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Chapter 13: Brunch with Alan

The next day, Nikola was still getting ready for brunch at one-thirty, and worried about being late as she rushed up Broadway. Alan's building was located just north of Houston Street, right outside Soho. It was part of a large residential complex of apartment buildings, equipped with a nicely decorated lobby and uniformed staff. Nikola had to give her name, which was checked with Alan, before they let her approach the elevators. When she entered his apartment, she was surprised to see that it was the most luxurious apartment she had been in since arriving in New York.

She kissed Alan quickly on the cheek and started apologizing immediately. Tardiness was considered very rude in German society, and she didn't want to start this off on the wrong foot. "I'm really sorry that I'm so late. We were up until sunrise last night, and this morning, actually afternoon, when I woke up, I looked horrible, so I had to run over to my apartment to shower and change. I know it's no excuse, but..."

"Don't worry about it. I'm glad you're here. I know how Eddie's parties are, so I expected you to be late. In fact, I was waiting until you got here to start cooking. But in the mean time, we have mimosas, coffee, breads, cold cuts, and pastries," Alan said, gesturing towards a table laden with food.

"That's quite a spread. That alone is more than enough for brunch, you don't have to cook anything else."

"Brunch is not complete without omelets, and they are a specialty of mine - you must try one later."

Nikola laughed and said, "If you insist." She glanced behind him at the apartment. From her vantage point, she could see the kitchen, dining area, living room and a hallway off to the side. The living room was quite spacious, and looked even more so, because the far wall was comprised entirely of windows. The center windows were a set French doors leading to a balcony. The living room was tastefully furnished with quality modern furniture in a black/white theme which called attention to the colorful original artwork on every wall.

Alan stepped back and led Nikola to the living room. "How about a champagne mimosa to start?"

"I don't know. I think I drank enough last night to last me quite a while."

"But it's Sunday, and brunch wouldn't be complete without a mimosa."

"Well, I suppose one wouldn't hurt."  Alan walked over to the table where he had everything set up and prepared two mimosas. He carried them to Nikola, handed one to her and said, "Let me propose a toast: to the most beautiful woman I've ever had in my apartment."

Nikola blushed and said, "Why don't we toast to a wonderful brunch?"

"To a wonderful brunch, and excellent company."

"This is a beautiful apartment you have here, very different from most of the other artist's places I've seen. Do you paint on premises, or do you have a separate studio?"

"No I paint here. It's a two bedroom and I use the larger bedroom as a studio."

"Could I see it? I love to see where people paint."

"Sure. Let me give you a tour," Alan led Nikola down a short hallway with three partially open doors. "This is the smaller bedroom, the one I use as a bedroom," he said as he gestured to the first door. Nikola peered into a dark room, almost completely filled by a queen-sized bed and two dressers.

"This is the bathroom," Alan gestured to the second door. "And this is the studio." He led Nikola through the last door, and stood just inside the spacious, sunny room. 

Nikola stood beside him for a few moments and glanced around the room. She then walked across the room to the window. "You have a very nice view from here," she said, peering out. "Did you ever paint it?"

"No. Since I moved into this apartment, I've been concentrating more on still-lifes and portraits."

"Oh I see. Do you have any of your recent work here?"

"There is some work hanging in the living room, but nothing really recent. It doesn't hang around too long, because I usually sell them pretty fast."

"Wow, that's great." Nikola walked back from the windows, through the studio, observing it as she went. "I see you have all the materials here to make your own paint. Do you do that often?"

"Yes. All the time. I don't like the quality of the oil paint commercially available."

"These days, there are not many artists who take the time to do that."

"That's true, and I think it's terrible how art is going the way of the rest of this society: becoming disposable. Art should never be disposable. The whole point of it is to create something of value, something that will last. The Old Masters always worked very hard towards permanence, and I try in every way to follow the Old Masters' techniques."

"That's very admirable," Nikola replied. She joined Alan at the doorway, and he led her back into the living room. 

"What kind of omelet would you like?"

"Anything. What's your specialty?"

"Wait and see." Alan walked into the kitchen and started cooking. 

Nikola stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him work. "Do you sell all your paintings at Vermes?"

"No, I have a loose affiliation with a number of galleries. I find that works better for me."

"That's a good policy these days with all the galleries being so unstable."

"My thoughts exactly."

"What do you think of Vermes Gallery?"

"It seems pretty stable, if that's what you're worried about."

"Does Martha put in a lot of effort into the gallery artists' work?" Nikola wondered.

"She seems pretty good about it."

"What do you think of her as a person?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"She's nice enough, I guess."

"She's been nice, but sometimes I get the feeling that my paintings are not her top priority."

"There are a lot of artists at the gallery."

