Chapter 2 #2
A dozen portraits, three rows of four, were hung in neat lines on the back wall.
Each was a head-and-shoulders composition.
Theo removed a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses from his pocket, looped them over his ears, clasped his hands behind his back, and began to study the drawings from a yard away.
One moment his head was held down to look over the top of his eyeglasses; the next his head tilted back to look through the lenses perched at the end of his nose.
An art historian at the Louvre could not have been more engaged with or enthralled by the masterpieces at that great museum than the old man was by the portraits in the Chalice.
He moved closer, a foot or so from the wall, and scrutinized each drawing down to the most intricate of pencil lines. He was oblivious to time and to the goings-on in the shop around him.
When Shep had filled all his drink orders, he spotted Theo across the room but chose not to disturb him. He was pleased that the old fellow was so absorbed in the artwork but was also curious at what might be behind such keen interest.
Even as a boy, Theo had been fascinated by fine lines and intricacy.
Much of his childhood was spent peering through a magnifying glass at feathers, leaves, and insects in the vineyards around his home.
He was bedazzled by spiderwebs, dragonfly wings, and the undersides of mushrooms. He collected postage stamps and was spellbound when he had first seen Da Vinci’s line drawings and sketches.
As a young adult and later, it had been his habit to carry a loupe — a gift from a teacher — in his pocket in order to examine small objects and details not visible to the naked eye.
For one like him, the portraiture in the Chalice was an embarrassment of riches, a treasure trove, a visual feast.
At every frame, Theo leaned forward and genuflected, a man transfixed.
He moved to the front of the shop and resumed his perusal, once directly over the heads of customers sitting at a table abutting the wall. He begged their pardon but did not alter his course.
For him, each face revealed a mood that hinted at a story and begged a question.
What is that fellow so worried about?
Why is the young woman so bashful?
How would I describe the expression on that child’s face?
And how, dear God, does the artist render each one so convincingly, over and over?
As he studied the pieces, Theo became increasingly perplexed, troubled even, that so many of the portraits were still available for sale.
He was baffled by their price tags. Only $125 for this?
Only $200? They are worth far more than that.
Why, he wondered, were ninety-two portraits of this quality, at these prices, still unsold?
He lingered at the portrait of a young woman with delicate features, unsmiling, and with eyes that looked directly into his. They had a haunting familiarity about them. Could it be?
From her, he moved his attention one frame to the right, to the face of a young man looking away from the artist at something outside the frame.
What was in those darting eyes? Fear? Suspicion?
Contempt? Whatever it was, he seemed ill at ease in front of the camera.
He wore a winter cap and a high collar that indicated cold weather.
Theo had been studying the portraits for almost an hour when Shep finally joined him.
“They are something else, aren’t they?”
Shep was wiping his fingers on a hand towel. He nodded to the portrait in front of Theo, the one of the young man with the nervous eyes.
“That fellow’s been through some hard stuff. His little girl got hurt real bad in a car accident a while back. The mother was killed. He doesn’t come here very often, but he usually just wants a regular coffee with room for cream. I don’t think he even knows his picture is up here.”
Theo nodded and turned to Shep.
“Do you know all the people on the walls?”
“I know most of them at least a little bit. Some I know pretty well. Some I don’t know at all.
The artist usually writes their names in small letters on the backs of the frames, so I can tell who they are if I need to know for some reason.
But Mr. Theo, before we talk about them, please tell me about you.
What’s your story? You said you’re new to town. What brings you here? Where’s home?”
Theo waved off the questions before giving a short answer.
“I have lived in a number of places. I was born and raised in the north of Portugal, but I have lived for many years in New York City. I still have a place there, but I’m here on a bit of business, and my home today is Golden.
Only one day and already I am very fond of your city.
And Mr. Shep, I particularly like your shop. ”
The politely vague answer hardly constituted the story that Shep had hoped for, but he didn’t press. A fuller version would perhaps unfold in time.
“Please, just call me Shep. That’s what my friends call me. No Mister.”
“Of course, thank you. And please, call me Theo. Speaking of names, why the Chalice?”
Now it was Shep’s time to be evasive. “It had a nice ring to it. I’ll tell you the longer story one of these days. Did you read the article about the portraits?”
Theo nodded. “I did, thank you. Very interesting.” He handed the magazine back to Shep.
“Mr. Shep — excuse me, Shep — one thing I don’t understand. Why do people not buy the portraits?”
Shep grimaced, then rocked his head left to right a couple of times in search of a proper response.
“That’s a mystery to me, too, Theo. I know Asher’s got plenty to do, and he probably doesn’t need any more work, but I was hoping this might create some business for him.
So far it hasn’t worked out that way. Not yet.
We sold a good number at Christmas last year, but I’m still waiting for a big breakthrough.
I have to believe that one of these days, people are going to realize what a treasure these are.
Asher did one of Addie — that’s my wife, Addelyn — and it’s one of my most prized possessions.
If my house ever catches fire, it’ll be one of the first things I grab on the way out.
” Shep hesitated. “We love having them here, but I wish someone would come along and buy all of them.”
Theo’s eyes widened slightly. He moved his hand to his mouth, thumb under his chin and index finger tapping his lips.
Shep looked toward the counter. A customer was waiting to place an order.
“Theo, I better get back to work. Thanks for coming in. You know, if you become a regular here, there’s a good chance you’ll end up on the wall someday. Welcome to Golden. Incidentally, how was the coffee?”
“Superb. Exceptionnelle! Maravilhoso!” Theo smiled, applauded softly, then patted Shep on the arm. He walked out of the shop, crossed the street to the median, and took a seat on a bench near the fountain.
He thought of the unsold portraits.
Of the homes that would be beautified and the lives that would be enriched by their presence.
Of the artist who would be encouraged by their sale.
It was there that the idea formed in his mind.