The outdoor café’s tables were packed, and Julian was the only one sitting alone, except for an old piano player in the corner who seemed to be deeply immersed in his ivory world.
To his left, Julian noticed an attractive young redhead surrounded by three young men about his age. The woman said something that made them all laugh, throwing her head back flirtatiously, providing a moment of visibility into her low-cut blouse as she basked in their undivided attention. The confident way she carried herself immediately reminded him of Adrienne. Looking away, he wondered how she was, with whom she was laughing. He tried to push that night in Paris out of his mind, but he could not forget her scent, the taste of her, the way her velvety body slid over him, and hours later, how her strong hands had pulled him on top of her once again.
Squirming in his chair, Julian wished that the sunlight beating against his back were the heat from Adrienne’s fireplace. He picked at the top layer of his chocolate cream cake. He checked his watch again. Felix was supposed to have arrived nearly forty minutes ago. Julian decided to give him another half hour. Busying himself with the newspaper, he repeatedly peered over the top of it until he felt a jab at his back. He turned and met Felix’s icy blue stare.
“Just orange juice today, and coffee,” Felix told the waitress as he sat down.
“What, no wine?” Julian ventured with a half smile, noticing Felix’s tailored charcoal suit, starched white shirt, and navy blue tie with small white polka dots. His initials, FVB, were embroidered in royal blue on his shirt cuff. His hair was trimmed neatly, and he was clean-shaven. Felix looked like a different person from the madman at the lake the previous weekend; sober and business-like.
“I have a meeting this afternoon,” Felix said firmly, playing with the tip of his tie. He glanced at Julian’s plate, then called back the waitress and ordered the same cake. “I’ve got twenty minutes, Julian. What is so important that we had to meet?”
Julian took a deep breath, wondering how this would play out. “I’m very sorry about what happened at the lake,” he said quietly.
Felix did not look at him. Instead, he focused on the redhead. She met his gaze, eyed the fancy suit, and lifted her chin invitingly, exposing her long freckled neck. Felix paused, raising his glass toward the woman. “Things just got out of hand, Julian.”
“You got out of hand,” Julian corrected him. “But that’s not why I’m sorry. I realized after what happened there that our friendship is over. I asked you to come here so I could apologize once again for what a schmuck I was in Paris. I know that ruined things between us. It killed me not to have been honest with you.” Julian took a slow bite of cake, allowing Felix time to digest his words.
“And your point is?”
“My point is that I’m leaving Germany. I called you here to say goodbye.” Julian felt slightly off-balance at the thought of his imminent lies. “I have had enough of Ernst Engel and his flighty ideas. I am sick of his repetitive lectures on color and spirituality, his flamboyance. Even Dubois gave me less of a headache. I am going back to New York, to do some real painting and to concentrate on art that actually matters.”
Felix smiled slightly. “Like surreal baseball fields?”
Julian blushed at the comment but let it pass. “Something like that. Anything to get away from all the politics here.” Julian watched Felix’s face closely, but his expression betrayed nothing. Julian’s feet began to feel hot and swollen inside his shoes. He would have to pull out the only card he possessed to somehow get through to Felix. “The truth is, I am sick of René’s ego too. He is obsessed with the upcoming exhibition Engel is arranging for him. It’s a good time for me to break away from all of it.”
“What exhibition?” Felix slammed down his glass, and orange juice spilled over his fingers. He did not bother wiping his hand.
“Engel has not finalized the details, but it’s some annual exhibition in Berlin where a new artist’s work is showcased. Of course, they chose René. But you don’t want to hear about this, Felix. You’ll be late for your meeting.” Julian stood, swiping crumbs off his trousers. “It is time to chalk up this adventure for what it was—just an adventure. All I want to do now is concentrate on my work. Enough distractions.” Julian extended his hand, but Felix ignored it. “So, goodbye, Felix. I wish you well.”
Tossing some change on the table, Julian left the café without looking back. His heart pounded as he crossed the street. His shirt felt wet against his back as he counted slowly to ten. On the count of eight, Julian felt the bulky hand grip his shoulder.
“Wait,” Felix whispered from behind.
