I knew from my surveillance that Ortoli and his girlfriend went out often and stayed out late. I kept watch for two nights. On the second night, I saw the driver pull up and watched the couple slide into the back seat, accompanied by a bodyguard who rode shotgun. They were dressed for a night on the town, Ortoli in a slick blue suit and the lady in a pale green shantung fit and flare dress I found fetching. That left the house protected only by the night security guard who stayed in the entry hall or stood outside the door if he wanted some air. As soon as I saw the car pull away from the curb, I stood and picked up my backpack. On my way down the stairs I texted Ashna the code phrase we had agreed on:
—How’s work?—
My phone buzzed with her response as I exited the front door of the building:
—Stop texting me, asshole.—
She had a weird sense of humor but I knew she was ready. Our plan was for Ashna to cut the internet connection to the house by shutting down the router at my signal. This would take down the security camera video stream to the remote office. The security company would probably call the guard to have him check the router. He would call France Telecom and be on hold with them for an hour while I was making my getaway back through the catacombs with the painting.
I went through the plan in my head one more time as I pried up the manhole, slipped inside, picked the padlock again, and made my way through the tunnels underground. Down there in the silent darkness by myself, I felt a tingling of fear raising the hairs on the back of my neck. I hadn’t expected to feel the oppressive atmosphere so strongly but I had been insulated from it before by the presence of Sebastian and Jabez. Now as I strode along, the shadows seemed to press in, like dark wings folding over me. My eyes played tricks, seeing fluttering shapes and darting forms just out of my field of vision. I walked faster and soon found myself at the gate, out of breath.
The lock was a good one. I didn’t want to waste time trying to pick it so I took off my heavy backpack and dug in it for the cordless drill, hammer, bits, and hole punch I had purchased the day before. The drill made quick work of the lock. I abandoned the tools on the floor and moved on to the door with my now much lighter backpack. I prayed that the bolt locks were still open as I had left them. If so, I only needed to get through the trivial knob set lock. It took me several minutes with the pick and the tension wrench but finally I felt the lock turn. I pushed and the door opened. The unlocked deadbolts had not been noticed.
I crept into the sub-cellar and closed the door behind me. On my way through, a bottle of wine caught my eye. It was a 1964 Bordeaux from Saint Emilion. I shrugged and grabbed it. I had room in my pack. Old habits die hard, as they say.
Quickly and as silently as possible, I ascended to the cellar and made my way across to the stairs leading up into the house. Now came the tricky part. I wanted to be on the fourth floor before I signaled Ashna in order to give myself as much time as possible. I would have to climb the stairs and pass by the entry hall. I removed my boots which were crusted with tan, silty mud from the catacombs, replaced them with a pair of soft soled sneakers from my backpack, took a deep breath, and started climbing the stairs, leaving the boots behind.
Ascending to the first floor landing I saw that the door to the entry hall was open a crack. I could see the guard seated in a straight backed chair facing the door. He was playing a game on his phone, tipping his body back and forth as he raced some imaginary car or spaceship through virtual obstacles. I tiptoed past the door and continued up, placing my feet at the edges of the stair risers to reduce the inevitable creaking of the old wood. At the top of the stairs I paused for several deep breaths, then texted Ashna.
—We should go out for a drink when I get back.—
Her reply came back quickly:
—Stop stalking me, idiot.—
That meant the internet was down. I turned the nineteenth-century doorknob and pushed. It was dark on the fourth floor but enough light filtered in from the street to see that I was in a short hall between two rooms. To the left, a luxurious office space with a large desk, old oak filing cabinets, shelves, big, modern paintings on the walls, and a grand piano near the back by the windows. Directly ahead through an open door, a bathroom. To my right, the library with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace with a stone mantel lined with small sculptural objects, big squishy chairs arranged in a seating group in the middle of the room, and velvet curtains pulled back from the arched windows. I hurried through the library, breathing in the smell of leather bound books and oiled wood. There were several sections of bare wall between inset bookshelves where paintings were hung. None of them were the one I was looking for. They were not bad though. The interior decorator had a good eye for composition. I couldn’t tell much about the color in the dim light. It struck me suddenly that the office would be where he kept the painting. The brief psychological profile Petru Ortoli had provided meant younger brother Carlu would want to look at the painting when sitting at his desk, bitterly conducting his business that was not the family business.
I continued into the other room and almost jumped out of my skin when something moved in the darkness, jumping down from the desk to the floor with a soft thud. I stood absolutely still while the feline shaped shadow prowled toward me. When it was two feet away, I crouched down and held out a hand. It was a Bengal, the most beautiful of house cats. With an insouciant meow, it sniffed my fingers and turned away, heading to the library.
I turned, scanning the room, and saw it—mounted on the wall opposite the desk. It had to be Petru Ortoli’s painting. Stealthily, I crossed an expanse of Persian rug and inspected it with my flashlight. It was not bolted to the wall. I lifted it carefully, shining the light behind—no alarm I could see. With a soft cloth from my backpack laid out on the desk, I removed the painting from the wall, wrapped it carefully, then slid the bundle into my pack.
