The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque by Jeffrey Ford

Author:Jeffrey Ford
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Publisher: HarperCollins

THE GALLERY

SHENZ WAS dizzy with opium, three sheets to the wind, as they say, his eyes more glassy than the fake orbs of Mr. Watkin. We stood with John Sills in front of his entry in the show, a set of miniature portraits of criminals. The fete buzzed and whirled around us, wealthy patrons hobnobbing with artists—some students, some academicians, some reigning masters in their fields.

“Amazingly well done,” I said to John.

The police detective bowed slightly and thanked me.

“This damsel looks familiar,” said Shenz, pointing to the last picture in the row, his entire body tottering as if thrown off balance by the discovery.

I drew close to the painting, bent down, and squinted. The portrait was of a homely woman wearing a kerchief. I also recognized the subject.

“Was it an affair of the heart, Shenz?” asked Sills, laughing.

Shenz did not register the joke but merely said, “No doubt.”

We chatted some more, and then Sills announced that he needed to see a gallery owner who was interested in representing his work. Before he moved away, he took me by the elbow and leaned in close. “I have to speak to you before you leave tonight,” he said in a whisper.

I nodded, and then he vanished into the crowd.

I turned to Shenz, who was still studying the portrait of Wolfe, and said, “You look positively lacquered tonight.”

“Yes,” he said. “There’s a good reason.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Because I am,” he said, his eyes focusing for the first time since he had entered the gallery.

“You’ll lose commissions,” I said. I hated to be prudish, but Shenz’s career had taken a precarious turn of late, and I felt he was doing himself a grave disservice.

“The ship,” he said, changing the subject. “Did you inquire the name of the ship?”

“The Janus,” I said.

“A figurehead at both prow and stern, I suppose,” he said. “Did you find out what port it hailed from? What was its destination?”

“All I could get was the name,” I told him.

At that moment I looked up and saw, of all people, Mrs. Reed, making her way slowly toward us along the row of paintings. I nodded in her direction, and Shenz turned to look.

“She may have a derringer in that purse, Piambo,” he said. “Disperse!” He laughed quietly and staggered away toward the champagne.

I lit out in the opposite direction, keeping my eyes peeled for her husband, who I knew could not be far off. For an hour, I made the rounds, meeting and greeting colleagues and professors, catching up on old times and talking art for art’s sake. It was always a pleasure to hear of the various philosophies and techniques that others were employing in their work. At one point I came upon a former student of mine, standing before what I surmised to be his painting. He was young and wore his hair long in the manner of Whistler.

“Edward,” I said, greeting him.

Upon seeing me, he put his hand out and said, “Mr. Piambo, how have you been?”

We shook hands, and I stepped back, making a great show of taking in his work.

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