The Seduction of Ozzie Stone

The Seduction of Ozzie Stone

Stephen Symons

4 In exactly twelve days, fifteen hours and thirty two minutes, Ozzie Stone, a retired optometrist, would feel something close to complete peace beneath the breasts of a voluptuous woman. Although he was sixty four years old, and had carried a cough that sounded

like

a

mule’s

bark

for

almost

two

decades, his passion for life and love burned as bright as ever. The local rumour mills, fueled by copious amounts of instant coffee and babka, still whispered about Ozzie’s scandalous behaviour.

Ronit, his long suffering wife had caught Ozzie in flagrante delicto with one of her piano students.

She had promptly suffered a stroke of operatic proportions and died on the spot. It is said that Ozzie followed her death with a brief period of contrition and the comforts of more flesh.

It was a fresh April morning, Cape Town was infused with the orange, white and blue patriotism of the 1952 Jan van Riebeeck tercentenary festival.

5 Even the city’s sky had shifted to a striking nationalist blue. Towards the foreshore, salty hints of the harbour had slipped up the streets on the back of a light north wester. It was Saturday and Ozzie had decided to lose himself in the forgotten cracks of Cape Town. Back then, the city still carried the echoes of its mysteries and secrets in forgotten alleys, trawled by the ghosts of slaves and drunken seafarers. These were places of perpetual shadow, where the lost haberdasheries, second hand booksellers and antique dealers eked out their last days.

Ozzie found himself entering an antique dealer.

The door ached its way open and he was greeted with a profusion of bad art. Cherubs that looked more like gargoyles hovered over mythical landscapes, blackened by age and thick varnish. Distended nudes abounded, as did the stench of expired opulence and mould. Ozzie gave the hung paintings a miss, and

6 began sifting through the batches of canvases stacked against the dank walls. Most were gauche Victorian copies, but nestled between an oil of Leda and the Swan, and a portrait of a bovine looking duchess was a reclining nude that caught his eye. The way in which the nude had turned her head towards a large window reminded Ozzie of his Ronit, and the way in which she would take in the morning view of Table Bay from her dresser. The painting was no larger than a school exercise book, yet it glowed beyond its mediocre company. The economy of line and deft twists of oil seemed like an adagio to a great symphony. Ozzie held the painting like a newborn and then lifted it to a fizzling light bulb. The yellow light skirted its surface. He smelled it, inhaling its age and stroking its rough hand-carved frame, but it was the signature that got his heart racing. It simply read: Rembrandt 1636. He read the delicate wisps of script repeatedly, not daring to run his finger over the canvas, for fear of erasing

7 what seemed like a mirage.

‘Could this be a genuine Rembrandt?’ Ozzie whispered to himself. Dazed by his discovery, he made a hurried purchase and listened to the antique dealer’s ramble about the painting’s origins. Ozzie’s discovery had been part of a collection of paintings from a wine farmer’s widow.

He paid the asking price of twenty five pounds as the aquiline dealer tried to throw in a wan looking watercolour of Blouberg for half-price. Fearing the alley would reclaim its treasure, Ozzie hurried back towards the enthusiasm of Darling street’s flags and Saturday shoppers, hacking all the way like a blocked drain pipe.

It took him a week to gather enough courage to visit a local expert, Pieter Cronje. Besides tending to Cronje’s optometric needs for many years, Ozzie had read of Cronje’s expertise in exhibition brochures and the local newspapers.

8 Pieter Cronje was a disgraced Dutch Reformed deacon who had found redemption in an allconsuming love of Dutch Baroque art; specifically the paintings of Frans Hals and Rembrandt. Cronje had cultivated his love like a prize rose garden, to the point where National Gallery conservatoires in black rimmed glasses would regularly seek his expertise to authenticate artworks earmarked for purchase.

When Ozzie arrived at Pieter Cronje’s Victorian off Kloof Street, a sullen gardener in pressed khaki overalls lifted a gloved hand in the direction of the front door. The doorway was festooned with a string of Van Riebeeck festival flags. Ozzie grimaced.

He wondered about Cronje’s political leanings as he stepped from the blue afternoon into a sombre palette of leathery browns and velvet blacks.

He made his way down the hallway, passing over-

9 flowing

bookshelves

and

walls

covered

with

drawings, postcards, paintings and scraps of penmanship. The smell of linseed oil was pervasive.

Van

Riebeeck

festival

posters

against a small bookshelf.

were

stacked

He found Pieter

Cronje in a small study, bathed in chiaroscuro light that seeped from a gash in the curtains. Cronje barely looked up from a pair of spectacles and said, ‘Ah Stone, so good to see you again. Welcome, how can I help? Hope you didn’t run into any trouble getting here. I hear those kleurlinge are having another anti-festival demonstration on the Grand Parade.

