Fugitive Colors, page 6
“I could use a drink now,” Adrienne said angrily, turning in the direction of the bar.
“I’ll come with you,” Julian said, following her.
As they walked, someone grabbed Adrienne’s arm and stopped her. Julian felt an acute pang inside his chest. The man holding her appeared to be in his mid-forties, compact and handsome, wearing an expensively tailored pinstriped suit. He pulled Adrienne close, then he whispered something in her ear, causing her to throw her head back with laughter.
“Not to mention that you look fabulous,” Julian heard him say.
Adrienne, clutching the man’s arm, turned around. “Julian, meet René’s father, Jacob Levi.”
Jacob Levi. He sighed with relief and extended his hand. “Truly a pleasure, Mr. Levi. “
Jacob assessed Julian from head to toe. “You are the American fellow, right?”
“Am I that obvious?”
They all laughed.
“I’ve heard a lot about your gallery, Mr. Levi. It’s supposed to be the finest in Paris.” Julian paused. Every time he asked René to visit the gallery, there was always an excuse.
“Well, then, you must come and visit.” Jacob glanced briefly at a group gathering nearby. “Lovely to finally meet you. Adrienne, it’s wonderful to see you. Excuse me.” He turned with a slight bow, moving swiftly toward the other circle, which opened up for him like an oyster.
“It must be very difficult for Jacob to be here,” Adrienne commented under her breath. “Charles Ferrat steals clients from him left and right. From what I hear, Jacob is livid that René is making his debut here. He feels betrayed. He and René are not speaking, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. René never mentioned it,” Julian said, thinking that he and René had not spent any real time together since their discussion about Charlotte at the café. “Neither did Felix. I’m surprised.”
Adrienne laughed. “Oh, please. Felix cannot get over that René is having his own exhibition. He could care less about Jacob’s feelings.”
She pressed her mouth against Julian’s ear as she spoke, and the sensation was moist and tickly. “Jacob is no saint. He can be ruthless and is quite the ladies’ man. I’m sure he came tonight only because the gossip would have been fierce had he not shown up for his son’s debut.”
“Why am I hearing about all of this just now?”
Adrienne ruffled Julian’s hair as though he were a child. “Don’t you think I know how we all unload everything on you? You came to Paris to paint, not to solve our silly problems.”
Julian smiled. She knew. And then he felt the guilty lump rise again in his throat, reminding him that what she didn’t know was that he was lying to her as well. Those late nights René spent with Charlotte. The lies. When Adrienne had cried to him, asking him if she was crazy when he knew first-hand that she wasn’t. After the exhibition, he would tell René that he was done covering for him. He’d give him tonight, and then the lying was officially over.
In the distance, he saw Charlotte leaving René’s entourage. He counted the near-dozen double takes she chalked up as she moved through the crowd.
“Charlotte is finally gone,” he said. “Let’s go over there.”
Adrienne watched Charlotte work the crowd and shook her head. “I’m not crazy, am I, Julian? You see what I see. I know you do.”
Julian didn’t say anything. He squeezed her hand tightly and pulled her in the direction of René. “You’re not crazy. C’mon, Adrienne.”
“Look, I’m just not up to seeing him right now,” she said, the tears welling up as she pulled her hand away. “But you go. I will meet you later, okay?”
Julian was hesitant to leave her.
“I’m a big girl. Twenty-two next month. I don’t need a bodyguard. Besides, there are a few people I must say hello to.” Adrienne took Julian’s hand inside hers and lightly kissed his fingers. The kiss sent shockwaves through his body, and he was afraid to look at her. He felt her eyes on him, and then she turned and left.
He watched the rustling back of her dress as she disappeared into the next room, and he yearned to follow her. Instead, he smoothed down his jacket and slowly walked over to René and Felix. Dubois was there, too, taking full credit for his pet student’s success.
René wrapped his arm around Julian’s shoulder. “Do you believe this?”
“You deserve it,” Julian said. “Everything looks fantastic.”