Back at the door I stopped, listening. A voice from below spoke loudly—a one sided conversation it seemed, probably a phone call. It was the guard. He was in the stairwell. I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard something that sounded like ‘fouille la maison’. Search the house! They must suspect an intruder. I crept softly back into the library. The casement windows at the back of the house overlooking the yard opened out and were big enough for me to squeeze through. I pushed one open and looked down. Ortoli’s yard backed onto the Paris Observatory. There was a ten foot wall but I saw a place where a raised flower bed would give me a leg up. When I knew I would be breaking into a multi-story building, I always carried a length of six millimeter high strength aramid rope with me. It didn’t take up much room and often came in handy. Forcing myself to work carefully, I tied the rope to a leg of Ortoli’s grand piano. The thing had to weigh eight hundred pounds. It didn’t budge when I yanked. I had my backpack on and was out the window in a moment, rappelling down the exterior of the house. My rope was not quite long enough. I hung, feeling the warmth of the friction as I let the rope slide through my gloved hands. The drop was about six feet. I landed with a crunch on top of a shrub. Hearing a call from above I glanced up and saw the guard hanging out the window. I waved to him pleasantly and ran, jumping to the retaining wall of the flower bed, then vaulting up and over the wall.
I landed hard in gravel on the other side and took off immediately. I had scoped out the grounds of the observatory a few days before so I had some idea of where I was going. The Saint-Jacques Metro station was close. As I ran I stripped off my gloves, my hat, and my black hoodie, casting them aside. The garden behind the observatory was silent and dark. My footsteps were loud on the gravel path. Plaintive sirens sounding in the distance, I left the grounds, hurried across Rue de Faubourg Saint-Jacques, and took the empty stairs two at a time down into the Metro station. There were about ten people on the platform. I stood with them, trying my best to look like a waiter just off work and going home. I had worn a white button up shirt under my hoodie and black pants. A train mercifully pulled into the station after on
ly two minutes of waiting. I boarded it, not knowing what direction it was headed and not caring.
Chapter 2
A Lunch Date and a Dinner Date
June 15-16: San Francisco
I sat back in my roof lounge chair, savoring the superb, complex flavors of Carlu Ortoli’s purloined Bordeaux and thinking of Gabrielle as I watched the summer fog roll in. When I had returned to Nice after visiting Petru Ortoli, Gabrielle and I spent several days talking without reaching any understanding. My position was that I wanted to spend half the year in my own home. Hers was that a part time partner might not be what she wanted in her life and she was too busy running her gallery to spend half the year away from it. We talked in circles until we were exasperated and finally decided to take a break.
Looking out toward the downtown skyline, I considered the things that kept me tied to San Francisco. My house, such as it was—the second floor of an industrial building in the Dogpatch neighborhood south of downtown. I owned the building and rented the downstairs to a garment manufacturing business. It was where I made my art—large welded sculptures that sold reasonably well but were not and would never be my main source of income. The network of friends I had built over the years was a diaspora now. No longer able to afford the cost of living in San Francisco, they had moved away to Oakland, Los Angeles, Portland, Austin, Detroit, Berlin. Ashna was one of the only holdouts, able to afford the city because of her job as a senior software engineer and her less official pursuits as my partner. It wasn’t friends who kept me there anymore. It was the city itself—changed almost beyond recognition by the growth of the tech industry, the money, the influx of young, entitled tech workers—but still hanging on to fragments of its old glory. There was still the fog, the bay, the ocean. Patches of the gritty, unrestrained city I had loved from the moment I arrived still remained. I wasn’t ready to leave it behind for a quiet life with Gabrielle in Nice.
A cargo ship chugged down the channel, heading for the port of Oakland. I watched it slide silently by in the gathering dark. It felt good to be home, despite the mixed feelings. It had been a week and my jet-lag had faded. My suitcase, however, was still not unpacked. Some part of me hadn’t settled in. I had a strong need to inhabit my own space but also felt a pull toward the sun drenched, easy life with Gabrielle. The two urges would not be easy to reconcile. I took another sip of Ortoli’s wine and let my heavy eyelids close for just a moment before being jolted back to consciousness by my phone buzzing with an incoming text. It was Valerie of all people. I hadn’t seen her or spoken to her in months.
—Are you in town? Need to see you.—
I stared at the screen for a moment then replied.
—Yes. When?—
—Lunch tomorrow?—
—OK. Where?—
—Neiman Marcus café. 11:30.—
—Fine. See you then.—
—Thx.—
I put down my phone. Text message exchanges with Valerie were always rapid fire and immersive. The Neiman Marcus café was one of her favorite places. It was close to her gallery, quick, and had decent food. There was another, fancier restaurant at Neiman Marcus in the rotunda but she only made a reservation there when she wanted to impress somebody. I wondered what was up. No way to know with Valerie. I would just have to wait and see.
****
The next morning I rose early, drank a quick cup of coffee, and then yanked the tarp off the half-finished piece I had left behind when I went to France—a commission for the lobby of a software company’s headquarters in Palo Alto. It was just a beginning but I was more pleased with it than I thought I would be. The balance was good. I wheeled my welding rig over and got everything set up. As soon as the raw arc of electricity ignited between the rod and the steel, I was sucked in—immersed in the flow state of my work.
