Fair Trade
Posted on 07 Oct 2023 @ 12:36pm by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:15pm
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: O.C. Station - Timeless Treasures Gallery
Timeline: M4 D2 Morning
1809 words - 3.6 OF Standard Post Measure
As soon as Ms Xeri had left the gallery, Brek went to his office. He had been tasked with the purchase of a very special oeuvre d’art, and there was no time to lose. After all, time wasn’t meant to be wasted or even to be spent, it ought to be invested.
It proved quite easy to find who ran The Museum of Contemporary Art, on Tenabia. Proud possessor - but not for much longer - of Mr John Wallace’s unfinished chef d’oeuvre, coveted by Ms Xeri. The name was a mouthful: a Mr Tathos Ch’Koloth. An old Andorian, who, in his profile picture, had made a point at looking unpleasant. He was frowning and looking down at the camera that had the nerve to steal his portrait. The result was an image with a clear message: I’m far too important for petty discussions. I’m also too busy, so don’t ever complain. Busy, the man obviously was. For he also acted as a curator and a guide. He was, in effect, the sole employee of this small museum.
This meant little to Brek who had, in the past, dealt with several irascible Andorians. So if the Great Ch’Koloth wanted a verbal joust, he would get one.
The museum director responded to Brek’s call right away, but instead of speaking, he stared at the screen and waited for Brek to say something. With his short white hair, and his antennae pointing in different directions, at this very moment he looked more intrigued than aggrieved.
“Mr Ch’Koloth?” Brek started, giving the impression he wasn’t sure who he had contacted.
“Indeed. What is the meaning of your call?” The Andorian looked suspicious. His antennae moved, as if to accuse Brek of some unnamed wrongdoing. A classical reaction. No one likes to be called by a son of Ferenginar.
“My name is Brek. I run a gallery on a Federation Station called Obsidian Command, and it came to my attention that your museum possesses, among many captivating artworks, one specific piece. A wing, part of an unfinished mural, carved by Terran artist John A. Wallace. I would like to buy it.”
“You would. But it is not for sale, Mr Brek. I run a museum, not a bazaar.”
Brek nearly winced. He hated those words ‘not for sale’. Such a fallacy. Why were all species always ignoring that everything had a price? “I need to add, Mr Ch’Koloth, that the purchase, although initiated by me, would be done on behalf of the station itself. We aim to turn this magnificent wing into a public display. In addition it would allow Major Porter Wallace, son of the artist, to be reunited with one of his father’s pieces of art. In other words, this unfinished mural has a great sentimental value.”
“Sentiments...” Ch’Koloth antennae moved again. With what? Puzzlement? Excitement at the prospect of a good sale? “Those are always costly. I’m surprised that you, a Ferengi, would mention such a thing.”
Brek grinned. “As I told you, it is Obsidian Station that will purchase this artwork. Its financial resources are far greater than mine.”
“Are you saying that you are prepared to swindle them, and are asking me to take part in your sordid little scheme, Mr Brek?” The Andorian’s voice was louder. He had sniffed the opportunity for an argument.
“How brutal you are Mr Ch’Koloth,” Brek added, not departing from his little grin. “My words simply imply that I wish to buy as soon as possible. You have, however, told me that the Wing is not for sale. I’m telling you that it is. All you need to do is to name your price.”
The antennae twitched once more. “You are telling me what I need to do? Mr Brek what, you, on your side, ought to...”
“Let’s not parry questions and insults, Mr Ch’Koloth,” Brek interrupted. “I’m your ally, not your enemy. You are not dealing with a Ferengi, but with the Federation. Do you want your name attached to terms like ‘difficult’ and ‘inflexible’? In other words, an enemy of all art forms? If you don’t sell the Wing, the public display project will fail, and it will all be your fault. What the press will say about that, I dare not imagine.”
“What has the press got to do with this?” The Andorian shouted. “You are inventing a wild scenario to force my hand. If you thought for a moment that it would work, you are very much mistaken. I am a man of integrity. When I say that something is not for sale, it is indeed not for sale. No obscure little Ferengi can change what simply is, Mr Brek.”
In a bid to appear relaxed, Brek sighed. “How odd it is, to think that reality is unmovable. How odd too, to think that I’m without power. If you don’t sell the Wing, I’ll acquire it in a different way. For instance at an auction, once your museum has closed its doors.”
“Why would this museum close its door? You must be mad. I’ll let you know, Mr Brek, that I have run this place for thirty years. Do you hear me?” He was shouting with gusto by then. “Thirty impeccable years. You can be as troublesome as you want, you will not find one single blemish in all those years.”
