Free The Art Forger by B A Shapiro

and resumed his musings. “You know, 4D ’s got me thinking about a series within a series, time in many dimensions. First dots, then lines, then our world, then across space, black holes. Who knows where it might take me.”
    “That sounds like it could be interesting,” Karen said.
    But Isaac knew as well as the rest of us that “interesting” was a euphemism for boring. “Or maybe I’ll just stick with the fourth dimension for a while,” he amended. “Time as a river, always flowing, always there.” He threw some cashews into his mouth. “Upstream to the future, downstream to the past. All of it, along with the present, existing simultaneously. You just have to float high enough above it, perhaps in the fifth dimension, to see what it really is. To see where to step in. And where to step out.”
    “Now that sounds very cool,” Karen said with real enthusiasm. “Keep talking.”
    Isaac leaned back in his chair, hooked his hands behind his neck, and looked at the ceiling. “I see movement. Thick paint flowing, always flowing, over and under itself, forward and back. Wet-on-wet. Scraping through the layers of paint to reveal what’s underneath, scraping through the layers of time. All there, but above and beneath each other, some seen, some almost seen, some overwhelmed and hidden by another layer of time.”
    I tried to catch his eye as he spoke my words, claimed my ideas, but he was fixated on the ceiling.
    “Now that concept’s got legs.” Karen waved at 4D . “And 4D is a great beginning, your starting point for the real exploration of—”
    “Who we are,” Isaac interrupted. “Where we stand in relation to the cosmos. How it all might fit together.”
    “Let me know when you’ve got something to show. But think about including more of this.” Karen pointed to the crescents. “I just love the layering of meanings. The play with painting styles across time.”
    “Already on it,” Isaac assured her.
    She checked her watch, stood, and placed her glass on the table. “Well, this was a delightful afternoon. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.” She turned to Markel. “I’ve got to catch the next shuttle, but if you want to take a cab with me out to the airport we can talk. Start to make the arrangements.”
    Markel was, of course, amenable. We all shook hands and congratulated each other; there were hugs and kisses and lots of laughing. As she walked out the door, Karen reminded me to call. I promised her I would.
    When they were gone, Isaac drew me into a deep hug. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough,” he whispered into my ear.
    “Hey, Karen Sinsheimer’s willing to take a look at my stuff. That’s thanks enough in my book.”
    He buried his head in my hair. “Never, never, ever be able to repay you.”
    “I’m not looking for repayment, Saac. Just for you to move forward.” But the praise for 4D reverberated in my ears.
    Better than any of your previous work that I’ve seen, Karen had said.
    It could be your best, Markel had echoed.

Ten
    I do as Markel suggests and open three accounts at three different banks: two savings and a money market. I also buy a couple certificates of deposit, on the advice of the woman setting up one of the accounts, and put the check in my checking/debit card account at yet another bank; I have no separate business account as Markel had assumed. I write one check to the landlord, drop one in the mail to pay down my student loan, and head for Al’s Art Supply with a blank one because I can’t remember how much I owe. All of this feels really, really good. I’m thinking how great it’s going to be to have a working camera on my phone.
    Al’s is on Shawmut Avenue, not far from my studio, and it’s everything one would expect from an urban “little box” art store: a cramped, tiny footprint chock full of overstuffed racks, shelves, and row upon row of narrow paint drawers—all wrapped in the delicious aroma of turpentine, paint, and dust. A writer