René beamed. He scanned the room and whispered, “Where is Adrienne? I thought you two were coming together.”
Julian looked him in the eyes and said quietly, “She saw you with Charlotte and left the room.”
René’s brow crinkled with comprehension, and then he turned to shake the hand of someone joining the circle.
“Georges Wildenstein,” Felix grumbled under his breath. “Is there an art dealer in this town not here?” He lifted his empty glass. “Refill time. I’ve had enough of these pint-sized portions. Be a good friend, Julian, and bring us a goddamn bottle.”
Julian wanted to tell Felix what he could do with his goddamn bottle, but the dejected look in Felix’s eyes forced Julian to let him off the hook, albeit not entirely. “In exchange for you doing this week’s laundry,” Julian said evenly.
“Make that two bottles.”
“Done.”
Julian pushed through clusters of conversation, catching scraps of airborne commentary as he proceeded toward the bar. He paused when he overheard a familiar seductive voice somewhere to his left.
“He is much better than you on your best days,” she whispered huskily.
“Don’t be a bitch, Charlotte,” a male voice hissed. “You know damn well I can never leave Sofie.”
Julian whipped his head around in disbelief and saw them. Charlotte and Jacob Levi? How many men were under this woman’s spell?
“You are the most important art dealer in Paris. The Great Jacob Levi,” she said mockingly. “You can do anything you want, have anyone you want.” She paused. “And you do—including me. But not anymore.”
“So, now you’re punishing me by sleeping with my son,” Jacob whispered angrily. “You really are a whore.”
“No more than you are. We both sell our goods for the right price.” She smiled through her teeth. “You may sell Picasso. My body is a Picasso.”
“Stay away from René,” he warned.
“No one owns me, Jacob. But don’t feel so bad.” Her voice dropped.
“At least I’m keeping it in the family.”
Julian practically ran to the bar, feeling overwhelmed with secrets. He asked for two bottles of wine, but hardly heard himself speak. Charlotte’s voice was still ringing in his ear.
A hand brushed against his shoulder. He could smell the familiar lilac scent and knew it was Charlotte without even looking. That scent seemed to fill the studio.
“Hello, Julian,” she said demurely. “Having fun?”
“Yes,” he said stiffly. “Great.”
She studied his face. “You look a little disturbed.”
Julian was unable to contain himself. She was so damn sure of herself. “Look, Charlotte, I don’t know what you are up to—but be careful with my friends.”
She faltered for an instant, then her eyes smoldered. She straightened to her full height, assuming the pose he had studied for weeks. Taking one of the bottles from his hand, she examined the label. “Château Lafite Rothschild.” Charlotte smiled broadly as she pivoted on her heel. “I’ll bring this to René. It happens to be his favorite.”
Chapter Six
It had been a long day at the studio and Julian needed a good night’s sleep. He trudged toward the apartment, his portfolio and supplies weighing him down. From more than a block away, he spotted a fancy car parked in front of his building and as he moved closer, he saw the foreign license plate. The sleek Daimler-Benz, with its long louvered hood and rear-mounted spare tire, postured like a queen among the queue of Peugeots, Renaults, and Citroëns. As Julian approached, he noticed a chauffeur guarding the vehicle and staring up at his building.
No one Julian knew had a driver or a car like that—except maybe for someone in Felix’s family. Julian stopped in his tracks. By the way the man was staring at his building, Julian knew something was definitely wrong. Quickening his pace, he passed the driver without making eye contact and flew up the two flights of stairs to his apartment. He paused breathlessly outside the door, about to insert his key into the lock when he heard Felix engaged in a shouting match in German. He slid the key back into his pocket and waited.
“Damn you, Father. Why didn’t you contact me first before coming?” Felix demanded.
“So, this is what I’m paying for, Felix? You’re living here like a pig in shit. I can’t even breathe in this place. If your mother saw—”
“Leave Mother out of this!” Felix shouted.
