False Impression

Anton looked back into the audience to see that the seat on the end of the second row was no longer occupied.

Anna arrived at Koskies a few minutes before the suggested hour. Only an attentive student would have noticed that the lecturer had departed from his prepared script for a few moments to let her know where they should meet. She could not mistake that look of fear in Anton’s eyes, a look that is obvious only to those who’ve had to survive in a police state.

Anna glanced around the room. Her old student haunt hadn’t changed that much. The same plastic tables, the same plastic chairs, and probably the same plastic wine that couldn’t find an exporter. Not a natural rendezvous for a Professor of Perspective and a New York art dealer. She ordered two glasses of the house red.

Anna could still remember when she had considered a night at Koskies so cool, where she would discuss with her friends the virtues of Constantin Brancusi and U2, Tom Cruise and John Lennon, and have to suck a peppermint on the way home so that her mother wouldn’t find out that she’d been smoking and sipping alcohol. Her father always knew—he’d wink and point to whichever room her mother was in.

Anna recalled when she and Anton first made love. It was so cold they both had to keep their coats on, and when it was over, Anna even wondered if she would bother to do it again. No one seemed to have explained to Anton that it might take a woman a little longer to have an orgasm.

Anna looked up to see a tall man coming toward her. For a moment she couldn’t be sure that it was Anton. The advancing man was dressed in an army greatcoat too big for him, with a woolen scarf wrapped around his neck, topped off by a fur hat with flaps that covered his ears. An ideal outfit for a New York winter, was her immediate thought.

Anton took the seat opposite her and removed his hat, but nothing else. He knew that the only heater that worked was on the other side of the room.

“Do you have the painting?” asked Anna, unable to wait a moment longer to find out.

“Yes,” said Anton. “The canvas never left my studio the whole time you were away, as even the least observant of my students would have noticed it wasn’t my usual style,” he added, before sipping his red wine. “Though I confess I’ll be glad to be rid of the damn man. I went to jail for less, and I haven’t slept for the past four days. Even my wife suspects something is wrong.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Anna, as Anton began to roll a cigarette. “I shouldn’t have placed you in such danger, and what makes it worse is I have to ask you for another favor.” Anton looked apprehensive but waited to hear what her latest request would be. “You told me you kept eight thousand dollars of my mother’s money hidden in the house.”

“Yes, most Romanians stash the cash under their mattress, in case there’s a change of government in the middle of the night,” said Anton, as he lit his cigarette.

“I need to borrow some of it,” said Anna. “I’ll refund the money just as soon as I get back to New York.”

“It’s your money, Anna, you can have every last cent.”

“No, it’s my mother’s, but don’t let her know, or she’ll only assume I’m in some sort of financial trouble and start selling off the furniture.”

Anton didn’t laugh. “But you are in some sort of trouble, aren’t you?”

“Not as long as I have the painting.”

“Would you rather I held on to it for another day?” he asked, as he took a sip of wine.

“No, that’s kind of you,” said Anna, “but that would only mean that neither of us was able to get a night’s sleep. I think the time has come to take the canvas off your hands.”

Anna rose without another word, having not touched her wine.

Anton drained his glass, stubbed out his cigarette, and left a few coins on the table. He pulled his hat back on and followed Anna out of the bar. She couldn’t help remembering the last time they’d walked out of Koskies together.

Anna looked up and down the street before she joined Anton, who was whispering intently to Sergei.

“Will you have time to visit your mother?” asked Anton, as Sergei opened the back door for her.

“Not while someone is watching my every move.”

“I didn’t see anyone,” said Anton.

“You don’t see him,” said Anna. “You feel him.” She paused. “And I was under the illusion that I’d got rid of him.”

“You haven’t,” said Sergei, as they drove off.

No one spoke for the rest of the short journey to Anton’s home. Once Sergei had brought the car to a halt, Anna jumped out and followed Anton into the house. He led her quickly up the stairs to an attic on the top floor. Although Anna could hear the sound of Sibelius coming from a room below, it was clear that he didn’t want her to meet his wife.

Anna walked into a room crowded with canvases. Her eyes were immediately drawn to the painting of Van Gogh, his left ear bandaged. She smiled. The picture was in its familiar frame, safely back inside the open red box.

“Couldn’t be better,” said Anna. “Now all I have to do is make sure it ends up in the right hands.”

Anton didn’t comment, and when Anna turned round, she found him on his knees in the far corner of the room, lifting up a floorboard. He reached inside and extracted a thick envelope, which he slipped into an inside pocket. He then returned to the red box, replaced the lid, and began to hammer the nails back in place. It was only too clear that he wanted to be rid of the painting as quickly as possible. Once the final nail was secured, he lifted up the box and, without a word, led Anna out of the room and back down the stairs.