“I learned more about art in those first few years, than I had in all my years before. I could separate wheat from the chaff better than most of the so called ‘experts.’ So I started to promote a few young talents, and made some nice commissions. I get to know some of the collectors. It wasn’t long before I knew every major player in the art world. At least, that is what I thought. There is another world, one which is much darker, one which doesn’t get written up in glossy magazines. It is the world of the private collection and their collectors.
“Because most of Europe had been looted, pillaged, and then looted again, there were lots of pieces hidden in secret places. The most talented painters, the ones who didn’t catch a break, turned to forgery. They were good too, but I was better. In a three week span, I cleverly uncovered two such forgeries, and my reputation among the shadow collectors was secured. I was a straight shooter. I felt like I was doing some real good. Ninety percent of the time I could tell if it was real or forged, and my explanation would steer the buyer down the right path. On a few occasions, when I didn’t know, I told them so. Then I told them who to contact, to find out for sure. Even this furthered my reputation.
“Then a man came to me, he was hunting for a particular piece, which was rumored to be hidden in Romania. He asked that I go check it out. The piece was famous and had gone missing during the war. Before we went to Romania, we went to Vienna. He took me to dinner, introduced me to some wealthy people, and then I got to see a ‘private collection.’ As we were walking down the long hallway to the secret room, which housed the treasures, he reminded me that I was not here to validate any pieces. I should just smile and gush.
“It was an impressive collection, to say the least. I won’t bore you with the details, but there were three pieces which I knew had been stolen during the war. One of them was the very piece we were on our way to see in Romania. Our host knew of my vocation, and stood next to his prize. He asked if I would mind, as a courtesy, to give it a quick look. The brushwork was perfect, the frame was of the right age, even the canvas was beyond reproach. When the host looked away, I took a tiny straight pin, and poked it through the corner of the canvas. The oils were not yet dry. This was not a 300 year old painting, probably closer to three months. He asked me for my opinion, and I said honestly, I had never seen anything like it.
“I didn’t lie; it was the finest forgery I had yet seen. My benefactor seemed concerned, until I explained my findings to him.”
Henry ordered another round when the bartender stopped by the table.
A beat cop came in and talked to a few of the other cops in a hushed tone. Most of the bar was getting up and putting on coats, girlfriends and wives were being kissed goodbye, and out they filed. Henry grabbed the arm of a young one who had just gotten his coat from the back, and asked, “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Some rich guy, a friend of the mayor, just got his head bashed in. It’s all hands on deck.”
The Dublin Rogue was eerily quiet after everyone had left. Henry got up and put four bits in the juke box and returned to the table with two more beers. Katarina took a drink, lit a cigarette, and took a long, slow drag. Henry accepted when she offered one. He slid it behind his ear. "For later, thanks. Now, you were telling me tales of your dark and mysterious life."
A sad half-smile crossed her lips. One more pull and a look off into the distance. Was she looking back at the good days, or forward to what might come? Henry didn't know. "Where was I?"
"You had just explained to your benefactor that the painting was a fake."
Katarina looked across the table, into Henry's caring eyes, and began again. "Yes, so we went to Romania. In a real life dungeon, deep under a castle, there was a room with the painting. It was the real McCoy. After the viewing, we had a wonderful dinner with our charming host, and then we left. I remember the rush. It was exhilarating beyond anything I had ever known. Better than even…" She raised one eyebrow.
Henry knew she was going for levity, perhaps she needed to, because he could see where the story was going. A brief smile, with no return eyebrow play, and a drink of beer would be all she would get. "Tell me about this benefactor of yours."
She turned her head towards the bar and crossed her long legs, as she brought the cigarette to her mouth. Another long pull, her eyes looking at nothing in particular, she answered, “His family name was Pergerinus, and he had grown up a gypsy, wandered about most of his life, and eventually changed his name to marry money. He changed it back when most of her family was killed during Dresden bombings, leaving him but one obstacle between him and obscene wealth. His wife died of grief. Or that is how he told it. I didn’t ask for details.”