I tell you man, it’s a blady disgrace. So what’s this I hear about a painting?’ He rose from a threadbare Chippendale and extended his arm. His breath smelled of burnt toast, and the incessant moving of his spindle-like limbs gave the impression he was more arachnid

than

human.

‘May

I?’

said

Cronje

trying to mask his obvious interest with other fragments of small talk. Ozzie smiled and handed the

10 painting towards a flurry of fingers that hovered over its linen wrapping like antennae, tapping at its hidden contents. Cronje placed the painting over a mattress of envelopes on a small table and unwrapped it with uncanny speed. He starred at the painting, sweeping away unopened envelopes as his interest grew to clear excitement. Cronje carried it to a shaft of light, tilting and twisting it, as if examining a precious stone. ‘Where did you find this painting?’

‘Um, I picked it up at a second-hand art dealer off Hope Street for twenty five pounds.’ replied Ozzie.

Long threads of oiled hair had slipped from Cronje’s

bald

magnifying the

patch.

glass

painting’s

and

He

lunged

moved

surface

for

it

for

a

slowly

several

large over silent

minutes and then said, ‘This my friend, is more than likely a Rembrandt van Rijn. A rare find indeed. It’s probably worth close to one hundred thousand pounds, and perhaps more at a competitive

11 international auction. You have purchased an oil sketch of Rembrandt’s wife, Saskia van Uylenburgh.’

For

a

moment,

Ozzie

had

to

steady

himself.

Cronje paused, swallowed hard and continued at a slighter higher pitch, ‘There are no remaining examples of Rembrandt’s reclining nudes. Yes, there’s mention of a larger painting but I doubt it exists.

And now this gem!’ Cronje’s voice trailed off to a garble of mutters but then hesitancy grabbed him.

His posture stiffened, he gathered his excited arms with a pair of transparent hands and said, ‘It’s perhaps best that I get my colleagues at Sotheby’s to appraise it. It will take a week or so. Would you like some tea and melktert?’ The thought of Cronje actually eating anything but insects or small rodents seemed incongruous to Ozzie.

‘Thanks Cronje, but I’m going to shul this evening and it’s a bit of a walk.’

‘Ag ja, you people walk everywhere on your Sundays.’

‘Well yes, but I’ve got a bad heart and after the

12 second heart attack my doctor insisted that I exercise regularly if I’d like to make seventy.

Thanks for your help Cronje, I’ll drop the painting off on Tuesday so you can send it to Sotheby’s, but until then I’d like to hang onto Saskia. I’m not quite ready to bid her farewell.’

Cronje half-smiled and said, ‘Of course, enjoy her company. See you on Tuesday then. Ah wait Cronje, I have a complimentary ticket to the festival. No doubt you’re going.’

Ozzie was caught off-guard, ‘Er yes, perhaps I should go.’

Within a few minutes they had parted company, yet something told Ozzie he had made a grave mistake by allowing Cronje to examine the painting further.

Ozzie

could

feel

the

beginnings

of

evening

nipping at the skin beneath his jacket. Autumn had bedded Government Avenue with oak leaves that crackled like a fire underfoot. He walked right by

13 the shul where huddles of coated congregants had gathered. Ozzie was too busy dreaming of the long white beaches and cloudless skies just north of Lourenço Marques that his Rembrandt could buy.

Ozzie still clenched the Van Riebeeck festival ticket in his left hand. He shook his head and tossed it into one of the wire bins that lined the avenue.

Pieter Cronje had closed the door behind Ozzie in a hurry, shutting out the bronzed afternoon light.

Cronje’s mind was already riddled with a blur of mental drafts and unlikely scenarios that would see the Rembrandt added to a Sotheby’s auction list.

By nightfall, half a bottle of muscadel and a trio of Scarlatti sonatas had made a serious contribution to his plan. He would phone Rachel in the morning.

When

Rachel

Levine

picked

up

the

Bakelite

receiver she knew it would be Pieter. He always phoned her on Sundays, hoping she would agree

14 to a slow walk along the Sea Point promenade, but today there would be no requests for seaside walks or offers of ice-cream.

Cronje got straight to the point and said, ‘Hello Rachel, it’s me Pieter, would you like to make twenty thousand pounds?’

‘Pieter, what are talking about? I’m not in the mood for jokes. Daniel has croup and I’ve been up the whole night.’

‘I’m serious; meet me for a coffee at Topolinos at four and I’ll explain everything.’

