CHAPTER 3.
The next morning, walking down the street to my gallery, I turned the corner and stopped suddenly. There it was again! That magnificent work of art—the gleaming, royal blueRolls-Royce Phantom—was parked in front of my shop. I hurried my step. Perched above the massive grill was the iconic hood ornament, the lady with wings poised, ready for flight, just like those mermaids jutting out from the prow of centuries-old sailing ships.
As I drew closer a lithe and elegant figure emerged from the Rolls with the sure step of a panther. I nodded at him in a friendly fashion.
“Mr. Helmsworth?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yes?”
The man pushed a lock of fair hair from his forehead. “I’m Jonathan Pryde.” We shook hands. “Did you get my letter?” His intelligent green eyes bore into mine as if containing some unspoken challenge.
“Yes, I was just about to ring you, sir. I took it to Mr. Wainwright and advised him of your interest in his work.”
“What did he say?” His thin lips tightened.
“He is definitely interested in your proposal and would be pleased to meet with you.”
His lips curved into a small smile. “How kind of you, Mr. Helmsworth. Please…” He motioned toward my door. “May we go in and discuss matters?”
Another man had now emerged from the car—a rather brutal looking sort. For some reason, I fumbled nervously with the lock. Once inside, however, when Pryde introduced him, the man’s face lit up with a sweet smile.
“This is my right hand man, Mr. Helmsworth. His name is Fitzgerald Warburton. Usually, we call him Fizzy. If, in our dealings, you or Mr. Wainwright cannot reach me, please call Mr. Warburton. He always knows my travel plans.”
The name Fizzy seemed to dispel the initial sense of menace the man’s bulk created. With his disarming smile, Fizzyhad taken on the appearance of a very large, but apparently harmless teddy bear. I put their coats in the cloakroom.
Pryde’s clothing was as elegant as his manners were refined. His exquisitely cut silk suit hung from his lithe frame in exactly the correct fashion. By contrast, Fizzybulged and huffed and puffed close by.
“Is The River of Remembrance here?” Pryde asked.
I was delighted with his interest in Alex’s most recent painting in rich tones of red, brown and gold. Like gracious royalty, each of twelve figures in it commands attention.
“It’s in the storage room downstairs,” I said. “I haven’t hung it here yet because tomorrow it will be exhibited at the National Gallery for two weeks.”
“I shall definitely see it there. No other painter has ever exhibited there during his lifetime. Such an accomplishment!” He hesitated and then smiled engagingly. “Could we have a look? I’ve only seen a photograph of it.”
“Of course.” After I locked the front door, I led them to the stairs at the back of the shop. We started downward. “Watch your step, gentlemen. It’s rather dark down here.” I opened the door at the foot of the stairs. “Mind your heads.” When I switched on the light, I heard Pryde’s sharp intake of breath.
“How wonderful!” he exclaimed. “The painting is so much more than the photograph. Look at the light emanating from each figure!” Then he turned to me and asked, “Who are the people in this marvelous painting?”
“Alex has only said he met them on his last trip to Venice, Toronto and New York.”
That was the “official” story, which I was authorized to give. In fact, I knew a great deal more about each and every character Alex had painted.
“Those people must have been very important to him.” First he examined the canvas up close and then backed away. “Each one is a distinct individual but each one contains elements of universal humanity. Amazing—how he has conveyed such powerful emotion! What do you think Fizzy?”
Fizzy smiled enthusiastically. “Mr. Wainwright is a very great artist. He brings another world of insight to his work and to us.”
Fizzy may have looked thuggish, but he certainly was well spoken. Pryde again moved closer to the canvas. “I wonder who this woman is?”
“I believe she is a person whom he met at an inn where he stayed last year.” I said.
Pryde sighed. “She looks so sorrowful. So closed in.”
Indeed the woman was sorrowful and after meeting her, so was Alexander. I’m sure all of us know situations where one’s past catches up in a truly catastrophic way. That is exactly what happened to Alex, and in a most distressing fashion. Once he realized who she was to him, he was thrown into the pit of despair.
“Has Mr. Wainwright set a price on the work?”
“Pardon?” I broke from my reverie.
Looking at me oddly, Pryde said, “The price?”
“A price hasn’t been set as yet, but I’m sure Mr. Wainwright is open to discussion.”
Pryde’s eyes sparked with determination. “Mr. Helmsworth, please! Tell Mr. Wainwright, that I shall pay him whatever he asks for this work. I must have it.”
Of course, I was delighted, but I only nodded. “I will tell him so, but perhaps we should go back up to the office.”
Once seated at my desk, I said, “Mr. Wainwright is interested in hearing the specifics of your proposal on the stained glass project, Mr. Pryde.” I spoke rather more formally than I had intended. “You do realize that he hasn’t worked in stained glass before?”
Pryde smiled broadly. “I’m delighted he is interested. But tell him not to worry. I’m not seeking him out for know-how in stained glass. Mr. Wainwright is far from a mere artisan.” He waved dismissively. “I will hire one hundred skilled tradesmen if he needs them. Technical expertise is no small thing, but that is not why I need Mr. Wainwright.”
Jonathan Pryde was excited—so much so that he could scarcely contain himself. With a passionate expression of joy on his face, he jumped up to pace my office. “No, Mr. Helmsworth, I want him for two reasons.” The man marched to and fro in front of the window. He stopped and turned back on me. “First, because he is a true genius with light and color. But more important, he has astonishing vision. In fact, he is the only living mythographer in the world today.”
