Lost Children

by Willa Bergman

  “With Viktor coming in and the results he’s been driving in the auctions space the board are very keen to capitalise on that and really focus our efforts there.” By efforts, read resources, and by resources, read headcount.

  “What that means though is we need to redirect our funds into the auctions team and those funds have to come from somewhere. We’ve worked very hard to limit it as far as possible but the reality is we have to reduce our headcount in certain teams. These are obviously very difficult decisions and we don’t make them lightly, but we have made them and I’m afraid some of the cuts are in the Private Sales team.” It’s bordering on sadistic how long she’s drawing this out.

  “Claire, Simon and Victoria are going to be leaving us. I’m sure this is a shock for you. But…” Her tone shifts suddenly and she’s gone from funeral solemn to something decidedly perkier.

  “This leaves us needing to find a new head for the Private Sales team. And I’m very pleased to say that the management team would like to offer you the position.”

  “I’m sorry? Me? Oh… wow.”

  “We see a lot of potential in you. Your numbers are solid, you’ve managed to bring in some new clients and the team likes you.”

  I’ve no idea what just happened. I’d been so prepared for the prospect of losing my job I don’t know what to say. “Is there a pay increase?”

  Not very subtle but I guess it’s better than a bunch of gushing sycophantic thank-you’s.

  “Your pay will be linked with performance. You do well with your numbers and your team do well, then we can talk about your salary.”

  So no then. I’d push her harder on the point if it wasn’t for the fact that two minutes ago I thought I was about to be fired, so I’m mostly just glad that I’ve still got a job.

  “So I take it that’s a yes then?”

  Still a little punch drunk all I can manage is, “Yes, yes it is.”

  “Excellent. And your first job as the new head of Private Sales is marketing.”

  She takes out a magazine from her desk drawer and somewhat dramatically drops it on her desk in front of me, what I can now see is a copy of a glossy London society magazine.

  “Viktor has a cover story interview for next month’s magazine and they want to do smaller pieces on a few key members of the London team. Viktor thinks you’d be perfect for it.”

  Viktor thinks I’d be perfect for it? I’d be flattered if it wasn’t for the fact that I must have said less than ten words to the man. I’m starting to feel uneasy about this promotion. I’m a young pretty face that will look good in a magazine shoot. I’m hoping the criteria for being ‘perfect’ for this job extends beyond my picture in the office people directory.

  “I think this is a perfect way to announce your arrival onto the London art scene.” I feign a vague smile of enthusiasm. It’s clear this is not a subject up for debate.

  We talk for another few minutes about what she wants me to do over the coming days, but she has a morning of other meetings so we don’t speak for long. We say we’ll sit down properly later in the week.

  I take the lift back down to level three, walk quietly across the floor looking down at the ground beneath my feet and sit back at my desk. Everyone’s eyes are on me trying to work out what I’ve just been told. Before I can log in to my computer Victoria is at my desk asking me what happened. I don’t have the heart to tell her.

  4

  Everyone was numb from the day’s events. The meetings continued through the morning, everyone came back with bad news, nine in all across all departments. They were each told they needed to pack up their things and leave the office by the end of the day. It was grim and severe. It’s little comfort but tough as it was I know there are places that are worse. I had a client a few years ago that worked as a trader in one of the big US investment banks who had to go through it once. He told me that in the banks the traders get called into a room, told the news and escorted out the building. That’s it. No goodbyes, just cut the cord. No such brutality here, but they’re definitely taking a leaf out of the banks’ book; they’ve ripped off the Band-Aid and want this over fast. By late afternoon everyone has packed up their things and left. The place feels empty.

  Around five Jo comes down to speak to those of us still here to let people know she realises it’s been a difficult day for everyone and to try and put everyone’s minds at rest that no further cuts are planned. I’m not sure if it helps much. She’s the face of this corporate cull, even if everyone knows it’s not her who’s behind all of this. Viktor is notable by his absence from the slaughter. While his fingerprints are all over it I suspect there is something to be said for his ‘out of sight, out of mind’ strategy to distance himself from it.

  The next few days everything’s pretty low key. Management give everyone a bit of space to let things settle down and create some sort of normal routine again. I asked Jo not to make any announcement about my promotion yet, I want time for the dust to settle and if she announces it too soon I’m worried that people will think I was somehow involved in all of this. But the time comes and when it does the team seem happy for me.

  When I think the news has had enough time to sink in for everyone I begin to move my things into Victoria’s office. I’m not yet comfortable calling it my office, it feels like an ill-fitting dress. If this is success and climbing the corporate ladder I’m not sure I like it.

  The weeks that follow are intense. It’s a sea of numbers I have to wade through and none of them are any good. Unpaid expenses, uncollected debts, losing too many old clients and not bringing in enough new ones. Sorting all of this out is now my responsibility and to be honest I have little interest in any of it. I have no desire to become some glorified corporate accountant. But for better or worse this is where I find myself and so I do my best to set my mind to it. But the more I see the more I struggle to find any way out of this situation. Motivation is hard to come by in the team. More work, less free time, same pay (if we’re lucky). The semi-official new motto in the team is ‘Doing more with less’. I’m not even sure if it’s supposed to be a joke.

