Private Viewing -- PG-13
Posted: Thu May 28, 2009 3:10 am
Disclaimers: I don’t own Josef.
A/N: I thought a story a little less angsty and fraught might be nice, so in response to a suggestion from my dear beta reader, Lilly, I wrote this piece.
Read, enjoy, comment if you feel so moved.
Private Viewing
“Where are we going, Josef?” Lucky asked when the 110 flattened into Arroyo Parkway. “Pasadena isn’t really your stomping grounds, is it?”
Josef downshifted the Ferrari smoothly as they approached a light. “You’ll see when we get there, doll,” he replied.
He was being mysterious again, Lucky thought, and supposed that was only in character, considering. While for the most part she loved the dance between them, the unexpected little intimacies of their relationship, things had been strained, lately. She wondered if he was trying to make it up to her, but couldn’t fathom what he had in mind. Usually, if one of the freshies got upset, he suggested retail therapy, or provided an expensive bit of jewelry or new electronics. He’d told her to dress casual, so he wasn’t taking her to a restaurant or club. Just as well. She got bored at clubs, he got bored at restaurants.
Josef knew she was puzzled, and glanced over at her, pleased with himself. She’d been so on edge, lately, so consumed with worry about what was—or wasn’t—going on between them. But tonight, in that short dress that showed off her long legs, she seemed relaxed, just pleased to be sharing his company. And he knew she always enjoyed riding in the Ferrari, although he suspected she might be as happy in a Honda Civic, with the right driver beside her.
They were passing the campus of Cal Tech now, the quiet Spanish-style buildings with their graceful arches and red tile roofs. Lucky looked at the buildings with interest. She hadn’t ventured this direction before. When she’d moved to Los Angeles, she’d had limited transportation options, and not much available time to explore the city and the surrounding communities. Now, when she was less constrained, she simply had fallen into the habit of not straying too far from Josef’s house.
When Josef turned through the gates of the Huntington Library and Gardens, she was still completely mystified. If they were here for some sort of museum gala, she was seriously underdressed, but he would have warned her about that. If it was a vampire meeting of some sort, being held far from their usual venue, she still would have been told to dress more impressively.
The Ferrari wound up the drive, and snarled to a stop in front of the library building. Lucky blinked. “Aren’t we a little outside normal hours?” she asked.
“You’re starting to sound like me,” Josef said. “But snarky is not always good.” He gestured to her to keep her seat, and got out of the car, coming around to hand her out. As she stood, a curator came to the door, and Josef waved. “I saved up my cereal box tops, and got a special pass.”
Lucky raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and he slipped her hand through his arm as they went to meet the staffer.
“Ms. Armstrong, I presume?” Josef said. “We spoke on the phone.” He patted Lucky’s hand, enjoying the rising thrum of excitement within her.
“Mr. Kostan,” she smiled, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She was an older woman, dressed in a conservative navy suit, her graying hair neatly coiffed. “And Ms.—“
“Alexander,” Josef answered. “My very good friend.”
“Of course. Won’t you come in? We have the items you requested, prepared for viewing.” She turned and led the way, her soft soled-shoes making no noise on the pavement. Inside, she ushered them through an office to a small room with a single, plain table, on which two large volumes lay, and two pairs of white cotton gloves. One of them was bound in unmarked white leather, the heavy hubs of its spine subtly molded. The other was as large, but in a far older binding, the calf darkened with age.
Josef pulled out the single chair at the table, and indicated to Lucky that she should sit. He handed her the white gloves, as she looked at him questioningly. “Go ahead,” he urged. “I thought you might enjoy getting your hands on these, even with gloves.”
“What are they, Josef?”
“You’re going to have to look and see. I’d suggest you start with the darker one.”
Ms. Armstrong was looking distinctly nervous. “You do understand, Mr. Kostan, these books are fragile?”
Josef laid a hand on Lucky’s shoulder as she pulled on her gloves. “Trust me, you’ll never meet anyone who’ll treat these with more care,” he assured the curator. “And as for me, I’ll barely even breathe around them.”
