SHE LED HIM through the house to a room with a single window facing west. The sun was just setting, sending golden rays across the walls.
He stood on the threshold, struck by what he saw before him. The paintings were not abstract or realistic. They seemed a combination of both, the colors bold, the figures, if that was what they were, large and riveting. One piece filled almost the entire wall opposite the door, a collage of white and cream and red and rust that gave him the impression of a desert filled with boulders, the shape of a woman in the forefront.
“This is your work?” he said to Sela, knowing it had to be.
“It is,” she said. “Here, have a seat, I’ll get the coffee.”
The sun disappeared and the room darkened. Sela switched on a small lamp in one corner as she went out. Its incandescent light gave a warmth to the room, and changed the color of the paintings, and, it seemed to Nathan, increased the sensation of movement he felt within them.
They were stunning works. She was the real thing, he thought. He had the feeling that each painting must have come in some burst of creative power, all at once. He couldn’t imagine such work appearing gradually, day by day. No one could sustain that energy for so long.
“Here we are,” Sela said, carrying a tray with a silver coffeepot and china cups. There was that slight limp again as she walked in. He wondered if he could ask about it, for suddenly he wanted to know.
She set the tray on the table and poured him a cup.
Nathan drank some. It was strong and rich.
“Thank you. I’ve been wanting coffee like this all day.” He was silent a moment. “Do you mind a personal question?”
“I had an accident as a child. It resulted in one leg ending up shorter than the other.”
Sela laughed at the look on his face. “I don’t read minds. No one notices it up here, but every new person I meet checks it out. It’s a natural question.”
“I’m sorry,” Nathan said.
“Oh, don’t be! I really don’t mind. I’m quite happy as I am.”
“I mean I’m sorry I’m like everyone else,” Nathan said. “With you, at least.”
“What an interesting thing to say.” She set down her cup. “So, Harry and you want information. Please, ask away. What can I tell you that will help? I only saw Nora that one day, at the exhibit. We didn’t keep in touch or anything like that.”
“Let’s start with the exhibit itself. What was it for and who attends?”
“Very high end, actually. Rafaella has international contacts. There were forty artists represented, most of them regulars but a few new ones, like Nora. We each had a section of the gallery, which occupies the ground floor of an entire block on Fourteenth Street in the city. Then there are agents and auctioneers and investors who look over the collection, as well as the local elite and overseas buyers. It isn’t restricted in any way, though. Lots of people came in off the street just to look around during the day.”
“It lasted just one day?”
“Oh, no. It was a three-day affair, and each artist had just the one day to show. Then overnight, new paintings were hung for the next set of artists, according to schedule. Nora and I were there on the second day.”
“I spoke to Ms. Ramos. She said she wished you would exhibit more.”
Sela didn’t answer for a moment as she lifted her cup to take another sip of coffee.
YOU ARE READING
The Magic Hour
Mystery / Thriller"It was not exactly dark, but a kind of twilight or gloaming. There were neither windows nor candles, and he could not make out where the twilight came from, if not through the walls and roof." -Childe Rowland "T...
