Heads You Win

“My father is a doorman at the Plaza, my mother works in Bloomingdale’s, so I was educated at the university of life. And one more thing. If you really want to impress her, perhaps you should…”

* * *

Alex was up, dressed, and bargaining in the vegetable market by four thirty the following morning. Once he’d delivered his purchases to the restaurant, he returned home and had breakfast with his mother.

He didn’t tell her what he had planned for the rest of the morning, and waited for her to leave for work before he took a second shower and selected a dark gray, single-breasted suit, white shirt, and a tie his mother had given him for Christmas. He then carefully took the Warhol down from the wall and wrapped it in some brown paper before placing it in a carrier bag.

He took a taxi into Manhattan, a necessary expense as he couldn’t risk carrying such a valuable painting on the subway, and asked the driver to take him to West 57th Street.

When he arrived at the Marlborough Gallery, the lights were just being switched on. He studied the painting displayed in the window, which was by an artist called Hockney. When a young woman sat down behind the desk, he took a deep breath and strolled in.

Don’t be in a hurry, Paolo had told him. The rich are never in a hurry to part with their money. He walked slowly around the gallery, admiring the paintings. It was like being back in Lawrence’s home.

“Can I help you, sir?” He turned to find the assistant standing by his side.

“No, thank you. I was just looking.”

“Of course. Do let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Alex fell in love for a second time, not with the assistant, but with a dozen women he wished he could take home and hang on his bedroom wall. After being mesmerized by a small canvas by Renoir, he remembered that he had originally come in for a reason. He walked across to the assistant’s desk.

“I recently met a girl called Anna who works at a gallery on the West Side that specializes in Abstract Expressionism, and I wondered if you’d come across her?”

The young woman smiled and shook her head. “I only began working here a week ago. Sorry.”

Alex thanked her, but didn’t leave the gallery until he’d taken another look at the Renoir. He didn’t waste his or her time asking the price. He knew he couldn’t afford her.

He moved on to a second gallery, and then a third, and spent the rest of the morning fruitlessly entering a dozen other establishments, and asking a dozen other young assistants the same question, but with the same result. When the bells of St. Patrick’s Cathedral rang out once, he decided to take a break for lunch before continuing his quest. He spotted a small queue waiting outside a sandwich bar, and headed toward it, still clutching his Warhol. And

then he saw her through a restaurant window.

She was sitting in a corner booth, chatting to a handsome man who looked as if he knew her well. His heart sank when the man leaned across the table and took her hand. Alex retreated to a nearby bench, where he sat despondently, no longer feeling hungry. He was just about to go home, when they came out of the restaurant together. The man leaned over to kiss her, but Anna turned away, not smiling. Then she walked off and left him standing there without another word.

Alex jumped up from the bench and began to follow her along Lexington, keeping his distance until she disappeared into an elegant art gallery. As he walked past N. Rosenthal & Co. he looked inside and saw her taking a seat behind a desk. He waited for a few moments before turning back. He then sauntered into the gallery without even glancing in her direction. A customer was speaking to her, and he pretended to be interested in one of the paintings. Eventually the chatty woman left, and Alex walked across to the desk. Anna looked up and smiled.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I hope so.” He took the Warhol out of the carrier bag, removed the wrapping, and placed it on the desk. Anna took a careful look at the painting, and then at Alex. A flicker of recognition crossed her face.

“I was hoping you might be able to value this picture for me.”

She studied it once again before asking, “Is it yours?”

“No, it belongs to a friend of mine. He asked me to get it valued.”

She took a second look at him before saying, “I don’t have enough experience to give you a realistic valuation, but if you’d allow me to show the painting to Mr. Rosenthal, I’m sure he could help.”

“Of course.”

Anna picked up the painting, walked to the far end of the gallery, and disappeared into another room. Alex was admiring a Lee Krasner called The Eye is the First Circle, when a distinguished-looking gray-haired gentleman wearing a double-breasted dark blue suit, pink shirt, and red polka-dot bow tie emerged from his office carrying the painting. He placed it back on Anna’s desk.

“You asked my assistant if I could value this picture for you?” he said, looking closely at Alex. The words “slow” and “measured” came to mind. This was not a man in a hurry. “I’m afraid I have to tell you, sir, that it’s a copy. The original is owned by a Mr. Lawrence Lowell of Boston, and is part of the Lowell Collection.”

I’m well aware of that, Alex wanted to tell him. “What makes you think it’s a copy?” he asked.

“It’s not the painting itself,” said Rosenthal, “which I confess had me fooled for a moment. It was the canvas that gave it away.” He turned the painting over and said, “Warhol couldn’t have afforded such an expensive canvas in his early days, besides which, it’s the wrong size.”

“Are you certain?” asked Alex, suddenly feeling first angry and then sick.