The Gravity of Birds. Tracy Guzeman
studied his fingers, then turned from the window. ‘In truth, Denny, I was thinking of you. It will be worth so much more now than it would have been when I painted it. I’ll be able to pay you back tenfold, don’t you see?’ He emptied his glass and walked to the credenza again, pouring himself another. He raised the glass in Finch’s direction. ‘Just imagine the publicity.’
Unfortunately, Finch could imagine it quite easily. That shameful desire he was unable to submerge, the longing that persisted on the fringe of his consciousness, the unspoken wish for a speck of what Thomas had frittered away: the money, the swagger, and the talent; his ability to transport those who saw his work to a place they hadn’t known existed. Finch had almost convinced himself the books were purely for scholarship. Other than insubstantial royalties, there was no personal gain. He was not the artist after all. He was an art history professor and a critic. He could pretend to understand what he saw, to divine the artist’s meaning, but his was the paltry contribution. A frayed dream rose up and swirled in his head. The first to see another Bayber, to discover it, after twenty years. His disappointment in finding himself tempted was as palpable as his wife’s voice in his head, their conversations continuing, unabated, since her death. Enough is enough, Denny. He pushed Claire away, shutting out those same melodic tones he struggled to summon each day, letting her be silenced by his racing thoughts. His pulse quickened. He rubbed his hands together, feeling a chill.
‘Let’s see it.’
The sly smile. As if he was so easily read, so quickly persuaded.
‘Not just yet, Denny.’
‘What do you mean? I can’t very well talk about something I haven’t seen.’
‘Oh, I imagine if you put the word out, there will be the appropriate level of required interest, sight unseen. And I don’t have the painting here, of course.’
Thomas’s body may have been in some state of disrepair, but his ego was as healthy as ever. ‘Until I see it,’ Finch said, ‘I’m not making any calls.’
Thomas appeared not to have heard him. ‘I was thinking you might ask Jameson’s son to take a look at it. Pass judgment on its authenticity. He’s at Murchison, isn’t he? And struggling a bit since Dylan died, from what I hear.’
‘Stephen? Stephen Jameson? Surely you’re joking.’
‘Why?’
Was it Finch’s imagination or did Thomas seem insulted his suggestion was met with so little enthusiasm? ‘The young man has a brilliant mind—frighteningly so, really. He’s certainly gifted, providing one manages to overlook his … quirks, shall we say? But they’d never send him. Cranston wouldn’t let him out alone. Not to see you.’
Thomas interpreted his emotions with little more than a passing glance. ‘You feel sorry for him.’ He smiled. ‘You’re right about Cranston, of course, wretched piece of puffery that he is. But if you called Jameson, Denny. If you gave him the opportunity …’
How could Thomas have known? Dylan Jameson had been a longtime acquaintance, someone Finch liked and respected, the sort of friend artists long for: a champion of the unknown and overlooked, a man whose gallery was warm with the sound of laughter and kind praise, and whose opinion was delivered thoughtfully and with great seriousness. When he was alive, he’d run interference for his son, softening Stephen’s spells of verbosity, tempering the impatience and the arrogance others perceived in him. As people were genuinely fond of the father, a degree of latitude was afforded the son. Stephen was in his early thirties now, drifting since his father’s death, an odd duck, socially inhibited and overly sensitive. He possessed a near-photographic memory as far as Finch could tell, and an encyclopedic bank of knowledge. If rumors were to be believed, he had squandered his opportunities with an unfortunate affair.
Finch had taken Stephen out a few times after his father died, repaying old debts, he told himself, but the truth was he enjoyed having something penciled in his agenda. The man’s company could be invigorating in spite of the fact that he often vacillated between morose and brooding, or became obsessive when arguing a point. After a glass or two of Bushmills, Stephen would wax rhapsodic over something he’d seen in Europe, or goad Finch into a debate on the merits of restoration versus conservation.
‘Look at India. Those laws hamstringing resources in the private sector. It’s obvious public projects require talent unavailable to them. The work can only be done in-house, yet most institutions don’t have the necessary resources, so their art languishes in museum basements,’ Stephen had said, slamming his glass on the bar and pulling his hands through his hair. ‘The humidity, the poor storage facilities, all the pieces I’ve seen with tears and pigment damage. It’s criminal. As good as treason. I can’t understand why they won’t move forward.’
‘I’m sure they’ll be happy to take your opinions under advisement, Stephen, especially considering the benign manner in which they’re offered.’
Their confrontations rarely ended in consensus, as that would have required compromise and the younger Jameson seemed overly fond of his own opinions. But Finch relished their exchanges nonetheless. His meetings with Stephen kept him on his toes; they also gave him a reason to get out of the apartment, shoring up the remains of his dignity by allowing him to turn down a few mothering visits from Lydia without having to invent assignations.
How Thomas would have gotten wind of any of this was beyond Finch. He assumed little in the way of a social life for the artist, imagining him confined twenty-four hours a day to the dark, brooding apartment from which Finch now longed to escape.
‘Jameson doesn’t have the authority to take the piece. You know that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then why involve him?’
‘I’ve heard he’s good at what he does.’ Thomas turned his back to Finch and asked, ‘Or should I be using the past tense?’
‘You already know the answer, or you wouldn’t have suggested him. Why don’t you just deal with Cranston directly if you’re committed to selling the piece? And why Murchison & Dunne? What aren’t you telling me, Thomas? I’m not in the mood for games.’
‘I want a party who will devote the appropriate amount of attention to the work. And who can be completely impartial.’
It was Thomas’s questioning of his impartiality that drove Finch to the door. What a relief it would be to be done with all this, to finally put this chapter of his life behind him, where it belonged, and move on to something else. But Thomas trailed after him.
‘You aren’t looking at this objectively, Denny. Wouldn’t it seem strange if after all this time, what with my living conditions being as they are, you were the one to ‘find’ another painting? If you were the one to authenticate it, after resolutely documenting my life’s work?’
‘All your work I knew of.’
‘Precisely my point. This way no one can question your motives, cast aspersions on your reputation. I’ll be the guilty party for a change, Denny. We both know I’ve had too much practice and taken too little credit in that department.’ Thomas’s hand rested on his upper arm, the weight of it light, tentative. ‘I’ve long ago depleted my bank of favors. Whether you believe me now or not, I wouldn’t trust this to anyone else. I need your help.’
Claire would have cautioned him. It’s not that you’re gullible, Denny; you just prefer to trust the best part of a person, no matter how small. even when there may not be any best part left to merit your trust.
Finch was exhausted, every one of his sixty-eight years weighing on him. He had never heard Thomas sound so nakedly in need of something. He looked at the man, the sucked-in hollows of his cheeks, the rattle with each inhale of breath, and capitulated. ‘Fine.’
‘Your word?’
Finch nodded. ‘I’ll call Jameson. But if this isn’t