I stopped at eleven A.M., cleaned up quickly, and carried my bike downstairs. The ladies who worked in the sewing and cutting rooms below my flat were all on break, standing around outside and drinking hot tea or lemon water from thermoses. I waved to them, hopped on, and started cranking. It wasn’t far but I had only left myself fifteen minutes. Valerie was punctual to a fault.
I pedaled hard down Third Street, weaving in and out of the stream of cars gridlocked near the baseball park. A crowd of tourists crossed the street from SFMOMA toward Yerba Buena. I maneuvered carefully through them and then kicked back into gear, bolting across Market and up toward Union Square. At Neiman Marcus, I locked my bike up to a high tech parking meter that looked like a set piece from the spare parts bin in a jawa sandcrawler and glanced at my phone. Two minutes to spare. Not bad.
I waited outside the café for a minute before catching sight of Valerie walking toward me. Easy to spot in the crowd of tourists and office dwellers on lunch break, she strode toward me, tall and elegant, wearing a white dress that contrasted with her dark skin.
“Justin,” she called, holding out her arms. We embraced and the enchanting trace of her perfume stirred a strong sense memory of the moment months ago when we had broken off an embrace, both staring at the spot above her bed where a painting had until recently hung. “Good to see you,” she said, smiling genuinely, and I struggled for a moment but succeeded in bringing my attention back to the present moment.
“You too,” I replied. “You look great.”
“So do you,” she said, “except for this outfit. What are you wearing? Did you pay for these clothes by the pound? When will you ever learn to dress yourself?”
“I was working. Just left off to come see you. I didn’t have time to get fancy. Sorry.” Valerie was always ribbing me about my clothes. It was a habit from back when we were a couple that apparently had not ended along with our half-hearted romance.
“Well, I hope the new piece is good enough to make up for your destitute appearance. Let’s go in and get some food. I’m famished.”
Valerie ordered a Niçoise salad and I asked for a club sandwich. As soon as the waitress walked away, Valerie turned on her serious face.
“I need you to do me a favor Justin. If you can.”
“What is it?” I asked. “Not like the last favor I hope.”
“No, this one will not involve you nearly being murdered, international travel, or any illegal breaking and entering. I want you to help me open the new space in Los Angeles.”
“What?”
“My new gallery Justin. It’s almost done. I sent Emilio down to project manage but he’s in over his head. I think he’s heading for a nervous breakdown. He split up with his boyfriend a few weeks ago. He’s taking it hard and his mind’s not on the job. The grand opening is a week from today. He’s never going to get it all done.”
“Why me?” I asked. “I’m not a gallery manager. Why don’t you go down and take over?”
“I can’t right now. I have to be in New York until Friday for some finance meetings. I’m leaving on a red eye tonight. I don’t know anyone else who is,” Valerie held up a finger, “one, capable of pulling this together and,” she added another finger, “two, might be free to go on a moment’s notice. You’re good at organizing things, you’re calm under pressure, and you don’t have a job. Didn’t you manage the student gallery your last year at school?”
“That was a long time ago,” I said, a little exasperated.
Valerie gazed steadily at me. “I’ll forgive you for dumping me and taking up with my old friend Gabrielle,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Also, I managed to get an Olafur Eliasson piece for the opening. I know you want to see that.”
“Fine,” I answered. “But I didn’t dump you. If anything, it was the other way around.”
****
I received an email from Valerie’s personal assistant later in the afternoon with my flight info. I should have said no to her but, truthfully, having something to distract me from thinking about Nice and Gabrielle and trying to figure out how I felt seemed like a good idea. My flight left in the morning.
I spent the rest of the afte
rnoon working in my studio. By early evening I was covered with grit from welding and grinding. I had dinner plans with Ashna so I took Valerie’s advice and changed into some clean clothes after a quick shower.
It was one of those very rare summer days in San Francisco when it stays reasonably warm in the evening with the wind and fog trapped on the west side of the hills that divide the Mission district—where I was meeting Ashna—from the Sunset. I pedaled slowly up Mission Street, enjoying the balmy feel of the air and the low, golden sunlight casting long shadows. Shopkeepers were pulling down their steel shutters and closing up for the night. Revelers were being disgorged from Ubers and Lyfts and drifting into the bars. I passed my favorite building on Mission Street—a stark white mid-century with orange color blocking between the windows that made it look like the Eames storage unit’s big brother. The raised metal lettering above the door said CJN Dentistry. Dr. Nogueiro was my dentist. I had chosen him, years before, because of the building. A block farther on, I bunny hopped the curb and dismounted in front of my destination. Ashna stood out front, looking down at her phone. I called to her and she glanced up, saw me, and smiled.
We hugged and I held the door for her. At the end of a long corridor of shiny polished concrete the host was waiting for us.
“Reservation?” He asked.
“Yes, for Ashna Khatri.”
“Right this way.” He turned, menus in hand, and led us into a massive courtyard enclosed on all sides by tall buildings but open to the sky and adjoined on the right by an indoor dining area with large windows and doors leading out.
Enigma Variations Page 3