A cold wave filled Jessica’s belly, and awakened the pain in her lungs.
“It’s them,” she said.
Her body, which still bore the burning traces of her and Thaddeus’s embrace, was then taken over by a new emotion. Anger.
Suddenly, fighting became the obvious thing.
She had to protect this brand new love. It took two people to live it.
The steps were getting closer. She knew that hiding, blending into the shadows was their last chance. They had managed to escape and cover their tracks, and had lurked here. But if they were found, the leak would stop there, on that dead-end roof.
Thaddeus place his finger against her lips and then brought her closer to him to protect her. The sounds grew louder, much like the sound of her heart pounding in her chest.
“Thaddeus, will you go all the way for me?” Jessica asked breathlessly.
“I already promised you that.”
“I want to hear it again.”
“I’ll go through with it. I swear to you. Sixtine.”
Her gray eyes only wavered when he said that name. It was now their secret. Jessica trembled when she cradled his face in her hands and kissed him with all her being, as if to tear off one last proof of love.
She jumped to her feet so fast that she knew Thaddeus’ injured leg would prevent him from following her. He tried to grab her and pulled her back, but she was already out of his reach Jessica was already running, bent, silent, along the roof. When she was far enough from Thaddeus, she made sure her steps were loud enough to send an echo to the men who approached her.
Shouts, orders, footsteps.
They were on her trail, which led away from Thaddeus. It was her they wanted. When she separated from him, she spared him.
If he went all the way for her, as he promised, then she would see him again.
20
The first time she ran through the streets, Sixtine had missed De Bok’s house. She had not been able to focus on the address given, as the memory of her and Thaddeus’s kiss on the rooftops of Mexico City had ravaged every corner of her conscience, and she was beset with questions.
Was the ordeal in the pyramid only the result of a dark ménage à trois? Had this betrayal led to his death, and hers?
“Come in,” the voice said through the intercom.
Sixtine tried to clear her head and pushed the heavy gate. She didn’t have much time left to find Thaddeus; and the answers she was looking for had just become more urgent.
De Bok was her best chance.
The night brought out the scents of exotic flowers from De Bok’s garden. The street lamps cast a soft yellow light on the plants and trees that adorned the lit passage of small lamps. With each step, she was watching, waiting for another memory to appear, but nothing came up.
She prayed that the stone steps would lead to Thaddeus, but all she found on the threshold of the beautiful colonial house was Yohannes De Bok and his impeccable gray cardigan, welcoming her with open arms.
“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” he said happily, pointing to the moon. “Come in, come in.”
His voice had a slight echo, as the inside of the house was nearly empty. The entrance was littered with boxes and crates stacked one on top of the other. Several people were busy around the packaging and Sixtine felt a pinch in her chest. It was obvious that Thaddeus was not there.
De Bok apologized for receiving her in this chaos and led her to the living room, which was more or less intact. The room was dark green, with cases displayed everywhere to showcase antiques. Everything was within reach: masks, sculptures, fresco fragments, parchments, vases, paintings, jewelry, spears, a sword. And in a small cabinet, a collection of three flint tools on which a single eye was painted.
Sixtine congratulated him on the beauty of his collection and asked him to show her around, trying not to appear nervous. De Bok politely did so, described the antiquities, many of which came from Egypt, but most from Mexico City.
“What are these?” Sixtine asked as she skimmed over three stones with strange eyes.
“Aztec sacrificial knives,” De Bok answered with a snicker. “Not a conversation to have before dinner.”
Cocktails were served in the living room adjoining the dining room. Several pieces were missing, but there were still things to see, only from Mexico City, which the antique dealer called his adopted country. They talked about a multitude of trivial things that were quite essential in the balance of knowledge of the other, but perfectly unimportant. However, the antique dealer was a literate, funny, eccentric individual, and delighted his guest with witty comments on the morals of Mexico City. He also praised Aztec culture, which he even preferred to Egyptian culture, for its refinement and sophistication. The Mexican spirit, their soul, permeated everything in Mexico City.
“Are you leaving town?” Sixtine asked.
“I’m not leaving. I’m just moving out.”
“And you found a house big enough for your collection?”
“Ah,” the antique dealer replied, staring into his glass. “I’m not taking anything with me.”
“But you have spent your whole life looking for treasures,” Sixtine exclaimed.
“Search, find, search again. I realized that in the end, I no longer find pleasure there.”
“Maybe because you have the biggest one in your hands.”
De Bok glanced intensely at her, not responding.
“I mean, Nefertiti,” Sixtine said.
“I have a great opportunity to realize that the thirst for treasures, as you say, is never satisfied. You see, the biggest ones are the ones you don’t own. Those that have not even been discovered, that may not even exist. So I get out of the game before it’s the treasure that kills me, you understand?”
“Yes,” Sixtine answered quietly. “Then, with Nefertiti, your fortune is made.”
