The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (readnow .TXT) 📕

her. You’re in for a treat; trust me.’

 

‘How do I look?’ asked Isis, putting the finishing touches to her almost theatrical make-up.

‘Stunning as always’, her assistant Lola assured her.

‘We haven’t seen Jack in ages. And Krakowski and Dr Rosen can make it, you say?’

‘They should be here in a moment.’

‘Excellent. All is ready for lunch?’

‘Absolutely.’

Isis stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. ‘Not bad for an old chook who’s been to death’s doorstep and back’, she said.

‘You can say that again.’

Dressed in a pair of tight-fitting culottes, high heels that would have made Lady Gaga envious, and an electric blue Chanel blouse—one of her favourites—Isis almost looked her glamorous self again. The only reminder of her terrible illness was her short hair. Instead of wearing a wig, as she did on stage, she had decided to keep her hair short, pixie-style, which gave her an endearing, young, boyish look, accentuating her prominent cheekbones. As a transsexual, she looked fabulous, and many women would have killed for a figure like hers. Anyone looking at her would have found it difficult to believe that Isis was in fact George Edward Elms who, since the brutal murder of his parents two years ago that brought down the Conservative Government, was now Lord Elms.

‘That should do it. I’ll come down as soon as they’ve arrived.’Lola smiled. Isis never missed an entry to impress.

‘And the painting?’ fussed Isis.

‘In place. Next to the table set for lunch; just as you requested.’

Isis kissed Lola on the cheek. ‘Thank you for putting up with me’, she said. ‘It can’t be easy.’

Lola beamed. She lived for moments like this. She adored Isis with every fibre of her body and would gladly have laid down her life to serve her mistress.

‘Pinch me, Jack, and tell me this is real’, said Celia, following the security guard into the lobby of the Time Machine’s legendary headquarters, a converted nineteenth-century bond store right on the Thames, not far from the Tower Bridge. Complete with recording studio, offices, underground parking, resident staff, guest accommodation and a spectacular penthouse overlooking the river on top, it was the Time Machine’s state-of-the–art nerve centre, and Isis’ London home. It even had an in-house restaurant with seating for fifty, twenty-four-seven room service, and a communications facility that would have made the BBC envious. Industrial chic at its very best. Functional, trendy, secure and totally original.

‘It’s just as you describe it in your book’, said Celia, looking around.

‘You ain’t seen nothin’ yet’, said Jack. ‘Wait till you see the penthouse.’

Lola was waiting for them at the lift. She hurried towards Jack, threw her arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you’, she said, tears sparkling in her eyes. ‘And this must be Ms Crawford’, she said, turning immediately into the professional PA. ‘Welcome to the Time Machine. Isis will meet us upstairs.’

‘You must be the pilot’, said Celia, shaking her head.

‘Among other things, yes.’

‘Look who’s just arrived’, said Jack, pointing to the entrance. Krakowski and Dr Rosen were getting out of a cab. They looked up and waved.

‘What a reunion’, said Lola, beaming. ‘Everyone’s here. Let’s go upstairs; Isis is waiting.’

Silently, the glass lift whisked them to the top floor.

‘Wow!’ Celia took in the breathtaking view of the London skyline. The penthouse—a two-storey, open-plan steel and glass cube—looked like an art gallery perched on top of an industrial complex. One part of the large space was divided by a huge canvas. Reaching from the marble floor to the glass ceiling two stories above, the painting reminded Celia of Jackson Pollock's Blue Poles. Other, smaller paintings were displayed along galleries linked by exposed glass stairs and steel bridges crisscrossing the open space, with the odd bronze bust of a Roman emperor or Greek philosopher thrown in to enhance the eclectic collection. In pride of place on a ledge just above the lift, a stunning Maori war canoe—complete with paddles—conjured up images of cannibals, bloody raids and brutal death.

‘Isis likes to surround herself with art and curios’, said Lola, showing her guests to comfortable leather lounges facing the view. ‘It inspires her.’

Jack pointed to a massive reclining stone Buddha greeting visitors at the lift. ‘This is my favourite’, he said to Celia, who tried to take it all in, her eyes darting from one spectacular piece to another.

‘What a surprise to find that Isis was the mystery buyer’, said Dr Rosen, leaning back in her comfortable leather chair.

‘Perhaps not so surprising,’ said Krakowski, ‘if we consider what has happened to her.’

‘I agree’, said Jack. ‘Once it became public that you were donating the proceeds to the Rosen Foundation, the whole thing began to make sense. Isis has made it clear that funding charities like the Rosen Foundation and medical research are her top priorities. And I’m sure she has plans for the painting too …’

‘I think Jack is right’, said Lola. She pointed to the glass stairs leading down from the top floor. ‘Why don’t we ask her? Here she comes now.’

Jack walked towards the stairs and looked up. Isis had presence. The consummate performer, she knew how to make an entrance. Slowly, taking one step at a time, she came down to meet her visitors, the anticipation in the room crackling. Isis embraced Jack at the bottom of the stairs and held him tight. It was a spontaneous gesture of deep friendship and love. Then, holding Jack’s hand, she walked over to her guests to greet them.

