Charles (Chaz) P. Wilmot, Jr. --- graduate of Columbia
University, son of renowned painter C. P. Wilmot, Sr., husband,
father, drug user --- has a troubling past, and he wants to tell
someone about it. He attends a party thrown by a Columbia alumnus.
There, he contacts an old college buddy and passes him a CD
containing an unbelievably curious story: the story of Chaz
Wilmot’s adventures since his friend last saw him. After
listening to the CD, it’s hard to know what to make of
it.

“A bitter fellow, Wilmot, even back then, and it should not
have surprised me that he came to a bad end. Whether the story he
tells is merely remarkable or literally fantastic, I still cannot
quite decide.”

So what was Chaz up to during all those years?

Well, he took some trips, physically and psychedelically; ran
through several relationships (some of them even lasted); and went
in search of his own style of painting. Whether he found it is the
$64,000 question. Or maybe the 64-million-dollar
question.

It turns out that Chaz can imitate the great masters. In fact, just
for fun --- and some much needed cash --- he did just that. He
painted several Hollywood stars in the style of, say, Goya or
Vermeer. Or Velazquez. He is particularly intrigued by Velazquez.
He even dreams of him. Or does he actually become him? Chaz knows
more about the Spanish painter than a mere reading of art books
could have told him. He seems intimately familiar with the politics
of the mid-1600s, and the doings of the royal court, for whom
Velazquez painted. In fact, Chaz’s life becomes so
intertwined with Velazquez’s that even he has trouble
figuring out what is real and what is imagined.

In fairness to Chaz, the drug study he was a part of may have
enhanced his susceptibility to hallucinations, for indeed the
experimental drug salvinorin did some strange things to his head.
But it may have had nothing whatsoever to do with the strangeness
in his head, or with what happened later.

To start with, Chaz believes he is a starving artist with a loft in
New York, an ex-wife and a dying child. And it may be true. When a
well-paying commission comes along, he doesn’t exactly jump
at the opportunity, but reluctantly decides that his dire financial
situation must be addressed. He is really in no position to turn
down the kind of dollars this benefactor is offering. His unease
stems from the request that he depart for Venice, Italy, almost
immediately, which means leaving Lotte and their sick son. Of
course, their son’s burgeoning medical bill is the best
reason to go.

Another rather significant worry Chaz has is his recurring
flashbacks. He sometimes finds himself waking up in another
century. Or is it just the salvinorin kicking back in?

The very lucrative commission in Venice involves restoring a
fresco. Actually, it’s more like recreating a fresco, as
there is so little left of it that “restoration” is an
understatement. Once done, there’s a follow-up offer of
another commission. Chaz tries to ignore the nagging thought that,
for the kind of money they’re talking about, it simply cannot
be legitimate. But the lure of millions often overshadows good
judgment. Chaz just keeps getting in deeper and deeper. At least
his bank account is looking up, and Lotte will have no problem
getting their child the help he so desperately needs. Where,
though, does that leave Chaz?

The easy answer is that it leaves Chaz wondering who he is, what
life he is really leading, even what year it is. It leaves him
asking the question: Am I crazy?

Michael Gruber leaves his readers pondering the concept of reality,
the intangibility of time, and the slim grasp we all have on
sanity. Gruber’s vast knowledge of art history provides a
wonderful diversion from the philosophical questions his tale
poses, and subtly introduces a veritable wealth of facts and
anecdotes about the lives of the old masters. And the bonus is that
he tells a darned fine story, too.