The Masterpiece. Act 2. El Engaño (The Deception)
When a struggling artist's talent turns into a high-stakes game of deception, betrayal and survival.
📝 1,445 words. ⏳ Estimated reading time: 6 minutes.This is the second part of a short story. The third is here. If you missed the first act, you can find it here.
Act 2. El Engaño (The Deception)
The brisk air of an autumn Madrid seeped into Clara's studio through cracked windows. Inside, though, the atmosphere was thick with unspoken dread. Sunlight filtered weakly through the dusty panes and threw inordinately long shadows across the floor that appeared to reach for her as she stood before the canvas.
Javier had kept his promise. Next morning, her door was crowded with boxes of fine supplies: aged canvases, rare pigments mixed to match those used during centuries past, brushes of the finest craftsmanship. Next to them were high-resolution images of Velázquez's The Surrender of Breda—in such detail it was almost unnerving.
She plunged headlong into the work, every stroke of the brush a temporary reprieve against the gnawing anxiety. The world outside started to dissolve in the maze of the Velázquez masterpiece: tired lines around the mouth of soldiers, the play of light across armor, and shoulders of a defeated man half-turned from her. Hours melted into days, with the ticking clock submerged in an implacable pursuit of perfection.
But as night drew in one evening, there was a tug at her lids from exhaustion. She stepped back from the wall to consider the day's work so far and wiped off a smudge of cobalt from her cheek. Ambrogio Spinola's painted eyes stared back at her—a gaze all stoic triumph. An unwelcome thought fluttered around the edges of her mind.
She shook her head, trying to dislodge it. Across the room, Clara was opening her laptop, the glow of its screen slicing through the dim light of the room. She typed in "Don Fernando López-Ruiz," stopped, and then pressed enter. Pages of testimony to benevolent deeds flooded the screen: philanthropy, patronizing art, social generosity.
Yet something did not feel right. She dug deeper, surfing obscure art forums and articles buried deep. Links led to dead ends, and when pages finally loaded—instead, they disappeared. At her chest, frustration tightened. It was as if someone went to great pains to sweep clean every shred of shade from Don Fernando's past.
A sudden chill ran down her spine. The hairs on her neck prickled. She glanced toward the window, but saw only her reflection against the darkened glass. Returning to the screen, she tried a different tack—searching for recent art thefts, unsolved cases, whispers in the art community.
One headline in particular caught her eye: "Rumors of high-profile forgery swaps—masters replaced by ghosts." The user hinted at someone highly connected, running such schemes and always staying well ahead of the authorities. No names were mentioned, but that was enough. Clara's throat went tight.
A floorboard creaked overhead above her. She froze, listened. Probably only the old building settling, she hoped. But the feeling of being watched clung to her.
The next morning Clara needed to clear her head. It was as though the walls of her studio closed in on her, with stale air. Pulling on a coat, she left for the city—onto the alive streets chattering and filled with the scent of roasting chestnuts.
At the Prado, she followed the hallways with which she was familiar until her feet stopped her in front of The Surrender of Breda. The overwhelming grandeur of the original and every stroke breathing life into the canvas was something that no photograph could have captured.
She had not noticed the man until he was uncomfortably close, lost in thought as she was. Dressed in a charcoal suit, he stood a few feet away, his gaze not on the art but on her. Clara's heart skipped. She shifted, feigning interest in studying the painting from another angle. His reflection in the protective glass confirmed her suspicion—he was watching her.
A coiled spring had tightened inside her. She went into another gallery, coming to a stop in front of Las Meninas. Again, a backward glance over her shoulder—he was still there, keeping his distance as casually as if he were strolling through the museum. The bulk of the museum around her now felt daunting and claustrophobic; the ceilings too high, the exits too far away.
Clara took off in a sprint, the cold air outside a welcome relief. She bobbed in and out of the crowd, looking over her shoulder. The man was nowhere to be seen. She exhaled, trying to temper herself. Maybe she wasn't thinking rightly.
But that night, as she was getting to her building, a folded piece of paper was protruding from under her door. Her hand shook and she unfolded it: "Stay focused. Time is short."
Her stomach lurched and she looked sideways, scanning the dim corridor, but it was deserted. Inside, the studio offered little solace; shadows pooled in the corners of the tiny room and every creak seemed magnified. She locked the door, jamming a chair beneath the handle for good measure.
Sleep evaded her. Instead, she sat at the window, observing the flickering city lights. Her head was a maelstrom of questions. In how deep was she in this? And how would she dig herself out without falling completely apart?
Morning brought no solace. A knock to the door jolted her. She walked towards it cautiously.
"Clara?" A voice she knew well called softly.
Relief washed over her. "Miguel?" She opened the door to her neighbor, his warm eyes filled with concern.
"I haven't seen you in days. Everything okay?" he asked.
For an instant, she almost told him. But the burden of her secret leaned on her hard. "Just this huge project that's taking up a lot of my time," she could manage to say with a weak smile.
He stammered. "If you need...
"Thank you," she whispered and gently closed the door.
A resolve began to set in her bones. She couldn't implicate anyone else. Back in front of the canvas, she knew what she had to do.
Evening wore on that day, the city sliding into twilight; her phone buzzed. This message, rather cryptic in nature, was from an unknown number: "Tonight. 10 PM. Plaza Mayor."
Her pulse quickened. She typed back, "I need more time."
Immediate reply: "No extensions. Noncompliance is not an option."
A knot that had been begging to emerge now did so in her stomach. The walls seemed to close in. She had to meet him.
Plaza Mayor was abuzz with street performers, laughter spilling from the cafés nearby, a clinking of glasses in the light of the wrought-iron lamps. And yet, Clara felt so alone amidst the revelry.
Javier emerged among them just as imposing as always. "You are late," he told her, not removing his stare from hers. She swallowed. "The piece requires detailed work, and rushing would compromise that."
He took another step closer, and the smell of expensive cologne mingled with the crispness in the air. "Compromise isn't in our vocabulary, neither is failure."
Clara met his stare, undaunted. "You cannot force the art."
A thin smile played over his lips. "But artists can be... motivated." He nodded subtly over her shoulder.
She spun round to see the man from the museum leaning against a pillar, staring at her. Her heart was racing.
Javier's voice was a cold whisper: "Finalize by tomorrow night. Otherwise, consequences can't be avoided."
Saying that, he melted into the crowd before she could say anything, as did the shadowy figure.
Clara stood there, the lively square now a blur of colors and sounds. The weight of her predicament pressed upon her like an anchor. She was trapped, every move monitored and every avenue closing in.
She heaved the door closed behind her once inside her studio and ran up the stairs, her mind racing. Running wasn't an option; they'd find her. Authorities then? Too great a risk; their reach might extend that far as well.
Her gaze fell upon the almost-finished painting. A plan flapped its wings—a high-risk gamble, but perhaps her only one. She drew out a fine brush, the surety of her steady hand born of resolved willfulness. They want a masterpiece, she'll give it to them—with a hidden signature, a tiny flaw, a latent something only she can reveal. A safeguard. Silent alarm.
As the first light of dawn rose, Clara stepped back, indistinguishable from the rest but for a well-trained eye. She was tired to the bone, but somehow heavier with hope.
Her phone buzzed a final time: "Courier will arrive at noon. Be ready."
She glanced around her studio—the brushes that lay strewn about, the palettes stained with colors, remnants of a life she might have to leave behind.
But for now, she had made her move. The game was far from over, but the pieces were in play.
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