I think I feel more love for art than I do for people. That’s a very sad thing to say. Just saying it makes me feel different, weird and isolated. The world is people, but I can’t deal with them beyond superficial interactions. I think again of Keats and his Grecian urn: art knows only one thing, ‘beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know’. So I’m left with art and the simplicity it offers me.
My phone beeps and pulls me out of my sombre contemplation, there’s a message from a withheld number. It simply reads, ‘Bring it back to where you took it from. Come alone’.
7
I have my instructions. Somehow I think I already knew what he would make me do. He wants me to bring the painting back to France. The Portrait of the Lost Child will once again hang on the walls of the Harlois chateau. This is it now, I’m approaching the endgame. But there’s a few things I need to do before I leave New York. The first is working out exactly how I’m going to get the painting back to France. I’ve already decided sending it is too risky so that means it’s coming with me. I’ve used telescopic tubes to transport art before but for this it’s too conspicuous and I’m also worried it could damage the painting so it’s going to have to be hand luggage. Without the frame the painting is small enough to lie flat in my travel bag. I put it a box cut to size to make sure it’s protected. For a moment I consider whether it would be easier to get the painting through customs if it’s in a checked-in bag before I realise there’s no way I could leave a five-million dollar painting unsecured in a flimsy travel bag with a plastic padlock to be tossed around by baggage handlers oblivious to what’s inside. I’m not made for a life of crime.
I’m obviously not going to be declaring it at customs so what I’m going to do is illegal trafficking of art. I try to justify to myself that as it was originally brought to the US illegally, technically I’m just righting a previous wrong by returning it to its original home, but who am I kidding.
I’ve changed my flights so I’m now flying straight to Paris. No point flying back to London and then having to go through more border controls into France. I have to buy the ticket myself though, I can’t put it through the company. It’s the least of my worries right now but Roth can’t know about this trip. As far as work’s concerned, I’ll be flying back to London without finding the painting.
As I work through the logistics of it all I start to get worked up. There’s been so many things that I’ve had to do to get this far, but now I have it and it’s mine to lose. If they stop me at the airport they have me, I’m caught red-handed trying to smuggle a very valuable and stolen painting out of the United States.
I try to put those thoughts out of my mind, there’s still other things to do. The first is a call to the long suffering detective. As is now tradition, he isn’t pleased to hear from me.
“So what is it now? Is it a new pointless crusade to find a long lost painting? You want me to drive out to Montauk because someone’s told you they’ve got the Mona Lisa? Or have you found an even better way to waste valuable police time?” I guess I deserved that. I apologise again unreservedly.
“I’m very sorry Detective. I’m calling with a peace offering. I have some information about the man who attacked me a couple of weeks ago and thought you might be the right man to hear it.”
“I’m a Detective in the Financial Crimes Task Force. I don’t work assault cases.”
“Yes I know, but I thought you might want to make an exception for this one when you hear it.” If I’ve made him even a little curious he does very little to show it. “It was a man named Andrei Lapikov who attacked me. He was brought in to be charged by a Roth security team last week. He was hired by Geoffrey Webb, because he wanted to scare me away from looking for the Portrait of the Lost Child. He didn’t like the idea of a new girl coming onto the scene and stealing his business.”
Still nothing at the other end of the line. Finally he breaks.
“Do you have proof?”
“Yes. Lapikov confessed to both myself and George Moses, a security officer at Roth. And Kim Stephens who provided information to Geoffrey about my movements will also attest to it.”
“And so you want me to help get rid of the competition for you?”
“I like to think my intentions are a little more honourable than that.”
I tell him I’m heading back to London so this might be the last he hears from me. The detective doesn’t seem too cut up about it. He says he’ll look into Lapikov, he begrudgingly wishes me all the best. I thank him again and tell him to look after himself. He’s a good man and I didn’t treat him very well. I hope I can make amends for that someday.
I feel a little better after I’ve spoken with Detective O’Rourke. I don’t know what will happen to Geoffrey, but it felt good telling the police what he did.
The next call is the harder one. I have to call Jack, it’s time for him to know. I practice over in my head what I’m going to say to him but when he answers the call all the words escape me. Then I take a breath and say the words, I say that something’s happened but he has to promise to stay calm. This has the inevitable result of agitating him.
I tell him. I tell him our father is alive. Neither of us have said his name in fifteen years; an unspoken agreement between us to forget the past and start anew, and suddenly he’s thrust himself back into our lives. I tell him that he knows where we are and that he wants the painting. Jack immediately says he’s coming to New York but I tell him no. He protests but I tell him there’s nothing more he can do here now and that I have a plan. Eventually he calms down and listens to what I have to say. His mood improves considerably when he finds out that I have the painting. I tell him that if I give the painting back to Arnaud he’ll leave us alone. I tell Jack that I’m flying to France to return the painting to Arnaud and that I want him to meet me in Paris before I do because I’m going to need his help. The prospect of being able to help makes Jack spring to life. I give him the details of my flight and tell him I’ll see him soon.
