Page 7 of Shift in the Blood
“Do you work regularly for Maxim Popov?”
“He’s my—that is---yes. I do.” How to describe what it was I did for Maxim? Better to just admit it and go from there. But Didier’s question allowed my mind to wander back to my first meeting with Maxim Popov. I was in school still, in my last month before graduation.
Carina was in her senior year of high school. I’d managed to keep us fed and keep us in housing. We’d had to sell the house after Mom and Dad died, and most of the money went to pay off the house. They didn’t have life insurance. There was some money in the bank, as well as what was left over from the sale of the house. I moved us into an apartment between university and her high school to make it easier for both of us, and to save on gas. Thank god for a good light rail system.
In the four years since I’d met Maxim, as I got to know him, I wondered if he knew I was in the position I was in at our first meeting. If he knew that I had very little in the bank, and that I’d been worrying for months what would happen next.
If he’d known I didn’t have a job, and while I loved the art I’d created in college, it wasn’t bringing in anything we could live on.
But back to our first meeting. It was late in the day. I was finishing my final project, a study in still life, for my seminar class. I wanted to see it in the harsh light of the classroom, since I’d been painting in the mid-afternoon.
“Clara Manning?” A man’s voice interrupted my study.
“Yes?” Was this another thing that needed to be done with my parents’ estate? About their death? The amount of paperwork and things that had to be done when someone died was unbelievable. All I wanted was to curl into a ball and cry and I couldn’t. I had to talk to people, take care of Carina, and basically become the parent.
It sucked.
I was over it.
“Your work is phenomenal. I’d like to hire you.” He was tall, with sharp cheekbones and dark, flat shark eyes.
“In what capacity?”
He smiled although it didn’t reach his eyes. “To paint, of course. What else would I want to hire you for?”
“I have been consistently surprised at why people might want to hire me.” I didn’t hide my scorn.
“You’re certainly attractive, and I can see the appeal.” The man looked me up and down in an appraising fashion. “I’m never opposed to a pretty woman, but I prefer good business more.”
“What is it you want?”
“I want you to paint three paintings for me. Copy them, if you will.”
“You want me to forge things for you?” I needed to be sure what I was hearing. What he was asking.
He looked at me, and I felt that I was being measured in some fashion. “Yes. I’m prepared to pay handsomely for these three paintings.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
“Does it matter?”
“I don’t want to go to jail.” We’d talked a lot about forgers and forgeries over the past year in my classes. He’d just told me what he wanted. Which would make ma an accomplice if anyone knew I’d done the work.
“I’m a fan of these particular artists. I can’t afford the paintings, so I want someone to make one for me.”
“Who are you? How did you find me?”
“I’ve been inspecting the work of students this year. I like your style.” His response was easy. Simple.
It felt real.
“As long as that’s it.” I crossed my arms.
“That’s all.” The man held up his hands, the picture of innocence. Then he stuck out his hand to shake mine. “Maxim Popov. It’s a pleasure to meet the person behind the work I’ve been seeing.”
I felt my face get warm at the compliment. “That’s all I have to do? Three paintings, copies of your favorite works?”
“That’s it.” Maxim let go of my hand. He smiled as he looked over my shoulder at my seminar painting. “That’s beautiful.”