Krakowski couldn’t take his eyes off the painting and thought it looked different in the spectacular setting. The mood had changed. It was as if it had been reborn, entered a new life, and in many ways it had done just that.

‘I thought before we have lunch, I should tell you why I bought the painting and what I intend to do with it’, said Isis. ‘I can see you are all dying to know, but too polite to ask.’

Subdued laughter told Isis she was right.

‘The fact that I am standing here in front of you today at all, is in no small way due to what you, Jack, Bettany, Lola and Benjamin, and many others, have done for me. Jack would say that destiny has brought us together, and I agree with him.

‘Drifting along the edge of life as I had done not long ago, gives you time to think; to reflect. I know I am on borrowed time, and what time I have left I want to use wisely. As you know, I recently lost my entire family, and for the first time in my life I had to face my own mortality and come to terms with what really matters. On stage, fantasy becomes real, the illusion becomes your reality. Adoration can be very intoxicating and it can distort everything. Yet you crave it like a drug until you are hopelessly addicted to it and eventually, believe your own legend. That was me. But not anymore.

‘Looking back; so far, it’s been all about me. From now on, my friends, it will all be about making a difference’, said Isis quietly, her voice quivering with emotion and sounding hoarse.

Sensing her distress, Dr Rosen walked over to Isis and put her arms around her. ‘Facing your demons is the first step’, she whispered. 'After that, it’s easy. Trust me; I know.’

Isis looked at her gratefully, a wry smile creasing the corners of her mouth. 'Your decision, Benjamin,’ continued Isis, ‘to donate the proceeds of the auction sale to the Rosen Foundation in memory of your family was the trigger. You showed me the way. For some time now, I wanted to set up a Time Machine Foundation and harness our worldwide connections and exposure to do something really worthwhile. Lola even came up with a slogan: A TIME MACHINE FOR A BETTER FUTURE—’

‘It’s got a good ring to it’, interrupted Jack. ‘I like it.’

Isis, a sophisticated art connoisseur herself, walked over to the painting and pointed to the delightful scene of the man playing the violin by the pond. ‘I thought that this wonderful painting with its extraordinary history could become our foundation centrepiece; our emblem. In a way, it has become a very personal painting, even for me. Now that thought has become a reality.’ Isis turned to the waiter standing behind her and asked him to serve the champagne.

Theatrical to the core, she was enjoying the performance. ‘My friends, a toast.’ Isis looked at the painting and held up her champagne flute. ‘May the Little Sparrow in the Garden turn into a time machine for a better future. I give you, Little Sparrow in the Garden!’

‘Little Sparrow in the Garden’, echoed the others and raised their glasses.

 

 

‘Why have you brought me here, Jack?’ asked Celia, as they took their seats at the table. ‘I feel like an intruder.’

‘Don’t. Very soon, you’ll be part of this family.’

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘Isis wants to go public with this, right now. I suggested you.’

‘Me? Why?’

‘Because you are the right person for the job.’

‘And this is okay with Isis?’

‘She trusts my judgement. Now let’s have some tucker. I’m starving.’

‘Tucker? What’s tucker?’

‘Aussie for lunch. I’m a country boy, remember? Let’s get stuck into it!’

 

The Old Man in the Swiss Mansion

‘Have you seen the headlines?’ asked the housekeeper, pointing to a bundle of newspapers on a tray. The cook shook her head and shrugged. ‘He won’t like it. I better take them up; he’ll be expecting them by now. Get his breakfast ready.’

Emil Fuchs was in remarkable shape for someone who had just turned ninety-five. His body was fragile, but in reasonably good condition for his age. His mind, however, was as sharp and agile as ever. Confined to a wheelchair, he spent most of his time in his mansion in Gstaad, just up the road from Valentino and other celebrities. The mansion, a large, three hundred-year-old converted Swiss chalet with spectacular views over the Alps, had been his home for over seventy years.

Fuchs had made his personal fortune during the war. As a young executive in his father’s bank, he acted as the go-between between the bank and the Nazis. The Nazi war machine could not have rolled across Europe without access to an international banking system. It could not have purchased the raw materials needed to keep its foundries, its shipyards and munitions factories operational, without the regular supply of hard currency acceptable to its trading partners. Throughout the war the Swiss supplied both: the Swiss franc as a much coveted and internationally acceptable currency, and their banks to facilitate payment. Neutrality was very profitable.

Huge amounts of gold were transferred regularly by the Nazis to Switzerland, mainly through the Reichsbank, or smuggled into the country by various clandestine means, and Emil Fuchs had been one of the most resourceful smugglers of them all.

Most of the gold was looted from the conquered treasuries of occupied countries, or stolen from murdered Jews. Some of it was obscenely grizzly; dental gold extracted from the bodies of gassed Jews in the camps. The gold was purchased by the Swiss with Swiss francs, thus providing Berlin with the currency it needed to keep its industry functioning.

A frequent visitor to Berlin, where the dashing young banker was feted and entertained by the Nazi elite, he had access to the highest echelons. His weakness for art—especially paintings—was well-known, and the Nazis made sure that ‘bargains’ came his way every time he visited. During the last three years of the war, Fuchs managed to acquire a vast collection of priceless paintings, which