  There’s now only six of us in the team: Charlie, Sam, Kim, Abbi, Alex and myself. I enlist Abbi, who I have the impression has the best head for numbers, to begin working through the backlog of unpaid expenses and appoint Alex in charge of chasing clients to collect the unpaid debts. Neither of them seems to have been pulling in any kind of sales recently so it doesn’t feel like we’re losing much there. The rest of the team I have focus on what they’re actually supposed to be doing, working with our clients. They all seem happy enough with the set-up, even Kim; out of the team she’s the one I feel I’ll have to work hardest to earn her respect. She’s been around here a bit longer than me and sometimes I get the sense she feels she’s been a little passed over by the place.

  On top of all of this there was also the small matter of the magazine interview, which I didn’t manage to avoid. What in management’s eyes was supposed to be a perk and a break from the monotony of spreadsheets and bureaucracy was as unenjoyable and as uncomfortable an experience as I expected it to be. The emphasis for me and the other girls involved was almost exclusively on the photoshoot and indeed when the piece came to print it was very much an interview with Viktor (fine) surrounded by, as far as I could tell, the best-looking girls he could find in the office (not so fine). However, for all my complaining about it, the article did generate a good flow of new business walking through the doors. I don’t know how I feel about that fact but I’m too rushed to give it any proper consideration and just have to push ahead, loading up my team’s diaries with client meetings.

  We have two basic types of client in Private Sales: those trying to buy and those trying to sell. Buyers want us to find something for them (even if they don’t know what that something is). The sellers want privacy and discretion for their sale, that’s why they use us instead of the auction guys. For sales we make our money on commission, so we want to make a sale a
s quickly as possible. For the buyers we double dip, we get a commission on any agreed purchase but we also charge a daily rate while we work on the client’s request. Buyers are therefore my preferred job for the team at the moment, a guaranteed revenue stream whether they manage to close a deal or not, because right now we just need the revenues.

  It’s a month to the day after Victoria left before I get to take my first client meeting as the new head of the Private Sales team and I am very happy to stop looking at break-even analyses and finally get back to the day job. The client is a portfolio manager for a Middle East family office. He’s looking to purchase a Matisse. Not any particular Matisse, just a Matisse within a certain price range. Seemingly some algorithm of theirs has determined that the returns on works by Matisse represent a strong medium term investment. Not a passion project then but that’s fine, it’s an easy enough brief to meet. I close the commission in a week.

  I manage to bring in and close two new clients the week after that. The first is a seller who needs a quick sale on a beautiful first edition of Poems by WH Auden; I knew a collector that I thought would be interested so I put them together and we were able to agree a sale the same day. The second was a buyer looking for a Roy Lichtenstein which our New York team covers. I introduced him to the New York team but because I brought him in he’s technically my client, so I get a portion of the commission on any purchases he makes. New York does the work, I get (some of) the money, nice.

  And it continues like this, the magazine article doing its job and the clients rolling in. A steady flow of eager buyers and sellers walking through our door. It was all going so well.

  It’s Tuesday afternoon and I’m waiting in my office for my three o’clock. Alice calls from downstairs reception, “Ms Witcham, I have a Mr Joseph Masoud in reception for you”. I tell her to send him up. I have the general background already for why he’s here. He’s a lawyer for some Swiss investment fund that maintains a portfolio of art and he wants to discuss some potential acquisitions. I haven’t met him before, but when he walks in I know the type. He is small and considered, very well dressed. He’s wealthy, but he’s not the money here – he is the consiglieri.

  “Thank you for coming in today Mr. Masoud.”

  “Not at all, not at all. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

  He seems a little agitated.

  “I spoke with one of your associates briefly last month, but I felt it was better to meet and discuss in person. I understand you’ve had some changes in the team recently?”

  “Thank you yes, I will be covering your account going forward.” I’m keen not to dwell on the team’s recent losses.

  “I represent the Orpheus Investment Fund, we invest in significant works of art and we are looking to add a new painting to the portfolio.”

  I love the names these investment managers give their funds. Any figure from literary history that hasn’t already been bastardised by some other fund manager for their own delinquent ends. So this is the Orpheus fund. Orpheus, the poet and musician from Greek mythology who tried to bring his wife Eurydice back from the underworld with his divine music. What that has to do with investments, god only knows.

  “Wonderful. How much funds do you have available for the acquisition?”

  “We have up to five million dollars to invest.”

  “And is there a particular object you would like us to help you with?”

  At this point he pauses and gives a strained, somewhat nervous smile. There is something here he is not comfortable with. He offers slowly, “The request is an unusual one.”

  “That’s why you come to us. Why don’t you try me.” I reply with confidence.

  “The painting has not been in circulation for some time and so far our efforts to find it have not yielded any meaningful evidence as to its whereabouts.”

  “Well, that certainly makes life more difficult. But if you are particularly interested in this piece we can certainly research it for you and see what we can find. But you would have to accept the possibility that we’re not successful. May I ask, what is the name of the piece that you’re looking for?”

