The Reincarnationist Papers

by Eric Maikranz

  I assumed, upon confirmation, that I would have room and board at the St. Germain as long as I liked, but that was only a temporary solution. Eventually, after this small stack of money ran out, I'd have to either find some kind of income in Zurich or go back to my old world in L.A., which was as nefarious as Samas' proposition. In all honesty, criminality was not a major concern. He was probably aware of that as well. Perhaps that's why he made the offer in the first place. I knew the life I'd known before would welcome me back, waiting with open, atrophied arms.

  I folded the stack of bills and put them back in my pocket. The faint lazy notes of a cello crept into my room as I turned off the lights, drew the netting closed and tried to quiet my racing mind until sleep came.

  The morning air in the house was thick with simmering spices. I awoke from dreams of Samas' offer. The colors of the guest room seemed duller than those of my dream world.

  I found the source of the smell in the kitchen. Zohra stood on tip-toes peering into a large pot on the stove. "What are you cooking?" I asked.

  "I prepare cous cous three times a week and offer it to the poor at the Hassan Mosque in Rabat. I made some pastries early this morning. They're on the table if you're hungry. Samas was awake a few minutes ago, he should be down shortly."

  I took a pastry and walked around the living room, looking at the charcoal sketches on the walls. I stopped in front of a small sketch in a plain black frame. It's yellowing cracked edges betrayed its age. In it, a semi-clothed young black man lay asleep in a wooden bunk. I studied it at length, looking for some seed of the person I knew. But try as I might, I couldn't put the two together.

  "Hard to believe it's the same person," Samas said behind me.

  "Yes you're right."

  "I liked her much better back then." He walked into the kitchen. "How long will you be gone?" he asked Zohra.

  "Until late afternoon, but I left a rack of lamb in the oven for your lunch. Will you boys be okay this afternoon?"

  "I think we'll manage," he said, peeking into the oven. "We have a few things to discuss."

  "Good. I'm leaving. I'll see you later."

  Samas came over to where I sat in the living room. "How did you sleep last night?"

  "So so," I answered.

  "Did you have trouble with flies?"

  "No. I was up most of the night thinking about your offer."

  "And?" he prompted.

  "And, I think it's very generous, and very tempting. How long do I have to decide?"

  "A while, until after the Ascension is finished obviously. Just give it some thought. I'll let you know before I offer it to anyone else."

  "That's fair enough. Why is this one piece so important to you?"

  He nodded. "I remember I first saw Vermeer's work in a bakery in the village of Delft in Holland. I was an Englishwoman living in Amsterdam at the time and was on my way to Zurich for the Sumerfest."

  "Sumerfest? What's that?"

  "It's a yearly get together we have on the summer solstice. Gluttony and decadence are the rule of the day. In the old days, when the Cognomina first started, the original members would meet every summer solstice in the same location in order to stay in contact with one another. In time the Sumerfest became a tradition."

  "Is the Sumerfest still held today?"

  "Yes, it just happened over a month ago. Anyway, back to the painting, I stopped in Delft for bread and saw an exquisite painting hanging behind the counter of the bread shop. It was small, but miraculous in its detail. It depicted a young woman seated at a table admiring a glistening loaf of fresh bread. The only way to properly describe it, is to say that is looked like a modern color photograph. The shadow, the tone, the contrast, the detail, were all perfect. He was better than Di Vinci and even Caravaggio. The baker told me the man's name, Jan Vermeer, and that he lived in Delft. Vermeer, the baker told me, had offered him the painting for half a year’s worth of bread. But that had been a year and a half ago. I knew I had a real find in this sleepy town. The baker told me that Vermeer came into his shop every Monday, and I left word that I wanted to commission his services and would like to meet with Vermeer two Mondays hence at midday in the bakery.

  "I returned on the appointed day, eager to see the hand that could work such miracles. He was small in stature and wore his best threadbare clothing. An immodest man of meager means, he carried himself with the confidence of his art.