She nodded. “We have to take great precautions,” she replied. “If it weren’t for your extreme generosity…”
Lucky opened the cover of the first book, gingerly, and gasped at a familiar portrait of a dark-eyed man with a hair flowing to his shoulders from his high, balding forehead. "Mr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories & Tragedies,” she read in a hushed voice. “Josef—this is a First Folio!” The heavy paper crackled under her fingers as she turned a few pages, too stunned to read carefully, but seeing familiar phrases and names jump out of her from the text. Her companion was silent as she examined the volume, listening to the sharp intake of her breath as she looked at it, enjoying the scent of her excitement, mingled with the ineffable aroma of the ancient volume. After a few minutes, she looked up at him, eyes shining. “Just think, Josef, this was printed in 1623.” With Ms. Armstrong watching, she didn’t add, “when you were still breathing,” but it was understood.
Josef nodded. “A very long time ago,” he agreed. “It’s remarkably well-preserved, don’t you think?”
“It’s been well-cared for,” she replied. “Loved.”
He snorted. “Take a look at the other one, Luck’,” he said. “I’m sure Ms. Armstrong would like to get home to her dinner.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” She closed the folio carefully, with some regret, and turned her attention to the white leather-bound tome beside it. As she opened it, her mouth fell open, and tears started in her eyes. “This is…this is so beautiful.” The illuminated manuscript of the Ellesmere Chaucer lay before her, the intricate script slowly sorting itself into intelligibility before her eyes.
Josef leaned forward a bit over her shoulder. “Can you read that?”
Lucky glanced up at the curator. “I can follow the text, if that’s what you mean. My pronunciation is probably terrible.” She read, haltingly, “Whan that aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,/And bathed every veyne in swich licour/ Of which vertu engendred is the flour…” and trailed off. “I’m very out of practice.”
“You sounded fine to me, babe.” He squeezed her shoulder in appreciation. She blinked a few times, and went back to looking at the manuscript. The small paintings in the margins, illustrating the pilgrims, were exquisite, but beyond that, she was completely floored by the thoughtfulness he’d shown in arranging this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She wanted to savor the experience, to treasure it, to imprint it on her brain, indelibly. The pages of the manuscript enthralled her completely.
Josef hated to disturb her, but at length he put his hands lightly on her shoulders, the cool touch calling her back from her rapt reverie. “Come on, there’s one more thing I want you to see, and it’s in a different building.”
Lucky turned one more page of the manuscript, her hands in their pristine white cotton gloves smooth on the vellum, tracing a reverent fingertip over the careful calligraphy of it, the ink as stark and vivid now as the day it was penned, the delicate illuminations more detailed than she would have believed possible. She was looking at the illustration of the Wife of Bath, a large woman in billowing red and blue skirts, riding her dainty, spirited, mare with the air of an expert horsewoman.
With a sigh, she looked up over her shoulder at Josef. “I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me.”
“I know, babe.”
She closed the volume slowly, and stripped off the cotton gloves that had protected it from the oils of her skin. Standing, she turned and slipped into Josef’s arms, planting a kiss on his cool cheek. “This was the nicest thing you could have done for me, Josef.”
He hugged her back. This was almost like the old days, he thought, before things got complicated. “Okay,” he said, “let’s take a walk.”
Lucky thought they’d head back to the car, after thanking Ms. Armstrong again, and exiting the library building, but Josef turned away into the garden, guiding Lucky past the moonlit beds of exotic plants. She made a note to herself to come back sometime during the day, when she could get a proper look at the gardens. But she knew she’d never find them more beautiful than she did at this moment.
The gallery building was so effectively set into the landscape of the gardens that it seemed smaller than it was. Another curator met them, a youngish bearded man who introduced himself as Mr. Porter. He seemed somewhat disapproving of the departure from normal procedure, and had little to say, as he took them into the shadows of the gallery.
“We’ve hung the piece you wanted to see in a special room,” he said gruffly. “This is very irregular.”
“Yes, well, considering that the piece in question…I paid for,” Josef replied, “I think you can live with the disruption.”
Porter was taken aback. “Err, yes. I suppose so.” He paused. “But moving something like this around…it’s not good for it. The conservation people were not happy.”
Josef gave him a forbidding smile. “The painting is over 350 years old, and I hardly think the weight of our gaze on it for a few minutes will destroy it.”
“You do realize how rare this is? For an unknown Rembrandt to surface this way…we spent three years authenticating it. I still don’t understand how it stayed hidden for centuries.”
“As I understand it, such things are not…unheard of, in the art world.”
Lucky was getting curious. A Rembrandt? An unknown one? This was a rarity. She had to wonder why it wasn’t on public display.
