Jeffrey Archer - False Impression

The first thing Anna saw as she entered was Andrews placing the Van Gogh on an easel in the center of the room.

“What do you think?” said Arabella, as she took a step back to admire the self-portrait.

“Don’t you feel that Mr. Nakamura might consider it a little...,” ventured Anna, not wishing to offend her host.

“Crude, blatant, obvious? Which word were you searching for, my dear?” asked Arabella, as she turned to face Anna. Anna burst out laughing. “Let’s face it,” said Arabella, “I’m strapped for cash and running out of time, so I don’t have a lot of choice.”

“No one would believe it, looking at you,” said Anna, as she admired the magnificent long rose silk-taffeta gown and diamond necklace Arabella was wearing, making Anna feel somewhat casual in her short black Armani dress.

“It’s kind of you to say so, my dear, but if I had your looks and your figure, I wouldn’t need to cover myself from head to toe with other distractions.”

Anna smiled, admiring the way Arabella had so quickly put her at ease.

“When do you think he’ll make a decision?” asked Arabella, trying not to sound desperate.

“Like all great collectors,” said Anna, “he’ll make up his mind within moments. A scientific survey has recently shown that men decide whether they want to sleep with a woman in about eight seconds.”

“That long?” said Arabella.

“Mr. Nakamura will take about the same time to decide if he wants to own this painting,” she said, looking directly at the Van Gogh.

“Let’s drink to that,” said Arabella.

Andrews stepped forward on cue, proffering a silver tray that held three glasses.

“A glass of champagne, madam?” he inquired.

“Thank you,” said Anna, removing a long-stemmed flute. When Andrews stepped back, her gaze fell on a turquoise and black vase that she had never seen before.

“It’s quite magnificent,” said Anna.

“Mr. Nakamura’s gift,” said Arabella. “Most embarrassing. By the way,” she added, “I do hope I haven’t committed a faux pas by putting it on display while Mr. Nakamura is still a guest in my home.” She paused. “If I have, Andrews can remove it immediately.”

“Certainly not,” said Anna. “Mr. Nakamura will be flattered that you have placed his gift among so many other maestros.”

“Are you sure?” asked Arabella.

“Oh yes. The piece survives, even shines in this room. There is only one certain rule when it comes to real talent,” said Anna. “Any form of art isn’t out of place as long as it’s displayed among its equals. The Raphael on the wall, the diamond necklace you are wearing, the Chippendale table on which you have placed the vase, the Nash fireplace, and the Van Gogh have all been created by masters. Now I have no idea who the craftsman was who made this piece,” continued Anna, still admiring the way the turquoise appeared to be running into the black, like a melting candle, “but I have no doubt that in his own country, he is considered a master.”

“Not exactly a master,” said a voice coming from behind them.

Arabella and Anna turned at the same time to see that Mr. Nakamura had entered the room. He was dressed in a dinner jacket and bow tie that Andrews would have approved of.

“Not a master?” queried Arabella.

“No,” said Nakamura. “In this country, you honor those who ‘achieve greatness,’ to quote your Bard, by making them knights or barons, whereas we in Japan reward such talent with the title ‘national treasure.’ It is appropriate that this piece has found a home in Wentworth Hall because, of the twelve great potters in history, the experts acknowledge that eleven have been Japanese, with the sole exception of a Cornishman, Bernard Leach. You failed to make him a lord or even give him a knighthood, so we declared him to be an honorary national treasure.”

“How immensely civilized,” said Arabella, “as I must confess that recently we have been giving honors to pop stars, footballers, and vulgar millionaires.” Nakamura laughed, as Andrews offered him a glass of champagne. “Are you a national treasure, Mr. Nakamura?” inquired Arabella.

“Certainly not,” replied Nakamura. “My countrymen do not consider vulgar millionaires worthy of such an honor.”

Arabella turned scarlet, while Anna continued to stare at the vase, as if she hadn’t heard the remark. “But am I not right in thinking, Mr. Nakamura, that this particular vase is not symmetrical?”

“Quite brilliant,” replied Nakamura. “You should have been a member of the diplomatic corps, Anna. Not only did you manage to deftly change the subject, but at the same time you raised a question that demands to be answered.”

Nakamura walked straight past the Van Gogh as if he hadn’t noticed it and looked at the vase for some time before he added, “If you ever come across a piece of pottery that is perfect, you can be confident that it was produced by a machine. With pottery, you must seek near perfection. If you look carefully enough, you will always find some slight blemish that serves to remind us that the piece was crafted by a human hand. The longer you have to search, the greater the craftsman, for it was only Giotto who was able to draw the perfect circle.”

“For me, it is perfection,” said Arabella. “I simply love it, and whatever Mr. Fenston manages to pry away from me during the coming years, I shall never allow him to get his hands on my national treasure.”

“Perhaps it won’t be necessary for him to prize anything else away,” said Mr. Nakamura, turning to face the Van Gogh as if he’d seen it for the first time. Arabella held her breath while Anna studied the expression on Nakamura’s face. She couldn’t be sure.

Nakamura glanced at the picture for only a few seconds before he turned to Arabella and said, “There are times when it is a distinct advantage to be a vulgar millionaire, because although one may not aspire to being a national treasure oneself, it does allow one to indulge in collecting other people’s national treasures.”

Anna wanted to cheer but simply raised her glass. Mr. Nakamura returned the compliment, and they both turned to face Arabella. Tears were flooding down her cheeks.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said.

“Not me,” said Nakamura, “Anna. Because without her courage and fortitude, this whole episode would not have been brought to such a worthwhile conclusion.”

“I agree,” said Arabella, “which is why I shall ask Andrews to return the self-portrait to Anna’s bedroom, so that she can be the last person to fully appreciate the painting before it begins its long journey to Japan.”

“How appropriate,” said Nakamura. “But if Anna were to become the CEO of my foundation, she could see it whenever she wished.”

Anna was about to respond when Andrews reentered the drawing room and announced, “Dinner is served, m’lady.”

“Would you like to go up front, Sasha?” Nina asked, once the captain had instructed the crew to take their seats and prepare for landing. “Then you can disembark immediately after the doors are opened.”

Krantz shook her head. “It’s my first visit to England,” she said nervously, “and I’d prefer to be with you and the rest of the crew.”

“Of course,” said Nina. “And: If you’d like to, you can also join us on the minibus.”

“Thank you,” said Krantz.

Krantz remained in her seat until the last passenger had left the aircraft. She then joined the crew as they disembarked and headed in the direction of the terminal. Krantz never left the chief stewardess’s side during the long walk down endless corridors, while Nina offered her opinion on everything from Putin to Rasputin.