The real thing

The two men stood on opposite sides of the large desk. The older man was tall and handsome. He had a fine head of silver hair and his eyes were blue but very cold.

The young man was also tall. His hair was long and blonde – he had the clear eyes and open face of a boy and his smile was shy. He had an old brown leather briefcase under his arm. He was very, very nervous.

The older man was the first to speak. “Sit down, Mr … um … ”

“Bromfield. Sebastian Bromfield. It’s very kind of you to see me, Mr Pickering.”

“I don’t have much time, Mr Bromfield. What can I do for you? ”

“Mr Pickering, they say you are an expert on Leonardo da Vinci…”

The older man corrected Sebastian’s pronunciation of the great painter’s name. Sebastian blushed and continued.

“Sorry, yes, of course. Well, I have a drawing…and I think, that perhaps, I mean…maybe it’s by Leonardo da Vinci.” This time he said the name correctly.

“Really? ” Pickering laughed coldly. “And where is this drawing? ”

“I have it here. Just a minute…”

Sebastian opened the briefcase and took out a blue plastic bag. He opened the bag and took out a small drawing covered with fine white paper. He put it on the desk. Pickering didn’t move, so Sebastian took off the white paper and pushed the drawing across the desk. The old man’s face didn’t change, but he turned on the lamp on his desk. He put the drawing under the light and looked at it for a long time. It was a drawing of a woman’s face – a sweet, young face.

“Do you know anything at all about art? ” Pickering asked, without looking at Sebastian.

“Nothing.”

“What makes you think that this drawing is a real Leonardo? ”

“Well…it’s very old, isn’t it? And someone…a friend…suggested that it looked like a Leonardo. So I thought maybe…”

“Where did you get it? ” Pickering looked up at Sebastian.

“My uncle…well, he wasn’t really my uncle…he was my stepmother’s brother…he died. And he left me his flat in Paris.”

“The drawing, Mr. Bromfield! ”

“Oh, sorry. Well, in this flat there are a number of pictures – not very good ones, I’m afraid. One of them was in a nice gold frame and I thought I could sell the frame – and so – to cut a long story short, I took the original picture out of the frame and I found this drawing.”

There was a moment’s silence. The old man never took his cold blue eyes from Sebastian’s face. Then he said, “It’s a copy, of course. It’s quite a good copy and the paper is very old. Perhaps it’s a copy by a contemporary of Leonardo’s…or by one of his students.”

Sebastian’s face was pale. He looked at Pickering.

“May I ask you how you can be so sure? ”

The old man smiled for the first time. “Because, young man, I have the original drawing! ”

“Oh! Oh, … I see.” Sebastian was obviously fighting to control his feelings. “Do you think I could see the original drawing? ”

Pickering stood up and went to a dark corner of the room. He took down a small picture from the wall. Behind the picture there was a safe. He keyed in a number and the door of the safe opened.

“I keep all my valuable pictures in here, ” he said.

He came back with a drawing in his hand. He put it on the desk next to Sebastian’s drawing. “Look, ” he said. “Compare the two.”

Sebastian looked at the drawings in silence.

“Compare the line of the mouth, here and here. See how fresh and loving it is in the original. Look at the eyes – such passion in Leonardo da Vinci’s drawing, but – where is the passion in your drawing? ”

“Yes, ” said Sebastian. “Of course. There is no comparison.”

Sebastian said nothing. He couldn’t take his eyes off the two drawings.

Pickering turned off the lamp.

“Don’t be too unhappy, Bromfield, ” he said. “You’re not going to make a fortune, but that drawing is worth some money – two or three thousand pounds maybe.”

“Oh, dear! I hoped it was worth more, ” said Sebastian sadly.

“I understand, ” Pickering said, but there was no warmth in his voice, no understanding, only triumph. Sebastian stood up.

“I apologise for taking up your time, Mr Pickering…You’ve been very kind, ” he said.

“Just a minute, Mr … um … Bromfield. I have five minutes. It’s only six o’clock. Would you like a drink before you go? A sherry, perhaps? ”

“That’s very kind of you, but…”

Behind Pickering’s desk there was a table with bottles and glasses on it. He turned his chair round and very slowly and carefully poured a clear, pale liquid into two glasses. He turned back to the desk and gave a glass to Sebastian. Sebastian drank the sherry quickly. He put down the glass.

“Thank you, Mr Pickering. I must go. I’m catching a train at seven thirty.” He picked up one of the drawings and put it in the plastic bag.

“You’re going back to Paris? ”

“Yes, ” answered Sebastian, closing his briefcase. “I’m going back to my uncle’s flat.”

“Well, good luck and goodbye, ” Pickering said.

Sebastian left the room.

Pickering smiled and then forgot all about Sebastian. He began to think of his evening - first the opera, then dinner in the company of rich men and pretty women. He poured more sherry into his glass.

* * *

Sebastian walked quickly along the street. There was a cold wind but he didn’t feel it. “Walk slowly, ” he said to himself. “Keep calm. You have to keep very calm.”

At the first traffic lights, he stopped a taxi. “Heathrow Airport – Terminal 4, ” he said to the driver. His voice was different – strong and decisive. “And hurry. I’m catching a plane to New York at 9: 10.”

He sat back and looked out of the window at the London evening – at the lights of Piccadilly. “I did it! I did it! ” he said again and again. And he laughed. He held the old leather briefcase close to him. In it was Pickering’s drawing. On Pickering’s desk was Sebastian’s drawing – a drawing by Sebastian.

“Perhaps it’s a copy by one of Leonardo’s students or a contemporary, ” he said, in Pickering’s pompous voice. And he laughed again and again.

I. Pronounce correctly the following proper names used in the story:

Sebastian Bromfield [si'bæ stiə n 'brɔ mfi: ld], Pickering ['pikə riŋ ], Leonardo da Vinci * [li: ə 'na: dou də 'vint∫ i], Heathrow ['hi: θ rou], Piccadilly [ˌ pikə 'dili].