Mr. Porter hit a switch, and the heavy drape covering the painting slid aside. Lucky’s eyes widened, and she turned her face up to look at Josef.
“Mr. Porter,” he said, “if you could see your way clear to leaving us, I’d appreciate it. I do believe I requested a private viewing.”
The two men locked eyes for a few moments, then Porter looked away. “I suppose so, Mr. Kostan.” His back was stiff as he walked out.
Lucky barely noticed the exchange, lost in rapt fascination with the painting before her. It was a largish work, a three quarter length portrait of a young man, his figure emerging from the black shadows of the background. The upper half of his face was shaded by the brim of an almost unseen hat, although the whiskey brown of the eyes seemed to burn out of the frame and into the very soul of the viewer. The lower part of the face displayed a strong nose over a wide, serious mouth. Waving masses of dark auburn hair fell to the jaw line above a prominent white linen collar, and a dark coat buttoned with a long row of golden buttons. A brilliant blue cloak decorated with gold frogging down the edge fell from one shoulder, and highlighted the strong hands, framed by falls of lace, caught in the act of pulling on one tan leather glove. The effect was that it seemed to catch a man of means, just about to be about his business.
She looked from the painting to Josef, and back at the artwork. “When was that painted?” she whispered.
“1653,” he responded.
“I’m a little surprised,” she replied.
“That I’d have a portrait done?” He looked down, almost embarrassed. “My sire would have had a fit about that, but sometimes it’s more important to blend in, and there was a fad at the time…a prosperous merchant in Amsterdam, even a foreigner, was expected to have a portrait painted. And van Rijn was one of the best.”
“It’s…magnificent. Why don’t you let them exhibit it?”
“It’s a good likeness, don’t you think?”
Lucky turned from the portrait to Josef. “It’s beyond comprehension,” she said, “that you could have been there, and now here. But I’m glad of it.”
Josef pulled her close. “Some things are too rare to show to the world, sweetheart.” He looked down at the woman in his arms, and then stared at the ancient portrait. He’d thought himself wise and world-weary, detached from emotion, the year it was painted. He was younger now.
A/N: I thought a story a little less angsty and fraught might be nice, so in response to a suggestion from my dear beta reader, Lilly, I wrote this piece.
Read, enjoy, comment if you feel so moved.
Private Viewing
“Where are we going, Josef?” Lucky asked when the 110 flattened into Arroyo Parkway. “Pasadena isn’t really your stomping grounds, is it?”
Josef downshifted the Ferrari smoothly as they approached a light. “You’ll see when we get there, doll,” he replied.
He was being mysterious again, Lucky thought, and supposed that was only in character, considering. While for the most part she loved the dance between them, the unexpected little intimacies of their relationship, things had been strained, lately. She wondered if he was trying to make it up to her, but couldn’t fathom what he had in mind. Usually, if one of the freshies got upset, he suggested retail therapy, or provided an expensive bit of jewelry or new electronics. He’d told her to dress casual, so he wasn’t taking her to a restaurant or club. Just as well. She got bored at clubs, he got bored at restaurants.
Josef knew she was puzzled, and glanced over at her, pleased with himself. She’d been so on edge, lately, so consumed with worry about what was—or wasn’t—going on between them. But tonight, in that short dress that showed off her long legs, she seemed relaxed, just pleased to be sharing his company. And he knew she always enjoyed riding in the Ferrari, although he suspected she might be as happy in a Honda Civic, with the right driver beside her.
They were passing the campus of Cal Tech now, the quiet Spanish-style buildings with their graceful arches and red tile roofs. Lucky looked at the buildings with interest. She hadn’t ventured this direction before. When she’d moved to Los Angeles, she’d had limited transportation options, and not much available time to explore the city and the surrounding communities. Now, when she was less constrained, she simply had fallen into the habit of not straying too far from Josef’s house.
When Josef turned through the gates of the Huntington Library and Gardens, she was still completely mystified. If they were here for some sort of museum gala, she was seriously underdressed, but he would have warned her about that. If it was a vampire meeting of some sort, being held far from their usual venue, she still would have been told to dress more impressively.
The Ferrari wound up the drive, and snarled to a stop in front of the library building. Lucky blinked. “Aren’t we a little outside normal hours?” she asked.
