Chapter Twelve
MINA
Anastasia handed me a tissue, and I did my best to pull myself together. But, heck. It was like glimpsing the ghost of a loved one you thought you would never, ever see again. My heart fluttered, and my skin prickled with goose bumps.
Marius tilted his head at me, then at the painting, confused.
“Franz Marc. The Tower of Blue Horses,” I murmured.
Recognition dawned on his face. “Like the horses on your mug?”
I smiled. “A lot like that.”
The mug was my father’s, actually, and the only one I refused to share.
The horses stood one behind the other as if on an incline, giving the painting its name — The Tower of Blue Horses. Filling the right side of the long canvas with energy, curves, and sharp lines, they gazed left over a stylized mountain landscape.
Marius put a hand on my shoulder, letting me cry, while signaling he was there for me. The man was definitely a keeper.
Crying felt silly, but I couldn’t help it.
Why? Because of the sheer beauty of that artwork.
Because of my father, who would have given an arm to find this masterpiece.
Because of Franz Marc and everyone killed in senseless wars — people with great talent and potential, snuffed out at a tragically young age.
I reached up to touch Marius’s hand. He might not understand why that painting meant so much, but he respected that it was important to me, and I loved him for that.
Well, I loved him for a lot of things.
“This painting has been lost for decades,” I explained, then caught myself. “If it’s the real thing.”
Anastasia snorted. “Not lost. Carefully guarded. And as for genuine, have a look for yourself.”
I stood to inspect it. But it was very much like the Van Gogh I’d come across in Mallorca — I already knew it was real. I could sense it. A true masterpiece had an aura to it, as if marked by the artist’s passion and genius.
Was that one of my magical abilities, or did I simply have a practiced eye? I wasn’t sure which, but boy, did that painting look like the real thing.
I leaned closer, checking the canvas…the brushstrokes…the kaleidoscopic effect on the horses’ bodies…
My eyes stopped at a line that didn’t fit in — then another, and another.
“Sadly, there was some damage,” Anastasia explained, seeing my reaction. “My father had it repaired, but a keen eye can spot it.”
Her father, huh? I tucked that tidbit away for later.
“We call it the painting’s war wound,” she chuckled. “Something only healed after its long journey home.”
My mind conjured images of war-torn landscapes, weary soldiers, and officers snapping up booty under the guise of reparations.
Franz Marc had painted The Tower of Blue Horses in 1913, not long before joining the German army to fight in World War I.
He’d died at the Battle of Verdun, along with hundreds of thousands of other soldiers.
The painting had ended up in the private collection of a top-ranking Nazi before disappearing in the last, chaotic days of World War II. So, Anastasia’s story fit.
Most art historians agreed the artwork had been carted off by the Soviet Army, while others believed it to be locked in a Swiss vault. But here it was today, in London. Right in front of me.
I wanted to pinch myself. To grab my phone and call my mom, sister, and cousin. Better yet, to shout to heaven. Big news, Dad! The Tower of Blue Horses has surfaced — in London!
He would have had so many questions, as did I. But I had to be sure it was the real thing in a way I could explain to Gordon.
I leaned in, studying every detail, like the crescent moon and stars painted into the curves of the horses’ bodies. Then I touched the frame and turned to Anastasia.
“May I?”
When she nodded, I eased the painting away from the wall to peek at the back.
Marius held it while I flashed my phone light.
I saw traces of a stamped inscription as well as slanting script, though I couldn’t make out the details.
Those could probably be traced to a museum or art dealer to establish the painting’s authenticity.
Would that convince an expert? I was sure it would, and anyway, this was definitely worth Gordon’s time to follow up on.
“Incredible,” I said, returning to the couch to stare at it.
Anastasia smiled. “It is, isn’t it?”
Marius shuffled behind me, bringing my mind back to business.
“Gordon said you wanted to have someone evaluate it,” I murmured. “Does that mean you hope to sell it?”
She nodded sadly. “I’m an old woman, and it’s time to put my affairs in order.”
I followed her gaze to the cracks in the plaster walls and dust on the chandelier. And those were just the superficial jobs needed in one room of many.
Boy, could I relate. Would I find myself in Anastasia’s position someday, selling my most prized possession to finance my living expenses? Worse, would possessions be all I had to show for my life, rather than years of health, love, and happy memories?
I gulped and made a mental note to myself. Check own priorities.
“I hate to part with it,” Anastasia said, “But selling it now allows me to ensure it goes into the right hands.”
My heart thumped as I asked the million-dollar question — or rather, the multimillion-dollar question, given the painting’s value.
“By the right hands, you mean…”
“Someone who will love, cherish, and protect it the way I have.”
My heart sank, because that sounded a lot like hidden in a private collection.
Still, I played dumb. “You mean, like a museum?”
She scoffed, clearly disappointed in me. “Oh, my dear. Don’t you know? Museums are fine in theory, but they’re run by political appointees and mediocrities.”
I had a few negative opinions of my own, but none quite as cutting.
“So, not a museum,” I said flatly.
In my imagination, the horses in the painting stamped and snorted, equally unhappy with such an outcome.
Anastasia shook her head vehemently. “I refuse to let it go to a museum, a capitalist, or an egoist.” Her face twisted with anger, and her hands cut the air as she spoke. “They’re criminals, all of them. And I can’t let it back into Russia…”
“Would you prefer it remain in England, then?” I tried.
