Ian Hamilton - The wild beast of Wuhan

When she returned to the hotel, the front desk had been abandoned. She saw that the man who had been there was now in the office, using the computer. She stared at his back, willing him to see her and voluntarily give it up. He ignored her. “Will you be long?” she finally asked.

“A few hours,” he said.

“Could you book me a taxi for the airport?”

“What time?”

“My flight is at two forty-five.”

“I’ll have a taxi here for one,” he said.

In her room, she went through the letters from Hughes to Sorensen. The last one was a completely self-serving, cover-your-tracks kind of letter. The others were more straightforward, each one asking Sorensen if he could do a work “in the style of” a specific artist. The first four comprised a list of most of the Fauvists — Dufy, Vlaminck, Derain, Braque — while the last two wanted repeats of Vlaminck. There was never a hint that Hughes was engaged in anything shady, although in the letter requesting another Vlaminck he did mention that the customer had been absolutely thrilled with the latest work.

Ava pulled out her notebook and recapped the morning’s meeting. She then slid the letters inside the Moleskine notebook and placed it in her Shanghai Tang Double Happiness bag. She lay on the bed. The sheets still smelled of Nina’s perfume. The scent was a bit raw, like Nina herself. She thought about calling Uncle and then dismissed the idea. She had nothing new to add, just a name. And until she met with Glen Hughes, that’s all it was — a name.

Ava fought her way out of Gatwick Airport to catch the express train to Victoria Station, and then she fought her way through the station to catch the tube to Kensington High Street. It was close to ten o’clock when she finally walked into fresh air, air that was as cold and damp as in Skagen or Tjorn. Curacao seemed a long way away. She was happy she had worn one of her Johanna av Steinum sweaters, sweaters that she liked so much she had bought one each for Mimi and Maria at the Vagar shop before leaving.

From the station she had a short walk, past a Marks amp; Spencer and a Whole Foods, along the High Street to the hotel.

Ava was relieved to check in and get to her room. It was a spectacular modern blend of black, red, and white — sparse, functional, yet still somehow luxurious. A bottle of chilled mineral water and a bowl of fresh fruit were on the coffee table, accompanied by a welcoming note from the hotel administration.

She was hungry, and called the front desk. The concierge informed her that the main restaurant was still open. She quickly unpacked and then got two laundry bags from the closet. She put the black Brooks Brothers shirt and cotton slacks in the first bag, and in the other the laundry bag from Aalborg with her running gear. She carried the bags downstairs and deposited them at the front desk. “Is there any way I could get these back early tomorrow?” she asked.

“Is nine a.m. soon enough?” the desk clerk said.

“Yes, thank you,” Ava said, pleased with the five-star service.

She walked into the Fletcher’s dining room and was immediately led to a seat. She ordered sauteed langoustines with crab tortellini in a shellfish bisque as a starter, and pan-fried black bream with truffle mashed potatoes as her main. Everything came in rapid succession; she barely had time to drink half her bottle of white burgundy. She took the balance back to her room in an ice bucket.

She turned on her laptop; there were more than twenty new emails in her inbox. She quickly deleted the spam, skipped reading any she didn’t think were urgent, and then opened the three she had received from Mimi, her father, and Maria.

Mimi’s was, as usual, filled with the trivia of her life, but when Ava neared the end, her interest spiked. Derek and I have decided that both our condos must go. He wanted to keep his because his father bought it for him as an investment, but I don’t want him to have a place to bolt to if things don’t work out. He’s agreed. Happy me! So we start out on a level footing. I have two real estate agents scouring the midtown area for a house. I really like the area between Bayview Avenue and Mount Pleasant Road, south of Eglinton. Lots of young professionals with kids and dogs and nannies.

Ava couldn’t imagine either Mimi or Derek in that environment. But then, she hadn’t ever contemplated that they could be a couple. Ava also noted that Mimi wasn’t asking for her opinion.

In the last paragraph of the email, Mimi mentioned Maria. Ava paled as she read, Maria and I had lunch yesterday. She told me that her mother is flying in from Bogota for a Toronto holiday. She says she wants to introduce you to her mother but she’s not really sure how you would react to that idea. She also said she wasn’t sure how her mother would react, but that it was time to find out.

Introduce me as what? Ava thought. The last thing she wanted was to get caught between Maria and her mother. Ava had never discussed her own sexuality with Jennie Lee, and she kept her personal life and her friends private. Jennie knew, of course, about Ava’s sexual orientation and from time to time made vague references, but it was a subject they’d never directly broached and never would, just as Ava never pried into Jennie’s relationship with Marcus. Neither woman needed explanations, and the respect and love they had for each other were absolute.

I don’t think meeting her mother is a great idea, Ava wrote to Mimi. Then she turned to Maria’s email. It mentioned the lunch and the possibility of Derek and Mimi selling their condos, and then simply said, And by the way, my mother is thinking about coming to Toronto for a short holiday. Ava didn’t know how to reply, and decided not to for the time being.

Her father’s email was, if anything, even more vague. Cruise goes better. Mummy and Bruce have made some kind of peace. I’m staying in Toronto for an additional week when we get back. I’m pleased that you and Michael connected, though I do find it a bit strange. At some point we need to talk about him.

She read the message three times, questions popping into her head about Bruce, the extra week, and Michael. She started to ask those questions and then stopped. She was on a job and didn’t need more distractions. She simply wrote, Glad to get your news. See you in Toronto.

Ava signed out of her email account and accessed Google. She typed in “Hughes Art Gallery.” There were more than sixty references, though none of them were less than two years old. If she hadn’t actually phoned the gallery she might have assumed it had gone out of business, which would have been sad, given that it had apparently been around for almost a hundred years.

Glen Hughes’ grandfather had established the gallery, which his father had taken over and expanded in size and reputation. The business had been passed on to Glen and his brother, Edwin. Many of the Google references were from art journals, which spoke highly of the brothers. Their firm was as knowledgable about the art scene of the past 150 years as the big art auction houses such as Christie’s, Sotheby’s, Bonhams, and Harrington’s. The brothers — Glen most often — were described as specialists in the Impressionists, the Post-Impressionists, and the Fauvists. Kwong must have known them by reputation, Ava thought. That’s why he was so willing to take their word at face value.

She read entry after entry citing Glen Hughes as authenticating this painting and casting doubt on that painting. She began to worry. This was an acknowledged expert she was dealing with, not a fool. The letters he had sent to the Sorensens were open to interpretation. Jan Sorensen’s position could be described as not much more than one man’s opinion. No, she told herself, it will work. She turned off her computer and headed for bed.