“You’re starting to sound like me,” Josef said. “But snarky is not always good.” He gestured to her to keep her seat, and got out of the car, coming around to hand her out. As she stood, a curator came to the door, and Josef waved. “I saved up my cereal box tops, and got a special pass.”
Lucky raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, and he slipped her hand through his arm as they went to meet the staffer.
“Ms. Armstrong, I presume?” Josef said. “We spoke on the phone.” He patted Lucky’s hand, enjoying the rising thrum of excitement within her.
“Mr. Kostan,” she smiled, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She was an older woman, dressed in a conservative navy suit, her graying hair neatly coiffed. “And Ms.—“
“Alexander,” Josef answered. “My very good friend.”
“Of course. Won’t you come in? We have the items you requested, prepared for viewing.” She turned and led the way, her soft soled-shoes making no noise on the pavement. Inside, she ushered them through an office to a small room with a single, plain table, on which two large volumes lay, and two pairs of white cotton gloves. One of them was bound in unmarked white leather, the heavy hubs of its spine subtly molded. The other was as large, but in a far older binding, the calf darkened with age.
Josef pulled out the single chair at the table, and indicated to Lucky that she should sit. He handed her the white gloves, as she looked at him questioningly. “Go ahead,” he urged. “I thought you might enjoy getting your hands on these, even with gloves.”
“What are they, Josef?”
“You’re going to have to look and see. I’d suggest you start with the darker one.”
Ms. Armstrong was looking distinctly nervous. “You do understand, Mr. Kostan, these books are fragile?”
Josef laid a hand on Lucky’s shoulder as she pulled on her gloves. “Trust me, you’ll never meet anyone who’ll treat these with more care,” he assured the curator. “And as for me, I’ll barely even breathe around them.”
She nodded. “We have to take great precautions,” she replied. “If it weren’t for your extreme generosity…”
Lucky opened the cover of the first book, gingerly, and gasped at a familiar portrait of a dark-eyed man with a hair flowing to his shoulders from his high, balding forehead. "Mr. William Shakespeare's Comedies, Histories & Tragedies,” she read in a hushed voice. “Josef—this is a First Folio!” The heavy paper crackled under her fingers as she turned a few pages, too stunned to read carefully, but seeing familiar phrases and names jump out of her from the text. Her companion was silent as she examined the volume, listening to the sharp intake of her breath as she looked at it, enjoying the scent of her excitement, mingled with the ineffable aroma of the ancient volume. After a few minutes, she looked up at him, eyes shining. “Just think, Josef, this was printed in 1623.” With Ms. Armstrong watching, she didn’t add, “when you were still breathing,” but it was understood.
Josef nodded. “A very long time ago,” he agreed. “It’s remarkably well-preserved, don’t you think?”
“It’s been well-cared for,” she replied. “Loved.”
He snorted. “Take a look at the other one, Luck’,” he said. “I’m sure Ms. Armstrong would like to get home to her dinner.”
“Oh. Oh, yes.” She closed the folio carefully, with some regret, and turned her attention to the white leather-bound tome beside it. As she opened it, her mouth fell open, and tears started in her eyes. “This is…this is so beautiful.” The illuminated manuscript of the Ellesmere Chaucer lay before her, the intricate script slowly sorting itself into intelligibility before her eyes.
Josef leaned forward a bit over her shoulder. “Can you read that?”
Lucky glanced up at the curator. “I can follow the text, if that’s what you mean. My pronunciation is probably terrible.” She read, haltingly, “Whan that aprill with his shoures soote/The droghte of march hath perced to the roote,/And bathed every veyne in swich licour/ Of which vertu engendred is the flour…” and trailed off. “I’m very out of practice.”
“You sounded fine to me, babe.” He squeezed her shoulder in appreciation. She blinked a few times, and went back to looking at the manuscript. The small paintings in the margins, illustrating the pilgrims, were exquisite, but beyond that, she was completely floored by the thoughtfulness he’d shown in arranging this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. She wanted to savor the experience, to treasure it, to imprint it on her brain, indelibly. The pages of the manuscript enthralled her completely.
Josef hated to disturb her, but at length he put his hands lightly on her shoulders, the cool touch calling her back from her rapt reverie. “Come on, there’s one more thing I want you to see, and it’s in a different building.”
