Ted Bell - Tsar

The studio was a large space, a square, high-ceilinged room filled with the typical artist’s chaos-easels, brushes, paint pots, and very large canvases stacked against the walls everywhere. Paddle fans revolved slowly overhead. What remained of the day streamed through the opened French doors and the big skylight overhead with filtered shades of rosy, buttery light.

There was a large open-hearth fireplace with a Bermuda cedar mantel. Above it hung a marvelous portrait of an inordinately handsome man in a splendid dress military uniform, standing beside a magnificent white stallion in battle livery. Hawke moved to study the work more closely. The effect was stunning, a powerful subject and a deeply heroic treatment, beautifully painted.

Anastasia appeared from a small adjacent room, carrying a tall drink on a small silver tray. He took it, and it was delicious.

“Welcome to Half Moon House,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Cheers,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Lovely painting over the fireplace, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Your work?”

She nodded. “I’ve always reserved that spot for the man I love. That’s my father.”

“Handsome chap.”

“Comes from inside, you know. Always.”

She looked even more luminously beautiful than the picture of her that he’d been carrying in his mind ever since that afternoon on the beach.

“Please sit over there in that wicker chair. I want to take a few photographs while we still have this beautiful light.”

It was a long wicker chaise with a huge fan-shaped back and great rolled arms. The entire thing was beaded with beautiful shells of every color. There were deep cushions covered in rose-colored silk. It looked like the throne of some Polynesian king. Hawke removed his navy linen jacket, dropped it to the floor, and lay back against the cushions. She leaned in with the camera and began clicking away, shooting close-ups of his face.

“So, you do portraits.”

“Yes.”

“Judging by the one, you’re quite good.”

“Some people think so.”

“Are you famous?”

“Google me and find out.”

“I don’t have a computer.”

“Are you so desperately poor, Mr. Hawke?”

“Why do you ask? Is it important?”

“No. I’m simply curious. Your accent is very posh. Yet you live in this crumbling ruin. With your, what’s the current expression, partner. He sounds a trifle old on the phone. Do you like older men, Mr. Hawke?”

Hawke laughed. “I like this one well enough. We’ve been together for years.”

“Really? What’s his name?”

“Pelham. Grenville is his surname. He’s related to the famous writer somehow. A cousin once or twice removed. Wodehouse, you know, one of my literary heroes. A genius.”

“I prefer War and Peace . Anything at all by Turgenev. Nabokov’s Pale Fire is my favorite novel. But Pushkin, of course, is the grandfather of them all. You know Pushkin? Next to my father, Russia’s greatest hero.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess I must have missed those, I’m afraid. Have you read Wodehouse’s Pigs Have Wings, by any chance? No? Uncle Dynamite ? How about Jeeves and the Feudal Spirit ? No? Marvelous books, bloody marvelous.”

“Are you an art lover as well as a connoisseur of great literature?”

“Art? I suppose some of it’s okay. I quite admire Jamie Wyeth’s portrait of John F. Kennedy. And that fat pig painting he did. And Turner. I am rather keen on Turner’s watercolors.”

“A lover of the old masters, one would suppose.”

“The old masters? Me? Hardly. I’m glad they’re all dead. I wish more of them had died sooner.”

She looked at him; he just stood there, looking back at her. For a moment, their eyes were locked, and he had the unmistakable sense that both of their hearts had seized up and that neither of them was breathing.

She suddenly moved toward him.

“Stand up, please, and take your shirt off.”

Hawke did so.

“Turn to the right, so the sun hits you full on the face. Good. Stop slouching, and stand up straight. Now, look at me. Not your head, just your eyes. Perfect. God. Those eyes.”

“My late mother thanks you.”

“What do you do? To support yourself?”

“This and that. Freelance work.”

“Freelance. That covers a lot of ground. Trousers off, please. And your knickers.”

“You’re joking, of course.”

“Everything off, come on! I’m losing my light.”

Hawke mumbled something and stripped off his remaining clothing.

It was an odd feeling, standing naked in front of a fully clothed woman like this. It was not completely unpleasant, bordering on the erotic. He felt a distinct stirring below and quickly turned his attention to the portrait over the fireplace. Her father was, Hawke noticed again, fully clothed. No nudes of him around here, one only hoped.

“Happy?” he said.

“I will be happy, Mr. Hawke. Now, turn around so I can shoot your bum.”

“Christ. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

“Too late now.”

“What are these pictures for? I thought this was to be an oil painting. This portrait or whatever.”

“This is just reference. Stuff I can use to work on the portrait when you’re not here in person.”

“How reassuring. And what do you do with them, these naughty photographs, when you’re finished?”

“Post them on the Internet if you’d like.”

“You know, Miss Korsakova-”

“Asia.”

“Asia. You know, Asia, I’m not at all sure I’m cut out for this sort of thing.”

“On the contrary, you’re perfectly cut out for it. Have you never looked in a mirror? All right, lost the light. You can get dressed now. We’re done for the day.”

“That’s it?”

“We’ll start roughing you in on canvas next time. Which do you prefer, check or cash?”

“Check would be fine.”

She went to her desk and opened a checkbook. “Hawke with an e?”

“Yes.”

She handed it to him. He noticed the check was drawn on a very good private bank in Switzerland. Banque Pictet on the Rue des Acacias in Geneva. He knew it. He banked there himself.

“I’m going to paint you lying on that wicker chaise. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I found it in Bali. It was in the royal palace. Perfect for you.”

“This portrait, will it be life-size?”

“Yes, it will.”

“A nude portrait?”

“Of course.”

“My God.”

“My exhibition will be at the National Portrait Gallery at Trafalgar Square next spring. And there’ll you be, hanging amongst all my other beautiful men, in all your glory. Bigger than life!”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Relax, Mr. Alex Hawke of Teakettle Cottage. Come springtime, all of London will be oohing and aahing over you. The gallery staff will have to provide linen handkerchiefs for the droolers.”

Alex zipped up his trousers and looked at her. He’d never felt so ridiculous in his life.

“Ah. May I sit for a moment? I’m a bit dizzy for some strange reason.”

“Listen, what are you so anxious about? You’re going to be famous, you know.”

“ Famous ?” Hawke said, sitting, the blood freezing in his veins. He’d had a chilling premonition of C pausing before a portrait at the exhibition and saying, “Good Lord, Stevens, that can’t be Alex Hawke , can it?”

“Yes, famous. Shall we say next Tuesday at one o’clock? The light will be good for two hours.”

“Tuesday?” Hawke said absently. “Yes. I think Tuesday will be fine.”

He couldn’t help himself now.

He was already too far gone.

Friday night, Stokely Jones Jr. was on his way to a birthday party. He was arriving in style on Fancha’s beautiful sixty-foot sport-fishing boat, Fado. Invited, not, but that was completely irrelevant. This soiree was strictly business. The birthday boy was a psychotic Chechen terrorist warlord with a price on his head, rumored to be a pretty big number. Apparently, this psycho, name of Ramzan Baysarov, had royally pissed off the Kremlin kingpins.