September 1, 2015
“What a beautiful boat.” Rita Brouwer gushed, pointing to an old but well-restored steamboat chugging up the Amstel River. Wisps of smoke puffing out of its tiny smokestack slowly propelled it forward through the choppy waters, its highly polished wooden hull bobbing up and down like a seesaw. Zelda managed to get them a table on café De Jaren’s popular waterfront terrace, situated alongside a bend in the river before it narrowed and joined the Rokin canal, the main entrance to the city center’s network of ring-shaped canals. In the waters before them, boats of all sizes and shapes glided by; their rocking motion and the sound of lapping water were slowly lulling her into a meditative trance.
“If I were rich, I would buy an old steamboat like that one and sail around on it all summer long,” Rita smiled at the thought, sipping her tea contentedly.
“But, Rita,” Zelda sputtered, “you are rich.”
“Hush child. Getting my daddy’s art collection back doesn’t automatically make me a wealthy woman,” the older lady giggled.
Zelda knew she’d been courted by pretty much every art museum in the Netherlands, and several others dotted across Europe, since she’d returned to Amsterdam a week ago. Many of the pieces in her father’s collection were deemed to be crucial to the oeuvres of their famous Dutch creators as illustrations of their early development and progress as artists. Zelda was certain the numerous institutions salivating for Verbeet’s artwork were mercilessly calling and contacting every sponsor and donator they could think of in a desperate attempt to outbid the competition. And the wining and dining would surely continue until Rita and her sisters decided which museum would get some, or even all, of their father’s impressive collection.
“You mean you aren’t going to sell?” Zelda asked hopefully. Rita had just told her about some of the extraordinary sums of money offered for a single painting. She could understand how tempting it would be to cash in, especially when none of the Verbeet girls had seen the pieces in so many years.
“Heavens, no. I have to talk everything over with my sisters first, but I can’t imagine them wanting to sell any of them. None of us girls are rich, but we’ve all worked hard and saved up enough to live comfortably. We don’t need the money. I’m going to suggest we donate most of the paintings to one Dutch museum, but only after we’ve all passed on. This kind of collection deserves to be seen as much as daddy’s story deserves to be told. All of those fancy dinner meetings with them museum directors have sure convinced me of that. But until we’re gone, my sisters and I are going to hang our daddy’s artwork in our homes and enjoy them for as long as we can.”
“What about your children, and your nieces and nephews? Won’t they expect to inherit your father’s collection?”
“Why should they expect anything? For starters, neither Rose nor Fleur have got any children to leave them to. Viola hasn’t heard from her daughter in going on ten years, since she went off and joined some silly commune. And Iris’s son Joe has never been interested in art or our family history. Come to think of it, my boys aren’t either. I might want to leave a piece or two to my daughter Sophia; she wants to work in a gallery someday and has a keen eye for art to boot. But I wouldn’t want to leave all of it to her; it wouldn’t be fair to the others. Besides, do you know how much inheritance taxes are these days? Keeping the whole collection would cost our kids a fortune!” Rita exclaimed.
“Have you told anyone you are thinking of donating the paintings to a museum instead of selling them?”
“No one’s asked. To be honest, I don’t think they want to wait until all of us Verbeet girls have passed on before they get their hands on the artwork,” Rita guffawed loudly, attracting stares from other café goers. “Besides, I’ve never had caviar or real champagne before. What’s the harm in leading those museum professionals on a bit?” she grinned conspiratorially. “And the pricey meals have been a good way for me to learn more about the types of artwork all those different museums specialize in. Whichever one we end up choosing, they will have to display all of our daddy’s collection – not just the pieces from artists who later became famous. Those promising young artists who didn’t survive the war deserve our recognition and respect, too.”
“Just like Lex Wederstein,” Zelda said, nodding in understanding.
“Exactly,” Rita agreed, her voice tinged with sadness. She fell silent for a moment, staring off into the boat-filled waters.
Zelda wondered if she was thinking about Lex or her father, both taken too soon. She’d had the dubious honor of telling Rita in person all that Konrad Heider had said about Philip Verbeet’s murder, as well as the information she’d gleaned from Arjan van Heemsvliet’s letters about his last days. Rita had listened silently as Zelda relayed everything she could remember, the old lady’s lips a drawn line, glimpses of sorrow and anger crossing her face like clouds on a stormy day. Zelda could only imagine how freeing, yet devastatingly painful it was for Rita to finally know how her father had died and why. The senselessness of it all was what she had so much trouble explaining to the older lady.
