenly feeling first angry and then sick.
‘Oh yes. The canvas is an inch wider than the original one in the Lowell Collection.’
‘So it’s a fake?’
‘No, sir. A fake is when someone attempts to deceive the art world by claiming to have come across an original work that is not recorded in the artist’s catalogue raisonné. This,’ he said, ‘is a copy, albeit a damned fine copy.’
‘May I ask what it would have been worth had it been the original?’ Alex asked tentatively.
‘A million, possibly a million and a half,’ said Rosenthal. ‘Its provenance is impeccable. I believe Mr Lowell’s grandfather bought it directly from the artist in the early sixties, when he couldn’t even pay his rent.’