Jacob spent that first morning comparing the catalogue with the works. His head was jelly from the direct contact with such a vast selection of the greatest art that humanity, over forty millennia, had yet produced. The room was long and artificially-lit in the ideal wavelength, the paintings and drawings and prints arranged in drawers, by artist, individual works in plastic cases, some key display pieces brought in from the social areas and mounted on the walls for the occasion.
Homo sapiens sapiens. You waited 160,000 years to begin producing art for us to enjoy today. I wonder why? Yet look, look at these marvels. It’s like the greatest artists, in their frantic productivity, they’re making up for lost time.
He worked alone, but the head of security was always in the room, loitering out of line of sight, and the cameras watched too.
He went through everything, list by list by list, everything laid out in Excel spreadsheets, by artist, links to complete histories and ownership details. There were valuations entered by two previous valuers, both known to Jacob and a column waiting for his inputs. It was all there. 1,344 works. Time for lunch. Christ, it’s after four.
She waited for him, at the best table, the afternoon sunlight framing her from behind, as an angel in one of those idealised, representational works that Hitler was so fond of.
‘Jacob,’ she smiled, putting down her Wall Street Journal. ‘How goes it?’
‘Well, really well,’ sitting across from her on green leather. ‘It’s a wonderful collection.’
‘What’s your favourite?’ pouring his glass of Chateau Mouton-Rothschild.
‘My god! Is this a 1945? Jesus,’ he inhaled the claret, the smell of France, as and when she was delivered from - ‘I’d have to say, just from quick glances, mind you, so far there’s a dozen masterful Cézannes - a dozen! - a Klimt to die for and a Dalí I’ve never seen. It’s like The Persistence of Memory, but an altogether new take on the melting clock. It could be an undiscovered piece. But the Cézannes - you are aware that the most expensive painting yet sold is a Cézanne?’
‘The Card Players. Two-fifty plus.’
‘Two hundred and fifty-nine million dollars. And just a couple of years ago. Beautiful piece.’
‘I know. It was ours.’
‘Jesus. But the value that puts on your other Cézannes. It’s mind-melting.’
She smiled. ‘That’s how the market operates. Same rules apply for all commodities. The old supply and demand.’
‘So you’ve been boosting the value.’
‘Value? No. Drink first. It’s been breathing.’
So he drank and filled his mouth with magic. As his tongue tingled, he was struck by the flavours and had a revelation.
‘Wow. That is good. I think I’ve come up with a definition, what makes a great wine.’
‘Do tell,’ she said, sipping.
‘We have four different tasting areas on our tongues. For sour, sweet, salty and bitter. A great wine, like a great dish, impacts on all areas at once, as well as the secret fifth. Umami, Japanese for deliciousness. And it lingers. I can still taste that sip, all over.’
Julia savoured the taste, nodded, swallowed. Let him have it. ‘I agree.’
‘Could be that this works for all food and drink.’
‘What about art?’
‘Interesting. Could there be a bunch of different emotional responses, areas in the brain, even, and if a piece of art triggers something across them -’
‘You could map responses in an MRI scanner.’
‘That could be really, really useful.’
‘This sounds like a piece of research the Foundation could support. Would support. We have the art, we have the scanning technology. We’d just need a proper, scientific plan. You’ve got your hypothesis, it should be fairly straightforward to evaluate it. Once we get through the valuation and the feast, I can help you get it done. And that’s a promise. This could make your name worldwide, Jacob. I would want you so badly, I can feel the itch already.’
Bitch. You just blackmailed me with the threat of twenty years in jail. Plus, I know you’re a card-carrying Nazi. And now you’re making me love you again. Making me want you in every other waking moment.
‘Okay.’
‘I’m going to have to leave you with it for a couple of days. I’ve been ordered to Beijing. Investors need reassuring.’
‘Ordered?’ Shit, I’ll miss your presence, your steely, heart-quickening, ylang-ylang sandalwood jasmine-scented, immaculate, shimmering, murderous, desperate heat. I must be experiencing Stockholm Syndrome or something.
‘Won’t take long. You’ll be so busy, you won’t even notice.’ She leaned closer to Jacob. ‘And when I get back, I’m taking you to dinner. The best dinner you’ll ever experience.’
Jacob had visions. ‘Okay.’
‘Enjoy your lunch. I recommend the mushroom risotto.’ She stood and he half-rose. ‘Oh, Jacob, I meant to ask. Remember that night we met in the auction room?’
He pointed to his temple. ‘Indelibly.’
‘That Nostradamus book you bought. Did you sell that on?’
‘I gave it to Sophie. A gift.’
She raised her eyebrows, nodded, turned away. No goodbyes. His eyes followed her until she left the room.
So he ordered the risotto, drank the exquisite claret. But he was giddy, actually giddy, with the anticipation of what other treasures might be waiting for his eyes, so he quickly ate the lush rice, with the porcini and Chanterelle mushrooms and the leek and the butter.
