Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

Anna looked around the room. “But why haven’t you spent some of the money I’ve been sending to you each month?”

“I have,” said her mother firmly, “but not on myself,” she admitted, “because I want for nothing.”

“Then what have you spent it on?” Anna queried.

“Anton.”

“Anton?” repeated Anna.

“Yes, Anton,” said her mother. “You knew that he’d been released from jail?”

“Oh, yes,” said Anna, “he wrote to me soon after Ceauşescu was arrested to ask if I had a photo of Papa that he could borrow.” Anna smiled as she looked up at the painting of her father.

“It’s a good likeness,” said her mother.

“It certainly is,” said Anna.

“They gave him back his old job at the academy. He’s now the Professor of Perspective. If you’d married him, you would be a professor’s wife.”

“Is he still painting?” she asked, avoiding her mother’s next inevitable question.

“Yes,” she replied, “but his main responsibility is to teach the graduates at the Universitatea de Arte. You can’t make a living as an artist in Romania,” she said sadly. “You know, with his talent, Anton should also have gone to America.”

Anna looked up again at Anton’s magnificent portrait of her father. Her mother was right; with such a gift, he would have flourished in New York. “But what does he do with the money?” she asked.

“He buys canvases, paints, brushes, and all those materials that his pupils can’t afford, so you see, your generosity is being put to good use.” She paused. “Anton was your first love, Anna, yes?”

Anna wouldn’t have believed that her mother could still make her blush. “Yes,” she admitted, “and I suspect I was his.”

“He’s married now, and they have a little boy called Peter.” She paused again. “Do you have a young man?”

“No, Mama.”

“Is that what brings you back home? Are you running away from something, or someone?”

“What makes you ask that?” Anna asked defensively.

“There is a sadness in your eyes, and fear,” she said, looking up at her daughter, “which you could never hide as a child.”

“I do have one or two problems,” admitted Anna, “but nothing that time won’t sort out.” She smiled. “In fact, I rather think that Anton might be able to help me with one of them, and I’m hoping to join him at the academy for a drink. Do you have any message you want passed on?” Her mother didn’t reply. She had quietly dozed off. Anna rearranged the rug on her mother’s lap and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ll be back again tomorrow morning, Mama,” she whispered.

She slipped silently out of the room. As she walked back down the littered staircase, she was pleased to see the old yellow Mercedes was still parked by the curb.

Anna returned to her hotel, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, her newly acquired chauffeur took her to the Academy of Art on Piata Universitatii.

The building had lost none of its elegance or charm with the passing of time, and when Anna climbed the steps toward the massive sculptured doors, memories came flooding back of her introduction to the great works of art hanging in galleries she thought she would never see. Anna reported to the front desk and asked where Professor Teodorescu’s lecture was taking place.

“In the main theater on the third floor,” said the girl behind the counter, “but it has already started.”

Anna thanked the young student and, without asking for any directions, climbed the wide marble staircase to the third floor. She stopped to glance at a poster outside the hall:

She didn’t require the arrow to point her in the right direction. Anna gingerly pushed open the door, pleased to find that the lecture theater was in darkness. She walked up the steps at the side of the hall and took a seat toward the back.

A slide of Guernica filled the screen. Anton was explaining that the massive canvas was painted in 1937, at the time of the Spanish Civil War, when Picasso was at the height of his powers. He went on to say that the depiction of the bombing and the resulting carnage had taken Picasso three weeks, and the image was unquestionably influenced by the artist’s hatred of the Spanish dictator, Franco. The students were listening attentively, several taking notes. Anton’s bravura performance reminded Anna why she’d had a crush on him all those years ago, when she not only lost her virginity to an artist, but began a lifelong love affair with art.

When Anton’s presentation came to an end, the rapturous applause left Anna in no doubt how much the undergraduates enjoyed his lecture. He’d lost none of his skill in motivating and nurturing the young’s enthusiasm for their chosen subject.

Anna watched her first love as he collected together his slides and began to put them in an old briefcase. Tall and angular, his mop of curly, dark hair, ancient brown corduroy jacket, and open-neck shirt gave him the air of a perpetual student. She couldn’t help noticing that he had put on a few pounds, but she didn’t feel it made him any less attractive. When the last student had filed out, Anna made her way to the front of the hall.

Anton glanced up over his half-moon spectacles, apparently anticipating a question from the student who was approaching him. When he first saw Anna, he didn’t speak, just stared.

“Anna,” he finally exclaimed. “Thank God I didn’t realize you were in the audience, as you probably know more about Picasso than I do.”

Anna kissed him on both cheeks and said with a laugh, “You’ve lost none of your charm or ability to flatter.”

Anton held up his hands in mock defeat, grinning widely. “Was Sergei at the airport to pick you up?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Anna. “Where did you meet him?”

“In jail,” admitted Anton. “He was lucky to survive the Ceauşescu regime. And have you visited your sainted mother?”

“I have,” replied Anna, “and she’s still living in conditions not much better than a jail.”

“I agree, and don’t think I haven’t tried to do something about it, but at least your dollars, and her generosity, allow some of my best students to—”

“I know,” said Anna, “she’s already told me.”

“You can’t begin to know,” continued Anton. “So let me show you some of the results of your investment.”

Anton took Anna by the hand, as if they were still students, and guided her down the steps to the long corridor on the first floor, where the walls were crammed with paintings in every medium.

“This year’s prize-winning students,” he told her, holding out his arms like a proud father. “And every entry has been painted on a canvas supplied by you. In fact, one of the awards is in your name — the Petrescu Prize.” He paused. “How appropriate if you were to select the winner, which would make not only me, but one of my students, very proud.”

“I’m flattered,” said Anna with a smile, as she walked toward a long row of paintings. She took her time as she strolled slowly up and down the canvas-filled corridor, pausing occasionally to study an image more closely. Anton had clearly taught them the importance of drawing before he allowed them to move on to other media. Don’t bother with the brush if you can’t first handle the pencil , he liked to repeat. But the range of subjects and bold approach showed that he had also let them express themselves. Some didn’t quite come off, while others showed considerable talent. Anna finally stopped in front of an oil entitled Freedom , depicting the sun rising over Bucharest.