  "'I understand you wish to purchase my services?' he asked in a mousey voice, matched to his frame. He was in his mid-forties. Long brown frizzy hair erupted from under his paint smeared velvet hat.

  "'Yes. Do you undertake commissions?'

  "'As yet I've not, but I will hear your offer Madame...'

  "'Restoud,' I said. 'Emil Restoud. I would like to have my portrait done. I'm prepared to offer you five hundred silver francs.'

  "The baker scoffed, but Vermeer smiled. I stood and watched as his spirit swelled like a young lover’s heart.

  "'I accept your offer Madame Restoud. When would you like me to call on you?'

  "'In one week, at this address in Amsterdam,' I said handing him a note and a brown leather purse. 'Here's one hundred silver francs for any supplies you might need. Good day sir.' I heard the baker begin to complain about unpaid balances as I walked out.

  He arrived exactly on time, canvas and supplies in hand. He was quite attractive in his paint spattered clothes. Over lunch, he told me about himself. He'd studied with no one and had no explanation for his natural talent. We spoke until sunset, until the light was too weak for him to work. I put him up in a guest room so that we could begin early the next morning.

  "He worked at a painfully slow pace and would keep me in the same position for hours on end. I really think he had no concept of time when he held a brush. That's probably what accounted for his mastery of detail. I had little patience to begin with and modeling for him was close to unbearable. The whole painting took a week of ten hour a day sessions to complete. I remember I would get tired after only half an hour in the same pose and would try to secretly adjust my position. Each time I did so, he would patiently set his brush down, stand up, walk over to me and gently reset my position. His small elfin hands felt comforting and in time I began to shift positions on purpose, so that he would have to come over. I reacted willingly to his touch. My ruse worked, by the fourth day we were lovers. He called the painting 'The Rendezvous[32].' It seemed appropriate. I bought three more works in the fall of 1674 at five hundred silver francs apiece. He, of course, delivered them to me personally. He died the next year.

  "'The Rendezvous' is the only portrait I have of myself as Emil Restoud. I kept it in my home in Amsterdam for over two hundred and fifty years. It hung in the same room in which he painted it. I lost a part of myself when those bastards took it off my wall."

  I leaned forward in my chair. "Do you have an attachment like that with all the pieces in your collection?"

  "I have a history with all of them, and they are all very precious to me, but 'The Rendezvous' is special, as special as Jan was. I loved him."

  "Where is it now?"

  "It's in Tunis," he said, brightening up. "The Italians have leased it to them for one year. I intend for it to be in my possession by the end of that year. Security in the Tunisian National Gallery is suspect."

  "How will you go about finding someone if I choose not to help you?"

  "There are several people I can contact. This certainly wouldn't be the first piece I've procured," he said in a sly voice.

  "Do you have a plan for how to do it?"

  "Yes I do." He smiled wide and leaned back. "Do you know much about security systems?"

  "No."

  "Neither do I," he confessed. "But I know about the system in the National Gallery in Tunis."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "I have a master schematic to the security system as well as a floor plan to the building. I bought them from an inside source last month. That's how I kn
ow their security is suspect."

  "Nice," I said smiling.

  "Yes, my source had been affiliated with us for about 15 years."

  "What does the place look like?"

  "Wait here and I'll show you." He came back minutes later, a tight roll of blueprints clamped under his arm.

  I studied the blue and white paper over his shoulder as he rolled them out on the kitchen table. "It's not very big."

  "I know. Small country; small National Gallery," he chuckled. "That works against us really. It has been my experience that it's easier to steal something out of a large building than one of this size."

  I noticed his use of the plural when he spoke, but kept it to myself. "What's that?" I asked, pointing to a small red sticker on the floor plan.

  "That's where 'The Rendevouz' hangs."

  "How do you know?"

