Memento Park Read online

  As we left, walking in silence, red-eyed, through the cemetery, a memory came to mind, as I suppose they do in cemeteries. My father borrowed the money from his first employer to buy our house. For twenty-five thousand dollars he bought the two-story corner house in Queens across from a lush green park that must have seemed Edenic to him, the house it had now fallen to me to sell. There was no note, no paper. Just a handshake. And for the next twenty years he made his monthly payment religiously—indeed, it was the only thing he was religious about—long past the time when the two men worked together. And after the last payment was made, my father collected us all around the dinner table to celebrate. A modest dream, hard-won. I could see in his eyes how good it felt.

  I hadn’t called Rachel yet. I was still clinging to my ill-gotten windfall. After all, it might not have been mine, but who’s to say it was Rabbi Wolfe’s either? So went the rationalizations, each more appalling than the last. I lived in the dim hope that I might work out a different solution to this puzzle that had already been solved. Aware every minute of the indecency of delaying, given the rabbi’s condition. Saying goodbye, I have learned, is much harder than it seems, even when goodbye is all that is left to say.

  I asked Tracy to sit down on a marble bench that overlooked a man-made rock fountain, painstaking in its attempts at verisimilitude. I told her about the forgery, gave her the last bit of the tale. She was entitled to it, I felt, but I also wanted something from her: I wanted to see my old man for a last moment through her loving eyes, to try to help solve this one last question that evaded me.

  At first, I wondered why he refused any discussion of the painting. That, at least, had become clear. He apparently drew his ethical line just short of outright theft. But then why hadn’t he waved me off with the truth? It was just the sort of story he loved to crow about—his clever father duping the Nazis! Freedom bought for the price of a cheap canvas and some leftover oil paints. It seemed like a tale he would relish retelling, modifying, altering, reinventing. I couldn’t understand it and I turned to Tracy for illumination.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know, Matt. It could be for a million reasons.” She must have sensed my dissatisfaction with her answer, because she took my hand.

  “My guess, though, for what it’s worth,” she continued, “is that it was because of his mother. She didn’t get out. That’s not a story he wanted to talk about.”

  She continued talking but I was still hanging on that last part. That’s how it was with her, Tracy’s Razor, always the most direct and generous interpretation of events. There were, of course, any number of other, equally plausible, less flattering interpretations. It was the final mystery, the last of the things I would never know. I was feeling sorry for myself, for all that had been lost, when something she was saying caught my ear. I turned to her, confused, disoriented.

  “What did you just say?”

  Obligingly, she repeated herself: “Do not make the mistake of assuming that because you know what someone will do, that you know who they are.”

  She was talking about my father. She was talking about herself. She was talking about all of us. Which must mean that I have misremembered things, that Rachel did not say this to me in Budapest. Unless. How I hesitate to say this, even now, and yet to not say it is to have learned nothing from all this. So. I say it: Perhaps this was You talking to me, through them both. It seems as good an explanation as any, the most direct and generous. In that moment, I decided what to do about Budapest Street Scene.

  Tracy let go of my hand, rose from the bench, and began to walk away from me. I sat still for a moment, letting the gap between us widen, and then, surprising us both, I called her name. She paused and turned, and I jogged over to her side and accompanied her back to her car.

  * * *

  VIRGIL’S SHIFT IS OVER and I am inordinately sad to see him go, my friend, my confidante, my comrade in arms. His granite replacement is broad, firm, muscular, as befits the day shift, but he doesn’t look to be half the man as my departing shadow. As he shuffles from the room, I catch his eye and nod.

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  He looks at me with some surprise. “What for?” He trundles onward and I call after him.

  “Hey. What’s your name?”

  “It’s Joe.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  Joe. I should never have asked. What a fucking disappointment.

