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But then in Stam’s efforts to recreate Vermeer’s lost work, he too was illustrating what it meant to be human.
At eleven, his cell phone rang. Jason picked up, assuming it was Sam, but the screen showed de Haan’s number.
“Hi, this is West.”
It was kind of late for phone calls, but he didn’t think much of it until he heard a garbled static background noise followed by a high-pitched…Jason didn’t even know how to describe it. Something between the sound of accidentally dialing a fax machine and falling over a metal trash barrel.
“Hans?”
The line went dead.
Jason pressed Redial.
The call rang and rang and then went to messages.
What the hell had that been about?
A mistake obviously. Maybe de Haan had butt-dialed him?
Jason yawned, considered making coffee—shuddered—and went back to scouring the Internet.
He found one more still earlier three-dimensional reconstruction by Stam, which was at least closer thematically to Vermeer’s usual work, along with a short video on the making of the viewing cabinet. In Stam’s words, this first attempt was: “The dreamed painting, entirely in the spirit of Vermeer, without a trace of a 20th century personality.”
Uh, sure.
No question, A Gentleman Washing His Hands had fired creative imaginations for centuries.
Partly that was due to the small body of exquisite work Vermeer had left behind. There were various theories on why Vermeer had produced so few paintings during his short lifetime. He had worked slowly, painstakingly, and despite Schütz’s argument, a convincing case could be made as to his possible use of a camera obscura, which would have slowed the process even more. He preferred to use very expensive pigments but was not wealthy, so probably had trouble obtaining the materials he required. And being unable to support his wife and eleven children with his painting, he had a day job as an art dealer and innkeeper. He was also kept busy as head of the Guild of Saint Luke, a local trade association for paintings.
Though moderately successful during his lifetime, Vermeer died deeply in debt, and for nearly two centuries following his passing, was virtually forgotten. It wasn’t until the 19th century that his work had been rediscovered and the insatiable demand began.
If the Nazis had stumbled across that Vermeer in a private collection, they would have known exactly what they had. Whole organizations were devoted to looting and stealing the world’s cultural treasures. Much of the treasure of Engelshofen Castle had been earmarked for Hitler’s own Führermuseum.
From that perspective, it made sense that if the painting existed, it would have been found at Engelshofen.
When his cell phone buzzed beneath his head, it was after one. Jason jumped, pressed Accept, and Sam said, “I know you said to call, but it’s late and we’re both beat, so if you want to go back to sleep…”
Jason swallowed his disappointment. “Yeah, of course. If that’s what you prefer.”
“What I’d prefer is for you to open your door so we can go back to sleep together.”
Jason jumped up, threw open the door, and Sam, heavy-eyed and hair mussed, stepped inside.
Jason hugged him. “Hi. Why didn’t you just knock?”
“I didn’t want to wake your neighbors. You’re a heavy sleeper, West.” Sam kissed him—and then kissed him again. “I could hear you snoring all the way out in the hall.” He was undressing as they walked.
Jason kissed him back, leading him toward the bed strewn with his laptop, notes, and book. He scrambled to clear the mattress, pulled back the comforter, and Sam, by that point wearing only a pair of navy-blue briefs, crashed down.
Jason turned out the overhead light, turned out the bedside lamp, and crawled into bed beside Sam.
Sam wrapped his arm around him, pulled him snug, buried his face in Jason’s hair, and promptly went to sleep.
Chapter Eleven
He woke to the sound of sex.
Loud and energetic sex.
