Charade

Vic

I sat on a bench in Rundle Mall, beside a few statues of knee-high pigs, watching the world go by. Busy people living busy lives, passing by in waves.

I didn't expect Benjamin to show up today, but I was a man of my word. I'd promised to meet him and so I would wait from 7.59 a.m. to 8.01 a.m. here on this bench, beside these bronze pigs, to see if Benjamin could face up to me. It was so typical of him to think of my research as a personal attack, as if this could be about him. Benjamin Forrester, so short-sighted, so tunnel-visioned.

I checked my watch. 8.01. There was my queue.

I sighed and stood, scooping up three large canvases in my hands, and was completely unsurprised by Benjamin's absence. Only, when I looked up, he stood right in front of me. I stopped, startled, and almost dropped the paintings. It was as if he'd emerged out of thin air.

"Benjamin," I began. "I didn't think you would come."

"I wasn't going to, but if I gave up now... It kind of seemed like a waste."

I nodded.

"Understood." I said. "Well, come on then."

I didn't ask any more on th topic after that, and instead began walking, holding the paintings under my arm. The silence between us was thick with tension, suspending all the things that needed to be said but were stuck behind the lumps in our throats. I focused on the chatter of those around us. The world was alive with voices and music, a new song spilling out of every store, a new busker around every corner. People spoke loudly into Blackberries and iPhones and Samsungs, and even louder to each other, no matter how close they were. The laughter, the song, and of course the anonymity, was what made this city my home.

I led Benjamin into a large store. We rode up a few flights of escalators in silence, drowning in the sounds of the city and the smell of various tester perfumes and colognes. The chatter was louder in here, in this more confined space, where sound bounced off every wall and door. When we reached the top, Benjamin asked:

"So what's with the art stuff?"

"There's a shop in here, up near the top. A small business. They sell some local artwork. Mainly paintings and drawings, but the odd sculpture here and there."

"I didn't know you painted."

"I don't. I made a deal with the owner."

Benjamin narrowed his eyes, curiosity and caution in them.

"What kind of deal?" He asked.

"One where I bring in some fake art and they sell it for top dollar." I explained.

Benjamin remained silent, a step behind me, puzzling over my words.

"What do you mean, 'fake art'? Art is art. You can't fake it."

"Benjamin, you can fake anything with the right equipment. There's a man I know. Let's call him... Mr X. Mr X makes cheap, machine-made art. It's not original and it's not handmade. All of them are identical. They're about a dollar each to make. Anyway, I take the paintings and deliver them to the stores around Australia. Sometimes I send them by mail, sometimes I bring them in. Then the shop owners big them up by telling customers that they're one of a kind, handmade, and all those fancy words customers like to hear. Then they sell them for a hundred and fifty bucks each. I get a cut of it for being the delivery boy, Mr X gets a cut of it for making them, and the stores gets a cut for letting us use their space and customers."

"That's genius," Benji grinned, "but couldn't Mr X just deliver them himself and get more money? And wouldn't people notice that the same painting is there every time they go in?"