What does that mean, that other people can see what only I had been able to see before? Nothing good, I’m sure.
“I have no idea what is happening,” Adaline says.
From what I can tell, two vastly different things are happening to the art. There’s the simple fading of the Renoirs that appears like sun damage. Then there are the more drastic, more destructive changes to the others, like Bathsheba falling to pieces, like the flame in the La Tour.
I dread asking my next question, but I have to know. “What about Woman Wandering in the Irises though?”
Adaline breathes deep and her shoulders relax. “Perfect. Thank God.”
“That’s good.” I’m dizzy with relief. It seems selfish to worry more about one painting than all the others. But Clio is different, more than paint and canvas. She’s the woman I want to spend my nights with, and she’s alive in that painting. “And I’ll be sure to check the other Renoirs in the museum for sun damage,” I say, then I rush off for my scheduled tour.
I meet the group on the main floor and guide them through the galleries, stopping at the featured paintings. One of them is another Renoir, a portrait of a woman, Gabrielle with a Rose. She is half-dressed, wearing a shawl over her shoulders, holding a rose near her ear.
As I promised Adaline, I scan quickly for any sun damage, and my heart catches when I see that a tiny sliver of her painted shawl has turned pale.
If this follows the pattern, then in a few days, Adaline will be able to see the fading too. First things first—I force myself to focus on the tour group here in front of Gabrielle.
“Renoir painted until late in his life, and this is one of the last masterpieces he created,” I tell them. “By that time, he was crippled with arthritis.” Curling my fingers into claws, I demonstrate. “He strapped the paintbrushes to his wrists and painted like that because his fingers were too gnarled to hold the brushes anymore. And yet, even with his damaged hands, he still crafted such works of beauty.”
I take a step back and let them admire the painting before we move on to the next. One of the last on the tour is Van Gogh’s Portrait of Dr. Gachet.
“This is the physician who treated Van Gogh in the final months of his life. This is one of only two authenticated paintings of Dr. Gachet. The other sold for more than eighty-two million dollars at auction.”
That’s always a good note to end on, since the price of art at auction is a topic that baffles but intrigues people. It usually provokes some animated conversations after I thank everyone and wish them a good day.
Today is no different, as two Americans stand in front of the red-and-blue Van Gogh and marvel at such a price. I’m about to leave them to their debate when a man clears his throat loudly enough to interrupt the couple.
“Great art demands a great price,” the man says.
I search out the voice and am surprised to see Max, the artist I pass almost every day drawing caricatures by the river. “You have to be great—have great talent—to make art that matters,” he adds.
I don’t know Max well, but this doesn’t sound like the guy who joked about horses the other day. The pair in front of the Van Gogh do that smile Americans do when they don’t know how else to respond and then make an awkward exit with the last of the tour group.
Max, though, strides over to me and lifts his chin defiantly. “Your painting is a fake.”
I blink, unable to put that into context. “I’m sorry?”
“Woman Wandering in the Irises. It belongs to my family.” He stares at me with unflinching eyes, and a thick curl of dark hair slides onto his forehead. “To my parents.”
“Whoa. I don’t think so.” I want to ask how a street artist could even own a Renoir, but I suppose that’s elitist. For all I know, his family could be reclusive millionaires, collectors who live in a castle full of Dr. Gachets. In his ratty sweatshirt with worn cuffs hanging down to his fingernails, Max could be some kind of family rebel, I suppose.
Sweatshirt. The other night, leaving the museum after my date with Clio, didn’t I see a guy in a sweatshirt and jeans lounging on the steps? It certainly could have been Max. But why? Had he been watching me? Or was he staking out the museum?
He’s definitely confronting me now, tapping a black leather folder he’s carrying. “I have the papers to prove it,” he says.
That shakes me out of my dazed confusion. “How come you’ve never mentioned this all the times I saw you by the river? You knew I worked at the Musée, and it’s been in the news that the Renoir was coming here. Why are you just bringing this up now?”
