A Fine Imitation by Amber Brock

man I mentioned at dinner. He put the word out about our little mural project, and a man in Paris says he knows someone perfect for the job.”
    Vera had assumed the residents would forget about the artist idea, but she did not dare say as much to Clarence. “Of course, the mural. Who does he have in mind?”
    Clarence’s eyes sparkled. “He’s quite new, but I’m assured he’ll be one of the best known in the world in a few years. Hallan is his name. Emil Hallan. Studied at one of those very old schools, you know.”
    Vera cocked her head. “Hallan? I’ve never heard of him.”
    “As I say, very new. Young fellow. He’s in Paris now, but he’s willing to come to the city. Says in the letter he’s only just started with murals, but he’s completed at least one, so he’s got some experience with larger works. There’s a photo in here, and a few of some of his other paintings. I don’t know art. They look good to me, but I wanted your expert opinion.”
    Vera pulled the photos from the envelope. “I’m sure I don’t—” Her breath caught in her throat. Even in black and white, she could see the subtle use of shading, the careful arc of the brushstrokes. His style was undoubtedly modern, with sharp geometric lines, but he somehow blended a modern edge with a heartfelt tenderness that leapt out of the photographs. One suggested a woman, kneeling over a child in a low cradle. Another was a stand of trees, like the edge of a forest, but they looked to Vera like proud soldiers. A few at the edges were battered, but those in the middle stood strong. She wanted to look at them forever, examine every nuance. She could not imagine how incredible the paintings must be in person. Clarence’s friend was right. Whoever painted these was clearly finding his style but had the potential to be among the greats.
    She flipped to the last picture, then paused. The last was a beautifully done mural highlighting the musical arts. Swirling rivulets grew into streams and then near the bottom took the shapes of cellos, flutes, a kettledrum. But something was wrong. The styles of all four works were so similar, she could not think how to put her hesitation into words. But something inside of her insisted that the mural was not the work of the person who painted the other pieces. The raw emotion of the first three paintings, the tangible mix of despair and hope, was lacking in the mural. She had the strangest notion that if she could have seen the originals in color instead of the black-and-white photos, she would have been able to point out the difference. But how could she explain the subtle disparity to Clarence when she could not describe it inside her own mind? She allowed herself another glimpse at the first paintings, and her heart ached to know who had made them.
    Clarence’s smile drooped into a frown. “Is something wrong? I told you, I don’t know the first thing about—”
    “He’s very good.” The words escaped, riding her breath, before she knew they were coming. Heat rose in her cheeks as she thought of the rush of emotion the paintings had inspired. She felt as though Clarence had walked in on her dressing. She shoved the photos and letter back into the envelope. “They’re—he’s a good candidate, I suppose.”
    Clarence’s expression brightened once more. He took the envelope from her. “Excellent! Oh, from the look on your face I was afraid they were terrible. But they’re good, you say?”
    Vera calmed her expression and patted her hair. “Very nice. Fine work.”
    “I’ll write him back today, then. Thank you, dear.”
    After a few more pleasantries and a reminder to have Arthur phone him, Clarence left, chest still puffed out with the triumph of his find. Vera sat for a long time in a haze, still thinking about the photos. She wondered what sort of man could paint such haunting pieces. He would have to be educated, refined. The sort of man who felt deeply and did not hide it. The sort of man who