  Samas turned his head and looked at me seriously. "Because I went there to see it, twice. I went to see it, but also to look for the cameras and sensors on this schematic."

  "And?"

  "And it's all accurate, right down to the guard's schedules. The piece hangs right here as though not a day had passed," he said, placing a chubby finger on the red dot. "But do you want to know what's ironic? It was taken off my wall in 1940, traveled God knows where on it's way to Berlin, went to Moscow for forty years, then went to Rome, New York, Singapore, Johannesburg, and finally Tunis. And after all that, it still rests in the same gold painted oak frame I put it in as soon as the oils had dried."

  "That's amazing."

  "We're lucky about that."

  I looked at him curiously.

  "I put it in the frame, I know how to get it out."

  "Is getting it out of the frame part of your plan?" I asked.

  He nodded.

  "Let's hear it."

  "Basically the plan is to get in, get the portrait out of the frame, cut it off the internal frame, and get out."

  "What security measures are in place to prevent a would be thief from doing just that?"

  "All the doors are alarmed, as are the windows and skylights. Two guards are on duty at all times and make rounds every twenty minutes. The entire floor plan is covered by motion detectors and the paintings hang on pressure sensitive mounts that are wired into the main alarm system."

  "It doesn't sound very suspect to me."

  "Believe me it is, the only real problem is getting out of the building."

  "I'm listening," I said.

  "The first trick isn't getting in, it's staying in." A wave of childlike enthusiasm washed over his face as he began to describe the details. "The Gallery closes at 6:00 pm, Sunday through Thursday, and is only open for private parties on Saturdays. You'll need to go into the Gallery about 5:00 or 5:30 on a regular business day, carrying a small fanny pack for the tools you'll need. Minutes before 6:00, you'll go into the women’s bathroom and wait."

  "Don't they check the bathrooms?"

  "They do, but they only check them after the Gallery is closed, and only one at a time. The guard will check the men’s room first. When you hear the guard enter the men’s room, quickly and silently go to the trashcan standing between the men’s and women’s bathrooms and climb inside. It has a top that will conceal you and is large enough for you to sit in comfortably for several hours. You should wait inside until dark, when the guards settle into their normal routine, then get out of the trashcan after you hear a guard pass. If they keep to their schedule, you'll have twenty minutes to get the painting and get out."

  "How do you know they check the men’s room first?" I interjected.

  "Because I tried it. Besides it's habit, when you think of going to the bathroom which one do you go to?"

  I nodded, "I see your point."

  "What about the motion detectors?"

  He shook his head. "They're only for show. They can't use them because of the rats."

  "Rats?"

  "Yes," he laughed. "There is an ancient saying about the city of Carthage, where modern Tunis stands today. It's said that if the foreigners ever outnumber the original inhabitants of Carthage, the rats, that Hannibal will return from the dead to protect them. Hannibal still rests, they say, because the rats outnumber the humans five to one. I saw four inside the Gallery as large as house cats, and if they're in there during the day then there will be ten times as many at night. I do business with curators all over the world and they all complain of the same problem with the types of sensors used in the Gallery, the systems cannot be adjusted to discern between mice, rats, and humans. Modern systems use lasers that scan the room down to six inches above the floor to avoid the problem, but the Tunisians don't have that system."

  "Okay," I said, conceding his point for the moment. "What about the pressure sensitive mounts?"

  "Ahh." He held up his finger. "I had my source find out their manufacturer, then I called the company as a prospective buyer and queried the sales representative about the unit's shortcomings compared to more expensive models. His sales pitch was quite enlightening. The Gallery's units are sensitive to a positive weight, usually five to ten pounds. They are programmed to trigger the alarm if that five to ten pound burden is removed. But they won't trigger the alarm if they are burdened with more weight. This is how they can be overcome." He drew on the edge of the floor plan as he spoke. "We simply fashion a noose out of fishing line and drape it behind the frame. Once on the mount, you simply attach a ten pound weight to the line and carefully remove the painting from the mount."

