48. Walker
Chapter 48
Walker
T rance music hums through my room as I test the red chalks. One after another until I match the pigment of the Rubens, and not by looking at any of my reference photos. This must be right, and the flash in the photos distorts the colors, making them a shade brighter than the piece in the museum. I’ve got to go by memory alone to get it right.
We want this forgery to look unsuspicious for as long as possible. No matter what, once the Rubens is taken down for a cleaning or a review by the curators, it won’t pass muster. Any major tests will reveal that the materials I’m using are from post-WWII sources, with radiation levels higher than the original would have had.
This isn’t a permanent replacement. I’m making a stopgap that will keep anyone from looking for us until we’ve disappeared. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to make it the best damn fake I can .
Finding the perfect red, I do the same with the blacks, lastly choosing the correct white.
Warming up, I picture what I’m doing in my mind, the little details, the full composition, the vibe, the emotion in the strokes, all the parts I’ve been practicing for months. I hold it there in my mind’s eye, seeing myself drawing it perfectly, over and over again, until the rhythm of it takes over, the pacing, the swipe, the curl, the pressure against the paper.
I draw the collection of tigers, lions, and leopards three times on regular paper, each one the same as the last.
Clearing my drafting table, I wipe it down, placing the chalk off to the side. Lining the surface with four pages from my largest sketchbook, I create a softer workspace so I can mimic the gentle touch of the sketch—counteracting my naturally bolder hand.
Placing the only piece of 17th century paper that RJ could source for me on the prepared surface, I breathe deep once, playing out the drawing in my head one last time.
Picking up the first color, I start, not pausing, riding the flow from start to finish, each color adding, building, translating a perfectly formed image from my mind onto the paper.
By the time I set down the white chalk, the sun has set, and my trois crayons is complete.
Vicious cats with teeth glinting prowl the paper, muscles bunched and ready to leap out. Each snarl is unique, each tiger stripe and leopard spot adding to the feeling that the cats are fighting for the chance to be free, but will be forever caught on paper.
It’s done .
I tuck it between protective sheets, rubbing down the edges with a special eraser to blur my fingerprints. Staring at the image I made, pride wells as I zip it into my portfolio, ready for next week.
I did it.
And it’s perfect.