“Will I find substantial profits though? I might just convince the right person in the Fleet's Art Department to shuffle things a little, and relocate your fine collections elsewhere.”
“So you are in actual fact, menacing me.” Ch’Koloth concluded. He took a PaDD and typed a query. “I’ll have what you call your ‘gallery’ under investigation before lunch time, Mr Brek. This will teach you to show respect to your elders!”
Brek observed his perfectly manicured blue nails and waited patiently as the Andorian performed his queries. Eight minutes later, the silence was interrupted by Ch’Koloth, who pronounced a tiny word ‘Oh’, indicating a complete change of mood.
“I had not realised you were talking of this Major Wallace.” The Antennas were now completely still. “It changes everything... Although I... Let me see.” He looked once again at his PaDD. “I’ll have to deaccess this mural that you want. So as to remove it from the museum’s collection.”
“A formality, surely?” Brek pointed out. He had already explained that he needed to buy this artwork asap.
“I must follow a number of ethical guidelines, Mr Brek.” Ch’Koloth retaliated. Although he was now compliant, he was also far from being happy. “We have a collection management policy. Things cannot be done suddenly, on the spur of the moment, because Mr Brek has made a call.”
“How long will it take?”
“Two weeks, and it is final. As for dispatching the Wing to Obsidian Command, I trust it is a task you’ll be able to complete with great efficiency, on your own. You look very ...capable.”
Brek waved an impatient hand, transporting the Wing was, for the moment, a detail. One he was happy to deal with later on. “Right. Bureaucracy is the one thing, I guess, that can make time stop. This bring us to the final detail: What is your price, Mr Ch’Koloth?”
The Andorian didn’t hesitate, he sent a figure, one that was surprisingly reasonable. So much so that Brek was a bit shocked by the man’s honesty. The museum director could have asked far more.. Throughout his speech, Brek had even encouraged him to do so. “Your price is almost bargainous...”
“I will not be known as someone who treats the Fleet unfairly, Mr Brek. On the other hand, I insist on seeing my name quoted in a favourable light in this public display project.”
“I will do better than that. I will invite you, as a special guest. So that you can see this public display.”
“Hmm. This is not really necessary. But I’ll be there, all the same.”
The two men spent another five minutes exchanging little civilities that were rather futile but all the same necessary, so as to end the conversation on a positive note. Brek congratulated himself on a deal well done and was ready for a little celebration, but his holo-assistant announced the arrival of young Kyrill, so the Ferengi rushed to the gallery. There, he explained to the teenager that due to his immense talent, he had been selected to paint the portrait of an illustrious canine.
“I’m sure you can also paint pet’s portraits,” Brek added to encourage the lad. “There is nothing an artist of your calibre cannot do.”
“I’m not sure my heart is in it, Mr Brek.” Kyrill said, looking his usual self, that is to say, rather sad. “I did the portrait of Mr. Nurbs once. Without even seeing him. He is a cat, by the way. In order to paint a good portrait, there needs to be a connection though. Mr Nurbs belongs to Zuzal, and she is nice. She works in sickbay, do you know her?”
Brek, who, for many years, had enjoyed the company of a pet spider called Alice said nothing about the strange names that are often given to animals. “I don’t know anyone from sickbay. This is my least favourite place on any station. Now, have a look at those pictures, and do your best to find a ‘connection’. I need that dog’s portrait executed asap.”
Kyrill glanced at the pictures on Brek’s PaDD and he shuddered. “You want me to paint a portrait of my grandmother's dog?”
“Igor, yes. Why not?”
“It’s a horrible beast, that’s why.”
“You like horrible, usually,” Brek remarked. “What’s so different here?”
“I hate my grandmother more than I hate her dog.” Kyrill added, looking like he had just eaten something foul. “I’m sorry Mr Brek, I won’t be able to do it.”
“It’s not very ch...” Charitable was the word Brek wanted to say, but this was a word which, to him, stung more than acid, and he didn’t manage to say it. “Not very nice of you.” He corrected, quite annoyed at this development. “Here I am doing all I can to teach you the art trade, and at the first opportunity, you let me down...”
Kyrill shrugged. “I guess I had better go back home then...”
And he did so, listless, looking like he was carrying the universe’s many troubles on his shoulders.
“Would you believe it,” Brek said to his holo-assistant. “The boy’s more difficult to talk to than an old Andorian!”