“No, no,” De Bok interrupted with a detached smile. “My client, Sophia Neumann, is rich. Me, much less.”
An embarrassing silence settled between them, but Sixtine found a harmless question to break the silence. “If you had to keep only one object, of all the ones that have passed through your hands, the most beautiful, which one would you choose?”
“It probably wouldn’t be the most beautiful for the rest of the world, but it is for me.”
The antique dealer’s eyes sparkled, and he invited Sixtine to follow him. They walked through the house, and behind their steps, an echo always followed.
As they walked down a hallway, they found themselves face to face with a very strange woman. Sixtine wondered for a moment if it was that treasure De Bok was talking about. She was beautiful, tall, with long black hair and tattoos on every inch of exposed skin.
Her face was tattooed with a skeletal skull and she looked like the Santa Muerte.
As Sixtine looked into the stranger’s eyes, she felt a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach l. She knew she recognized her and her presence suddenly made Sixtine feel vulnerable. The stranger exchanged a few words in Spanish with De Bok, then she walked away, or rather snuck away without a sound. Sixtine felt a great relief when she heard the front door slam, but her heart continued to beat hard and fast, as if under threat. De Bok did not seem to care much about this interaction, and led his guest to the end of the corridor.
There was a tiny icon hanging by an invisible thread. No bigger than a playing card, it represented the Virgin Mary bursting with color. Sixtine approached it and noted that the relief was different from the painted icons she knew. It almost took on impressionist tones, with colors that changed according to the angle from which you looked at it.
“Feathers,” De Bok grinned.
Indeed, Sixtine recognized the detail of tiny woven feathers. The difference in color created an image that seemed to have been created with small brushstrokes, almost dotted.
“They are called plumeria,” De Bok added. “After massacring the Aztecs, the Spanish conquistadors completely obliterated the
ir culture. What was left of the population was imposed the Christian religion. Under oppression, the Mexicans – or the Aztecs, if you will – had to renounce their gods, their spiritual practices, everything that gave meaning to their world. Priests and craftsmen were also asked to create new religious icons, Christian, of course. The work of the Mexicans are remarkable. They have copied European iconography, but they have used their traditional know-how and materials. Among other things, the feathers of their birds – especially the quetzal. First, the Spaniards brutally repressed this practice, but gradually they found that Europeans were fond of these pen paintings, so the tradition continued. But this little icon dates back to the time when the Mexicans were just discovering Christian images and bringing their own pagan sensibility to them, in secret.”
Sixtine looked carefully at the Virgin. Then she felt this caress of a feather again, which made her so fragile. Mary’s black hair reminded her of her mother and Sixtine felt her throat tighten, the desire to tell the truth, to drop the mask.
“The Virgin Mary, of course.”
“That’s what the Spaniards saw, too,” De Bok answered. “But in reality, if we look closely, and especially if we know the indigenous culture, this skin, this darker hair, this halo whiter than gold, this plumeria actually represents Tonantzin, a lunar deity and the mother goddess of the Aztecs. By creating this object, the Mexicans worshipped Tonantzin and remained faithful to their culture, while making it appear that they were praying to the Virgin Mary, to avoid repression. Over the centuries, Mary and Tonantzin finally merged into one, becoming the Virgin of Guadalupe, the Virgin Morena, the one with dark skin. In this little painting, this duality, this powerful woman has always fascinated me.”
He continued to stare, admiring, almost in love, at the little icon. Then he added, as one confesses, a regret, “We’re still someone else, aren’t we?”
Sixtine looked at him with apprehension. Was it a provocation, could he have uncovered his secret? No, he seemed quite there only for himself and that feathered woman.
“I don’t even know why I’m showing it to you,” De Bok added gently. “Maybe because you remind me of someone.”
These words floated for a moment in the ether, Sixtine holding her breath, not daring to look at De Bok. Then he sighed and said finally, “Come on, let’s eat.”
Once seated at a large raw wood table in the dining room, Sixtine and Yohannes talked about other unimportant and trivial things.
Finally, Sixtine found the courage to ask, “The lady who was there is she one of your partners? Or a customer maybe?”
“Ah, Cybelle,” De Bok smiled. “She never goes unnoticed. Intriguing, isn’t it? She’s a friend of mine. I’ve been hosting her here for a few months. I will miss this house. So many friends stayed there, but more than anything, I will miss her presence. I love people with extraordinary destinies. Cybelle has been a punk singer, knife thrower, lesbian call girl, entered a convent, escaped, tattooed celebrities in New York, and now runs a souvenir shop in Zócalo while running a death press club, reporters covering the city’s murders. A sensitive soul.”
These words made Sixtine smile.
“I love extraordinary destinies,” he continued, “free individuals, who have made their lives a novelistic work. Especially those who have had to deal with, say, traumatic events to make their interesting paths. Like our friend Thaddeus, for example.”
