The Lover's Portrait Read online

  “The provenance is a record of the changes in ownership of an individual painting or sculpture, correct?” Zelda asked. During the last six months of museum visits and lectures that term had been batted around a lot, she was almost certain she was right.

  “Yes, that’s correct.” Bernice said, seemingly more relieved than impressed that her potential intern recognized the term. “Our researchers have access to databases and archives containing historical documents pertaining to the sale or exchange of artwork all over Europe. It’s an arduous, time consuming task, scouring through all of the available records, hoping to find a mention of one of the unclaimed works. Unless the piece was pictured in an exhibition catalogue, sold at a large auction house, or purchased via a reputable art dealer, it can be very difficult to find a clear paper trail which tells us who the owners once were. And even after ten years of searching, our researchers were only able to reconstruct the complete provenance of approximately half of the paintings and a handful of sculptures. The other fifteen-hundred pieces, several of which will be displayed in our upcoming Stolen Arts exhibition, remain a mystery.” Bernice wrung her hands as she talked, clearly riled up by the less than fruitful results of the team’s efforts.

  Zelda could feel her forehead creasing in confusion. “If there is no documentation associated with these orphaned objects –”

  Bernice cut her off, continuing in a calmer tone. “We hope that by holding this exhibition, we can generate interest in these objects and hopefully find someone who recognizes a piece as their own. Many of those who fled the Netherlands before or during the war took their purchase contracts and title transfers with them, even if they had to leave the actual artwork behind. There have been several cases in the past of children – and even grandchildren – who have found documents in a forgotten storage space or safety deposit box and successfully claimed their family’s artwork. Who knows what this exhibition will stir up; anything is possible. But if no one knows that the artwork is here in the Netherlands then we will never find the owners or their heirs.”

  Zelda nodded, finally understanding why this exhibition was being held. There was a small chance someone would recognize their parents’ or grandparents’ painting or sculpture. It had apparently happened before and could always happen again.

  “That’s why our marketing department is launching an international media campaign to promote the opening, and why the website’s extensive database listing information about all of the stolen art is also available in English. In fact, we organized a conference for a number of American and Canadian museum directors last week, to help generate publicity and interest in our project.”

  “Why North America?” Zelda asked.

  “Four Stolen Objects exhibitions have been held since the war ended, but they were only publicized in Europe. Because so many Dutch nationals fled to Canada and the United States in the late 1930s and 1940s, we suspect the owners of many of these unclaimed works live in North America. We do realize that some may have already passed on, but hopefully their heirs will recognize paintings taken from their families. That is why this exhibition, the international advertisements, website and conference are so very important to helping locate the legal owners of these works, before it really is too late.”

  Zelda was awed by the enormity of this project. More than a thousand pieces of art still unclaimed after all of these years and even the experts didn’t know where to look for a potential claimant. It seemed more likely that she would win the lottery next week than the museum would find a single owner during the entire exhibition. Even so, she felt privileged to be part of such a noble project, no matter what her role was. But did Bernice and her team seriously think this exhibition was going to succeed, that someone would actually remember what pieces of art they or their parents once had hanging in their house, seventy-odd years ago? And would they have the documents to prove it?

  FOUR

  The project manager picked up her phone and dialed four numbers. She mumbled something into the receiver before dropping it back into the cradle. “Though the Amsterdam Museum is hosting the exhibition, several Dutch museums have worked jointly on every aspect of it. I’ve asked one of the exhibition’s organizers, Huub Konijn, to join us in the conference room. He is a senior curator at the Jewish Historical Museum working out of our IT department until the opening next month. Huub will be able to tell you more about the website; he and his team were responsible for designing it, as well as writing the descriptions of the unclaimed artwork. We are using the same copy in both the catalogue and website.”

  Bernice leaned forward and mindlessly thumped her pen on her desk, momentarily lost in her thoughts. “In many ways the website is even more important than the exhibition, simply because we cannot exhibit all fifteen-hundred objects in one building, yet we can disseminate detailed information about all of them online.”

  Zelda couldn’t help get excited when Bernice began to talk about the importance of the website. Even though she still didn’t know what her specific role in this extensive project would be, she figured it must be something to do with the multimedia side of things. Her mentor Marianne had seen her resume; she knew quite well what Zelda was capable of.

  “I will ask one of the secretaries to get you a press packet and catalogue, as well as a copy of the exhibition proposal and handbook. Those last two documents are written in Dutch. Marianne said you could already read Dutch quite proficiently?” Bernice looked to Zelda for confirmation.

  “Yes, reading comes quite easily, though holding a conversation is still difficult for me.” Encouraged by her Art of the Low Lands instructors to familiarize themselves with the local language, Zelda and several fellow students had signed up for a conversational Dutch course shortly after arriving in Amsterdam. She enjoyed the challenge of learning a new language, but was finding it extremely difficult to replicate the oddly guttural sounds needed to properly pronounce so many Dutch words. It felt like she was gurgling saliva instead of speaking a foreign tongue.