Jack almost sounds happy when our call ends. It’s what I wanted, but I can’t play the same trick on myself. There’s something I’ve been ignoring. Until now I’ve been able to focus my energies on just finding the painting, it was the immediate problem in front of me and I was able to focus only on that. But now I have to look up. I’ve been avoiding thinking about it but there is an undeniable truth that I now have to face. When I give Arnaud the painting, he’s going to kill me. That’s the reason he didn’t want the police involved. The anger that’s sustained him all these years, the revenge he has dreamt of, it will not be sated by the return of the painting. In his mind its return alone will not be justice, it will not be fair recompense. And more than that, I am a loose end for him. Why leave a witness to his resurrection? Why take the risk of me confessing all or me sending an anonymous tip to the police? There’s no reason for him to trust me and no reason for him to be generous towards me.
I don’t have an answer to any of those questions. If I’m to come up with one it will have to be later as it’s now time to head to the office to pick up my things and say my farewells. It’s a slightly abrupt ending to my time in New York but it will be easy enough to explain it away, I’ll simply say I’m needed back in London.
In the office I take my time packing up my things but there isn’t much to pack. I get a text saying my flight has been delayed till later this evening so I’m not in a rush. Some of the girls come in to wish me farewell. They’re very sweet, they say all the right things: how they’ve loved having me in the office, that I have to come back soon. Normally I’d be incredibly cynical about it all but as we talk and hug and kiss our goodbyes I start to feel a little emotional about these people I barely know. It’s because there’s a finality about it. I don’t believe I’m going to see them again.
Hiroki comes in on her own after the others. Saying goodbye to her is uncomfortable. Of all the people I know other than my brother, she’s the closest
to having seen the real me. As we say goodbye she can see in my eyes that something’s wrong. I start to cry. She tells me whatever’s wrong that we can fix it. I wish that were true. I thank her, she’s a good friend, but this is something I have to work through on my own. She sees I’m not going to change my mind. She gives me another hug, tells me again she’s there if I need her and leaves. That’s my cue to leave too. And with that the curtain falls on my time in the Roth New York office.
I don’t really start feeling any nerves about the trip until I’m inside the airport terminal. Even then I’m okay as I know no one’s looking at me yet and I could just turn around and walk out if I wanted. But when I have to start going through the passport control that’s when the nerves kick in. I start to become very self-conscious with every movement my body makes and every sound I make. My body suddenly feels very itchy and I want to rub my face and scratch my arms. I get through passport control and move on to the baggage checks. I put my bag on the rack and see it slowly move towards the x-ray machine while I stand in line powerless. I walk through the metal detector and it beeps. I was concentrating so much on the bag I forgot to take my phone out of my pocket. The customs woman calls me to one side and starts to do the physical search. All the while it seems an age for my bag to go through the x-ray machine. When she’s done patting me down she waves me through and as she does I see my bag come out the other side of the machine waiting for me to pick it up, no flags. I heave an immense sigh of relief. With the bag check done I know I’m all but through now. I won’t be completely sure until I’ve walked out the arrivals door at Charles de Gaulle airport but there shouldn’t be any more checks now.
The announcement comes to board the plane, I walk onboard and take my seat. Looking out the plane window as we taxi to the runway the rush and stress of these last weeks seems to momentarily slip away. It’s like a brief pause when time stands still for me. There’s nothing I can do now but wait.
8
I land in Paris and pass through customs without issue. I can now add smuggling to my burgeoning criminal CV. Jack is waiting for me at the gate when I arrive. He took the Eurostar from London and we agreed to meet at the airport. We both pick each other out of the crowd. We agreed that we wouldn’t acknowledge each other in the terminal and would keep our distance until we got outside but it doesn’t seem to be needed, there’s no one watching us. We allow ourselves a hug when we’re in the open air. It’s good to see him. So much has happened since I last saw him and it’s comforting to be with him again.
The Harlois estate is in southern Brittany, about ten kilometres from France’s western coast. I’ve decided that a car provides us more anonymity than public transport so that’s how we’re going to get there. I rent the cheapest and least conspicuous car I can find: a silver four door Peugeot hatchback, and we immediately begin to head west towards Brittany. I rarely drive in London (I don’t have a car and there’s little reason to use anything other than public transport) so this is my first foray into driving in years (and on the wrong side of the road). I confess I don’t do much to help dispel the chauvinistic image of woman drivers, c’est la vie. But by the time I’m on the l’autoroute I’m feeling reasonably comfortable.