I do not think I had ever heard another living soul use such an esoteric term. I paused and played with my pen. “And by that you mean…”
“He, Mr. Helmsworth, is the only artist who can aspire to mythological vision and then render the spiritual in tangible, human form!” He sank back to his chair almost out of breath.
“I see.” I glanced at Fizzy who was nodding solemnly. “Do you have a mythological vision or theme in mind, Mr. Pryde?”
Pryde grinned at me, boyishly. “I hope you will call me Jonathan. I would very much like to call you James. Or do you prefer Jamie?”
“James is fine, Jonathan,” I replied, more stiffly than I intended.
“The work that I propose to Mr. Wainwright is exceptional. I want him to create, first of all, a cartoon—it is a technical term—which incorporates the totality of his vision.”
“Totality?” I asked.
Once again, the man rose to pace, pausing to examine each painting and sculpture. With his back still turned, he said, “You do realize, James, that Alexander possesses an extraordinary gift. After all, look at these paintings on your wall by far lesser lights.” He flung his arm out in a grand gesture. “This one paints a flower, another—a babbling brook. All very pretty indeed. But if Alexander were to paint a leaf, his leaf would contain the entire universe within a few square inches.”
No doubt, Pryde had been greatly affected by Alexander’s vision as shown in his paintings. Within each leaf, each drop of water or human hair, Alex seemed to convey a light or glow from some innately familiar yet unknowable dimension. To Pryde,each brushstroke contained every ounce of his own life and vitality. The universe was one, and each and every person was an integral part of it. Certainly, Alex’s leaves were no ordinary ones!
“Mr. Pryde…”
“Jonathan, please.”
“Well, yes…Jonathan. I think you should discuss this directly with Alexander along with your interest in the River of Remembrance as soon as possible.”
Pryde smiled broadly. “When can you arrange that?”
“I’ll call and find out when he is available. Perhaps tomorrow afternoon?”
“Excellent! I’ll be sure to be available.” Jonathan seemed to hesitate. “Tell me, Jamie, does Alexander ever speak of visions?”
Surprised, I shook my head. “Alex definitely sees the world quite differently from most of us, but he hasn’t spoken of any actual visions. Why do you ask?”
Jonathan shrugged. “His art suggests something of that order, don’t you think?” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew his card. “But, of course, you know the man and his art far better than I.”
I could think of no appropriate reply and so I remained in silent study of his card.
“Don’t forget, I’m at the Ritz for a few more days. I’m available almost any time.”
I retrieved their coats. Jonathan turned to me saying, “You haven’t asked me the location of the stained glass windows.”
“No. Where did you have in mind?”
“I have a residence in Vence, near Antibes, which is extremely important to me. It’s not just the house but the people in it.”
I was confused. I said, “You mean this is a private residence for your family?”
“Yes and no, my friend.” He smiled and seemed to wonder if he should continue. “Do you know Professor Henry Callan, by any chance?”
I frowned but could recall no one by that name. “No, I don’t think…”
“You see, Jamie, the home is a very special place.” He laid his hand on my forearm briefly. “In my line of work, I meet so many truly brilliant minds. But sometimes they, especially the exceptionally talented ones, literally burn themselves out. They drive themselves to the ultimate peak of human achievement and then succumb to ill health, madness…even death.” Pryde seemed momentarily exhausted from his outburst of zeal, but he revived himself and spoke scarcely above a whisper. “You see, Jamie, some of these residents have had visions. Sometimes they seem awestruck and at others, terrified. But we hope to understand the nature of these experiences—what they are—where they come from.”
Fizzy, looking slightly concerned, edged closer to his employer.
Pryde continued. “I have a little place in Vence where they can recuperate. It’s called Saint Maxime.” His eyes shone. “Once, centuries ago, it was a home of the Knights of Templar!”
I searched my memory for any scrap of recollection about the Knights of the Templar, but came up with precious little. Some sort of noble mission to protect pilgrims en route to visit holy places finally came to mind. I was quite sure they had come to a bad end.
Jonathan began again. “You see at Saint Maxime, we provide a tranquil, yet stimulating atmosphere for the exhausted mind to find solace.” Jonathan leaned in toward me confidentially. “Despite what you may have heard, we offer only the most compassionate care.”
I edged slightly away. “But I’ve heard nothing of the place until now.”
“Well then…very good. Alexander will have great freedom in the design of his stained glass.” He tugged lightly on my sleeve. “Before we enter into an agreement, he must come and see the place.”
This sounded entirely reasonable to me, and I said so. Jonathan tossed on his coat, which I had been holding throughout. He shook my hand warmly and then slid on his leather gloves. “That’s why I asked if Alex experienced visions in his work.”
His companion broke from his naturally sour visage, smiled sweetly and waved goodbye. What a strange pair, I thought, as they climbed inside the beautiful car. I gazed lovingly at it as they drove off.
In my excitement, I rushed to ring Alex up with the news. No answer. I left a message for him to call as soon as possible. At my computer, I entered the name Jonathan Pryde. More than five hundred thousand entries appeared. Apparently the man was some sort of shipping magnate—import/export. Then, of course, there were the many cultural and sporting events sponsored by him or one of his many companies. He had gifted staggering sums to art galleries around the world and set up endowments at Oxford and Cambridge for English literature and the sciences—especially physics. What an amazing career! It must give Pryde great pleasure to do such good, I thought, Although a little odd, he was, no doubt, an excellent contact for Alex.