Ben stared more closely at the painting. It had been over
fifteen years since he had last seen it. There was no way it was the same one.
Artists often paint the same picture over and over again, he told himself,
thinking of Sara in her paint-splattered apartment. Even the idea that it might
be theirs was just a momentary deception, like the people on the street or at
the cocktail hour, dead ringers for his parents only because he wanted them to
Ben breathed out slowly and took one last look before turning
again to leave, this time for good. But then he noticed, in the painting's lower
right-hand corner, a tiny glossy area that gleamed white under the gallery
lightsthe same place where Sara, at the age of seven, had once tried to coat
the painting with clear nail polish until their parents caught her. And then
Ben's entire body started shaking with rage.
He read the label again, still stunned. On loan, it read, from a
Russian museum. He stretched his arms toward the painting without even noticing
that he was doing so, reaching for it, ready to grip the bottom of the frame
like the rung of a ladder. In his mind he saw his feet walking up the wall until
he could step into it, sliding through the frame and out and up and away.
Instead he caught a glimpse of his own hands out of the corner of his eye and
stopped himself, lowering his arms and turning his head to see if anyone was
No one was there, not even a lingering guard.
Strange things happen to paintings that no one looks at. They
start to sing. In the absence of people, the empty room reverberated with the
colors humming on its walls. Ben stood alone and listened as each wide flash of
color vibrated at a different pitch: wistful wavering high notes for the
airborne woman, deep resonating low tones for the Lovers in Blue. The dark
little picture rattled the air with the banging of piano keys like the ones that
once lay below it in his parents' living room, a minor chord struck by accident
in the middle of a song.
He stepped closer.
With all his strength, he grabbed the painting's thin frame and
yanked the whole thing off the wall. It was so light that he nearly flew
backward. And then he left.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...