It will take just under five hours to drive to the chateau. It’s already late but we need to get out of Paris tonight, it feels safer on the roads and in small towns.
It takes a couple of hours on the road before my nerves start to ease. We agree to stop somewhere outside Angers, Jack has sorted out accommodation for us en route in a small B&B off the main throughways where we can pay cash. I want as little trail of our presence here as possible.
The room is small but clean and there’s a welcome pot of hot coffee on a side table. Jack and I sit opposite each other on the beds. We sit there in silence, I’m not sure there’s anything to say. I think about what we’re here to do. Our mother took the painting all those years ago, there’s a strange sort of symmetry that we’re the ones returning it.
My phone buzzes, breaking the silence, it’s a message from an unrecognised number. “Tomorrow night, eight o’clock”. The message unnerves me. This room was supposed to be our hideaway and the illusion of its safety suddenly feels shattered by the text, as if Arnaud has somehow entered our space. Do they know we’re in France? Do they know we’re here? Suddenly Jack starts talking.
“This isn’t going to work Elle. You think you’re going to hand over the painting and then he’s just going to let you walk out? You’re walking into a trap, I won’t let you do it.”
Now we’re face to face he isn’t going to be so happy blindly following my plans. I tell him I won’t discuss it, this is how it has to be. He pleads with me to let him go instead. I can see how worried he is; it means a lot to me, even if he is being a stubborn, annoying brother about it. I tell him it’s late, we need to get some rest and we can talk more tomorrow which he seems to accept.
The next morning I can see Jack has barely slept, he’s clearly tossed and turned all night, for once it’s me that’s slept. When I wake I’m not exhausted, I’m almost rested even. I seem to have accepted what’s going to happen.
We pack up our things and check out, we still have a few hours drive and I don’t want to leave anything to chance. We pick up a couple of croissants and coffees and then hit the road again.
In the car Jack starts begging me again to stop what I’m doing, to think of another way. I ask him what other way there is. I’ve been through every option but we’re left with no choice. He doesn’t say it but he knows it’s true.
We make our way through the French countryside quickly, the roads are clear. By early afternoon we’re less than an hour from the chateau. I see a small roadside stop and decide to pull in. It’s a warm, sunny day and we find a pretty terrace round the back to sit out in. The terrace looks out onto a couple of large unattended fields and then forests beyond. It’s quiet, only us and an old French couple and a couple of old Frenchmen playing pétanque. I ask Jack if we can forget about everything for an hour and pretend this is just some little road trip we’ve taken.
A waiter comes to take our order. I don’t have much of an appetite but I try to eat something. I look out at the fields longingly; bluebells have dotted themselves through the long grass and I can hear birdsong. I close my eyes and enjoy the peace of everything around me. I dream of just staying here in this moment and never leaving.
We start to talk a little about France, remembering happier times when it was just the two of us playing in the forests and grounds of the estate. Jack tries to make small talk, but there’s nothing of normal life to talk about. It’s all very strange but I feel okay. If it has to be like this I‘m glad I’m with Jack.
The time passes and the clocks tell me it’s time to leave, our momentary escape at an end. We pay our bill and make our way back to the car, heavy in the knowledge of what awaits. I ask Jack to drive this last part. As we near, the roads become more familiar, local landmarks recognisable. When I see a particular, distinctive, gnarled oak tree from across a field I know it’s time. We’re here.
We drive to a spot a few hundred metres from the entrance to the chateau where Jack gets out. We agree on this spot as it’s close to the chateau but well hidden from the road. He has a baseball bat that he brought with him from London. I’ve got a small pocket knife to open up the packaging of the painting and a silent alarm I can press which will send a signal to Jack telling him I need him. Not exactly the cavalry but it’s better than nothing.
I drive the car up to the entrance gate of the chateau. What’s left of the gate is open ajar and hanging and I can already see the grounds of the chateau have been long unattended. There’s nothing left of the driveway beyond the gate, it’s been reclaimed by nature, so I’m forced to leave the car where it stands and make my way to the chateau on foot.
I swore I would never come back here. It’s near dusk and it’s quiet. I look up at a perfectly clear sky above me. It’s beginning to fill with co
untless stars that you can see with perfect clarity. It’s the one thing I missed when I left this place. There are no big cities nearby so when night falls it’s a near perfect darkness. There must be something in the geography of the region, a micro-climate of some sort because the sky is always a deep clear blue. In London you don’t expect to see the stars in the night sky, you’re lucky if you can see the North Star, but here it feels like you can see the whole universe. When I was little the night sky was like a dream world to me, and when everything started going wrong it was a refuge to escape into.
I keep walking deeper into the estate. The chateau slowly begins to loom over the horizon. As it comes closer into sight I can see how badly the building is falling into disrepair.
Lost Children Page 20