False Impression

28

ANNA RETURNED TO her hotel, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, her newly acquired chauffeur took her to the Academy of Art on Piata Universitatii.

The building had lost none of its elegance or charm with the passing of time, and when Anna climbed the steps toward the massive sculptured doors, memories came flooding back of her introduction to the great works of art hanging in galleries she thought she would never see. Anna reported to the front desk and asked where Professor Teodorescu’s lecture was taking place.

“In the main theater on the third floor,” said the girl behind the counter, “but it has already started.”

Anna thanked the young student and, without asking for any directions, climbed the wide marble staircase to the third floor. She stopped to glance at a poster outside the hall:

THE INFLUENCE OF PICASSO ON TWENTIETH-CENTURY ART

Professor Anton Teodorescu

TONIGHT, 7:00 P.M.

She didn’t require the arrow to point her in the right direction. Anna gingerly pushed open the door, pleased to find that the lecture theater was in darkness. She walked up the steps at the side of the hall and took a seat toward the back.

A slide of Guernica filled the screen. Anton was explaining that the massive canvas was painted in 1937, at the time of the Spanish Civil War, when Picasso was at the height of his powers. He went on to say that the depiction of the bomb

ing and the resulting carnage had taken Picasso three weeks, and the image was unquestionably influenced by the artist’s hatred of the Spanish dictator, Franco. The students were listening attentively, several taking notes. Anton’s bravura performance reminded Anna why she’d had a crush on him all those years ago, when she not only lost her virginity to an artist, but began a lifelong love affair with art.

When Anton’s presentation came to an end, the rapturous applause left Anna in no doubt how much the undergraduates enjoyed his lecture. He’d lost none of his skill in motivating and nurturing the young’s enthusiasm for their chosen subject.

Anna watched her first love as he collected together his slides and began to put them in an old briefcase. Tall and angular, his mop of curly, dark hair, ancient brown corduroy jacket, and open-neck shirt gave him the air of a perpetual student. She couldn’t help noticing that he had put on a few pounds, but she didn’t feel it made him any less attractive. When the last student had filed out, Anna made her way to the front of the hall.

Anton glanced up over his half-moon spectacles, apparently anticipating a question from the student who was approaching him. When he first saw Anna, he didn’t speak, just stared.

“Anna,” he finally exclaimed. “Thank God I didn’t realize you were in the audience, as you probably know more about Picasso than I do.”

Anna kissed him on both cheeks and said with a laugh, “You’ve lost none of your charm or ability to flatter.”

Anton held up his hands in mock defeat, grinning widely. “Was Sergei at the airport to pick you up?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Anna. “Where did you meet him?”

“In jail,” admitted Anton. “He was lucky to survive the Ceausescu regime. And have you visited your sainted mother?”

“I have,” replied Anna, “and she’s still living in conditions not much better than a jail.”

“I agree, and don’t think I haven’t tried to do something about it, but at least your dollars, and her generosity, allow some of my best students to—”

“I know,” said Anna, “she’s already told me.”

“You can’t begin to know,” continued Anton. “So let me show you some of the results of your investment.”

Anton took Anna by the hand, as if they were still students, and guided her down the steps to the long corridor on the first floor, where the walls were crammed with paintings in every medium.

“This year’s prize-winning students,” he told her, holding out his arms like a proud father. “And every entry has been painted on a canvas supplied by you. In fact, one of the awards is in your name—the Petrescu Prize.” He paused. “How appropriate if you were to select the winner, which would make not only me, but one of my students, very proud.”

“I’m flattered,” said Anna with a smile, as she walked toward a long row of paintings. She took her time as she strolled slowly up and down the canvas-filled corridor, pausing occasionally to study an image more closely. Anton had clearly taught them the importance of drawing before he allowed them to move on to other media. Don’t bother with the brush if you can’t first handle the pencil, he liked to repeat. But the range of subjects and bold approach showed that he had also let them express themselves. Some didn’t quite come off, while others showed considerable talent. Anna finally stopped in front of an oil entitled Freedom, depicting the sun rising over Bucharest.

“I know a certain gentleman who’ll appreciate that,” she said.

“You haven’t lost your touch,” said Anton, smiling. “Danuta Sekalska is this year’s star pupil, and she’s been offered a place at the Slade in London to continue her studies, if only we can raise enough money to cover her expenses.” He looked at his watch. “Do you have time for a drink?”

“I certainly do,” replied Anna, “because I confess there’s a favor I need to ask of you—” she paused “—in fact, two favors.”

Anton once again took her by the hand and led her back down the corridor toward the staff refectory. When they entered the senior common room, Anna was greeted by the sound of good-humored chatter as tutors swapped anecdotes while they sat around in groups enjoying nothing stronger than a coffee. They didn’t seem to notice that the furniture, the cups, the saucers, and probably even the cookies would have been rejected by any self-respecting hobo visiting a Salvation Army hostel in the Bronx.