  “That is often how it goes when you learn a new language. It is not a problem that you can’t really speak Dutch yet, everyone working on this project is quite proficient in English.”

  Zelda could feel herself going red. That is exactly the problem, she thought. Every Dutch person she’d met in Amsterdam could speak English so well she rarely got the chance to practice her newly acquired language skills. She was proud she could read most newspapers, understand television shows, and even write simple sentences in Dutch after only six months of classes, yet she wondered if she’d ever learn to speak the language properly.

  “You will have to excuse me for not being so prepared. That conference tapped our resources to the extreme. And with my personal assistant away on vacation, it has been very hectic around here.” Bernice Dijkstra rooted around her desk for a notepad before standing up. “Would you follow me please?”

  She rose obediently, following Bernice out of her office and down a short flight of stairs at the end of the narrow hallway. As they descended the project manager remarked, “The conference room used to be the Regents Room when this building was used as an orphanage. Did you know that orphans were housed here for almost four hundred years?”

  Zelda shook her head, her long chestnut brown hair swaying across her shoulders. “No, I did not.” Considering the immense size of the building, she figured it must have taken a lot of time, money and effort to transform this centuries-old structure into a modern museum.

  As Bernice pushed open the ornately carved door, Zelda gasped reflexively. She had never seen a conference room quite like this one before. Art deco wall lamps – complete with stained glass shades – bathed the room in a soft, warm light. Wooden paneling and ornate floral paper covered the walls and ceiling. Filling the room was a long table made of mahogany, its slight red hue accentuated by the lighting. To her it looked more like a dining table for thirty than the conference table it was meant to be. A narrow band of sunlight streamed through the
windows lining the left side of the room, lighting up parts of the floor and table. Looking down through the decorative panes of glass, she could see a group of teenagers sprawled out on the cobblestoned inner courtyard three stories below, enjoying a snack in the morning sun.

  She followed Bernice to the far end of the room where an older man was already sitting. Absorbed with his laptop, he didn’t even bother to look up as they moved towards him.

  Bernice began the introductions regardless. “Huub, this is Zelda Richardson, the American Marianne told me about. Zelda, this is Huub Konijn, senior curator at the Jewish Historical Museum.”

  As Zelda rounded the long table, the curator finally glanced in their direction, dutifully standing up to offer her a hand. She tried not to gawk as he unfolded his long body from the conference room chair. Huub Konijn was one of the thinnest men she’d ever met, with a shock of white hair gelled back in a Pompidou. Not a single strand seemed to be out of place. Though she knew little about men’s fashion, even she could tell his tailored gray suit and brown leather shoes were quite expensive. He forced a smile as she grasped his hand.

  “Great to meet you,” she said, “Marianne said you needed some help with the website.”

  The curator let her hand drop.

  “Actually, Huub and his team have already created the online database containing information about all of the stolen objects still in the government’s care, available in Dutch and English. I was hoping to show it to you now.” Bernice stated calmly, nodding to the curator. He turned the laptop towards Zelda.

  Her grin collapsed into a grimace. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the screen. Marianne Smit had specifically mentioned the website and collection database in all three of her short emails; Zelda assumed that her expertise as a website developer would be essential.

  “Then what do you need me for?” she asked, trying hard to keep the confusion out of her voice.

  Huub glared at the project manager, almost daring her to continue. The hostility emanating off of him was palpable. Bernice, in turn, began scratching at her scalp again, causing her wig to seesaw over her head. Why is he so angry? Does it have anything to do with me being here? Zelda wondered.

  The project manager let her hands fall to the table before continuing in a warm, upbeat voice. “Several important American and Canadian museum directors, curators and trustees were able to attend the conference last week. Our aim was to build up interest within the upper ranks of these leading institutions in the hope they would add links and information about our exhibition to their websites. We also handed out several copies of the English-language exhibition catalogue during the conference. As I mentioned before, the same text appears in both the catalogue and database.”

  Bernice cleared her throat, looking slightly uncomfortable as she shifted position. The curator turned to gaze out the windows; the bright sun lit up his profile.

  “Unfortunately many mistakes were pointed out to us during the conference, many grammatical errors….” Bernice gestured tiredly at the computer screen, “In fact, we are still getting emails about them.”

  Zelda eyed Huub slyly as the project manager explained their predicament. His face remained a mask of chiseled stone. She could only wonder what kind of meetings had taken place before she’d been called in, and what kind of grief the curator had gotten for delivering such a faulty product.

  Bernice sighed heavily. “There has been so much critique that the director believes it prudent to have the text edited by a native speaker before publishing the final version of the English-language catalogue or officially launching the website.” She looked directly at her potential intern as she spoke, clearly gauging her reaction. Zelda did her best to mimic the curator, keeping her face as neutral as possible and her mouth shut.

