‘Recognize it?’ Bhaskar asked. ‘It’s one of Phillip’s early works.’
‘Aren’t these the hills at the far side of the vale?’ Athreya asked. ‘The western side beyond the brook?’
‘That’s entirely right.’
‘Is this how pretty it is during the summer?’ Athreya enquired with a hint of wonder.
‘When the sun is shining and the fog absent, this valley is heaven on earth. But at this time of the year, we are hostage to the mist.’
‘Mr Phillip,’ Athreya said, turning to the artist. ‘I congratulate you. This is absolutely terrific. I am no connoisseur of art, but this is as beautiful a painting as any I have seen.’
To Athreya’s surprise, Phillip blushed.
‘Thanks,’ he said bashfully. ‘As Bhaskar said, I can faithfully reproduce what my eyes see. When it comes to painting the unseen, my mind is sightless.’
‘This one,’ Bhaskar said, propelling his wheelchair to a midsized painting, ‘is the Danube valley. An excellent reproduction by Phillip. And that there is the Buda Castle in Budapest.’
They spent an enjoyable hour going up along one wall of the gallery and down the other. More than half of the works were by European painters, a couple of which seemed vaguely familiar to Athreya. Phillip spoke at length about his paintings and a few others, while Bhaskar expounded on the rest. When it came to antiques and other pieces of art, Phillip fell silent.
But Bhaskar was unstoppable as he gave a continuous commentary on the antiques. The erstwhile antique dealer in him came to the fore. Metal works of art from Europe competed with wood carvings and masks from Africa, and with delicate porcelain pieces from Southeast Asia.
At the end of the hour, Athreya was left enlightened and inspired. He decided to accept Michelle’s suggestion to sketch the hills on the mansion’s eastern side. He went to his room and took out a sketching pad, pencils and erasers from his suitcase. As he stepped out and went towards the front door, a shadow fell over him.
It was Richie.
‘I saw you with Phillip and my uncle,’ he said without preamble.
His voice was sophisticated and well-modulated. Intelligent brown eyes gazed out from a handsome, well-proportioned face, under hair that was set in a calculatedly casual manner. There was an air of elegance and virility about him that was sure to make him attractive to some women.
‘Good afternoon,’ Athreya greeted him non-committally in response.
‘You’ve had a look at all the paintings?’ Richie asked briskly.
‘Not the ones on the upper floor. I believe there is a similar gallery upstairs?’
‘Not of consequence.’ Richie dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. ‘It’s half-empty, and what is there is not of much value.’
‘Do you share your uncle’s interest in art?’ Athreya asked mildly.
Richie’s face split into a roguish grin.
‘To the extent that they represent a valuable investment, yes,’ he responded unabashedly. He cast a quick glance around the hall and lowered his voice. ‘I know that you haven’t had the time to make a detailed assessment, but do you have a ballpark estimate of how valuable the collection is?’
So, Richie was making the same mistake that Abbas had committed earlier. For a moment, Athreya wondered if the two were good friends. They seemed to be of a similar mould at first glance.
‘I am not the valuer your uncle has invited,’ he said aloud.
Immediately, as if a switch had been turned off, Richie lost interest. His expression suggested that he had mentally dismissed Athreya the moment he learnt that he was not the valuer. With neither apology nor acknowledgement, he turned on his heel and strode out of the front door.
Michelle had been right. The view of the hills to the south-east of the mansion was indeed impressive. The hills began their gradual ascent at an intermediate distance, after which they grew steadily steeper. The undulating skyline, from the rolling hills on the left, to the hilltop from where Dora had shown him the valley, to the gentler slopes on the extreme right, made a fine sight. The velvety green fuzz on the slopes of the rightmost hill looked like tea gardens. Closer in the foreground, the mud road by which he had come to the estate snaked up the hill.
But the sunlight that Athreya had hoped for was playing truant. It was patchy and far too intermittent. Propelled by a steady breeze, dark, low clouds had darkened much of the western horizon. The hills and the slopes under them had already grown misty and taken on the familiar grey mien. Rain seemed to be falling in some places too. Within half an hour, Athreya guessed, gloom would reclaim Greybrooke Manor and mist would shroud the hills. That was all the time he had for sketching.
He took a seat on a stone bench beside the long south-eastern wall of the mansion and balanced his sketchbook on his knee. Two minutes later, he was engrossed in reproducing the vista before him. His pencil sped across the paper, laying down confident strokes–some short, some long; now faint, now dark.
Soon, a grey picture in the likeness of what he was looking at took shape. It was not nearly of the class of Phillip’s creations, but the likeness to the landscape was unmistakable. Fifteen minutes later, he sat back and studied the sketch critically. Not bad, but he could think of at least a dozen improvements he could have made.
He looked up at the sky and found that the first traces of grey were reaching over the mansion. Perhaps there was time for one more sketch. But what should he draw? Another scene that was before him, or something that existed only in his mind’s eye? Perhaps the latter.
As he was about to begin, a familiar voice sounded from behind him. He turned and realized that the bench he was sitting on was close to a window, which he guessed was the study’s. Through it came Bhaskar’s voice.
‘What did Murthy say?’
