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gallery s white walls were studded with beautiful paint-
ings, each a stunning forgery. I recognized my grand-
father s work as well as several by Georges protégé, Anton
Woznikowicz, and a handful of fakes by Marie Bertolini,
whom I d met at Grandfather s atelier in Paris. There were
also several fine works by forgers whose signatures I did
not recognize.
Three canvases were of markedly lesser quality and I pre-
sumed these were by Jazz Hart. I examined them dismis-
sively. The forgeries lacked the depth of a decent oil
painting, and would not pass even a cursory inspection by
yours truly. As Georges often said, forgers who couldn t
paint should stick to the abstract expressionists.
My grandfather s work dominated the collection, and my
breath caught in my throat as I studied each one. Not for the
first time, I was struck by Georges singular ability to repli-
cate so many different artists. There was an Albrecht Dürer
watercolor in the style of the meticulous German Renais-
sance, rendered so perfectly that each hair on the rabbit was
distinguishable; a Bronzino oil portrait of a child, her face
shining with the smooth, luminescent paleness sought after
BRUSH WITH DEATH 155
by sixteenth-century Italians; a Mary Cassatt painting of two
women taking tea, the frothy lace of their gowns and the
gleaming silver dishes exquisitely slapdash, as befit the Im-
pressionist obsession with the interplay of light and color.
Never had I seen so many of my grandfather s works hang-
ing side by side on the walls of a museum, and my heart
surged as I thought of how proud Georges would be. Of
course, they were in a private workroom, not on public dis-
play, but still.
My eyes lingered on Grandfather s version of La Forna-
rina. Relieved to see the painting here rather than, say, in
the Barberini Palace Museum I studied her provocative
smile, her laughing eyes. She gazed at me, sultry and sexy,
tempting sane men and, no doubt, quite a few women to
stray. It was easy to see why this painting had launched my
grandfather s career as a forger.
 Another time, another place, he might have been a great
artist, said a voice behind me.
I spun around and saw a balding man leaning on a silver
cane. He looked to be in his late seventies, hands gnarled
and face wrinkled, and intelligence glowed in his deep hawk
eyes.
His accent sounded Italian.
 You are Annie Kincaid?
 Yes.
 So, you admire your grandfather s work.
I pasted a blank look on my face and said nothing.
 It was Georges LeFleur s great misfortune to come of
age at a time when technical talent was less important than
revolutionary philosophy, the stooped man said as he
peered up at La Fornarina. He sighed.  Had your grandfa-
ther painted a red triangle on a field of black, he might be
hanging in this very museum in the permanent collection.
As I suspected the man knew, my grandfather was hang-
156 Hailey Lind
ing in the Getty s permanent collection, as well as many of
the world s other great institutions of art and culture. Just
not under his own name.
 Most artists become bitter when they are spurned by the
art world. But not Georges LeFleur. He and I worked side by
side in Firenze during the floods. He was a gifted art conser-
vator before he began using his talents to create, rather than
to restore, rare masterpieces. But to this day he embraces art
with a joie de vivre that one cannot fault. He is a genius.
The man chuckled and turned his intense gaze on me.  But,
Ms. Kincaid, he must be stopped.
 Who are you?
 Donato Sandino, at your service, Signorina.
 Signor Sandino. I held out my hand, though I really
wanted to mow the little fellow down and run for the airport.
 It s an honor. I ve heard a great deal about you.
 And I, you, he said, shaking my hand.  Please tell me
that I am correct, and that this is indeed your grandfather s
marvelous copy of La Fornarina.
I remained mute. No way in hell was I going to drop a
dime on Georges, not even if Donato Sandino tied me down
and stuck a muralist s pounce stick up my nose.
 It doesn t matter. He waved his hand, as though to swat
a mosquito.  Tell me, Signorina, are you familiar with the
saying about the French realist Jean-Baptiste Corot?
Indeed I was. It was one of Georges favorites.  They say
that Corot painted two thousand canvases, five thousand of
which are in America.
Sandino chuckled again.
 But Corot was an altruist, I pointed out.  He allowed
poor artists to sign his name in order to sell their paintings.
 There are many reasons for fraud, Signorina, Sandino
said as he hobbled toward the worktable.  But it is a crime
nonetheless. Have you seen the list I have compiled of the
BRUSH WITH DEATH 157
most-forged artists? He picked up a laminated sheet and
handed it to me.
The list was in alphabetical order and included Corot,
Dalí, van Gogh, Modigliani, Remington, and Utrillo. I was
surprised that neither Reubens nor Rembrandt was on it, for
both had worked with numerous apprentices and had been
generous with their signatures. Sandino s list apparently dis-
tinguished between the Old Masters who lent their fame to
lesser artists, and the modern forgers who were out-and-out
copyists.
 Your grandfather seldom forges the obvious works,
Sandino continued.  I admire him for that. He is a man of
unusual aesthetic sensibility.
I remained mute.
 As in so many things, the United States has become the
biggest consumer of stolen and forged art. It may interest
you to know that I am planning to move my laboratory here.
Sending items to and from Europe has become . . . how do I
say? Not workable. Not feasible.
Made sense. Europe was the bastion of Western art, but
the American market was red-hot these days, as dealers and
auction houses cashed in on the virtually unregulated in-
dustry.
 So, here I am, in the City of Angels, teaching your FBI
how to spot the obvious signs of forgery so that they may
call upon my services in the future. You may imagine how
pleased I was to hear that the granddaughter of Georges
LeFleur was inquiring after La Fornarina. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]