Missing Matisse

Jan Rehner

• Publisher: Inanna Poetry and Fiction Series
• Year: 2012
• eBook ISBN: 9781926708300
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

Who is the mysterious woman in the Matisse drawing, Woman in a Blouse, Dreaming? What secrets is she hiding? Chloe Rea grew up with the Matisse sketch and believes the woman in the famous Rumanian blouse is her grandmother. But the sketch now belongs to Adam Jensen, who inherited it after his brother's sudden death in the south of France. Now Chloe wants the sketch back, but someone else is willing to kill for it. When a prominent art dealer in Toronto is murdered, Chloe and Adam flee to France to walk in the footsteps of Matisse and the beautiful Russian named Lydia Delectorskaya, an orphan who became Matisse's muse, model, caregiver, administrator, and companion for twenty years. Her remarkable story, set amid the darkness and treachery of wartime Nice, holds the key to a missing masterpiece.

Part I
Woman in a Blouse, Dreaming

COTTON, SOFT AS SILK, CARESSES my skin. Embroidered threads of scarlet, sunflower yellow and black, against a background of snow white, dance across the sleeves and bodice of the blouse. It has become, I have become, a garden of delicate flowers and swirling leaves.

My face is the still point. I hold his gaze, only blinking when he looks down to guide his pen. When he lifts his eyes, I understand he sees beyond the blouse to my flesh, and beyond my flesh to my bones. I am angle and shape, only form. If I move, even slightly—touch my hair, tilt my chin—I will break the harmony of the line.

For a moment, our eyes meet. I pour myself into him, and he is open, receives everything. The pen moves silently. He draws my mood, my musing, my hopes, my dreams. He draws the light in the room and the scent of the sea in the air.

After a long stillness, he lays down his pen and beckons to me.

I see myself transformed. He has drawn three flowers on the bare skin of my right arm, as if I were blossoming.

I

SHE’D STALKED HIM FOR THREE weeks, ducking around corners, careful to avoid a pattern. She’d seen him jogging in the early morning, collecting his mail, leaving for his office. She knew his car. She’d followed him to the research lab where he worked, noted the hours he kept. At night, she’d timed when his lights went on and off. She knew his habits. She knew his clothes: fine tailored suits, dark blue denim jeans and black leather jacket, jogging pants and windbreaker.

His name was Adam Jensen. Tall, athletic-looking, with short, curly hair the colour of sand, a slightly protruding nose, a strong chin. His suits looked expensive, even from a distance. His jogging clothes were designer label. The shoes alone probably cost more money than she could hope to make in a month.

The stretch of Millbank Avenue where he lived didn’t have many houses. Ten on the east side, Jensen’s side, and eight on the west side. They were all handsomely large, mostly stone or brick, immaculately kept. Like the thick maples and chestnuts that lined the avenue, the houses were well-rooted, solid, and mature.

The street followed a slight incline, curving into Glenayr Road at the bottom, and the entrance into the Cedarvale Ravine. The houses on the east side enjoyed the privacy of deep back yards, ending in a fringe of trees and the steep, slick banks of the ravine below. She’d taken the walking path behind Jensen’s house, but it led downhill, meandering well below street level. Patches of spring snow dotted the ground, melting in pools and icy rivulets across the muddy path of the ravine. While she was inconspicuous among the other walkers on the path during the day, she would be noticed if she tried to climb the slippery banks. During the night, floodlights illuminated the back yard.

Despite the privacy afforded by the ravine, she knew she could not attempt to enter Jensen’s house from the back.

The puzzle of how to gain entry had occupied her mind for several weeks. She’d hoped to gather enough information from his life style and habits to form an idea, but she hadn’t learned as much as she’d hoped from her surveillance. If she pitched a rock through a window, she would be sure to trigger an alarm. But what she wanted was inside that house, and she was determined to get it back.

The house was beautiful freestone, trimmed in black, with a winding stone path to the arched front door. It was too large for one person, yet Jensen lived there alone. Two sets of leaded-glass windows flanked the wood door on the ground floor. The windows on the left probably graced a dining room, while the larger set of windows, with five panes forming a squared bay, suggested a living room. The ground floor seemed to be mainly in darkness, at least during the times she passed by. If Jensen had a social life, he conducted it mostly elsewhere.