Before Zelda could think of something appropriate to say, a large touring boat cruised too quickly around a plodding rent-a-boat trying to moor on the café’s dock a few feet from their table. The larger vessel threw up waves and grey clouds of burnt diesel fuel in its wake, the stench momentarily overpowering that of their tea and eggs. The sickening smell seemed to bring Rita Brouwer back to the present day.
“Anyway, I’ve got what I really wanted, right here.” The older lady patted the larger of two boxes resting on the chair next to her. “Thanks to you, I got my daddy back.”
Her sincerity overshadowed Zelda’s discomfort at eating lunch with a cremated body. Philip Verbeet and Arjan van Heemsvliet were both buried in the art dealer’s backyard, as Konrad Heider said they were. However, only Verbeet had been shot; Arjan’s broken neck was the official cause of his death. Why Konrad’s uncle told him a different version of events, or what really happened that night in Arjan’s home, they would never know. This morning she’d gone with Rita to the police department and collected her father’s remains. After letting the older woman cry on her shoulder a while, she’d suggested they come here for a late breakfast, hoping the fresh mint tea and breathtaking views would help calm her down before her long flight home.
Zelda leaned over and squeezed her companion’s hand. “I’m sure your sisters are as glad as you to finally know what happened to your father.”
“Yes, they are,” Rita said before picking up the smaller box from the chair next to her. It was roughly the size of a coffee-table book. “Here,” she handed the package to Zelda, “this is our way of thanking you for finding our daddy.”
“Oh, Rita, you didn’t need to get me anything,” she said, grasping the package with both hands. She opened the box, expecting to find an art-related tome, but instead discovered a bubble-wrapped object. As she pulled it out, she felt a metal frame through the packaging. Though she had an inkling of what it could be, her mind refused to believe that Rita and her sisters would be so generous.
“Open it.”
She carefully removed the bubble-wrap, staring in awe at the object inside for several seconds before finally getting her voice back. “Is this really one of your father’s pieces?” she whispered.
“Yes, it is.” Rita’s grin stretched from ear to ear.
Nestled inside the packaging was a framed watercolor of a girl standing on a bridge watching the sun rise. The clouds in the distance were painted in the most vibrant pink and purple hues Zelda had ever seen. She recognized the artist immediately; he was, after all, one of her favorite Dutch painters. Her hands started to shake as her mind registered what she was holding. “Is this really a Jan Sluijters?”
“That girl sees a bright future before her, full of hope and promise. Like the one I see ahead of you.”
Zelda choked up with tears, embracing Rita with one arm as she held the painting tight with the other. “Thank you so much. And all of your sisters, too.” She released the older lady and wiped her face clean before clearing her throat, unable to look her in the eye. “Rita, you know this watercolor is worth a lot of money. Are you absolutely sure about this?” She wanted nothing more than to keep the Sluijters piece but didn’t want the Verbeet sisters to feel obligated.
“As long as you don’t go and sell it, then yes, all of us girls are absolutely sure,” Rita said. “In fact, I have a little finder’s fee for you, to make sure you aren’t tempted.”
Zelda was horrified. “Rita, this Sluijters is more than enough.”
Rita looked pleased, but determined as she shoved an envelope into the younger woman’s hand. “This is what my sisters and I were willing to pay you to look for clues leading to any of our daddy’s paintings. We sure didn’t expect you to find them all!”
Zelda opened the envelope to find a check for five thousand dollars. “This is way too much,” she stammered. She’d hoped to earn a few hundred dollars helping the Verbeet girls out, not thousands.
“Nonsense. You just told me you got into that master’s program you were so gung ho about. Now you won’t have to worry about getting a job right away.”
Rita had no idea how right she was, Zelda thought ruefully. She was extremely grateful and relieved that she’d been one of the twenty students selected for the Museum Studies master and couldn’t wait for classes to begin. Only after she’d been accepted did she realize it would be virtually impossible to work and study full-time, especially in another language. Reading and writing in Dutch still required a tremendous effort, though she was pleased to note that she needed her Dutch-English dictionary less and less. She knew it would get easier in time. This check, in combination with her savings, would guarantee her several more months of freedom, giving her time to settle into her classes and get used to the workload before having to think about taking out student loans or finding a job.
Zelda bear-hugged the older woman, squeezing her so tight that Rita squealed. “If there’s anything else I can do for you or your sisters – anything at all – please let me know.”