“It was not part of our conversations,” he says. His voice is off somehow, like the words and cadence don’t quite fit. “And if you’ll just introduce me to your sister, I can resolve the matter with her.”
Adaline has enough worries at the moment. More than that, though, there’s the queasiness that sets in at the thought of Max—of anyone—taking Clio away.
Her painting is mine to keep safe. Mine to protect.
I motion for Max to follow me to the stairwell where we’ll have some privacy, and I channel that desperate feeling into a voice of steady authority. “Show me the papers first,” I say when the stairwell door closes behind us. “Then I’ll take you to the curator’s office.”
Max still holds the folder against his chest like we’re in a standoff. “It was ours,” he insists. “It was stolen during the war, and we’ve been searching for it since then.”
Reaching inside the folder and using only the tips of his fingers to handle them, he pulls out a sheaf of papers and hands them to me. A quick scan shows they claim his family bought the painting from Remy’s family before the Second World War.
When Max leans closer to look at the papers alongside me, his breath smells like heavy rose perfume, like how I imagine the girls at their vanities in those Renoir paintings smell.
Max nods to the papers. “I would like to show Ms. Garnier the documents.”
I’m not an expert on authentication, so even though it’s the last thing I want to do, I lead him downstairs to my sister’s office and introduce her to Max, who corrects me to say his name is Maximillian Broussard. He launches immediately into an impassioned assertion of his family’s ownership of Woman Wandering in the Irises, and all I can think is, You don’t own Clio. No one does. No one can claim her, and I vow to make sure that stays true.
As he talks, all I can think about is the woman I kissed last night, how warm and sensual she is, how clever and fun, and how sad she is at times . . . sad to be trapped.
I cannot let this man take her away.
I can’t let anyone get their hands on Clio. I have to protect her until I can figure out how to help her.
Free her.
It’s the first time I’ve let myself think it in so many words. But if she’s trapped, then it stands to reason she can be let loose. I haven’t a clue how, but I won’t figure it out if Max or anyone else takes the painting out of the museum.
Adaline stands, looking remarkably poised and confident, considering the acquisition of Woman Wandering in the Irises might be the pinnacle of her career so far and this man is questioning it.
“Mr. Broussard,” she says, “the museum has researched this painting’s ownership thoroughly, but we treat provenance claims quite seriously. I will certainly look into this and be in touch after I confer with the board.”
Opening the door, she flicks her gaze toward me, and I see a bit of “holy shit” when our eyes meet. It doesn’t come through in her voice though. “Julien, can you show Mr. Broussard out?”
“Of course, Adaline,” I say with the same formality—stiff upper lip and all that.
I guide Max upstairs, out to the gallery floor, and then to the main exit. “I am sorry to be the bearer of such bad news,” he prattles, not sounding sorry at all. He leans closer and speaks in a low voice, the cloying rose perfume thick on his breath. “But some women can just be trouble, and they shouldn’t be let out.”
/> As he clips the ends of those last words, it’s as if some force has vacuumed up all the sound, so there’s only Max and me. He’s not just here for the painting. He knows about the woman in the irises. But how? I suspect he’s been watching me, but how could he spy on Clio as anything other than a painted figure in a frame?
I’m stuck with that thought as Max leaves. But once he’s out the door, I step outside and watch him walk away from the museum. After he heads across the street, I follow him. He settles back into the green-slatted chair in front of his easel where he usually is, where he paints his bloody caricatures, then pushes up the cuffs of his sleeves.
When I see his hands, I nearly stumble. His fingers are curled inward, the nails scratching his palms, bent up and seized.
Like Renoir’s.
Then, he cracks his knuckles and turns his TEN EUROS sign around, and his hands are back to normal. Young, flexible Max’s hands.
Clio’s words about the ghosts of great artists come back to me. Though you’d think they might visit museums too.