At night, she had noted light shining from the second and third floors. When he was at home, he occupied the upper storeys almost exclusively, where he would certainly have a bedroom, and perhaps a reading room or study.

She knew from her father that Jensen was a scientist, a medical researcher for a government-funded laboratory in Toronto. She’d stolen some of his garbage once, spreading out its contents on newspaper on the kitchen table of her Crang Avenue house, but she’d gleaned little from the messy exercise of picking through a heap of mango peels, coffee grounds, and a chicken carcass. The recycling bin had seemed more promising. She’d hoped for a personal letter or two. Instead all she’d learned was that he had a healthy bank balance at the Toronto Dominion, that he had no pets, and that he didn’t recycle tuna cans or juice cartons. Not very useful information for her purposes.

She turned and headed back up the street. She was at a stalemate. If he was clever, and she had every reason to suppose he was, he would know from seeing her that she was Sammy’s daughter. While she had inherited her high cheek bones, narrow nose, and dark eyes from her French mother, the long mane of unruly auburn curls was unmistakably from Sammy Rea. She needed a way to enter the house that would not be immediately alarming, something she might explain plausibly if she were caught.

She’d passed Jensen’s house for the second time and had reached the path that lead to Suydam Park at the edge of Spadina Village when she saw a catering van turn into Millbank. She stopped and watched it park in front of Jensen’s address. Immediately, she retraced her steps. It was risky, but it might be her only chance.

She waited a minute or two, but no one emerged from the van. Taste of the Town, Fine Catering. Male driver. Female passenger. She glanced up the street. Was Jensen planning on meeting them? If so, she didn’t have much time.

She approached the driver and waved, waiting until he’d lowered his window. “Hi. I’m one of Dr. Jensen’s neighbours. Can I help?”

The driver looked at his watch. “I guess we’re a bit early. We’re here to set up for the party tonight. Dr. Jensen’s meeting us at six.”

“Oh, great. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then.” She turned as if to go. She had only a few minutes before she could expect to see his car. She looked back at the driver who was still watching her. “See you later. I’m one of the guests tonight. If it’s not too nosy, what are you serving?”

“Hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. Do you like tiger shrimp satay?”

Hors d’oeuvres. That meant it wasn’t a dinner party. Her plan might just be possible. “Love it. Will there be a big crowd?”

“Between fifty and sixty, according to the order sheet. But the shrimp goes fast.”

She heard Jensen’s car enter the street. “Thanks. See you later.”

Head down, she walked quickly back to the entrance to the park and took her customary short cut home.

Three hours later, she was back. She’d brought her rusty Volkswagon this time, parking it a fair distance from the house. She’d had to guess at what to wear—a simple black dress, black heels, a gold and black woolen shawl cut on the bias. Evenings were still cool in April, but she needed the voluminous shawl for more than just warmth.

She paused, checking to see no other late-comers were approaching, then walked up the path, grasped the door handle, and entered as quietly as she could. She hoped Jensen would be busy with his guests. If she could just keep to the periphery of the gathering and make her way through the house, she should be unnoticeable.

No one approached her in the vestibule and she slipped silently into the dining room. There were maybe twenty people chatting in small groups, balancing plates and wine glasses. A few faces glanced up when she entered the room, but glanced away again when they failed to recognize her. If anyone asked, she would say she was with John. There were always two or three Johns in a party this size.

She scanned the layout of the room, noting its beautiful mahogany table laden with flowers, crystal, and platters of food, her eyes lingering on the three watercolours arranged on the far wall, and then edged her way to the door at the end which she guessed would lead to the kitchen.

It was brighter in this room, and for a minute her heart raced. The kitchen formed a long rectangle opening onto a sunken sun-room where another group of guests buzzed with conversation. Jensen was there, his back toward her. As if in slow motion, he began to turn.

She spotted the driver from the van, giving thanks that he was a tall man when h...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Notice
• Dedication
• Epigraph
• Part I - Woman in a Blouse, Dreaming
• Part II - Blue Eyes
• Part III - Le Rêve, The Dream
• Acknowledgements
• About the Author