All I Believe (Firsts and Forever, #10)(33)
“Sure it does. Here I am in shorts, sandals, and a camp shirt, and you look like you’re on your way to seize control of a Fortune-100 corporation.” I waved my hand up and down, indicating his perfectly tailored suit. “Am I going to be completely underdressed when we reach this gallery? Are they going to seat me at a little table with a juice box and some crayons while the grown-ups talk about art?”
“You’ll be fine. I tend to overdress for work.”
“Why?”
“A lot of what I do is a confidence game. People need to feel they can trust me and believe in my expertise. It helps to look the part and exude an air of authority. That isn’t why I dressed up for this particular gallery, though. The owner’s a friend of mine and he’s older, so I’m wearing a suit as a sign of respect.”
“Explain to me exactly what you do.”
“In a way,” he said, “I’m kind of a personal shopper. I have several wealthy clients who live all over the globe, in Dubai, Manhattan, London, Helsinki, among other places. They all have the wealth to put together truly magnificent art collections. What they don’t have is the time or inclination to do the legwork and seek out exceptional pieces. Some have a passion for what they collect, but all of them also want to invest in artwork that will increase in value.”
“And you find things by going to galleries, not by attending auctions?”
“I do both.”
“Do you think you might find something at your friend’s gallery?”
“Possibly,” he said. “One of my clients is a bit of a gambler. He doesn’t want to spend a hundred million dollars on a Gauguin, though he could. He wants the up-and-comer, the next Jasper Johns right before he’s discovered and his career skyrockets. This gallery owner strives to do the same thing, and has a pretty remarkable eye. He used to run a well-known gallery in New York. Then he retired in his late sixties and moved here with his wife, because this was her hometown. She passed a couple years later though, but he stayed and opened a small gallery, which he calls a hobby. I’m lucky that it’s in a town I visit frequently, though really, I’d travel just about anywhere for Mr. Caravetti.”
“Have you ever bought anything for a client that you really wanted to keep for yourself?”
Luca grinned. “It happens all the time. The one that broke my heart was a small Cezanne I procured in 2009. It had been one of my favorite paintings since childhood. I carried it in my lap from Brussels to Los Angeles. It was so special, and it killed me to hand it over, especially because that particular collector didn’t even sort of appreciate it. He was only interested in its monetary value. It would have been so much easier to give it to someone who bought it because they absolutely adored it and would appreciate its beauty.”
“If he decided to put it on the market, could you buy it for yourself?”
He shook his head. “I could never afford it. Even if I could, I wouldn’t keep it. Something like that belongs in a museum, so it can be enjoyed by everyone. Right now, it’s hanging in the downstairs bathroom of a Hollywood celebrity. That f*cker hung it over the toilet. He doesn’t respect or appreciate it at all! He was a new client, and led me to believe his interest in the painting was more than monetary. I should have known not to believe him.”
“What an *! Why the hell would someone pay, what, millions? For a beautiful work of art and then hang it in a bathroom?”
“Yeah, millions. Eighteen of them, to be exact. Normally a Cezanne would be much more, but this one is tiny, it’s just six inches by six, though it’s framed out to feel larger. And the bathroom thing was completely deliberate. He wants people to say, ‘Oh my God, he’s so incredibly successful that he can hang an eighteen million dollar painting in the crapper!’ His ego is out of control.”
“For the first time in my life,” I said, “I wish I was a criminal. I want to liberate that painting and give it to you.”
“Oh believe me, I’ve had fantasies about doing that, too. But like I said, it belongs in a museum, and they’re not big on receiving stolen property.”
“Yeah, good point.” I thought about the painting for a while as we walked, and eventually asked, “How did you get to be so knowledgeable about art?”
“I have a PhD in Art History from Cambridge.”
“Holy crap!”
“It’s not that impressive. All it really means is that I get to sound like a pompous * when I discuss art at cocktail parties.”
I grinned at that and asked, “Was this job always the plan?”
“No, not at all. I figured I’d find work as a curator in a museum. This pays a hell of a lot better though, and has allowed me to keep traveling. I don’t know how I’d do living in just one place. It’s not something I’ve ever done.”
“Do you have a home base, or are you always in hotels?”
“I have an apartment in Rome, but I’m not there very often.” Luca squeezed my hand and said, “Enough about me, tell me about you. Where do you go to school?”
“Hastings.”
“Excellent. What did you study as an undergrad?”
“Biology. I became an EMT after I graduated, because I wanted a job where I could make a difference. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted, actually.”