  I STAND BEFORE THE PAINTING as sunlight slants jauntily into the auction house, and now, finally, after all these hours, it truly is nothing more than an object, a thing. Although I can’t help but return to him, that figure, my father’s restless doppelgänger, and I smile at him as I prepare my own last-minute escape. I have gotten no satisfaction from this brief interlude as a millionaire, and if my agent’s cautions are to be believed it may yet be a while before I’m a candidate for that club again, though the work has already begun to pick up ever so slightly. This town, after all, has no memory, the past is perennially washed away, sand castles forever consumed by the surf. Either way, my mind is made up, and despite the weight of sorrow and loss that even now presses against me, I feel lighter, refreshed as I do when I shave after a few days of neglect, and the prickly bristles on my face give way to a smooth lightness.

  My instructions to Rachel were clear. She was to withdraw my claim of ownership of Budapest Street Scene. I was walking away. Go help Rabbi Wolfe get her painting, I told my surprised attorney before saying goodbye for, I am sure, the last time. I know it is indecent what I have done, allowing the charade to go on so long, right down to this final moment. I feel remorse for this final delay, this last lie in a tale of lies. And yet I grieve to leave this ugly painting, which has become beautiful to me at last. It is the story of my family, or at least as close as I can get to one, so perhaps I will be forgiven this final trespass.

  This is a very different place in the light of day, abuzz with people moving with purpose around objects of great value. I step back as the painting is removed from the wall by a pair of white-gloved handlers to begin its final journey to the auction podium. I pause for a moment, staring now at the space left behind by the painting, a faint dust outline on the wall, this empty space my true bequest. Goodbye, dear Kálmán, I hardly knew thee.

  I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out the photo of my father at his bar mitzvah. How happy he looked, how safe, how familiar to me yet strange. This is the picture that matters to me now, the one I get to keep. And something Rachel and I talked about comes to mind. “Do not lay a hand on the boy,” the angel said, just in time. There’s a serenity that’s settled in at last, like the stillness after a thunderclap’s vibrations have dispersed.

  The auction hall has begun to fill with buyers. I wander over to Monsieur Leclos, who stands in the wings, his eyes raking the room, separating the players from the pretenders. He is Armani-clad, bouncing on his toes, electric with anticipation. I suppose I should speak up now, end the charade before it begins, but I’ve come this far and shall allow myself this final dramatic flourish. After all this, I must stop fighting my nature. I must make do.

  Budapest Street Scene is brought to the front of the hall, set in a place of honor, and I feel violated. This lover with whom I have passed all these intimate hours in the privacy of the night is now public property, and there’s something almost prurient about the eyes upon it. I feel momentarily protective, jealous, as a man who feels lustful eyes upon his wife.

  “Look.” Leclos juts his chin ever so slightly in the direction of a man around my age. He’s tall and reedy, too thin really, with hair like windblown straw. “Yuhaus’s son. I thought he might show up.”

  The younger Yuhaus looks weary, haggard, as though he’s the one who’s just spent the whole night on his feet. Perhaps he has. Another son, another mysterious, departed father. Even from this distance I can see that his hazel eyes are cloudy, as though he’s oppressed by some intractable problem, a weight he cannot set down.
The mystery of his father entangled in a long-forgotten tax settlement. Does he imagine he can reclaim him through this object, as I believed myself? Or do I project? Maybe it’s nothing more than idle curiosity and a free morning.

  Still, I can’t let it go. There’s something in his manner that suggests another wayward son, and a peal of sympathy echoes in my heart. I would like to go over to him, to say something, to assure him that … that what? That he was a good son? That his father loved him and was proud of him? That the mysteries of our parents will always remain out of reach, no matter how hard we try? That it’s not my painting he covets, that mine was a forgery?

  He looks up and catches me staring. I nod in acknowledgment and look away.

