False Impressions. Laura Caldwell

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      13

      I met my father for lunch. In addition to Charlie’s news about his potential move, I wanted to ask him about the Madeline Saga case.

      My father had developed this dining game of sorts; in every restaurant, he wanted to try something he’d never had before. I wasn’t sure how he’d struck upon this, but I was happier than usual about it that day, since it gave the impression that he liked Chicago, that he would not be moving, and therefore I wouldn’t have to decide how I felt about that.

      This time, he’d picked the Bongo Room in Wicker Park. Currently my father was cutting into—I kid you not about this—Pumpkin Spice and Chocolate Chunk Cheesecake Flapjacks. And that wasn’t all that was in the dish—there were graham crackers, too, and vanilla cream and all sorts of stuff.

      I’d gotten a chicken and avocado salad that had melted provolone on it. I never thought I’d use the word decadent when referring to a salad, but that’s what it tasted like.

      “How is it?” I asked my dad after watching him take a few bites.

      “I do not know.” He took another bite, chewing it slowly. “Odd,” he said.

      Since no other information seemed forthcoming, and I wasn’t quite ready to launch into the topic of his moving, I brought up Madeline Saga. “Mayburn said he had you do some general research,” I said. “What did you find?”

      “What I found was the defeating fact that art crimes usually aren’t solved,” he said. “So, Izzy, you’re fighting an uphill battle with this one. Only around ten percent of stolen art is ever recovered. And the prosecution rates are even lower.”

      “You’re kidding,” I said. “Seems like it would be relatively simple to have security cameras these days and see everything that happens to a painting.”

      “Yes. If the art simply stayed on one wall. But removal is often needed for cleaning, for transporting to other galleries or museums, for an exhibition or relocation in the gallery itself.”

      “Madeline moved from Bucktown to Michigan Avenue last year.”

      “Well, then there are many danger points.”

      “Danger points?”

      “In the moving process alone, there are many points where criminals can get in. There’s the crating of art, there’s leaving those crates standing until they can be shipped, there’s loading of the crates into a truck, there’s the driving part of the journey, there’s the unloading. And then the art sits wherever it’s been unloaded until it’s unpacked. And then it sits there until it’s installed.”

      “Wow.” I felt overwhelmed at the realization. “So I should be tracking down and talking to everyone who was involved, even in the slightest, with the move of the gallery.”

      “You got it. I’d guess there were probably five to ten people involved. At a minimum.”

      He asked me what I did when I was at Madeline’s gallery.

      When there were no clients in the store, I told him, I tried to study what I could. Madeline had a binder for each artist she represented, almost like a catalogue, listing their bios, their previous shows and exhibitions, PR pieces and more. These files also contained manifests from each time a piece was shipped. I studied the information from the two forged works, hoping to find some sort of discrepancy or clue. As yet, I’d found nothing.

      But I had begun to cobble together not only some understanding of art but also of the art world.

      My father listened closely, taking occasional bites of his flapjacks. “You’re learning,” he said. “But it also sounds as if you’ve begun to nurse a healthy new appreciation.”

      “Exactly!” I said, thrilled to connect with my dad on something. “I not only know more, I appreciate more.”

      He nodded. “That’s how your Aunt Elena learned about art, as well. Maybe you do have something from my family in your making.” There was something so sad about the way he’d said those words—as if he was not only defeated but resigned to the fact that his kids were not like him, since he hadn’t been around to raise them.

      “Of course I have traits from the McNeils. We share the same name, after all.” I smiled to show him I was making light of the situation. He had a hard time reading sarcasm or irony, I’d noticed.

      He smiled. “That’s good to hear.”

      I told him more then about the gallery itself—a sparkly and interesting space. The gallery was nearly triangular in shape, and two full walls were glass windows, facing different directions. As such, there were always odd angles of light, even when it was gray out.

      When it was sunny, the light was filtered by the museum-quality film on the glass, so as not to fade the paintings. Many times, the sun seemed to create an orangey flash outside the gallery. Whenever I stepped closer to the glass, though, tried to look more intently, it had disappeared.

      He asked me more questions about the gallery. We continued to eat. At some point our conversation lapsed.

      “I heard from Theo,” I said, apropos of nothing. “A postcard. He’s in Thailand.”

      My father made a face. “That’s one of the most patience-trying places in the entire world. Why is he there?”

      “Mostly to escape. I think also to surf.”

      Another face. “Not much surfing there, except near Phuket.”

      When, I wondered, had my father spent enough time in Thailand, or reading about it, to know exactly where one could surf?

      I thought of the postcard. “I think that’s where he is,” I said. “Phuket. He mentioned there was lots of diving and rock climbing. He’s into that, too.”

      My father nodded.

      “He asked if I was dating,” I said. Why I was telling my father this, I had no idea. But it felt pretty okay.

      “And what will you tell him?”

      “The truth. I haven’t been really ready to date anyone.” I paused to see how this further emotional disclosure felt. And again—pretty okay. I thought of Jeremy. “But I feel like I could be ready to do that again.”

      My father nodded. Said nothing. So I changed the topic to the one I now felt prepared for. “I hear you might be moving.”

      He looked at me, from one eye to another, as if he were trying to look inside them, to read my reaction to the concept.

      When I opened my mouth, I found out how I felt about it. “I don’t want you to leave.”

      Was that a smile on my СКАЧАТЬ