Spider Season (22 page)

Halfway through the big book, a portrait of Silvio Galiano in his later years caught my eye. It was a reproduction of the one I’d seen hanging in the house up in Nichols Canyon. Below the portrait was the title and year it had been painted:
Silvio Galiano,
1997. He’d died early that year—April 14 to be exact. That meant the portrait had to have been completed shortly before his death. That, in turn, suggested he’d had the strength and stamina to sit for hours each day while Wu captured him painstakingly in oil. So Topper had been right: Silvio Galiano
had
been making a comeback from his illness when he’d fallen to his death.

According to the book’s title, as well as the preface by Wu, the collection included the reproductions of every portrait he’d painted over two decades, beginning in 1987. The fact that it was so inclusive, leaving nothing out, gave the book more weight, both literally and figuratively, and was probably a useful marketing angle. Yet as I reached the last page, I hadn’t come across the portrait of Jason Holt that hung so prominently above his mantelpiece. Thinking I might have overlooked it, I checked the alphabetized index. His name wasn’t there.

“I hope that you and Mr. Aragon are enjoying the party.”

I turned to find myself facing a trim woman of medium height who appeared to be in her midforties. She introduced herself as Angela Wu, the artist’s wife. She was a flawlessly groomed woman with longish auburn hair swept dramatically to one side and a smile that was fixed but not particularly warm. Attractive, I suppose, if you like the brittle type who dresses and carries herself like a Saks mannequin, without a hair or speck of makeup out of place. There was a requisite touch of artiness about her—a colorful silk scarf loose about her neck, large earrings dangling flashily—but otherwise she would have fit in nicely at just about any hoity-toity gathering in San Marino or Newport Beach.

“We just got here, actually,” I said. “Only minutes ago.”

“Yes, I know.”

She told us she was aware of us from the guest list and my phone call two days earlier, seeking an invitation. I don’t know if it was meant to warn us that she stayed on top of things, but it made the point. She studied my face intently, mentioning that I looked familiar. I told her I must have a local doppelganger, since I spent most of my time with Mr. Aragon in Mexico City, where we shared a house together. I slipped my arm through his as I said it, getting the desired result. She stiffened, as if it was more information than she needed to hear, and the subject of my identity and relationship to Ismael didn’t come up again. I reminded her that he spoke almost no English, and she brushed it off as unimportant.

“Art is a universal language,” she said, in a cultured manner that suggested upper-crust breeding. “I’ve always felt that a piece by a brilliant artist has more to say than a million mundane words.”

A waiter approached with a tray of bubbling flutes. Mrs. Wu and I declined, but Ismael took one.

“And what is it that your husband’s paintings say?” I asked.

“That would be in the eye of the beholder, wouldn’t it? After all, fine art is to be experienced by each individual, just like great music or great writing.” She lifted the corners of her mouth, as if to soften her next comment. “That is, if one’s senses are open and attuned.” She glanced toward the door, where a well-dressed couple was arriving. “I hope you and Mr. Aragon will take your time and fully appreciate Charles’s work. All the paintings are for sale except the portraits, which are on loan from private collections. I’m sure you’re aware that Charles’s work is constantly appreciating in value.”

“It’s probably gotten more expensive since we walked in the door,” I said, and she laughed lightly. “Speaking of portraits, I looked through the book, but I didn’t find one of Jason Holt.”

Her smile never faltered, but her eyes gave her away. It was obvious that hearing Holt’s name was not something she’d expected or that pleased her very much. It seemed to have that effect on a lot of people.

“I’m afraid I don’t know anyone by that name.” She tried hard but couldn’t quite sell the lie. “Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” She turned to Ismael, bowing slightly. “Mr. Aragon.”

*   *   *

As we passed from the first room to the second, a few heads turned, both male and female. Possibly because they recognized me, I thought, but just as possibly because Ismael looked so damned good. I spotted Topper Schroeder among the guests, waving across the room to someone, but if he saw us, he didn’t let on.

In the middle room, framed portraits were spaced evenly around the walls, each the same size and in identical frames. Hanging right in front of us like this, they were even more impressive. Keeping his voice low, Ismael commented on the deeply layered brushstrokes, intricate detail, and dimensions of shading and color that reminded him of the Old Masters he’d admired as a young seminary student.