‘On another day, I’d have made love to you for many hours,’ he said to his wine glass, quietly. Then he gulped it down.
Then he went and made love to Klimts, Pollocks, Van Goghs and Picassos.
It was dark outside, but Jacob wasn’t aware. Sophie called.
‘I need you, Jacob,’ an unfamiliar urgency in her voice.
‘You okay, Soph?’
‘No. I’ve been interrogated by cops all afternoon.’
‘Jesus! What for?’
‘Don’t you know?’ sounding exasperated. How could you not know?
‘Sorry, I’ve been away from the news. In a much better place, with the timeless things that actually matter.
‘Big shit with the restaurant. Turns out Rod was serving people. To people.’
There was a five second silence while Jacob processed that.
‘Oh. Oh. What time is it?’ glancing at his watch. ‘Nine? Christ. Okay, I’ll be with you in twenty. What you doing?’
‘Cooking.’
‘Hnnh?’
‘Potato latkes, chopped liver, kreplach soup. Comfort food.’
His stomach churned, said Give me some of that Jewish goodness. ‘Fab.’
He was escorted to the lobby by an armed security guard. The guy was of the silent type. The guard at the lobby desk wishes Jacob a good night. ‘See you in the morning, sir?’
‘Yes. I’ll be here early. What time you open?’
‘We’re open twenty-four seven, sir.’
Inside a cab within seconds, hurtling downtown through the going-out traffic, the theatre crowds, the late hungry, the all-day drunks who were approaching threshold, the cops and the robbers, the tourists, clicking, snapping, selfie-ing, taking it all in, making it all. Being New York.
And into the Village, the hothouse of music and pop culture. And Sophie.
‘Why don’t you move up here?’ she asked, as they walked up the stairs to her place. ‘The Village is you, Jacob.’
A young couple passed, heading downstairs into the night, laughing. Jacob glanced after them.
‘I don’t know. I like it downtown. The edge. The water. It’s quiet at night.’
‘Yeah, but what about the stink of Wall Street by day?’ Don’t mention 9/11.
‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Look, until the cops give your place back to you, you can stay here. Okay?’
‘Thanks, Soph. How are you doing?’ He sniffed, saw the pair of lit candles, the dozen gorgeous sunflowers in the perfect, two-toned yellow earthenware vase. ‘My God, something smells amazing.’ Gribenes, he knew the smell, rendered chicken fat, fried with onions, crispy chicken skin on top, served with latkes and used in Sophie’s chopped liver recipe. He saw that the meat grinder was out, noted its dull metal presence clamped to the kitchen counter.
‘It feels like Shabbos. Sabbath. I just had to, you know?’
‘The comfort of ages. I get it. L’chayim.’ To life.
Jacob declined the offer of Sophie’s kosher Manischewitz wine, ‘Too sweet for me,’ instead drank a glass of good, dark, bitter, spicy, acidy, cherry, plummy Chianti riserva, the pure Sangiovese grape with the cinnamon bouquet, the Bordeaux of Italy, as he surveyed the table, covered with plates and bowls of kosher - fit for consumption - delights.
‘You’ll love these potato latkes, Jacob. Shredded potato and onion cakes, fried in olive oil. They’re the best I’ve ever made.’
Jacob bit into one, ate it in one go. Oil dripped down his chin. Sophie had a napkin ready.
‘Nnnh.’
‘My chopped liver you know, complete with grated egg yolk. And here, my kreplach. Chicken soup with beef dumplings.’
They sat and ate and Sophie talked about her grilling. Jacob was happy to sit back and eat and drink and listen, while he secretly thought about Vierte’s art and what he might see in the morning. Every so often, he threw out a comment or a question.
‘How could they think you were involved?’
‘Lord knows. Lord only knows.’
‘What a load of garbage.’
‘Dreck, Jacob. Dreck.’
‘Did I ever tell you my theory on why Jews and Muslims both dislike pork?’
She emptied her glass, switched to the Chianti. ‘Go on.’
‘Are you sure? Shit, I don’t know my brain these days. It’s like I have a fear of repeating myself to people, so I just clam up. Anyway, we know that the Jewish tribes were the first to dominate the Arabian Peninsula after the fall of Rome. Abraham was the father of Judaism, as he was the father of Christianity and, later, Islam.’
‘Funny how all three came from the one source, they all believe in a single god, yet they all want to destroy each other.’
‘Ha. So after the end of Rome, through the rise of Christianity and on to the birth of Islam, up to the seventh century AD, all these tribes were going nuts, the heat driving them crazy, My god is best, constant war and, guess what?’
‘What?’
‘They practiced cannibalism after battles, the whole “eating my foe to take his strength” kind of thing,’ he used air quotes for that, ‘and human meat probably tastes better than camel. So I put it to you that human flesh was getting passed off as pork, much as it is in parts of Africa today, and the holy men had to take a stand against it. They had to. And here we are, eating latkes.’
‘The past is an awful place.’