"Of course. I must be expecting too much. Where else do you exhibit?" Nikola knew that she was at a disadvantage with her limited knowledge of local exhibition spaces, but hoped she knew enough about the business to tell if he was lying or not.

"Various places. The galleries I sell at, art organizations, even a couple of museums."

"Really? That's wonderful. Which museums?"

"Mostly outside the city. Group shows of upcoming artists type of exhibits."

"Do you have any exhibits coming up soon?"

"No, I'm afraid not. You just missed one."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. Where was that?"

"Oh, you've probably never heard of the place - it's out on Long Island, called Heckscher museum," Alan replied, a bit too casually.

"Do you mind if I view the work you have hanging here?"

"No, of course not."

Nikola stepped back and turned towards the living room, slowly examining the ten paintings displayed in the living room and dining areas. The paintings were smaller than most of her own work - the largest measured twenty-four by thirty inches. They were all still lifes, done in a very traditional style, not the type of painting one usually saw in the contemporary art scene. So many modern artists were constantly trying to surpass each other with innovations which often bordered on gimmicks, that in a way Nikola found these paintings a refreshing change; yet she also felt as if there was something missing in them. Technically, they were perfect, but she could not feel the touch of the artist. They told her nothing about Alan himself. She noted that, as well as the fact that all of the paintings displayed where at least two years old, and returned to the kitchen where Alan was finishing the omelets.

"Here we are, two of my special omelets," Alan said while carrying two steaming plates.

"They look wonderful. What's in them?"

"An old family recipe, with a secret mixture of meats and mild cheeses. I humbly await your verdict, mademoiselle, for what good is the best recipe if it doesn't suit one's beloved." Alan put the plates at the two settings on the table and pulled out Nikola's chair with exaggerated gallant gestures.

"I'm sure the omelet is excellent," Nikola replied uncomfortably as she took her seat.

Alan picked up the champagne and asked, "Another mimosa?"

"No thank you, I can't. After last night, I think one is my limit."

"Please, you must, it's Sunday brunch."

"No, really, I've had enough. I'll just have some coffee."

"Whatever you like," Alan said curtly, preparing himself another mimosa.

The two of them sat down and ate the omelets. Nikola had to admit that hers tasted excellent, but it was also very greasy, and made a much heavier meal than she was used to.

Alan finished his second mimosa, and got half way through the next one while they were eating. Afterwards, he took out a cigarette and cigarette holder, leaned back, lit his cigarette, and proceeded to talk about himself.

Nikola was pleasantly surprised to find that the mimosas had loosened his tongue considerably, and she listened carefully, hoping that he would give her some of the information that she was looking for. However, as he rambled on and on, he touched on almost every subject except those she was interested in. He was much more intent on talking about the operas, restaurants and gala events he had been to, as well as listing the people he knew, in a thinly veiled attempt to impress her.

His pauses were infrequent and short, but she did, on a few occasions, gather the courage to ask some almost pointed questions about his relationships with Martha and Marty. She even asked if he knew anything about the recent museum art thefts she had read about, but her attempts to steer his monologue passed unheeded. He acted as if he hadn't heard the museum question, and dismissed the relationship questions with a grunt. Nikola tuned him out after that, hoping that he would forget her questions as quickly as he had dismissed them. After over an hour of listening to him ramble, by which time he had opened a second bottle of champagne and was half-way through it, she was getting completely bored, and decided it was time to give up and leave with what little information she had.

At a pause in the monologue, while Alan was fixing yet another mimosa for himself, Nikola rose and said, "I think I should be leaving now. I have a lot of things to do today and it's getting late."

"No, don't leave yet, we've hardly even started. I'm enjoying this time with you."

"But I'm afraid I can't stay. It's almost four o'clock and I have to make several stops before the stores close at five."

"You can run your errands tomorrow. Please, stay a while longer."

"No, I'm really sorry, but I must get going. I have enjoyed it."

Alan rose with Nikola and stood unsteadily beside her, then lurched towards her, pinning her against the dining room wall. He put his hands on either side of her face at the jaw line, with such strength that she was unable to move. He leaned into her, pressing her against the wall, and then he stooped down, covered her mouth completely with his and kissed her violently. It felt more like an attack than a kiss and almost gagged her. When he finished, he said maliciously, "You can't leave now, we've just begun to play. We've just begun to get to know each other."

It was the first time Nikola felt really afraid of him all afternoon. Her heart raced as she frantically searched for an escape. When she caught her breath, she said forcefully, "I'm sorry Alan, I can't stay. You have to let me go now." She put her hands up to his chest and pushed him away with all her strength.

Alan looked at her, surprised, and backed off. He returned to making his mimosa and said, too nonchalantly, "Sure, you're free to go whenever you want." He waved his arm at her, dismissing her.

