False Impression

ANNA WALKED SLOWLY down the wide, marble staircase, pausing for a moment at every two or three steps to admire another master. It didn’t matter how often she saw them . . . she heard a noise behind her, and looked back toward the guest corridor to see Andrews coming out of her bedroom. He was carrying a picture under his arm. She smiled as he hurried away in the direction of the backstairs.

Anna continued to study the paintings on her slow progress down the staircase. As she stepped into the hall she gave Catherine, Lady Wentworth another admiring look, before she walked slowly across the black-and-white marbled-square floor toward the drawing room.

The first thing Anna saw as she entered was Andrews placing the Van Gogh on an easel in the center of the room.

“What do you think?” said Arabella, as she took a step back to admire the self-portrait.

“Don’t you feel that Mr. Nakamura might consider it a little . . . ,” ventured Anna, not wishing to offend her host.

“Crude, blatant, obvious? Which word were you searching for, my dear?” asked Arabella, as she turned to face Anna. Anna burst out laughing. “Let’s face it,” said Arabella, “I’m strapped for cash and running out of time, so I don’t have a lot of choice.”

“No one would believe it, looking at you,” said Anna, as she admired the magnificent long rose silk-taffeta gown and diamond necklace Arabella was wearing, making Anna feel somewhat casual in her short black Armani dress.

“It’s kind of you to say so, my dear, but if I had your looks and your figure, I wouldn’t need to cover myself from head to toe with other distractions.”

Anna smiled, admiring the way Arabella had so quickly put her at ease.

“When do you think he’ll make a decision?” asked Arabella, trying not to sound desperate.

“Like all great collectors,” said Anna, “he’ll make up his mind within moments. A scientific survey has recently shown that men decide whether they want to sleep with a woman in about eight seconds.”

“That long?” said Arabella.

“Mr. Nakamura will take about the same time to decide if he wants to own this painting,” she said, looking directly at the Van Gogh.

“Let’s drink to that,” said Arabella.

Andrews stepped forward on cue, proffering a silver tray that held three glasses.

“A glass of champagne, madam?” he inquired.

“Thank you,” said Anna, removing a long-stemmed flute. When Andrews stepped back, her gaze fell on a turquoise and black vase that she had never seen before.

“It’s quite magnificent,” said Anna.

“Mr. Nakamura’s gift,” said Arabella. “Most embarrassing. By the way,” she added, “I do hope I haven’t committed a faux pas by putting it on display while Mr. Nakamura is still a guest in my home.” She paused. “If I have, Andrews can remove it immediately.”

“Certainly not,” said Anna. “Mr. Nakamura will be flattered that you have placed his gift among so many other maestros.”

“Are you sure?” asked Arabella.

“Oh yes. The piece survives, even shines in this room. There is only one certain rule when it comes to real talent,” said Anna. “Any form of art isn’t out of place as long as it’s displayed among its equals. The Raphael on the wall, the diamond necklace you are wearing, the Chippendale table on which you have placed the vase, the Nash fireplace, and the Van Gogh have all been created by masters. Now I have no idea who the craftsman was who made this piece,” continued Anna, still admiring the way the turquoise appeared to be running into the black, like a melting candle, “but I have no doubt that in his own country, he is considered a master.”

“Not exactly a master,” said a voice coming from behind them.

Arabella and Anna turned at the same time to see that Mr. Nakamura had entered the room. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and bow tie that Andrews would have approved of.

“Not a master?” queried Arabella.

“No,” said Nakamura. “In this country, you honor those who ‘achieve greatness,’ to quote your Bard, by making them knights or barons, whereas we in Japan reward such talent with the title ‘national treasure.’ It is appropriate that this piece has found a home in Wentworth Hall because, of the twelve great potters in history, the experts acknowledge that eleven have been Japanese, with the sole exception of a Cornishman, Bernard Leach. You failed to make him a lord or even give him a knighthood, so we declared him to be an honorary national treasure.”

“How immensely civilized,” said Arabella, “as I must confess that recently we have been giving honors to pop stars, footballers, and vulgar millionaires.” Nakamura laughed, as Andrews offered him a glass of champagne. “Are you a national treasure, Mr. Nakamura?” inquired Arabella.

“Certainly not,” replied Nakamura. “My countrymen do not consider vulgar millionaires worthy of such an honor.”

Arabella turned scarlet, while Anna continued to stare at the vase, as if she hadn’t heard the remark. “But am I not right in thinking, Mr. Nakamura, that this particular vase is not symmetrical?”

“Quite brilliant,” replied Nakamura. “You should have been a member of the diplomatic corps, Anna. Not only did you manage to deftly change the subject, but at the same time you raised a question that demands to be answered.”