Tracy Guzeman - The Gravity of Birds

‘Before we go any further, let’s be clear. I’ll do the talking, Mr. Jameson. I’m still not sure I understand why the query came directly to you, but since it has, I feel it only fair you be there. Strictly in the capacity of an observer, of course.’ The car pulled over. The sidewalk was obscured by several bags of trash and the shell of an old television set. Cranston sniffed. ‘Let us hope for your sake, Mr. Jameson, this turns out well.’

Stephen groaned inwardly and nodded. Cranston’s tone made clear his tenuous position. Since Finch’s call yesterday, Stephen had suspected something was up, wondering if he heard the catch of deception in Finch’s halting speech. But even this wariness couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm for meeting Bayber. That the two of them would be in the same room at the same time had guaranteed him a giddy, sleepless night.

They picked their way up the front stairs, avoiding the bits of garbage twisted around the bases of the stair railings, and were buzzed in promptly when they rang the bell; no one asked for their identity. The elevator was tiny, and Stephen, holding his tool case to his chest, was forced to stand between Cranston and a stooped woman carrying a thinly furred cat, a long leash dangling from the collar around its neck.

Finch answered the door while Stephen was still knocking. The professor grabbed his hand before Cranston’s, shaking it firmly and pulling him across the threshold.

‘Come in, but mind where you walk. Thomas keeps it dark in here. I rolled over a pencil earlier and saw my life flash before my eyes.’

There was a quick nod of acknowledgment to Cranston as he shuffled in, then Finch closed the door behind them, striding across the room and claiming his spot—a badly frayed bergère with a high back and sagging cushion.

Stephen looked around in astonishment. It was like a movie set, a strange splicing of horror film with twentieth-century period piece. Heavy, floor-length curtains shut out most of the light. The walls were a dull blood red with strips of paper spiraling away from the corners as if trying to escape, the ceiling moldings flocked in dust. The air blowing from the register ferried smells of old food and whiskey. Chairs were scattered around the room in no discernible arrangement, and Oriental carpets, all of them frayed and worn, several with bare patches interrupting the pattern, had been laid at odd angles. It was a drunk’s nightmare—an indoor field sobriety test composed of a maze of furniture and hazards at differing heights.

Bayber was nowhere to be seen, but Stephen heard repeated sounds of rustling and periodic crashes in one of the back rooms, as if an animal was trapped in too small a space. The thought that a man whose talent he had long admired could be so close, that he might actually be shaking his hand in a matter of moments, caused his throat to go dry. He tried to compose something to say by means of an introduction to indicate he had at least a modicum of intelligence when it came to the man’s body of work.

‘I’m glad you could join us, especially with so little advance notice,’ Finch said.

‘We could hardly ignore such an invitation.’ Cranston gave Finch a tight smile, but Stephen could see he was on his guard. A previously unknown Bayber surfacing now, appearing to be consigned to Murchison & Dunne to dispose of, viewed in the dim light of a derelict apartment. It made no sense. Cranston had the uneasy look of someone who suspected he was the mark in a game of three-card monte.

But Stephen could barely contain his enthusiasm. No matter the outcome, the day had already surpassed any of those he’d muddled through in the past thirty months. For whatever reason, the fates were dangling an opportunity for deliverance in front of his nose.

‘Is he here?’ he asked Finch, gesturing toward the rooms at the back of the apartment.

‘He’ll join us shortly. In the meantime, can I offer you gentlemen a drink?’

Stephen clutched the glass of whiskey Finch handed him as if it were something sacred. Cranston demurred. ‘Need to keep my wits about me,’ he said, frowning at Stephen, who noted his superior’s expression, but nonetheless downed the whiskey in short order.

‘Perhaps,’ Cranston started, ‘while we are waiting, you could provide some background. Mr. Jameson did not seem to have many details to offer.’

Finch’s face remained placid, and Stephen marveled at his calm demeanor. Surely he must be upset? On the phone, he’d claimed not to have seen the painting, nor did he know anything of its subject matter, when it had been painted, or where it had been. Stephen thought him remarkably restrained considering the catalogue raisonné he had spent years compiling was no longer complete or valid, the omission by his friend appearing to be intentional.

‘I’ll allow Thomas to provide additional illumination, since my knowledge pertaining to the piece is limited. I can only say that yesterday the existence of another Bayber was made known to me. Per Thomas’s wishes, I contacted our colleague Mr. Jameson here.’

Cranston flashed him a quick glance and nodded slightly. Stephen was unsure whether the look was one of admiration or merely a reminder that as chief representative of the company, Cranston would do the talking.

Ignoring Finch’s reticence, Cranston continued his queries. ‘This piece, a study, perhaps? For a work already in the catalogue?’

Finch’s eyes narrowed before he turned toward the bar to refill his glass.

‘No, not a study. A rather large oil from what I understand.’

‘I see.’ Cranston rubbed his thumb across his chin. ‘You can understand my surprise, Professor, although I hope you will not take it as any lack of interest on the part of Murchison & Dunne. Past auctions of Mr. Bayber’s work have been through larger houses, and I admit to having some curiosity as to why we, alone, would be the fortunate party to be considered.’

‘I imagine Thomas has his reasons. Artists. Eccentrics all of them, yes?’ Finch paused and tipped his glass toward Cranston. ‘You don’t feel unsure of your ability to get a good price for the piece, do you?’

‘Not at all. Should we decide to accept it, the auction would receive our utmost attention. No detail would be overlooked.’

Stephen bit the inside of his cheek. As if there was any question they would accept the piece.

Finch shot Cranston a hard look, unfazed by his disclaimer of caution. ‘I’m sure that will set his mind at ease.’

The heavy curtains hanging from an archway leading to the back rooms parted. Stephen saw first the hand that held the drape aside—the long fingers, the speckled skin against the deep red fabric of the drapes. Then the rest of Thomas Bayber entered the room. He was as tall as Stephen, only slightly bowed with age, and he moved deliberately, not as if the act of walking required specific effort, but as though strategy was associated with each step. His eyes darted among the company gathered as he navigated his way toward a chair next to Finch. He settled into it without a word and held out a hand, into which Finch promptly placed a glass. For the first time, Stephen pitied the professor. He performed the role of lackey seamlessly, and Stephen understood that he and Cranston were witnessing behaviors finely honed from years of repetition.

The air in the room was stifling. Unable to control the tickle at the back of his throat, Stephen coughed emphatically, his face flushing as he tried to find the glass he’d set down earlier.

‘Perhaps, Mr. Jameson, it would be prudent to switch to water at this point,’ Cranston admonished after thumping him hard on the back.

‘Yes,’ Stephen said, running his thumb between his shirt collar and his neck. ‘That would be prudent. My apologies.’