When Nikola finally got out of the building and into the fresh air, the cool air that hit her face and neck made her realize how much she had sweated at his attack. She had to stop, lean against the building and take several deep breaths to calm herself down. Until the end of the meeting, she had been completely detached and calm. She felt in control of the situation, doubtful of the suspicions against him since she had seen no evidence of any violence in his character. But the last few minutes of the visit gave her a whole new perspective on him, making her realize how little she knew about the man.

Nikola went directly home from the brunch, still shaken. She immediately called Eddie, and was glad to find her at home. 

"Did you get rid of all your party guests yet?"

"The last of them left about an hour ago. How was brunch?"

"Interesting."

"Well, you're going to have to do better than that. I want every detail."

"I hope you have time."

"I do. I have a cup of coffee in my hand, and I'm sitting down. Go."

"Well most of it really wasn't that bad, almost fun at times, but after that last fifteen minutes, I am glad to be out of there."

"Why, what happened?"

"He just decided that he had the right to take advantage of me or something... Well, he did drink a lot of mimosas..."

"He served champagne mimosas?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. After your party, though, I couldn't drink much. I'm amazed that he drank as much as he did."

"How much did he drink?"

"Well he was finishing his second bottle of champagne as I was leaving, and I only had one drink."

"Wow. So what kind of a drunk is he?"

"Talkative. Very talkative"

"So, what did he talk about? Did he give you any incriminating details?"

"No, nothing of the sort. He was trying to impress me with the people he knows, and places he goes to, but I didn't recognize any of them, so I wasn't nearly as impressed as I should have been."

"He probably didn't know any of them anyway. I've seen a lot of people just drop names for its own sake."

"He did strike me as insecure."

"So tell me, what did you find out?"

"There are a few interesting details I noticed in his apartment. I got a tour of his studio and there are some noticeable differences between his studio and a typical working artists' studio. One was that he had no works in progress there. He had no works stored there at all, as if he hadn't painted in a while, and he had an unusual collection of materials."

"What do you mean?"

"Instead of having a favorite type of canvas, as I do, he had a varied collection of canvases and linens, with a number of different weaves, some of which I've never seen before. He had all the ingredients and tools to make his own paints, jars of ground pigment, the linseed oil, poppy oil, wax, the muller and slam, and dozens of other little jars and bottles which I didn't recognize. They were all arranged on this bookshelf that looked more like it belonged in a chemistry lab. Of course, he had the glues instead of gesso, and a variety of uncut pieces of wood and a jig-saw. Now, I know that there are always artists who work that way, and insist that there is nothing like the quality of the old ways, but to cut your own stretchers in a converted-bedroom studio, you've got to be either crazy or have ulterior motives."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, it's kind of far-fetched, but it did occur to me that he had everything necessary to forge something like a Monet," Nikola spoke slowly, not quite sure of her own conclusions.

"Really?"

"He had all the stuff the Impressionists, and even the Old Masters, used. He probably also had chemicals there to age the look of the paint and varnish. I've heard such things exist, but I'm not at all familiar with the process, and wouldn't recognize the ingredients for it. I also noticed that all of the paintings hanging in his apartment were all at least two years old. So it's possible that he hasn't painted anything for himself in that amount of time. On top of everything else, it seems to me that it would be difficult to live in the style he does by selling paintings like those on his walls."

"It's difficult to live in this city selling any kind of paintings. Where does he live?"

"Do you know that complex of high rise luxury apartment buildings on the north side of Houston?"

"Yeah, I've seen it."

"He lives in one of those buildings. He has a two bedroom apartment."

"That can't be cheap. What are his paintings like?"

"The paintings I saw on his wall were small, traditional still lifes, with good details and proportions, but no spark in them. There was nothing special, there was nothing to distinguish them as his."

"Doubtful he could live very well off of that kind of realism these days. Competent, but unimaginative, realistic work is a dime a dozen. They do it in the streets for tourists."

"That's what I suspected, and from the looks of his studio, he's not a terribly prolific painter."

"Wow, so you really think he's forging, and the two of them are selling them as stolen?" Eddie sounded intrigued.

"I don't know, but it seems possible. I've never been to an active artists studio where there haven't been paintings in all states of completion lying around, as well as brushes and paints. Even the neatest studios have evidence of recent paintings - the smell for instance. Most artists always have something going in their studio, many artists work on several things at the same time, and his place seemed almost unused."

"Did you ask him about the lack of paintings?"

"He said he sold them all as soon as they were finished."

"That doesn't sound too likely. If he's working with old materials, the paintings must be wet for weeks, and he can't sell them wet."

"Exactly."

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