“Look, I did not come here to argue. I came here to discuss an important issue concerning the family.”
“Discuss?” Felix laughed contemptuously. “As in exchange words like human beings? Please, Father, we’ve been down that road before, and it’s a dead end.”
“I see,” the baron said coldly. “Then I will get to the point. You have lived in Paris for five years. I have allowed you to play around with this painting hobby.”
“You’ve allowed me?” Felix countered. “What the hell—”
“Goddamn it, Felix, you are going to listen to me!” Baron Wilhelm Von Bredow’s deep baritone bellowed down the hallway. Julian expected Felix to strike back, but he heard nothing in return except for heavy breathing.
“Now, as I was saying,” the baron continued, “your brother is not well.”
“I could have told you that,” Felix said.
“Damn you, Felix. Hans is very sick. Do you understand me? He is no longer able to work. You will come home.”
“What? No, Father, I am not going anywhere.”
Julian pressed his ear hard against the door. Silence.
“You are coming home,” the baron repeated. His voice, though calm, was on the verge of eruption, like the stillness just before a storm. “You will run the company while I take care of political affairs. The situation is changing quickly, to our good fortune. Enough playtime, Felix. You will pack up your things. We are leaving here in two days.”
“I am not a child, Father. I don’t pack up my things because you say so. And why the hell do you want me to run your company? What about your puppet, Rolf? He’s been waiting for years for a chance like this. Let him do it.” Felix sounded bitter. “Look, I’m not leaving Paris. My life is here. I am an artist, not an accountant.”
“You have responsibilities to our family, whether or not you recognize them,” the baron said sharply. “And I’m sorry, son, to break the news, but you are by no means an artist.”
“Get out of here!” Felix yelled.
Julian heard a rush toward the door, so he hustled up one flight of stairs. The apartment door flung open violently. The baron was now standing in the doorway.
“I am not giving you a choice, Felix,” he said. “I am prepared to cut you off from your allowance unless you return to Berlin.”
“So cut me off,” Felix retorted.
“Don’t test me.” The baron laughed scornfully. “You haven’t worked a single day in your life. Let me put it in a way that even you can understand: I am not leaving Paris without you.”
The door slammed shut. Peering through the wrought-iron baluster, Julian saw the shiny bald top of the baron’s head as he descended the stairs. He was a big man, taller than Felix, and was wearing a large wool overcoat and holding a matching gray fedora. Each step pounded oppressively against the thinly carpeted wood. Julian heard the closing of a car door outside and pictured the dour-faced driver behind the wheel, his face fixed forward, awaiting instructions. Julian stayed where he was until he heard the roar of the car engine and then the dwindling sound as the vehicle sped down the street.
Entering the apartment, he found Felix sitting on the couch with his head buried in his hands. Suddenly, the room seemed smaller. Julian walked over to Felix and put his hand on his friend’s shoulder, but Felix did not look up.
“I was standing outside the door, Felix. I heard everything,” Julian said quietly. “I’m so sorry.”
“You have no idea what he is like.” Felix was fighting back tears. Julian had never seen him like this, so broken. He opened the nearest bottle of wine and even managed to find a clean glass. He offered it to Felix, who took it without looking up.
“What are you going to do?” Julian asked, sitting next to him.
“I have no choice.”
“Forget your father, Felix. Let him stick around Paris all he wants, but you’re staying here.”
Felix swigged hard. “You don’t understand, Julian. He is a very powerful man.”
“So hide,” Julian said. “We’ll all help you. You don’t have to do this.”
“There is nowhere to hide. My father’s friends are everywhere. The political situation in Germany is changing rapidly, as you know. And my father—” Felix paused, about to say something, but stopped himself. “We have never agreed on anything, especially politics.”
Felix got up from the couch, walked to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered out at the street below. His gaze was distant, frozen in time like a court portrait. “All I ever wanted was to paint, Julian. But my father is right. I don’t have it.”
Julian walked over to him. “You don’t have what, Felix?”