Rita pulled out of their embrace, readjusting her coke-bottle glasses before saying, “Well, we were hoping you could help us find out more about the lesser-known artists in my daddy’s collection. Sure, several of them are considered important Dutch painters now, like Karel Appel, Jan Sluijters and Charley Toorop. But others didn’t survive the war and don’t seem to be included in any art history books. It would be nice to know more about those other young men, whom my father respected enough to want to help. I know you’re going to have your hands full with your classes and all, but if you get some free time, maybe you could check the local archives for us and see if you can find anything out about them?”
“I think I’ll be able to find the time,” Zelda said with a laugh before tucking the check into her wallet.
Rita nodded, satisfied. “Well, young lady, you’d better escort me back to my hotel. I’ve got an early evening flight and lots of packing to do.” It took her a few seconds to wriggle her pear-shaped bottom out of the wicker chair.
“What about your father’s collection?”
“It’s being bubble-wrapped and crated up, as we speak. I was honest enough with all those museum people to let them know they wouldn’t be getting their hands on my daddy’s paintings right away.”
Rita gathered up her purse and her father’s cremated ashes while Zelda tucked the Sluijters back inside its box. “Did you know the Amsterdam Museum is paying to have them all shipped back to Missouri? Isn’t that nice? That curator, Huub Konijn, has been such a tremendous help these past few days. As a matter of fact, he’s the one who arranged to have the Sluijters boxed up for you. Funny, I got the feeling he didn’t really like me when we first met. After that second meeting, he made me so doggone mad I thought about forging a letter from my daddy, naming the friend he’d stored all of his art with. Trouble was, I couldn’t remember any of his real friends’ names. Good thing I didn’t. If I had, it would have muddled up our claim even more.”
“I’m really glad you didn’t,” Zelda replied. Karen’s fake documents had caused enough confusion. If Rita had forged that letter, Huub would not be helping her now, whether she was the rightful owner or not.
Zelda held the café’s door open for Rita, chuckling softly to herself. Huub had indeed turned out to be one of the good guys, effectively lobbying the Secretary of State for Culture to expedite the return of all three hundred and twenty-seven paintings – including Irises – to their legal owners. Thanks to the documentation Arjan van Heemsvliet had enclosed in every crate, Zelda and the rest of the restitution project team were able to locate all of the heirs within ten days. The artwork was now being readied for transport to destinations all over the world. Zelda felt good knowing Rita and her sisters were getting all of their father’s pieces back, just as the thirty-seven other families Arjan once helped would, thanks in a large part to her own unauthorized research and bullheaded actions.
“The only thing I’m taking back with me now is Irises. She just fits inside my suitcase. After all I’ve been through – heck, all we’ve been through – to get that painting back, I’m not letting her out of my sight again,” Rita explained, as Zelda lead them back to her hotel on the Museumplein.
Zelda thought of Philip Verbeet’s own suitcase, sitting by Arjan van Heemsvliet’s door, packed and ready to go to Venlo, Irises carefully wrapped up inside.
“And what are you going to do with this lovely summer’s day, my dear?” Rita asked.
“I owe my friend Friedrich an airplane.”
Rita looked over at her quizzically.
Zelda laughed. “Long story. I’m taking him shopping for model plane parts later today. He likes to build them from scratch.” After that terrible day in the shed, she was happy to be able to do anything with Friedrich. Though his left arm was still in a sling, his broken collarbone had healed up nicely.
“Is it his birthday?”
“Something like that.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Rita teased, as they rounded the block and entered her hotel’s tree-lined street.
“No, just a really good friend.” Zelda knew she and Friedrich could never be a couple, with or without Pietro in her life. Somehow she’d finally been able to convince him of that during her stint as nurse and cook the first week after he’d been discharged from the hospital. But he’d proven himself a true friend, one she was quite grateful to have. And knowing they would never be romantically involved seemed to have relaxed Friedrich immensely, letting him enjoy his role as little brother to the fullest.
Once again she held the door open for Rita Brouwer, this time to the older lady’s hotel lobby. They took the elevator up to her suite on the third floor, courtesy of the Amsterdam Museum. As Rita laid her father’s urn down on the bed, Zelda fidgeted with the box in her hands, unsure of how to say goodbye to someone who’d given her so much.
“Have a safe flight, Rita. I’ll email you as soon as I find out more about those young artists you asked about,” she finally managed, trying to keep her voice as upbeat as possible. She knew they’d stay in touch electronically, but Zelda doubted they’d ever see each other again.
“Thank you for helping us girls out. I’m already looking forward to reading your research updates,” Rita grabbed onto her and hugged her tight.
Zelda pushed back and kissed her three times on the cheek, Dutch-style. “Thank you Rita, for everything,” she replied, softly patting the bubble-wrapped painting lodged firmly under her arm.
THE END
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- Jennifer S. Alderson