  “It is essential to this project that the information presented is clear and accurate if heirs are to be certain a piece once belonged to their family. Here, let me show you what I mean.” Bernice pointed to the screen in front of her.

  Zelda finally let her eyes focus on the website. She could hardly believe what she was looking at. The database’s homepage was nothing more than a search engine floating in the middle of a light-grey background. With all of this artwork at their disposal, this is the best they could do? she thought.

  Bernice typed ‘Jan Breughel I’ into the blank field and six small images appeared. To the right of each was a brief description of the painting’s subject matter as well as its size and material composition. Next to two of the paintings was a short description of the documentation the museums’ researchers found during their ten-year investigation.

  As Zelda scanned the scant information available, she could feel her enthusiasm for this noble project fading by the second. The museum would be lucky if anyone came forward, based on the meager data listed on the screen in front of her.

  Before Bernice could elaborate, the curator jabbed a finger at the laptop. “My team and I translated these texts. Three of them studied in London; their English is impeccable.” He spit the words out as if they were venom. Zelda wasn’t sure if his poison was directed at her or Bernice, but either way it was obvious Huub really did not want her help.

  “Yes, Huub,” Bernice replied curtly, “You’ve said that many times, yet here we are. Unfortunately, we listened to you when we still had room in our budget for professional translators, otherwise we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  Though Bernice was speaking in Dutch, Zelda was able to understand every word. All she wanted to do was disappear. What am I getting myself into, she wondered again, realizing she had little choice but to grin and bear it if she wanted to stay on in Amsterdam. Without this internship the university’s selection committee would never take her application seriously and her study visa wouldn’t be extended.

  She forced herself to read through the descriptions visible on the laptop’s screen. There were a few glaring grammatical errors and odd word choices, but for the most part they were perfectly understandable. Nodding her head slowly, she replied cautiously, “Yeah, it looks pretty good.”

  Huub exploded, spewing Dutch at Bernice like daggers. Though Zelda could understand basic conversations, he spoke far too fast for her to be able to keep up.

  Ignoring his tirade, the project manager focused her attention solely on Zelda. “The exhibition opens in one month. At the conference we promised to have the final version of this database available for perusal by the museums’ own staff – as well as the international press – one week before the official opening. That way curators and museum directors can begin generating publicity amongst their donors and board members, and the North American media have a chance to learn more about objects featured in the exhibition before it begins. Hopefully some of them will cover the opening in their newspapers and magazines.”

  Bernice broke eye contact before continuing, Zelda suspected out of embarrassment. “That means we need to have all of the texts re-edited within the next three weeks in order to meet our deadline. Marianne mentioned you the other day over lunch and I hoped, because of your familiarity with online databases and being a native English speaker, you would be willing to assist us.”

  The project manager grinned broadly, clearly avoiding Huub’s piercing gaze as she addressed her potential intern. “What do you say? Would you do this for us?”

  Zelda kept her smile plastered on, suppressing the need to cry out in frustration. This can’t be happening, she moaned in her mind. This is why they needed her help so badly, editing text? She was applying for a master’s degree in Museum Studies, not linguistics. She didn’t really think she’d be doing collection research or helping design the exhibition’s layout during this internship, but she had expected a task more in line with her future ambitions.

  “How many objects are there again?” she finally managed.

  “One thousand five hundred and thirty-seven, to be exact.”

  “You want me to check the descriptions of fifteen hundred objects wit
hin the next three weeks?” Zelda couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. Are you kidding me, she wanted to scream at Bernice. She was going to be spending a lot of time in the museum, but stuck behind a computer.

  Bernice must have noticed the panic on Zelda’s face. “Yes, I know it is a lot to ask, but we would really appreciate your help. We hope this site will be seen by a large English-speaking audience and it would be a shame if someone didn’t make a claim because of a confusing or even faulty translation,” she explained patiently.

  Zelda look at the two museum professionals before her – one glaring tersely at the other – and wondered if working for them was such a hot idea after all. Office politics were never her strong suit. She didn’t relish the idea of being put in the middle of these two bullheaded professionals, and it sure seemed like that would be her role. And the work itself was not at all what she expected it to be.

  On the other hand, if she bowed out of this project now – thereby offending both Bernice and her mentor Marianne Smit – how many more chances would she get to work inside a museum? None. Marianne was the most senior person on the university’s selection committee, if Zelda stayed on her good side she was almost guaranteed one of the twenty available seats. But if she backed out now, she could kiss her chance at getting into the master’s program goodbye. And then what choice would she have but to go back to Seattle and build websites? If she could even find a job again. She hadn’t kept up with the latest developments in computer technology since arriving in Amsterdam nine months ago. Considering how fast software changed, it might as well have been nine years.

  Though a knot was forming in the pit of her stomach, she nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll see what I can do. I’m happy to help, in any way I can.” She had to make this work, she just had to. And who knew? If all went well, Bernice might have some more work for her to do in the future which was actually related to exhibition design or collection research.