Felix turned to face him. “What René possesses. I have the passion—” He shook his head sadly. “It just doesn’t translate. Even Dubois says I paint like a juvenile.”
“Dubois is an idiot.”
“Look me in the goddamn eye, Julian, and tell me I am wrong.”
Julian knew he could not do that. Felix was not a good artist. But it didn’t matter. For all of them, painting was breathing. That is what mattered—the desire, the need to paint no matter what. He grabbed Felix by the shoulders. “Listen to me. No one can take away your love of art. Don’t let him do that to you, Felix.” Julian paused, thinking, I did not let them do it to me. But Felix did not know about that part of his life. None of them did.
Felix’s eyes were watery, and this time he didn’t fight it. “Did you know that growing up I ate dinner at a table larger than this entire room? I could have had any damn thing I wanted, and all I have ever wanted was to be an artist.”
“And you are.”
Felix shook his head despairingly. “No, I’m not. I paint. I know art. I love art. But I was born with the inclination, not the talent. I’m a painter, not an artist. There’s a difference.” Felix pushed past Julian and began pacing around the couch. His red eyes were now wild and accusatory.
“René has it. You see him work. You know what I’m talking about— the demon that possesses him. The world could fall on René’s head, and he’d still be painting amid the rubble. I love René, Julian, but he has something that I will never possess, no matter if I paint day and night. That is why I need him—to learn from him, to take from him what I lack. But I will never be an artist like René … or like you.” Felix looked away, ashamed. He picked up the opened bottle of wine from the coffee table and waved it. “My father knows how important art is to me. Throughout my childhood he cut it down. I pretend it doesn’t hurt, but it still hurts like hell.”
“I’m so sorry, Felix.” And Julian truly was. He understood the pain, the internal hell, more than Felix could ever know. He thought of his own father, of the horrible day when he had discovered Julian’s artwork hidden in the closet. He was fifteen years old, and by that time, Yakov Klein had become a skilled thief. What began as bi-monthly stints of stealing art books from the library turned into a full-time occupation of weekly pilfering. By day, Yakov sat long hours in the cheder, barely listening to the teachings of the rabbi, daydreaming about painters. At night, instead of reviewing his Talmud studies, he’d teach himself how to paint and draw. He had no real teacher to work with—only thousands of pages of masters to guide him. But Yakov took what he could get. He studied art with the intensity and dedication he should have been giving to the Torah.
That fateful night, after dinner, Yakov was helping his mother clean up, not knowing that his father was busy scouring his bedroom. When he emerged with a stack of the stolen art books and drawings and stood there in the kitchen, glaring with raw hatred at him and his mother, Yakov knew that the worst was about to come. His father violently dropped the books at Yakov’s feet and lunged toward his mother. It was the first time that Yakov had ever seen his father strike his mother. It was a hard slap across the face, a swift whip-like crack that drew blood from her mouth and nose.
“It’s your fault for spoiling him, indulging his sins in my own house. Damn you.” His father, ranting in English and Yiddish, blamed his mother for the transgressions of their son, the artist. He spat out the words “the artist” as though Yakov were “the murderer.” But there was more to it. Yakov knew that slap had dual meaning, and in his father’s eyes, it was a long time in coming—payback for all of the babies his mother was unable to give him. And what she had given her husband was Yakov, the artist-murderer, the disappointment—the cheder’s worst student who cared nothing for his studies.
Yakov, who was taller and stronger than his portly father, immediately wrestled him to the floor and pinned him down with his knees.
“I hate you!” he shouted, staring into his father’s dark cowardly eyes. “If you ever hit her again, I will kill you!”
But his mother, still bleeding, pulled her only child off the man she did not love but had been taught to revere no matter what. Yakov stood and released his father—for her. He knew he might have killed him in that moment. Perhaps he was a thief. Perhaps he was an artist-murderer. But his mother had kept his secret all these years, and he owed her. Someday, he vowed, he would get out of this place, away from that bastard, but she was stuck with him until death.