“The painting I saw of Holt seemed vastly inferior to these,” I said. “I suppose that explains why Wu didn’t include it in his published collection. He must have been having a bad day when he painted it.”

Standing alone in a far corner was an elderly Chinese couple, dressed formally in grays and blacks, as if they might be going to church, or a funeral. Their posture was rigid, their faces strained. The old man glanced at his watch, but the woman pushed his wrist down, scolding him with her eyes.

“The artist’s parents,” I said to Ismael. “I saw their portraits in the book.”

“They look like they just landed on Mars.”

“They don’t seem very comfortable, do they?”

“Very traditional.” It was Topper, sidling up to us and whispering, as he pretended to study the nearest portrait, peering over his lowered spectacles. “The older Wus are quite straitlaced and proper,” he went on. “I was introduced to them once, years ago. I did my best to make chitchat, but it was a challenge. They speak English but pretend they don’t. I’m afraid the art scene, and all that connotes, simply isn’t their world.”

“Awfully loyal of them then,” I said, “to make an appearance.”

“Charles is the only child, and male at that. In traditional Chinese families, that carries enormous weight. He’s absolutely devoted to them, and vice versa. Though the old man is rather stern, from what I gather.”

“And Charles works hard to be the perfect son?”

Topper nodded. “He’s in the next room, by the way, chatting up his abstracts with the checkbook crowd.”

He slipped away, back into the party, as surreptitiously as he’d arrived. I turned my eye to another portrait, this one of an imperial-looking African-American woman, whose name I recognized from the opera world.

“Magnificent, isn’t it? His influences are obvious. Rembrandt, Caravaggio, Vermeer.”

I glanced over to find a young man standing at my left elbow, looking dapper and cool in a nicely cut vanilla suit. I put his age in the midtwenties and saw in his blond, clean-shaven looks a vague resemblance to a young Jason Holt, although considerably more attractive. He introduced himself as Steven Reigns, personal assistant to Charles Wu, and asked if there was anything he might do for us. I thought of one or two things right off, but they were beyond the limits of good taste, so I kept them to myself.

“We were just admiring the remarkable quality in these portraits,” I said. “Wu obviously doesn’t knock them out quickly.”

“Charles is nothing if not meticulous,” Reigns said, with unabashed admiration. “He stretches all his own canvases, you know. Most artists use pre-stretched, commercial canvases, but not Charles. And of course he only paints with the finest oils. He’s quite fond of Windsor & Newton, for its consistency of color. Although he uses Holbein for its French Vermillion, because it’s so effective for getting the flesh tones just right.”

“You sound like you might be an artist yourself,” I said.

He dropped his eyes modestly. “Aspiring. I have an awful lot to learn. Working for Charles is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“He does have a way with color and texture,” I said. “What’s his secret?”

“The glazing has a lot to do with it. Honestly, I believe Charles uses glazing better than the Old Masters themselves.”

“Glazing?”

“Methodically adding layer upon layer of transparent color with oil and medium. Paintings built up in glazes tend to be more rich and luminous. Of course, Charles mixes his own. He would never touch a premixed glazing medium.”

“Of course,” I said.

“His recipe is one part linseed oil, one part turpentine, and one part Damar varnish.” He grimaced mildly. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

I raised my fingers to my mouth and twisted them like a key. “My lips are sealed. But it must take forever to dry.”

“Oh, yes. Each layer of glaze has to dry before the next layer can be added. But it’s worth it, believe me. When the painting’s done, the light strikes each layer, resulting in especially deep color and radiant highlights.”

“Mr. Wu’s subjects must be incredibly patient.”

“A number of Charles’s subjects have had to sit for a hundred hours or more,” Reigns confided, “sometimes for weeks at a stretch. It’s the only way he works. But they don’t seem to mind. After all, sitting for a Charles Wu portrait is considered a privilege, not an ordeal.”

“I believe I saw your portrait in his new book.”

Reigns blushed. “He was very kind to allow me to sit for him. I considered it a great honor.”

“Perhaps you could introduce him to us.”

