A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,26

said.

Mr. Klinman smiled and strolled around the gallery, looking at the art on the walls. He grunted, a noise that betrayed no opinion.

Gabriel reverted to his canned speech. “Our stock is in prints and engravings. Monsieur Rosenzweig has a special fondness for the simple line. Can I show you anything in particular?”

Mr. Klinman looked baldly at Gabriel, while Gabriel tried to look indifferent. “You have a very good eye,” Klinman said.

“Édouard picks out most of our work,” Gabriel said. “Can I get you anything? Water, or a coffee?”

“Coffee,” Klinman said. His French was nearly accentless.

He held out his raincoat and hat, so Gabriel took them and hung them up on a nearby coatrack. Gabriel ground coffee beans, scooped the grounds into the casing of the percolator, and screwed the top back on, placing it on a hotpad. The machine began to hiss and bubble.

They both stood waiting until the coffee was done. “Sugar?” Gabriel asked. The man nodded. Gabriel added one square with the small spoon. He handed it to Mr. Klinman.

“You are patient and you are precise.” Mr. Klinman set down his cup. “Both are qualities I admire. And Colette tells me you are good. Very good.”

Gabriel smiled. Mr. Klinman smiled back. Gabriel could play this game. He uttered what he called the “French hmmm,” a sound that meant neither yes nor no, not invitation or rejection; rather, it was a volley: your turn. Gabriel waited for the man to continue.

Finally Mr. Klinman did. “As you may know,” he said, “I am responsible for the artwork in many of Europe’s finest luxury hotels.”

Gabriel didn’t know, but nodded.

“We are doing the new Andre Balazs. Eighty-six rooms. All will need art.”

Gabriel nodded again. Was the man going to ask for some kind of bulk discount?

“What we would like,” Mr. Klinman said, “is some Impressionist drawings, pastels, and watercolors. Landscapes, decrepit cathedrals, women by rocky seashores, you understand. Connois.”

“We don’t have inventory like that right now,” Gabriel said. “I’m not sure that in his lifetime he even drew—”

“You misunderstand me,” Mr. Klinman said. “I am not speaking of Connois the elder, but rather Connois the younger. You.” He switched to the familiar pronoun.

“You want me to make you eighty-six drawings?” Gabriel must have misunderstood the number. French numbers were impossible, derived from some Gallic counting system that predated Arabic numerals.

The Englishman laughed, and then there was another awkward silence while Klinman rocked forward onto his toes and back onto his heels. His shoes were worn but well made and polished, the laces new, as if to imply that he had the means to purchase new shoes but loved these old ones, and felt secure enough to indulge that fondness. Gabriel fingered the callus on the inside of his left thumb.

“Let’s say by the end of next week? One-half charcoal sketches, one-third those half-finished watercolors your great-great-grandfather liked so much—the landscapes with the sea, perhaps? A few still lifes, the old markets, a couple of pastels.”

“Connois didn’t paint still lifes,” Gabriel said. “He was interested only in movement and light.”

Klinman waved his hand in front of his face as though encouraging a bad odor to waft away. “People like still lifes, find them soothing …” He let the sentence trail off.

He reached into his breast pocket and removed a long leather wallet. “What shall we say, per drawing? I’ll send over the paper I want you to use, to look like the nineteenth century.”

“Umm, I don’t know.” Gabriel tried to put his hands in his pockets, but his pants were too tight. Instead he crossed his arms in front of his chest. His sweater felt itchy against his neck, little prickles of heat. He shouldn’t have to make art for hire. It made him feel like he was prostituting his talent and training. But he desperately needed the money. Colette was proving to be a very expensive habit, one he wasn’t yet ready to give up. He found himself thinking about her more often than he had about any woman in the past decade, so often that he was worried. “What did you have in mind?”

Klinman shook his head. “No. You name what you think your time is worth. I’ll supply the paper; it’s important that it looks authentic.”

What was Gabriel’s time worth? Figure a couple of hours per water-color, some money for supplies: sketch paper, brushes, paints. Would he want them mounted? Matted? Gabriel’s father, a minor musician who played guitar for weddings and baptisms, always told him to name a sum