Nicky quite candidly explained the reason for the secrecy, that the buyer had a very extensive art collection, some pieces that had never been documented, and if they had, might arouse the interest of an art thief.
“Maybe we’ll see something we’ve never seen before,” Nicky said, perhaps trying to pique my interest. It worked.
“Sounds like he has something to hide,” I said. “Maybe some Nazi plunder that he doesn’t want to return to its rightful owners.”
“Tsk, tsk, Martin. That’s no way to talk about your new benefactor.”
I let myself imagine it. Could it be possible that this collector had a never-before-seen painting? I had to admit, the prospect was thrilling. While I daydreamed, Nicky made conversation with Andre, asking him about his impressions of Miami, his favorite clubs and restaurants. Nicky made some recommendations of his own, said he’d be happy to take Andre out sometime, said they could live it up like rock stars.
“Does that invitation extend to me, Nicky?” I asked.
“Of course, Martin.” He smiled like the cat that ate the canary. There may have even been a few feathers sticking out of his mouth.
We arrived at our destination, and Frank opened the door, even bowed a little like we were royalty. I wondered if the limousine had been locked from the outside. The thought was unsettling. The mansion was more like a villa, a three-story stone structure with statues and tropical gardens sprawling up to a thorny hedge that stretched higher than a prison fence. I wondered if I could find this place on Google Maps or if this guy had the kind of wealth that could buy off Google. Was that even possible?
Frank led us inside. At the entrance there was a still life on display that looked like it could be a Cezanne but could just as easily have been a really good knockoff. We followed Frank into the parlor. Over the fireplace was a painting of a dancer with her back to the viewer, pulling down the strap of her leotard, exposing her bare shoulder. It looked remarkably like a Degas, which was a little harder to imitate, but if it was a Degas, I’d never seen or even heard of it before.
“Is that a…?” I trailed off.
Nicky smiled broadly and rubbed his hands together. “Yes, it is.”
I felt light-headed. I was viewing the painting, one that had not been recorded as ever having existed—the work of a master. I’d not yet met this collector, but I both loathed and revered the man at once. That he would keep this treasure hidden from the rest of the world, and yet here it was on display, to be shown to a very select, precious few.
There was something so seductive about exclusivity.
“It goes without saying that as a guest of Mr. Van Laar, whatever you see or hear is strictly confidential,” Frank said.
“Of course,” Nicky gushed. “Will there be a tour?”
“No,” he said shortly. A few minutes later, we were presented to Mr. Van Laar himself, a man who looked older than time. He had gray stubble on his chin and a stooped posture. His skin had a sickly gray pallor and his hair, what was left of it, was impeccably combed over his balding head. He shuffled along with the assistance of a walker. Trailing behind him was an oxygen tank, connected to his nose via a breathing tube. The tank had some sort of motor, which allowed it to keep up with him, like a souped-up Roomba.
Getting old sucked.
“Martin,” the man said with what sounded like all the lung capacity he had left in him.
I came forward and shook his hand. It was withered and knobby, but his grip was strong. He looked deep into my eyes as his mouth slowly formed a smile, but it looked a little grotesque. Perhaps he had suffered a stroke.
“And your friend.” The man pointed to Andre like a witch casting a spell.
Andre came forward and shook Van Laar’s hand, offering him a polite but reserved smile. I could tell he was uncomfortable, like he was ready to bolt. Even so, I took a moment to admire him, six feet of masculine perfection, model gorgeous in his sharp tailored suit, skin that was as beautiful to behold as it was to touch, kind eyes and a generous smile. He was stunning. His looks had drawn me to him, but his personality made me love him. I beamed with pride when I said, “Actually, Mr. Van Laar, Andre is my boyfriend.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Van Laar said as if it went without saying. You never knew with old folks, how hip they were to the boy-on-boy action.
“Drinks,” Van Laar uttered, and Frank stepped up to take our orders. Perhaps it was out of turn, but I couldn’t help but inquire about the painting.
“Yes, yes, it’s a Degas,” Van Laar said. He had a habit of doubling his yeses. He went on to explain that it had been in his family for generations, that they were, in fact, the original owners, an ancestor having purchased it from Degas himself in the mid-1800s.
“I come from a long line of collectors and art enthusiasts,” he said proudly.
I’d not heard of his family name before, if it was in fact his real name. I glanced over at Nicky, sure he was thinking the same thing as me: leave us alone for five minutes and we’d scour the place for artwork, beginning with the attic. That’s where the good stuff was kept.
But Frank and Van Laar never left our sides.
We sat down to dinner, which was a three-course meal beginning with nicoise salad, an entree of pork tenderloin with candied plums and roasted potatoes, and finished off with a dessert of crème brûlée. I could tell Andre was enjoying the meal, inspecting each dish as if dissecting a frog in biology class. I once asked Andre if he liked food or sex better, and he said he couldn’t pick just one. Then he got creative about how to incorporate the two. It turned into a messy evening.
Nicky kept up the conversation, talking about various artists, contemporary and otherwise, that he and Van Laar knew or had heard of. Name-dropping was the art world’s equivalent to a pissing contest. Van Laar would pose a question to me now and again, about my background, my schooling, and my influences. I answered him honestly and with what I hoped was adequate charm and verve. I kept looking to my side, expecting to find Melissa there, but the chair was empty.
After the meal, Van Laar invited me to join him in his study. “I’d like to show you a special piece of mine,” he said. Nicky offered to come along, but Van Laar refused him, saying this work was for my eyes only, which certainly got my attention.