  "It's so simple it's ingenious," I said.

  "Thank you."

  "What's next?" I asked.

  "The painting needs to be taken out of the frame. It's held in place with two small nails in each inside corner. They could be easily removed with a small hammer carried in your back pack. When you have it out, cut the canvas along the back side of the internal stretch frame. If you cut it so, it will leave enough material for me to have it re-stretched to its normal size. After that, you roll it up so that the painted surface is on the inside and you leave."

  "I'm sure the guards are just going to let me walk right out the front door," I said sarcastically. "Why couldn't I spend the night in the trash can?"

  "I had thought about that, but it won't work. A new shift of guards comes on at midnight. They empty the trash and mop the floors just before the Gallery reopens.

  "Leaving is going to be the trickiest part, because no matter how it's done you will set off the alarm when you exit the building. The upside is that you will already have the piece. It doesn't really make much difference, but I think this door might be best," he said, pointing to the floor plan. "It exits to the alley. From there, all you have to do is get to the harbor. I'll have a boat and crew ready to take you to that beach," he said, pointing out the living room window to the sea.

  "What about the two million?" I asked.

  "What about it? An account will be opened for you upon your confirmation. When I receive the painting I will have Diltz transfer the money to you. You can call to confirm it if you want."

  I nodded slowly. "Your plan seems easy, too easy for the two million dollar price tag attached to it."

  "Well of course you would think so. The risks for you aren't the same as those for a normal person, but that doesn't mean you should do it for any less."

  "Why would you say the risk is less for me?"

  "The two million is for someone who has a fear of incarceration if caught. You don't have that fear because of what you are. If you are caught you need only to take your own life and wait to remember who you are when you come back. The money would be waiting for your next Ascension. Their prisons can't hold you. That's why it seems so easy to you."

  It hit me then, it really was that simple. Their justice couldn't touch me. His offer became even more tantalizing, knowing it was within my power to self commute any sentence, if it came to that. That kind of libertinage was intoxicating. I began to see why Samas enjoyed this life as he did and it made me ye
arn for it. "I like the way you think," I said, turning to the floor plan.

  "Thank you. I've been working on this plan almost everyday for three months. It's solid."

  "I understand what you mean when you say that their justice can't touch us. But with that in mind, why don't you steal the piece yourself?"

  He erupted with laughter as he placed his hands on his hips. "As if I could fit this girth inside a trash can. Besides, the sum I offer is affordable. It's no bargain, but it's not unreasonable to me. I've thought about stealing it myself, I think I would derive much more satisfaction if I could. But I can't ignore that the odds of success would be much higher if a more qualified man did it. The Rendevouz's return will be satisfaction enough. What I really wanted was--." An abbreviated ring from the phone cut him off in mid sentence. He turned an ear toward it and waited for a second ring. It rang again 15 seconds later.

  "I know who that is," he said. He walked over to the phone. "Mr. Diltz, what a pleasant surprise," he said into the receiver before the caller could speak. "I understand. Thank you. Goodbye." A serious cast came over his face as he hung up the phone and walked back to the table. "They want us back tomorrow. They are close to a decision."

  "That's quicker than you thought," I said.

  "Yes it is, but it's probably a good sign. Diltz said they want one more session with you first."

  "What do you think that means?" I asked.

  "We're about to find out."

  18

  The streets of Zurich welcomed me, as though they had been patiently awaited my return. The nearer we got to the Hotel St. Germain the more aware I became of the feelings I'd had since Diltz's call. Curiously, it wasn't fear or anxiety. It was confidence. I knew what I was and knew that I could convince them.

  Samas stood beside me before the panel in the grotto. The gallery against the curtain was filled to capacity. Several new faces looked out at me. Poppy's was not among them. Torches crackled above the murmur of voices as the five members of the panel walked out from behind the curtain and sat down. Their expressionless faces told me nothing.