What if she wasn’t joking? Could the ghost of Renoir be inhabiting Max the street artist?
I walk over to Max as he reaches for his pencils. Grabbing the other green chair, the one his customers sit in while he does their caricatures, I plunk myself down.
“You seriously want your picture drawn?” He laughs a little, sounding like Max again, the street artist drawing exaggerated sketches of tourists.
“What was the deal with that back there?” I ask.
He frowns, and it looks genuine. “What back where?”
“Hello?” I gesture across the street. “In the museum?”
The side-eye looks authentic too. “I’ve been here the whole time. What are you talking about?”
“You were just on my tour,” I press him, less because I think he’s lying and more because I suspect he’s not. “You had all those documents for the painting.”
Max laughs. The dour guy he was a few minutes ago has vanished. “I don’t know what you’ve been smoking, but can I have some of it?”
I stand and run a hand through my hair. I excuse myself then walk across the bridge, trying to make sense of this newest wrinkle. Just when I’ve settled into the idea of living art, I learn that ghosts might be real too. The rose perfume smell, the hands—are those signs of ghostly possession?
No clue.
No bloody clue at all.
Who would know?
The only person I can think to ask is Remy. If there’s anyone in Paris who might have something useful to say about ghosts, I’m betting it’s him.
As I walk along the river, I ring him and launch into everything about Max.
“Interesting,” he says pensively, and that’s interesting too, since Remy is usually buoyant and bursting with words.
"Why is that interesting?” I press as a riverboat cruises by in the water below.
“My sister and I have been doing a little digging into forgers. We’ve gotten word that someone is back in business.”
“Someone?” I ask, tension in my voice.
“Julien, let me call you in a bit.”
“But . . .” I sputter, feeling desperate, needing to know what I can do to keep the Woman Wandering in the Irises safe.
“Good things come to those who wait,” he says, and that’s the Remy I know.
He hangs up, and I heave the most massive sigh as I stare at the screen.
With nothing to do but my final tour for the day, I return to the museum, chat up another group about Renoir, Van Gogh, Monet, and more, and shortly after they disperse, Remy’s name lights up my screen again. I duck into a stairwell.
“Can you get to the Marais in twenty minutes?”
“Sure. What part?”
He gives me an address. “Sophie has been casing a shop that may be a new forgery operation. And we think that’s where that guy doctored up those papers your friend brought you today.”
A thrill of excitement and relief whips through me. “I’ll be there right away.”
“And Julien? Bring that calf you won at the party. You never know when the Muses’ dust might come in handy.”
Ending the call, I grab my messenger bag containing the calf, head out the side exit, and dart into the nearest Metro.
11
The address is on Rue des Rosiers. The area is arty and fashionable, and I pass familiar shoe shops selling short boots with high heels, and stores hawking expensive tailored shirts for men. Along with fashion boutiques, this arrondissement is home to several museums and galleries, so I know my way around. I particularly like the Jewish deli—it’s housed in an old dress store where blue mosaic tiles read “LES JOLIES JUPES” above windows now full of rugelach and challah bread.
I walk past a falafel shop where Simon hangs out in the evenings, holding court at one of the red vinyl booths, but it must be too early, because I don’t spot him now.
The app on my phone tells me I’ve reached my destination, a vintage shop, the kind with a pastiche of goods from black lace skirts to silver tea sets to sky-blue vanities.
I grab the door handle and pull, but it’s locked, and then I notice a sign that says BE BACK IN FIFTEEN MINUTES.
I stare at it, befuddled for a moment, then turn around, scanning for Sophie. Behind me, the shop door opens, and a hand grabs my arm, and yanks me into the dim—and closed—shop.
Remy’s sister lets go of my arm and shuts the door, then motions me back a few steps where we can’t be seen through the front window.
“Did you break into this shop?” I ask.