Three hours later, Julian entered a dank basement in a rundown building in the Wilmersdorf district of Berlin. As instructed by Engel, he did not turn on the light, nor did he say a word as he climbed down the creaking stairs. But the distinctive smell of Engel’s potent cologne, like turpentine mixed with fruit salad, reassured him that his mentor was waiting for him at the bottom.
“Down here, Julian,” Engel called out in loud whisper. “Watch your head.”
Julian ducked, just missing an overhanging beam. When he reached the foot of the stairs, Engel grabbed his hand and pulled him toward his barrel chest, then turned on a light. “Tell me everything.”
“Well, I did what you said, Ernst, and started out by trying to get our friendship back on track. It didn’t seem to faze him.” Julian took a few steps backward and relayed his conversation with Felix at the café. “Only when I mentioned René’s name in the same sentence as the exhibition did I get his attention. Felix skipped his meeting, of course. He wanted to know everything about the exhibition, but he didn’t want to seem too obvious. Until we started drinking, and then—”
“Did Felix bring up anything specific about his father’s activities?” Engel interrupted.
“Not at first, and I thought it best not to push it, not to sound too interested in the work he was doing. I tried to keep the focus on our friendship. He asked me not to leave Germany—to stay on for a few more months and to continue painting with you until he wrapped up things with his father, and then we’d all go back to Paris together.” Julian paused. “Of course he’s lying. He has changed. I don’t think he intends to go back to Paris ever. I can’t quite figure out why it matters to him whether I stay or go. But I went along with it, agreeing to stay on the condition that he and I spend more time together, to repair things between us.” Julian drew in a heavy breath. “I did this for you, Ernst. None of it feels right.”
“Thank you, Julian.”
Julian squeezed his instructor’s hands, feeling the calloused, experienced fingertips, hard as seashells. “What worried me about our conversation is the more Felix drank, the more he ranted on about you and how the avant-garde has seen the end of its glory days. Felix didn’t come out and say it, but he hinted that you and your friends are being watched closely. I think you should leave the country, Ernst. Get your family out while there is still time.”
Engel sighed and his heavy breath smelled slightly of vinegar. “That is impossible. And they will only find someone else, another scapegoat. If we know they are following me, then at least we can manipulate them.”
Julian shook his head. “What is not clear is why Felix wants you in particular. Why not Kruger or any of your other colleagues? He just kept talking about you.” Julian studied Engel’s face. His instructor’s eyes were wide and unblinking, and he rubbed his lips together unnaturally.
Engel cleared his throat, and the loud disjointed sound resonated through the room. “About six years ago, Helen Von Bredow—Felix’s mother—came to my studio. You know, there was a time when we were quite good friends. She had a penchant for modern art and she purchased fantastic pieces from all over Europe, keeping them hidden in her basement. Her husband forbade her from hanging any modern artwork in their home. Many times she called me for advice on not only which paintings to buy, but also to discuss her frustration with her husband’s disdain for anything avant-garde.”
He gazed down at his shuffling feet. “Her visit that day was unexpected, and I was under pressure for an upcoming exhibition. I was sleeping at the studio. I hadn’t even seen my family for over a week. Anyway, Helen walked in unannounced, carrying a stack of paintings—Felix’s work. She wanted me to critique them. I had no time, of course, but I would never refuse her. They were pathetic, Julian. A poor imitation of various artists.”
Engel squeezed the back of his neck, as if to alleviate some tension. “I should have been diplomatic and advised Helen to encourage Felix to continue painting despite his obvious lack of talent. But I wasn’t thinking. I told Helen the truth. I thought we were friends, that she could handle it, that she understood art. She just looked at me as if I had insulted her and walked out. I tried to get in touch with her, but she refused my calls and my letters. I heard that Felix left for Paris soon after.
“Then, several months ago, Felix called and asked if his two friends— students of Léon Dubois—could study with me for a few months, and if I was looking for a model. There was no sign of any bad blood. He sounded poised, mature, and friendly.”
Julian interjected, “I’m sure he slipped in that one of the students happened to be Jacob Levi’s son.”
