False Impressions. Laura Caldwell
Читать онлайн книгу.
this place?”
The small club was called Toi, which was a New Zealand Maori word, Madeline said, that referred to art, as well as the source of art. It was on a strange street, west of Halsted and one or two blocks north of Chicago Avenue. A few blocks away was Fulton Market, once the meatpacking district of the city. Now, Fulton Market contained fine restaurants and bars, shops, galleries and hip office buildings. But here, around Toi, the streets were dead, an odd collection of vacant lots, a random house or two and a few monolithic brick buildings that looked as if they contained storage units. Apparently, even no-man’s land in Chicago could still offer up a little treasure like Toi. A happy energy seeming to swirl around the building, despite the lackluster architecture.
Ahead of us, an invisible cloud of laughter billowing out into the air.
Madeline stopped short. “Amaya?” She sounded surprised.
“Hello, Madeline,” the woman said, in a low but trilling voice. She was Asian, her dark hair in a severe cut—bangs straight across, the ends also bluntly cut at her shoulders. Her black eyes bore a wary quality, as if they were set farther back in her face in order to watch the world closely, suspiciously.
Madeline pulled her fur collar tighter around her neck. “I didn’t think I’d see you until Friday.” Madeline looked at me. “Amaya and I take a weaving class together on Friday.”
“Yes.” Amaya sighed. “If I can get myself together to get there. My little boy is sick right now, and I don’t know if he’ll be better by then.” Amaya was tinier than Madeline, and she had a very slinky quality.
“What were you doing here?” Madeline asked.
“Jasper brought me. You know I bought another one of his sculptures.” She paused. “I’m sorry, I didn’t purchase it from you. When he switched galleries…”
“No, of course.” Madeline shook her head.
“I know you must be devastated.”
“Not at all,” Madeline said. “Jasper remains a dear friend of mine.”
“Well, as dear as someone can be when they’ve left you,” Amaya said. “I’ve got to relieve my sitter.” She swished past us, a small sea of black clothes and hair. “Goodbye, Madeline.” Again that low, rolling voice.
A young blonde woman came to Madeline and greeted her warmly, hugging her. Madeline introduced us, and she shook hands with me. “Muriel,” she said, and I had the brief thought that it was an old name for such a youthful and very beautiful woman. “I’m the manager here,” she said. “As a friend of Madeline’s, we welcome you. Anything we can bring you—anything at all—let me know.” She spoke with a grace that belied her years.
I thanked her, and she walked Madeline and me farther into the club to a table near the back. When she reached it, Muriel whisked a reserved sign off with a flourish and gave a sort of head bow toward Madeline. I noticed how everyone in Madeline’s life liked to contribute to the art of being her.
“Madeline,” Muriel said, as we slipped into the satiny booth. “A number of people are here hoping you would come in tonight.”
Madeline looked around, waved and smiled in a few directions.
“Everyone is going to want to say hello,” Muriel said. “If you’ll have them?”
“Please say hello to Jasper for me, but otherwise not just yet,” Madeline said. “Isabel is my new assistant, and we have much to talk about.”
“Of course, of course,” Muriel said. “I’ll send over some of your signature cocktails. Don’t worry about anything.” Off she walked.
“So that woman, Amaya,” I said. “You’re friends?”
“I wouldn’t call it that. We met in the weaving class I mentioned. She bought a few pieces from me. But she seems to resent me for some reason.” Madeline loosed her fur scarf and tossed her black shiny hair over her shoulder. “Or perhaps I resent her....” Madeline appeared open to both possibilities.
“Is she someone to think about regarding your—” I glanced around, knowing we were in the midst of Madeline’s community “—your situation?”
She shook her head. “No, I can’t imagine.”
“What about Jasper, whom she mentioned?”
Madeline tossed the other side of her hair. She nodded across the room toward a group of men. “Jasper is a wonderful artist. In many ways, we had a somewhat typical artist/gallery relationship. I discovered him. Eventually, he felt he needed to grow farther than my wing span and I let him go. It’s perfectly natural.”
“And Jasper feels good about it?”
“Yes.”
“Did Jasper or Amaya ever have any access to your gallery or house?”
“Never.”
“Madeline, I have to ask. If someone stole the paintings from your gallery, it would take time to forge them and replace them. Wouldn’t you notice that something was missing?”
“Well, I don’t often purchase oil paintings—those take forever to truly dry. Also, I often have many works that are not yet stretched or framed stored in the back room of my gallery. If someone was able to remove them from my gallery, I would not necessarily notice right away. I have others in my house.”
“Anyone have keys to your house?”
Madeline shook her head. “There’s a doorman, so I’ve never given anyone extra keys.”
“Mayburn mentioned that you’ve noticed doors open at your home.”
“Yes. Sometimes it’s my home studio, which I always close because of the chemicals. Sometimes it’s a closet door that’s open, one I rarely go into.”
“Could it be the doormen?”
“I’ve asked and they said, ‘Of course not.’ I’ve asked my cleaning person, and she denies opening those doors, as well.” She shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”
I hoped so. But something made me doubt it.
The waitress delivered our drinks. It turned out that Madeline’s signature cocktail was a lychee martini—a glass with a cloudy, whitish liquid and a cocktail stick speared with two round, gelatinous-looking fruit—the lychee.
I took a sip and moaned, “Shut the front door!”
Madeline looked confused, so I explained. “It’s my way of saying ‘shut the fuck up.’ I’m trying desperately not to swear, but like my friend Maggie is fond of pointing out, I almost always end up saying the swearwords anyway.”
Madeline laughed. “Have you ever tasted anything like this drink?”
I took another sip. “No! It’s delicious.” I put it on the table to stop myself from guzzling it.
Madeline and I started talking then, and the conversation flowed easily even though the topics we broached weren’t always so easy. We talked about what a shock it had all been for her—finding out about the thefts, the forgeries, how she thought she might still be a bit in shock. She spoke about seeing the comments on her website.
Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, Madeline didn’t seem to view it as something to fill. In fact, I’m not sure she knew what a “lull” was. Instead, she glanced around the club, serene, a small smile on her face, the sight clearly bringing her enjoyment. I made a few stabs at conversation during these times, but unless we stumbled onto something that made her eyes light up, Madeline had little taste for trivial conversation. Unlike most Chicagoans, she couldn’t even be drawn into a discussion about the weather.
“It is cold,” she acknowledged when I tried, then said nothing further.
In her serenity, I found calm, too; it made