Rachel sighed and said, ‘This had better be good, I’m feeling under the weather today. Okay, if you insist. See you later Pieter.’ Rachel never quite understood her need to please Pieter Cronje.

The last time they met was over a year ago on a dull afternoon overlooking Camps Bay beach.

When Rachel floated into Topolinos Pieter was reminded why the beards of the church synod must

15 have thought he would have fallen under her spell and perhaps her sublime weight too. Strange to think that a year’s worth of cake sale profits had been spent on nothing more than weekly visits to her Sea Point studio for drawing classes. Rachel was an art teacher by day but her real talents lay in replicating the work of Flemish and Dutch masters. Rachel Levine sat down, swept a wave of dark chocolate hair aside and lit a cigarette in one graceful motion. Cronje was transfixed. She smiled, tilted her head and exhaled a cone of smoke, ‘So Pieter, what this all about?’

‘I’d like you to copy something.’

‘You mean forge something Pieter,’ Rachel whispered as her coffee arrived.

‘Well, it’s somewhat complicated. It’s a small Rembrandt I’m after. It’s priceless really and you’ll have less than a week to weave your magic, perhaps a day or two more. Like I said, there’s twenty thousand pounds in it for you. It’s a gem Rachel and I’m convinced it’s authentic.’

16 Rachel shifted her chair over the flecked linoleum floor. It squeaked in protest as she said, ‘Pieter, I’ve never done this seriously, or at least for a serious amount of money. I could end up in prison.’

Pieter

wrung

his

grey

hands

and

smiled,

‘Rachel, your work is flawless. The Pieter de Hooch that hangs in my lounge had the National Gallery curators completely fooled. That peacock Danie Retief even put in an offer on behalf of the Michaelis Collection. I have no doubts about your talents. You mix your own pigments and varnishes.

Your raw materials are authentic. Rachel, you just need to stare at a canvas and it ages four hundred years over weekend. Do you still have any leftovers of the stretchers and canvas I gave you for the de Hooch? They are seventeenth century originals, compliments of my Rijksmuseum visit. Once you’re done, not even I will be able to tell the difference.

Oh yes, those tacks I picked up in Amsterdam will also come in handy.’

17 Rachel felt pressured by Cronje’s proposal, but if the Rembrandt was genuine she could pay off her debts and perhaps leave Cape Town and its past behind.

‘I’ll drop it off on Tuesday. You can prepare the canvas in the meantime. Another thing, don’t worry about the frame. Buyers are always seduced by unframed works.’

Pieter continued to explain his plan to Rachel.

She listened intently and sealed their plan with a kiss to a sallow cheek. Pieter blushed and bumped the Formica table. The crockery cackled at his awkwardness.

Ozzie Stone decided to take the bus home on the day he handed the painting to Pieter Cronje. It was too cold to walk. He spent the journey to Kloof Street counting how many orange, white and blue flags were strewn across the streets. There were too many to count, so he concentrated on worrying.

18 Cronje seemed a little too buoyant for Ozzie’s liking. Those spidery limbs were as animated as ever as he re-assured Ozzie the Rembrandt was in safe hands.

Cronje had said, ‘I’ll let you know the instant I hear from Sotheby’s. I can almost guarantee they will agree with my findings Ozzie.’

Ozzie’s mind was buzzing with questions. Why was Cronje suddenly calling him by his first name? Why the incessant smiling? Ozzie drew circles on the misted bus window revealing a grey and flat Cape Town. Large drops of rain began to fall.

Rachel’s studio overlooked Beach Road and the Sea Point promenade. From the sixth floor she watched a mother prying a kid from the railings before a wave crashed into the seawall. Both mother and child were drenched in an explosion of spray. The sea looked angry, pushed shoreward by massive slabs of cloud. It would rain tonight and she would

19 paint through the storm, all the way to her twenty thousand pounds and a new future for Daniel. When the doorbell rang she was ready to begin. Her studio looked like an operating theatre, brushes and palette knives were arranged according to size, width and shape. A large palette was at the ready, flanked by jam jars of hand-mixed oils.

Rachel opened her front door to find a wheezing Pieter Cronje, wrapped in a large black coat with shoulders that glistened with rain. He carried the canvas in a leather satchel, unbuckled it and presented it to Rachel with a tightlipped smile.

She unwrapped the Rembrandt and poured over its detail in silence, examining the brushstrokes of the master whilst scribbling notes. Cronje extended his arm in slow motion, tapped Rachel on the shoulder and said, ‘So can you do it?’

She turned and smiled, ‘I’ll need at least a week, but yes, I think I can do it.’