Engel smiled sadly. “Jacob Levi. You should know that it was rumored in certain circles that Helen Von Bredow was once his lover.”
Julian nodded, remembering René’s snide comment in Jacob’s gallery about his father and Helen Von Bredow. He looked again at Engel. The sinister room seemed to magnify the contours of Engel’s face, as though his features had lost all color.
“I said yes to Felix without hesitation,” Engel continued. “Mostly out of guilt for what had happened with Helen.”
Julian thought back to the conversation he’d had with Felix in their apartment, about him not having the natural talent to be a painter. Engel’s rejection must have been just one of many that followed him to Paris.
“But no matter if he has real talent or not, Felix is a painter, and we have all had our share of rejections. That is normal,” Engel said.
Julian shrugged. “I think Felix has been told by everyone that his paintings are not very good. René’s work, on the other hand, has had the opposite impact on everyone who has rejected Felix.” Julian paced the dusty cement floor then stared at the peeling walls. “What put Felix in my pocket today was not my apology, nor my agreeing to stay on and wait for him, but only when I mentioned René’s exhibition.”
“What exactly did he want to know?” Engel moved in closer, his voice suddenly sounding like an interrogator’s.
“Who is sponsoring it, who is being invited, names. Felix kept pushing me even after I told him I didn’t have any information. He got crazy. I don’t know, Ernst. I think the exhibition is a mistake. You should cancel it.”
Engel shook his head. “It has been an annual event here for the past fifteen years. I am not going to cancel it.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Julian said. “Why would you have this exhibition at all? Who cares if it has been going on for a hundred years? Right now, this type of event is begging for trouble.”
Engel looked away. “Trust me, okay?”
“Then whatever you are planning, leave René out of it.”
Engel shook his head innocently, as if that part of the plan could not be helped.
Julian pressed on, the reality of the situation becoming all too clear. “You and I both know how Felix feels about René. Jealousy is one thing. But for Felix, René is an obsession. I never really saw it before I came to Berlin, but René hinted at it when we were in Paris.” He paused. “And the more I think about it, Felix does not give a damn about this Nazi art business. It’s René’s talent that he fears, that he hates. And now Felix is in a position to do something about it.” He searched Engel’s face for understanding but came up with nothing. Engel was silent.
Julian raised his voice. “We have to protect René and not put him out on a platter. Isn’t that why I am here in the first place—to help safeguard the works of young artists like myself, like René? Or am I just caught in the middle of everyone’s bullshit, Ernst? Tell me!”
Engel grabbed Julian by the shoulders. “René is French. His father is one of the most important art dealers in Europe. No one is stupid enough to touch him. The powers-that-be are expecting us to hold the annual exhibition, so we need to keep everything going on as usual. There is more danger if we cancel it.”
Engel looked around the empty basement, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m not naive, Julian. I know it’s risky, but we have no choice. You see, that night, while the artists, my friends, are attending René’s exhibition, their paintings—many important paintings—are going to be smuggled out of the country to safety, to friends in Paris and Spain. That is Max Kruger’s end of it. The exhibition is merely camouflage. We believe that Von Bredow and friends have big plans for us not too far down the road, so we have to be one step ahead of them and act now. Let them monitor us at the exhibition. Let them try and scare us. They will never think that we are capable of outsmarting them, saving our paintings before they have a chance to destroy them.”
Julian shook his head in disbelief. “I see. The goal is to save the art, but not the artist?”
“It is the art that matters to all of us. We come and go, but our art lives on.” Engel’s eyes welled up with tears. “These are madmen. Remember, Hitler is an artist, Julian. And like Felix, Hitler is a man obsessed with the desire to paint, but possesses no natural talent. Hitler’s suffering is going to be the death of us.”
Julian leaned unsteadily against a broken chair. “So, René is the sacrifice?”
Engel’s eyebrows arched so high that they nearly met his hairline. “No, René is the diversion. But if it makes you feel better, I will tell him. I will give René the choice to exhibit and help us, or to pack up his supplies and run away.”
Engel moved in so close that Julian could practically taste the sourness of his breath. “But that is all I will tell him. The rest has to remain between us.”