Chapter 5

Arseniy tried to make a beeline for his favorite seat near the back door of the bus. It wasn’t easy. Today the bus was full and he was forced to shoulder his way through a motley crew–all bound for the working class area of Maskavas Street. He almost gagged at the potpourri of smells—the stink of wet leather, unwashed bodies, stale tobacco, garlic and musky cheap cologne.

Head down he worked his way through the bus, jostling and elbowing and fending off curses—until, to his horror, he suddenly lost his footing. Stumbling and flailing he wound up kicking over a huge shopping bag. Which belonged to someone. An angry woman. He knew he’d get it. And sure enough. Rough Russian argot assailed him, plus a swift blow to his shin. God, he hated people!

Deflecting some of the shoving and pushing, he finally wedged himself into a seat next to a snoozing man. The old man reeked of alcohol. Far from being his favorite seat Arsy was relieved to have somewhere to sit. Almost immediately, despite conversations (mainly in Russian) buzzing all around him, he entered his happy place. Never mind. One day soon I’ll have a car of my own and maybe a large apartment on Elizabetes Street. Yes! Just you wait and see.

Arsy shut his eyes. His thoughts settled briefly on the woman who had been waiting for him outside of Sam’s, the one who had trailed along beside him. He vaguely knew her from the restaurant and thought that her name could be Simone. What a talker she was! But a useful talker. His instincts told him that she could well play a role in his most recent project. I’ll keep her in mind, he said to himself and moved on to revisit his plans for a better future.

The time had come. His days working as a waiter were now over. He had already given his notice. He would simply drop in to pick up his paycheck from Sam’s, then vamoose out of there. These days he needed more time to spend in his studio.

Arsy was still wearing his waiter’s wear – black trousers and a white shirt but had put on a scruffy windbreaker and a ball cap since it was November, getting cold  and always about to rain. He knew that people stared. He stood out in any crowd. He was young — tall and muscled and handsome and usually a smile from him eased every situation. But not this time and not on this bus. He was used to women ogling him when he worked at Sam’s but crowded buses were another matter.

He smiled to himself. It won’t be long now. Won’t be long. Those words had become his mantra. Pretty soon he was going to let the world know what he had discovered. A new Janis Rozentals—a lost masterpiece, the ultimate sleeper! The painting had been found, he would declare, rolled up and hidden under floorboards in an apartment which had just been renovated.

For some reason, riding on a bus always helped him think – and plot. From his knapsack he pulled out a book that was holding him spellbound. Forging Ahead. It was a book about Tony Tetro, a California artist known as the world’s greatest living art forger. He’d love to meet Tony Tetro—who had even fooled Prince Charles. It wasn’t an ideal time for reading but just holding the book gave him a thrill. He had another book in his knapsack. Five Ways To Spot A Fake. This he had studied assiduously.

His Rozentals “discovery” was a credible story. When Latvia had been invaded by either Germans or Russians the pillage of everything precious had taken place. In the ensuing chaos, Latvians scrambled to salvage whatever they could, hiding their treasures, wherever they could.

Arsy had researched the work of Rozentals and had chosen a painting as obscure as possible. Not one of the monumental much-loved works that were prominent in books and catalogues. None of those would do. He had even managed to find an old canvas from the late 1800s. Some nondescript art but excellent to be worked over to become a Rozentals masterpiece.

Lost in his fantasies about Tony Tetro and Prince Charles, Arsy almost missed his stop. An intake of breath and with one quick movement he jumped off at just the right moment. But disaster ensued. Losing his balance he collided right into a fat lady with incandescent orange hair. There was a dog with her. Yelps and barks and snarls and an earful of Russian obscenities peppered him like hail.

The miscreant’s teeth had sunk deeply into his trouser leg, narrowly missing his flesh. And wouldn’t let go. Arsy kicked and shouted but to his amazement the dog wouldn’t let go. His adrenaline pumped. He was ready to grab the little fucker and throttle it to death. What a scene! His good pants too. A huge rip. If he had a gun he’d shoot both of them dead.

All it took was a fierce kick with the other foot and the dog let go. Snarling and barking and cursing the duo disappeared down the derelict street.

Brushing himself off Arsy proceeded to his studio. It was dark by now. How he couldn’t wait to get out of this neighborhood! Potholes, missing pavement, graffiti on almost every shabby building. The sidewalk was muddy and littered with cigarette butts and other detritus. People shambled by. Some in a rush, others seemingly in a daze. It was always dangerous at night and Arsy was glad he was packing a switchblade.

Without any more unfortunate encounters he had arrived safely at his doorstep. A discrete sign next to the doorbells announced Arseniy Roban Art Studio. Just as he was reaching for his key he received a text on his phone. It was from his  business associate—a former KGB officer who owns multiple apartment buildings in Jurmala and lives in a gated mansion overlooking the sea. Arsy envied the lifestyle. He had never been invited inside. Perhaps soon that would no longer be the case.

Svetlana has something for you. She’ll wait by your door.

Arsy looked up from his phone and immediately his eye was caught by a sensational vision—a true beauty, not so young but soo glamorous. He needed to believe in beauty. Even to believe in love. His mood changed instantly. There was so much ahead for him – beautiful women, trips abroad, a house in Jurmala.

He felt like using his famous line: I’d love to paint your portrait? But her expression stopped him cold. She stared at him with a forbidding frown. But also with a tiny contemptuous smile on the side. Tall, blonde, his type. He could tell that underneath the light coat she had a great body. Surely not an escort. He wouldn’t pick her up. Not worth it. Even after a short dalliance it was always hard to get rid of them.

He was surprised when she spoke. Her voice was low and very cold.

“I have something for you.”

Oh God! He had made a mistake! Why had Juris sent this knockout and not one of his regular male “associates?”