Sophie waggles her hand in a so-so gesture. “I hid behind a dresser when I saw them put the rugelach out in the deli.” Sophie points across the way to LES JOLIES JUPES. “I’ve been keeping an eye on this place since Remy and I caught wind of a potential forgery scheme. The other day I spotted the guy with the hair”—she mimes Max’s flop of hair on her forehead—“come around. And I’ve been watching the shop since then to figure out when to slip in. The secret lies in the rugelach. As soon as the rugelach goes out over there, the shop owner here closes the store for fifteen minutes, has some with an espresso or sometimes a cigarette, and comes back. We have about ten minutes left before she returns.”
“And who is she?”
Sophie takes her phone out of her jeans, unlocks it, then shows me the picture at the top of a news article from The Guardian about a year ago. A man and a woman are in the photo, but I don’t bother to look closer because the headline rivets my attention.
“Forging Generations: Father and Daughter Con the Art World.”
Their names are in the caption: “Oliver and Cass Middleton under investigation in fake Gauguin scandal.”
The article dates from when they were nearly caught in a scheme involving a fake Gauguin. In the end, there wasn’t enough evidence, and the case was dropped and the pair disappeared.
“You’re joking,” I accuse her.
Sophie swings the phone around and enlarges a different picture, showing that to me next. “No joke. That’s who I saw walk right past me. Cass Middleton, in the flesh.”
“So, we broke into the Middletons’ shop. That’s just great,” I say, because running afoul of world-renowned con artists was not on my to-do list today.
“Technically, you didn’t break in, I did. Though, technically, I didn’t either. I was in, and I just stayed in.”
“I don’t know that master criminals are going to appreciate the difference,” I comment, but I’m hardly running out the door. Is it strange that I am more afraid of Clio being stolen away from me than I am of being caught by these fraudsters? “Let’s get on with it.”
She leads me deeper into the store. The place is large, and the path through gilded mirrors and pastel hatboxes meanders like a maze.
At last, Sophie points to a door with peeling paint and a long scratch near the keyhole. “I already tried the door, and it’s locked. But do you smell that?”
As we get closer,
something familiar tickles my nose. “India ink?” I ask. I’m not an expert, but I know it makes new documents look old.
“See? That’s where they must have been dummying up the papers so your pal could claim our Renoir was his. And that irks me.”
Irk. Such a funny word for such real vehemence. “You’re not indignant just because it’s a crime, are you? You feel a true connection to the painting, don’t you?”
She rolls her eyes, then counts off on her fingers. “I’m indignant for many reasons. One. Because forgers suck. Two. Because my great-great-great-however-many-greats grandmother asked our family to keep that painting safe because of the curse on it.”
“A curse?” I echo. What the hell? My skin prickles with this new intel. Is Clio trapped because the painting is cursed?
“That’s why we had to keep it away from Renoir’s family all these years. To protect the woman in the painting.”
Some women can just be trouble.
Yes, Clio needs protecting.
And now it’s my job, too, to look out for her. Because of everything I feel for her.
“What is the curse? This is the first I’m hearing of it,” I press.
My head spins. Hell, it swims with facts and suppositions. With magic and mystery.
“I don’t entirely understand all of it. But there’s clearly some sort of curse on it to keep the woman trapped in it. I suspect it’s because Renoir and Valadon didn’t see eye to eye on something. Renoir believed art and inspiration were only for great artists,” she explains. “Valadon didn’t, and the Muses don’t either.”
Just when I think I’ve found the pattern, some random new piece drops in. “So . . . they talk to you too, the Muses?”
“Duh. How else would I know these things? The Muses believe that one day there will be an age of great artistic creation and expression.” Sophie spreads her arms wide like she’s embracing the invisible masses before her as she orates. “An artistic revolution that’s for everyone.” She points at me. “That’s where inspiration comes in. Where you come in.”
“Me?” Pointing must be contagious, because I tap my chest with my finger. “How so?”
The Muse Page 9