  The prospect of researching a lost painting has peaked my interest and I’m curious to know what he’s looking for. He asks, “Do you know the Portrait of the Lost Child by Albert Polignac?”

  Pause.

  I’m caught off guard.

  I wait for a moment longer than I’d like. And then with as much composure as I can manage I answer.

  “Yes, I do.”

  He looks at me for a moment, I’m unsure whether he’s trying to gauge my reaction or if it’s something else. With the revelation of the painting, it comes into a sharp focus why the man is behaving as he is.

  “And you are aware of its history?” he continues.

  I am indeed very aware of it; the joy in its origin, the beauty of its form and the tragedy that surrounds it. I also know that it was lost over a decade ago.

  “I’m afraid I don’t think we are going to be able to help you.”

  “I see.”

  This time he pauses. I have a moment longer to collect my thoughts, before trying to offer an explanation to my response.

  “Given how long the painting has been out of circulation and the efforts that have previously gone into recovering it, I’m not sure what more we would be able to do.”

  Still he says nothing, seeming instead to calculate and consider each of my words individually.

  “May I ask why you are interested in acquiring this particular piece now?”

  At last his silent contemplation is broken.

  “Our fund is not purely focused on our investment returns. We believe in the benefits of art and culture to society and have a commitment in our mandate to contribute and support that belief.”

  Admirable sentiments.

  “To that end we have entered into an… unofficial partnership shall we say, with Interpol to help them work towards retrieving certain lost and stolen works of art. Interpol is renewing its focus on finding longstanding lost works. It sends out a message to criminals that they cannot wait away their crimes until the authorities move on to the next case.”

  “And why, if you don’t mind me asking, do Interpol need us, need you?”

  “The simple truth of the matter is that Interpol doesn’t have the resources to go after these sorts of works without organisations like us, but that is a fact they’re not very keen to admit. Interpol have certain optics to consider in working with the private sector. So, as I mentioned, it’s currently a somewhat unofficial arrangement we have.”

  “So how would this actually work then?”

  “Roth would provide the team to investigate and retrieve the art work, the Orpheus fund would provide the financing and Interpol would ultimately sanction any successful recovery.”

  I’m scrambling for reasons to tell him no.

  “Even if we could locate it, the methods we may have to use to acquire it, they raise certain ethical question marks which not everyone is comfortable with. I don’t know if they would be suitable for a commission connected with Interpol.”

  “They’re not interested in the logistics of how it’s done, that’s actually one of the benefits of this arrangement for them. They get someone else to do their dirty work.”

  Every nerve and fibre in my body is telling me to tell him I cannot take this commission. But then suddenly I realise something, I have to take it. Because if Roth isn’t commissioned to look for the painting then another organisation will be. And then I won’t be able to control where they look and what they find. And I need to stay close to the search. Because I need to make sure the painting is never found.

  We talk for a little while longer before I tell him that I will take the commission. He seems very pleased when I accept it. I run through a few administrative points and he then takes his leave. I’m left only with my thoughts on what I have just agreed to. This is not just about a commission to find a painting. There is infin
itely more at stake here. This commission changes everything.

  And it terrifies me.

  As soon as he’s gone, I begin to hyperventilate. The walls of the office begin to close in around me. I reach for my phone and call Kim who answers immediately. With as much composure as I can manage I ask her for the status on Joseph Masoud’s background checks. She tells me it’s with the Compliance team but they’re working through a backlog of the other new clients. I cut her off before she can finish and tell her his checks need to be done urgently, prioritised over all other requests and to let me know as soon as they’re complete.

  I hang up the phone without waiting for a response. My head has started to spin and I’m getting dizzy. I need to get out of my office. I stagger to the bathrooms around the corner from my office. I crash into one of the cubicles and am violently sick into it but I don’t feel any better. I wretch into the bowl, a series of horrible uncontrollable spasms and convulsions in my stomach that refuse to stop. When it finally begins to settle I’m sweating profusely. I weakly reach for the toilet handle to flush away the rancid smell of what I’ve just thrown up. I try to rest my head on the porcelain seat but even that is too much effort for me and I just slide off it, collapsing in a heap on the floor. The bathroom tiles are cold and provide some temporary comfort from the pain running through my body. I lie there in silence, hoping and praying this is all going to pass but I cannot clear my mind. I’m struggling for breath and beginning to feel nauseous. My vision fades to black and I’m out.

  I have no idea how long I’ve been gone but when I come around Kim, Sam and Abbi are standing over me talking hurriedly and looking terrified. When they see my eyes opening there’s a chorus of noise from them. In my confusion I must have failed to lock the toilet door and now all of them have seen me in this state. I’m sluggish but this realisation starts bringing me around quickly. I try to tell them I’m fine and not to worry but it doesn’t seem to calm them down. I look up and see Kim has stepped away from the group and that she’s on the phone. I ask her who she’s calling but before she can answer I hear her speaking to an emergency helpline and they’re wanting to send a unit over to check on me. I tell them I don’t want that but it’s too late and they won’t listen to me.