Lucky turned one more page of the manuscript, her hands in their pristine white cotton gloves smooth on the vellum, tracing a reverent fingertip over the careful calligraphy of it, the ink as stark and vivid now as the day it was penned, the delicate illuminations more detailed than she would have believed possible. She was looking at the illustration of the Wife of Bath, a large woman in billowing red and blue skirts, riding her dainty, spirited, mare with the air of an expert horsewoman.
With a sigh, she looked up over her shoulder at Josef. “I can’t even begin to tell you what this means to me.”
“I know, babe.”
She closed the volume slowly, and stripped off the cotton gloves that had protected it from the oils of her skin. Standing, she turned and slipped into Josef’s arms, planting a kiss on his cool cheek. “This was the nicest thing you could have done for me, Josef.”
He hugged her back. This was almost like the old days, he thought, before things got complicated. “Okay,” he said, “let’s take a walk.”
Lucky thought they’d head back to the car, after thanking Ms. Armstrong again, and exiting the library building, but Josef turned away into the garden, guiding Lucky past the moonlit beds of exotic plants. She made a note to herself to come back sometime during the day, when she could get a proper look at the gardens. But she knew she’d never find them more beautiful than she did at this moment.
The gallery building was so effectively set into the landscape of the gardens that it seemed smaller than it was. Another curator met them, a youngish bearded man who introduced himself as Mr. Porter. He seemed somewhat disapproving of the departure from normal procedure, and had little to say, as he took them into the shadows of the gallery.
“We’ve hung the piece you wanted to see in a special room,” he said gruffly. “This is very irregular.”
“Yes, well, considering that the piece in question…I paid for,” Josef replied, “I think you can live with the disruption.”
Porter was taken aback. “Err, yes. I suppose so.” He paused. “But moving something like this around…it’s not good for it. The conservation people were not happy.”
Josef gave him a forbidding smile. “The painting is over 350 years old, and I hardly think the weight of our gaze on it for a few minutes will destroy it.”
“You do realize how rare this is? For an unknown Rembrandt to surface this way…we spent three years authenticating it. I still don’t understand how it stayed hidden for centuries.”
“As I understand it, such things are not…unheard of, in the art world.”
Lucky was getting curious. A Rembrandt? An unknown one? This was a rarity. She had to wonder why it wasn’t on public display.
Mr. Porter hit a switch, and the heavy drape covering the painting slid aside. Lucky’s eyes widened, and she turned her face up to look at Josef.
“Mr. Porter,” he said, “if you could see your way clear to leaving us, I’d appreciate it. I do believe I requested a private viewing.”
The two men locked eyes for a few moments, then Porter looked away. “I suppose so, Mr. Kostan.” His back was stiff as he walked out.
Lucky barely noticed the exchange, lost in rapt fascination with the painting before her. It was a largish work, a three quarter length portrait of a young man, his figure emerging from the black shadows of the background. The upper half of his face was shaded by the brim of an almost unseen hat, although the whiskey brown of the eyes seemed to burn out of the frame and into the very soul of the viewer. The lower part of the face displayed a strong nose over a wide, serious mouth. Waving masses of dark auburn hair fell to the jaw line above a prominent white linen collar, and a dark coat buttoned with a long row of golden buttons. A brilliant blue cloak decorated with gold frogging down the edge fell from one shoulder, and highlighted the strong hands, framed by falls of lace, caught in the act of pulling on one tan leather glove. The effect was that it seemed to catch a man of means, just about to be about his business.
She looked from the painting to Josef, and back at the artwork. “When was that painted?” she whispered.
“1653,” he responded.
“I’m a little surprised,” she replied.
“That I’d have a portrait done?” He looked down, almost embarrassed. “My sire would have had a fit about that, but sometimes it’s more important to blend in, and there was a fad at the time…a prosperous merchant in Amsterdam, even a foreigner, was expected to have a portrait painted. And van Rijn was one of the best.”
“It’s…magnificent. Why don’t you let them exhibit it?”
“It’s a good likeness, don’t you think?”
Lucky turned from the portrait to Josef. “It’s beyond comprehension,” she said, “that you could have been there, and now here. But I’m glad of it.”
Josef pulled her close. “Some things are too rare to show to the world, sweetheart.” He looked down at the woman in his arms, and then stared at the ancient portrait. He’d thought himself wise and world-weary, detached from emotion, the year it was painted. He was younger now.
