“Through Maurice O’Toole,” Helga said. Her husband nodded in agreement.
“We got a letter from Maurice when we were still in Skagen,” Helga continued. “He said he had been doing some work for a dealer and that he was going to have to give it up. They were looking for a replacement and he wanted to give them Jan’s name. He wanted to make sure we were okay with it.”
“How did Jan know O’Toole?”
“They went to art school together and kept in touch afterwards. They had a lot in common, Maurice and him, both of them drawn to water, to seascapes.”
“And they could both copy.”
“Of course, it was part of their training. Jan told me he and Maurice spent many hours in galleries copying the masters. They were at the top of their class. When they graduated, they went their separate ways but always kept in touch with letters and cards. Jan had some success in Skagen but poor Maurice could not find a market for his work and became very frustrated, bitter. That is when he started to play around with forgeries. It was just a way to make a living, to get by until his own work made its mark. He wrote to Jan about it — that was before he started on the Fauvists. He developed quite a reputation, he did, in some parts of the art world. It wasn’t surprising that those people sought him out when they decided to concentrate on Fauvist art.”
“So why did he give it up?”
Jan spoke, his eyes welling. “He was dying — brain cancer.”
“Did you know that around the same time you got your first ten thousand dollars, O’Toole’s wife was sent a hundred thousand?”
“No. How would I know that?” she said.
“Why do you think it was sent?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. We were happy to get ten. It bought us this house. It got us out of Skagen.”
“How did Jan and this Hughes person connect?”
“Maurice wrote to Jan and explained his problem. He knew we were hard up for money and he thought Jan could pick up the assignment. That’s when Hughes wrote to us.”
“And you agreed?”
“Obviously.”
“Then what happened?”
“Hughes came to Skagen to meet Jan. He brought one of Maurice’s Fauvist paintings with him and asked Jan to duplicate it. It took him only two days. Hughes asked us to take over the project when he saw the result.”
“Did he explain what the project was? I mean, you knew you were doing something that was probably illegal. Weren’t you curious about what he was doing with the paintings?”
“We didn’t care.”
“No curiosity at all?”
“You have to understand how hard it was for us in Skagen. We lived hand-to-mouth, we never had enough money, and I was tired of Jan begging his brother for loans. We didn’t care what Hughes was doing with the paintings as long as he kept paying us ten thousand for each one.”
Ava could hardly imagine what it would be like to care for seven children. “How did Jan decide what to paint?” she asked.
“Hughes would write and suggest an artist, maybe a theme, and then leave it to him.”
“You sent him the paintings?”
“Yes, to London.”
“Did Jan sign them?”
“Of course.”
“Did you meet Hughes, Mrs. Sorensen?”
“Yes, that one time in Skagen.”
“What kind of man is he?”
“I didn’t like him.”
“Why not?”
Jan Sorensen was shifting uncomfortably, his eyes on the floor.
“He was one of those overly polite people, the kind who knows he’s better than you and lets you know it by talking down to you. And he was too friendly, saying how wonderful our family was when I knew he didn’t mean it, and talking about what a great partnership he and Maurice had, and how he was sure he and Jan would be great mates. That’s the word he used, mates.”
“What does he look like?”
“He is a tall man, a full head above Jan. He’s thin, bony, his face is long and pointy, and his eyes I found very strange.”
“His eyes?”
“Yes, they were so close to his nose, pressing in, almost running into each other. When he looked at me, I had the sensation that he had one big eye instead of two like the rest of us. But one eye or two, he still looked sneaky.”
“He kept his word, though?”
“What do you mean?”
“He always paid you in full, on time?”
“He did.”
“When was the last time you heard from him?”
“It was almost two years ago. He wrote to say he had terminated his agreement with the person buying the Fauvist art and that he was going to have to stop buying from us. We wrote back saying there had to be a market somewhere for the forgeries, and that if he wanted, Jan could paint in other styles. He responded by saying that we misunderstood the nature of the commission — that he wasn’t in the business of selling forgeries, that the customer he had was knowingly buying fakes. He said they loved the Fauvists, couldn’t afford originals, and were very happy to hang Maurice’s and Jan’s interpretations. He underlined interpretations.”
“Did you believe him?”
“Was it true?” she asked. “What Hughes said about the customer?”
“I wouldn’t be here if it was true,” Ava said.
Helga looked at her husband. “I told you it was a lie,” she said, then turned to Ava. “My husband is too trusting at times. He believed that story.”
“Have you heard from Hughes since?”
“No, and we wrote to him twice, and to the gallery. No answer.”
“Did you keep his letters?”
“All of them.”
“Can I get the one he sent two years ago to end your relationship?”
“I’m not sure — ” Helga began.
“I’ll make a photocopy. You can keep the original.”
“I think that will be okay.”
“Good. Why don’t you get it for me.”
Helga returned with a fistful of letters. “I thought you might as well have the other ones too, the ones asking him to paint this guy and that guy.”
“Do you want to walk down to the hotel with me?” Ava said.
“Why not?”
Jan Sorensen sat quietly as his wife got her coat. He’s like a child, Ava thought, one of those men who can’t survive without a strong woman. And Helga fit that bill.
Helga reappeared with a coat and a Burberry umbrella that was ratty even for a fake. “I shouldn’t be long,” she said to Jan.
He stood and walked with them to the door. “Excuse me, but do you still want some of my paintings?” he said to Ava.
“Jan, the business is done,” his wife said.
“But last night she said — ”