She snorted. “Royalists make up a third of this country, and the other two-thirds are provincials who read the Daily Mail.”
I blinked. For a little old lady, she could get pretty damn vicious.
“It must go to someone who knows art. Who appreciates it,” she continued. “Someone like you, dear, though I doubt you can afford it.” She patted my hand agreeably.
I winced. She was right, but it would have been nice to put that a little more delicately.
“Pity,” I murmured.
“But I’m sure the next guardian of this remarkable masterpiece can be located,” Anastasia went on in a slightly happier tone. “That’s why I contacted Gordon.”
In my imagination, the horse at the top of the tower whinnied in alarm.
Marius tapped me on the shoulder. “Don’t forget about your next appointment.”
There was no other appointment. He was pulling the plug on this, and I couldn’t blame him. But I never wanted to leave. I gazed at the painting, trying to imprint it in my memory forever.
“We still have that cake downstairs,” Anastasia suggested.
Normally, my sweet tooth would make me jump at such an offer, but I’d lost my appetite. The painting was destined to disappear for another generation, only to be seen by a few elites. An elite I didn’t belong to, along with most of the world’s art lovers.
“No thank you,” I said.
Silence fell over the room, and Anastasia looked at me intently.
“Yes?” I asked as politely as I could.
“Aren’t you going to ask to take a photo?”
Ha. If Gen were here, she would be snapping selfies with the painting. But that didn’t feel right somehow.
“No photo can capture what I feel when I look at it,” I said.
That must have been a test of sorts, because Anastasia smiled. “Good girl. However, I insist that you take a photo — although only of one corner, in order to convince Gordon’s expert of its authenticity.”
I considered briefly, then snapped a shot of the lower right corner, showing part of one horse’s legs and chest against a red background. Then I went back to soaking it all in.
It was one of those all-too-fleeting moments I wanted to capture forever, because I might never experience the magic of it again. Like an especially spectacular Maine sunset I’d watched with my father, many years ago, or the first time Marius had truly smiled at me.
He cleared his throat, signaling it was time to go.
“So, I’ll hear from you soon?” Anastasia moved toward the door.
I didn’t follow. I couldn’t. Just another few seconds…
“Yes, but it’s likely to take a few weeks to make the arrangements,” I replied.
“Weeks? How many?” Worry clanged loud and clear in Anastasia’s voice.
Apparently, she was in a rush. Why?
I shrugged. “It’s hard to say, but I can’t imagine it will be less than four weeks. More like six, I suspect.”
“Six weeks?” she cried. “No. It must be sooner.”
Her voice went shrill, revealing a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted, when she wanted.
“I’ll be sure to pass that on to Gordon,” I said.
Another shake of the head, because that wasn’t good enough. “I need it sold by October 28 at the very latest.”
A suspiciously exact deadline. Suspicious enough for me to heed Marius’s insistent gesture to get moving.
I looked at the painting one last time, counting down the seconds on my self-imposed deadline. A huge lump formed in my throat as a thousand emotions rose up, trying to escape.
Anastasia kissed me on both cheeks, urging me to act quickly. Then I turned and marched out the door, leaving that painting — that dream come true — behind me forever.
* * *
Neither Marius nor I spoke until we were several blocks away. He was back in bodyguard mode, studying our surroundings for potential threats, while my mind remained on Franz Marc’s horses.
“Don’t even think of getting involved in this,” he finally grumbled.
I scoffed. “Because a little old lady and her painting can be so dangerous?”
“A little old lady and a valuable painting,” he countered. “Or am I wrong?”
I shook my head. “Very, very valuable.”
“How valuable?”
I thought it over. “Another Franz Marc painting — The Foxes — sold a few years ago for fifty-six million dollars.”
He stopped in his tracks. “Fifty-six million?”
I nodded, waving back in the direction we’d come from. “But that painting would be worth much, much more. It would be the find of the century, if it came into the public eye.”
Marius’s skeptical look told me what he put those odds at.
“Fifty-six million reasons for you to stay away from it,” he warned.
I scowled, but he was right.
He touched my cheek, then showed me the red smudge on his finger.
“Anastasia went a little heavy on the lipstick,” he explained.
That made me smile, but a block later, I found myself pouting a little.
“Well, I’ve done what Gordon asked, so I won’t be involved any more.”
I ought to have consoled myself with having seen the painting in person, but my mind was too busy releasing those horses into an open, rugged landscape, as their creator intended. A painting like that shouldn’t be hidden away for only a few to see. It should be out in the world and celebrated.
“Gordon is going to have a hell of a time finding a buyer that fits Anastasia’s specifications,” I added. “I don’t think his network includes any art aficionados who aren’t capitalists, crooks, or…what was it?”
“Mediocrities,” Marius grumbled. “Another reason you don’t want to get involved.”
I tilted my head in question.
“A class act like you mixing with the rabble?” He shook his head at the notion.
Ha. Me, a class act? My fingernails were chipped and caked with flecks of old paint from all that scraping I’d been doing.
Marius pulled me along for another few blocks, making a beeline for the nearest Tube station. The sights and shops of Kensington High Street were a blur to me, though. All I saw were those horses, prancing impatiently in place on the wall in Anastasia’s lovely but fading apartment.