The Rembrandt Panel [antikvár]

Beauty Worth Dying For . . . Feeling old and jaded and not particularly curious, Weinstock picked up the package containing the socalled "Rembrandt." Tearing off the brown paper, he discovered that the painting was wrapped in a green plastic garbage-can liner. Not elegant, but functional. Probably appropriate too, the art dealer thought sourly. Weinstock extricated the painting from the bag and placed it in the middle of his desk. He settled into his chair, pulled over the lamp, and turnéd it on. And then he froze. For perhaps three minutes he sat in trancelike stillness, his eyes rooted to the small, ebony-framed panel in front of him. Then he slowly realized that his hands were shaking and his mouth was dry. Weinstock's body registered his reaction to a work of art before he was conscious of making any visual judgments, and the symptoms he felt now-the throbbing of his temples, his sharp, shallow breathing, and the tightening in his chest-were all familiar ones. He had felt them the first time he had made love. He had alsó felt them, however, when the brakes gave out in his car in the middle of a steep mountain road. Weinstock wondered which was the more appropriate metaphor. Perhaps beauty was, after all, bad for your health...