  Budapest Street Scene is announced and Monsieur Leclos takes his place on the stage to commence the bidding. On the block at last. It’s time to leave. Any second now, Leclos’s phone will ring and the auction will be stopped. I’m sorry, in a way, that Yuhaus will be denied his opportunity to buy the painting back. It seems like it might settle something inside him, though I know now that it wouldn’t. Part of me would like him to have the consolation of his illusion, at least for a while. But part of me wants to put my arm around his shoulder, guide him from the room, and tell him … Pay attention.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I wish to express my gratitude to: Cheryl Arutt, Kathryn Beres, Saffron Burrows, Jennifer Carson, Jack Dettis, David Francis, Yanina Gotsulsky, Eden Jasper, Rabbi Michael Knopf, Jon Marks, Maud Newton, Seth Ribner, Rob Riemen, Eva Sarvas, Scrivener, Marisa Silver, Monika Wolfe, and Rabbi David Wolpe. Also to the students and staff of the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program.

  At Writers House: Celia Taylor Mobley, and a special thank-you to my agent, friend, and guide, Simon Lipskar.

  At Farrar, Straus and Giroux: Jackson Howard, Alex Merto, Rob Sternitzky, Sarita Varma, Stephen Weil; special gratitude to Eric Chinski and Jonathan Galassi; and above all, to my editor and miracle worker, Ileene Smith, who improved not just this novel but all that will follow.

  Lastly, thank you, Clara Grace Sarvas. In advance, forgive me.

  SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY

  The following works were invaluable in the writing of this novel:

  Barron, Stephanie. Degenerate Art: The Fate of the Avant-Garde in Nazi Germany. Los Angeles: Los Angeles County Museum of Art, 1991.

  Frojimovics, Kinga, Géza Komoróczy, Viktória Pusztai, and Andrea Strbik. Jewish Budapest, Monuments, Rites, History. Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999.

  Grisebach, Lucius. Ernst Ludwig Kirchner. Taschen, 1999.

  Hebborn, Eric. The Art Forger’s Handbook. New York: Overlook Press, 1997.

  _______. Drawn to Trouble: Confessions of a Master Forger. London: Cassell, 1997.

  Ungvary, Kristztian. The Siege of Budapest, 100 Days in World War II. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002.

  Wye, Deborah. Kirchner and the Berlin Street. New York: The Museum of Modern Art, 2008.

  I am deeply indebted to them all. Any inaccuracies, errors, or liberties in Memento Park are mine. I also consulted the following additional books:

  Barron, Stephanie. Exiles and Emigres: The Flight of European Artists from Hitler. Los Angeles: Harry N. Abrams, 1997.

  Feliciano, Héctor. The Lost Museum: The Nazi Conspiracy to Steal the World’s Greatest Works of Art. New York: Basic Books, 1997.

  Nicholas, Lynn H. The Rape of Europa. New York: Vintage Books, 1995.

  O’Connor, Anne-Marie. The Lady in Gold. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2012.

  Shulevitz, Judith. The Sabbath World. New York: Random House, 2010.

  Soros, Tivadar. Masquerade. Translated by Humphrey Tonkin. New York: Arcade, 2001.

  Telushkin, Rabbi Joseph. Jewish Literacy. New York: William Morrow, 1991.

  ALSO BY MARK SARVAS

  Harry, Revised

  A Note About the Author

  Mark Sarvas is the author of the novel Harry, Revised, which was published in more than a dozen countries around the world. His book reviews and criticism have appeared in The New York Times Book Review, The Threepenny Review, Bookforum, and many other publications. He is a member of the National Book Critics Circle, PEN America, and PEN Center USA, and teaches novel writing at the UCLA Extension Writers’ Program. A reformed blogger, he lives in Santa Monica, California. You can sign up for email updates here.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Epigraphs

  Part One

  Part Two

  Acknowledgments

  Selected Bibliography

  Also by Mark Sarvas

  A Note About the Author

  Copyright

  Farrar, Straus and Giroux

  175 Varick Street, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Mark Sarvas

  All rights reserved

  First edition, 2018

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-374-71341-6

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