“I’d be happy to. I’m sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

I gave him the phony name I’d checked in with—Howard Thayer, a bail bondsman I’d known for years—and then indicated Ismael. “And I’m sure you’ve heard of Ismael Aragon, the noted art collector from Mexico City. I’m afraid he doesn’t speak English.”

“Not a problem, Mr. Thayer,” Reigns said. “I’m fluent in Spanish.”

I leaned close, whispering in his ear, “He has a terrible stutter. Very shy with strangers. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Reigns whispered back. “I’ll let you do the talking.”

He led us into the next room, where we saw Wu surrounded by his abstracts, speaking with a large woman draped in a colorful caftan, an oversize handbag looped over one arm. Peeking from the handbag was a miniature Chihuahua, its ears pricked up and its bulbous eyes roving nervously. Cute dog, I thought, if you’re fond of rodents.

“Charles still paints the occasional portrait,” Reigns said, “but he’s concentrating more and more on his abstracts.”

The ones displayed here were much like the brown triangle painting I’d glimpsed on the home page of Wu’s Web site, merely different in shape and color—a red circle, yellow square, blue rectangle, green isosceles triangle, and so on—painted in acrylic against a white square background. A few visitors moved quickly from painting to painting, barely glancing at them before moving on uneasily, as if they felt lacking in the insight needed to appreciate something so profound. Others stood back at a distance, absorbed in Wu’s work, studying each painting as if it was filled with unfathomable mystery and meaning.

I stepped over to the isosceles triangle and checked the title and price printed on the title card:
Green Isosceles Triangle Number Three.
$180,000.

“Personally,” I said to Reigns, “I’m much more taken with the yellow square. But I certainly find this one intriguing.”

“I think it’s pure genius,” Reigns said, with apparent sincerity. “He’s taken the concept of minimalism to its finite level.”

“Not in his prices, he hasn’t.”

I smiled and Reigns laughed uneasily. He glanced toward Wu, who was shaking hands with the large woman in the caftan.

“Let’s grab Charles now, Mr. Thayer, before someone else gets him.”

Reigns raised a slender hand to beckon Wu. He responded and we met him in the center of the room. He was taller than I expected, with a solid chest and shoulders, but just as clean-cut and nondescript as in his Web site photo, the kind of man who takes pains to blend in and avoid attention. I introduced Ismael, Reigns explained discreetly about the language problem, and I told Wu that we found his abstracts fascinating.

“Unless I’m wrong,” I said, “they’re all about anonymity, the need for privacy in a clamorous and intrusive world.”

“That might be one interpretation,” Wu said amiably. “Certainly an interesting one.”

“We’re also intrigued by your portraits,” I said.

“I’m afraid those aren’t for sale,” Reigns said.

I kept my eye on Wu. “An academic interest, actually.”

“And what would that be, Mr. Thayer?”

“You’ve made the claim that your book is the complete collection of your portraits, over a twenty-year period.”

“That’s right.”

“But there’s one missing.”

Wu regarded me curiously. “I don’t think so, Mr. Thayer.”

“The portrait you painted of Jason Holt.”

Once more, Holt’s name worked its dark magic. Wu reacted visibly, looking petrified.

“You did paint a portrait of Holt, didn’t you?”

Wu’s smooth Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed with effort. I glanced at Reigns, who looked innocently confused. My eyes returned to Wu.

“Mr. Wu?”

“I consider that painting inferior,” he said, working to keep the anxiety from his voice, with only partial success. “I chose not to include it in the collection.”

“Were there other portraits you excluded?”

“No, just that one.” He cleared his throat audibly. “I intended to mention it in the preface, but I guess I forgot. It’s not really important. The painting you mention—it’s nothing.”

“Not to Jason Holt,” I said. “He’s got it hanging prominently above his mantelpiece, in the house he once shared with Silvio Galiano. He apparently places great value on it.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Wu said. “I haven’t seen Holt in more than a decade, not since—since he sat as a subject in my studio.”

“What was the reason you chose Holt?”

“No reason, really.” Wu hesitated, searching for his next words. “I … I suppose I thought he had an interesting face.”

“What exactly went wrong with that particular portrait, anyway? As a collector, I’m always interested in the process.”