20 Ozzie Stone spent the week drinking large amounts of Count Richelieu brandy, listening to radio plays and watching the city turn to winter. A reassuring phone call from Pieter Cronje made little difference to his concerns, although he felt some relief when Pieter mentioned the painting would be returned

by Sotheby’s during the following week. Cronje had been busy on the phone, constantly checking up on Rachel’s progress. She would be ready by Monday morning.

‘Pieter, I’m almost done with the drying process. We cannot be handing a wet painting back to its owner.’

‘Of course Rachel, I’ll drop by your studio on Monday afternoon, at say three ‘o clock then.’

Monday arrived with an icy Southerly. From Rachel’s flat, the washed out sky seemed to slip behind the horizon. Other than the din of the traffic, the streets were deserted. She had covered both canvases with a paint spattered sheet.

21 He arrived a few minutes after three ‘o clock , dressed in a crisp polyester suit the colour of green glass. Rachel was still wearing an apron covered with a technicolor array of smears and smudges. Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun and she wore a slender pair of tortoise shell glasses. Pieter couldn’t contain himself, his fingers plucked at the air in anticipation as he said, ‘Rachel, let me see, let me see your masterpiece.’

Rachel lifted the sheet with the air of a magician, revealing the paintings side by side, one framed, the other unframed. Pieter blinked hard and shook his head. He ran his eyes over both paintings, dragged his fingers over the rough wooden flourishes of the frame and then concluded his appraisal by folding the crumpled sheet into a perfect rectangle.

‘You’re a magician Rachel Levine. If it wasn’t for the frame, I’d find it difficult to distinguish between the original and your masterpiece. You’ll have your money within a month.’ Rachel laughed and said,

22 ‘Actually Pieter, the framed version is my copy. I presume you’ll be hanging onto the original, so I transferred the frame to my copy.’

‘Heavens alive, of course, how silly of me.’ Cronje looked pale. Rachel’s forgery had fooled him.

A day later Ozzie Stone went to fetch his Rembrandt from Pieter Cronje. Cronje had propped Rachel’s framed copy against a porcelain vase on an ancient dining room table. The painting faced the entrance of the lounge, bathed in sunlight from a large sash window. The reunion brought a warm smile to Ozzie’s face. He was brimming with questions about Sotheby’s, so Cronje fed him nothing more than the lies he wanted to hear. Thirty minutes later they shook hands and said their goodbyes. Ozzie smiled when he thought how Cronje had winced from his firm handshake. That was the last time Ozzie Stone would see Pieter Cronje. For some reason Cronje never contacted him again, but something had shifted for

23 Ozzie Stone, the painting’s value had grown to more than just a retirement in the tropics. Saskia van Uylenburgh had stirred something deep within him.

Sometimes Cape Town’s beauty is unsurpassed.

Long brushstrokes of pink cloud were dashed above the sea that had turned the colour of a ripe orange. From fifteen thousand feet the sunset was breathtaking.

As

the

South

African

Airways

Lockheed Constellation banked gently to the west, the peninsula shimmered in the fading light.

Rachel tapped her son Daniel on the shoulder and said, ‘Look Darling, right down there is where we used to live.’ Daniel leaned towards the window as Rachel squeezed his hand. The dipping sun fluttered behind the motion of the propellers as she watched the city begin to disappear below puffs of cumulus. Resting at her feet was a floral bag containing a painting the size of an exercise book.

24 To think it took just over a week to make two perfect forgeries, and that Pieter Cronje had left her flat with both of them. Rachel inspected a small fleck of dirt under the nail of her forefinger; it was oil paint. She brought the finger to her nose and caught a faint hint of linseed oil. She smiled at Daniel, leaned down to look at the Rembrandt and thought of the new future it would bring.

Ozzie was overcome by a deep weariness when he reached his Oranjezicht home. Below him the Molteno Reservoir had turned to a pane of stained glass. The city was stretched out in front of his house. It felt good to be home. He unlocked the front door and trudged towards his bedroom. His footsteps echoed over the oregon floorboards. The house felt barren, as if its soul had departed a long time ago.

Ronit’s clothes were still hanging in her wardrobe.

Ozzie had left everything as it was. He could hear the ticking of her wristwatch on his bedside table.

25 He took the painting and hung it carefully above the headboard of his bed, making small adjustments to its position. He thought she was beautiful. He looked at Saskia for some time, marveling at her enigmatic gaze that held a secret he would never know. He thought of his life, and the thirty five years he had shared with Ronit. He then closed his eyes and fell into a dreamless sleep for the first time in many months.

Saskia van Uylenburgh

26

The view from Rachel’s flat

Government Avenue

27

D.F. Malan Airport

Pieter Cronje’s house off Kloof Street

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