Sixtine shifted uneasily in her chair at the mention of Thaddeus’s name. All evening she had been preparing to ask De Bok about Thaddeus. Had he guessed it? As for these “traumatic events”, did he mean Seth’s death?
“I think he likes you very much,” De Bok said, with bright eyes. “I noticed it in Paris.”
“I haven’t seen him since that day,” Sixtine replied without as much as batting an eye. “Is he in Mexico City?”
“Yes, he was supposed to arrive yesterday, I believe. For his exhibition.”
“Does he not come to your house every time he’s here?”
“That’s what he used to do before, yes.”
“Before what?”
“Before Nefertiti, and this circus, before his sister’s disappearance, before…”
Sixtine allowed the silence to take over De Bok’s sentence before asking. “His sister, is she still alive?”
“His half-sister, and yes.”
“You say she’s missing.”
“Liz is, or should I rather say was, a New York lawyer, art collector, very close to her father. Not very social and not very good at appreciating simple happiness, but brilliant, hard-working, merciless some would say, a true businesswoman. Then one day, nearly a year ago, she disappeared. Everything left behind. She is technically missing, but only his father still believes she is alive.”
“And Thaddeus was devastated by her disappearance?”
“It’s hard to say. He never really got along with her. And Helmut has never missed an opportunity to show his preference for his biological daughter, rather than his stepson. I would say that Thaddeus was very upset by this sudden departure.”
“I see. These were the traumatic events you were talking about?” Sixtine asked. “Thaddeus di Blumagia. Yet we imagine a dream life.”
“I would hardly call it a dream life. His mother died when he was a child, he never got along with his stepfather, whom he accused of his mother’s murder.”
“Murder?”
“Completely unfounded accusations, of course, the fantasies of a teenager trying to find the reasons for the suicide of a loved one. It was true that Helmut never had any affection for his stepson, so he paid the price with Thaddeus’s imagination and determination.”
“I understand the higher bid against von Wär during the auction a whole lot better now. Do you know where Thaddeus stays when he comes to Mexico City? I would like that very much.”
“Thaddeus has an undeniable taste, but he prefers more subtle surroundings,” De Bok continued, ignoring her question. “I was not surprised by his acquisition of the blue scarab, a sumptuous, graceful piece. But bidding on the mummy, it’s a bit of an over-reaching and daring move, if you don’t mind me saying it in a very simple way. I know you were also interested. It is an excellent financial investment, certainly – ”
“It is not for these reasons I bid on it,” Sixtine interrupted snidely, instantly regretting her remark.
“Everyone has different reasons for acquiring antiques. Even more than art, these pieces carry a strong meaning in them. I have known Thaddeus since he was eleven years old, and as a child he already had a great artistic sensitivity. I’m sure he bid to provoke his father, yes, but also to protect you. Anyway, whatever his reasons, Thaddeus has changed a lot in recent months.”
It did not escape Sixtine that De Bok changed the subject quickly, as if he had said too much.
“And of course, there was the death of his best friend. Seth Pryce,” Sixtine said without thinking.
As if it had come out of her, vital and at the same time perfectly natural.
De Bok nodded, as if he remembered something he hadn’t thought of for a long time. “Seth Pryce. To be honest with you, I never understood the friendship between those two. Thaddeus, culture, elegance, moral compass, strong. And the other, charming, certainly. A great intelligence too, an unparalleled determination, but a toxic ambition. He wanted to be rich and he wanted others to know it. A terrible disease.”
“Have you met him?”
“Several times when he was a teenager, he was always with Thaddeus. But I had only seen him once since he became rich.”
“I heard he was a collector too.”
De Bok scoffed. “I’d say more like an accumulator, a real magpie. He didn’t collect for beauty. You see, Thaddeus and I have the same eye. And I saw your reaction in front of my plumeria, I think you have that eye too, if you take the time to sharpen it. Creating a world, creating beauty, borrowing grace, a vision of the world, from each of these artists of past times,
is part of our purpose. That each object, illuminated by its meaning, its function, its history, participates in a symphony that would be unique to us, quite personal. The greatest collectors are artists and their quest is selfish, certainly, but they are the best guardians of these works. In them, innate, out of nowhere and absolutely essential, lies the idea that an object is made for itself because it participates in the harmony of life itself, that it is the expression of what the world should be. Thaddeus di Blumagia is one of them. Seth Pryce, not so much.”
“And Helmut von Wär?”
“He is something else. He appropriates the power of these objects. This funeral heritage is imbued with an almost eternal sovereignty. As if in every era, every king, every queen, every warrior had impregnated these objects with raw power, force, and that this power was transferred to its guardian. Helmut bought Nefertiti to appropriate his greatness.”
“This is absurd.”
De Bok smiled.
“And Seth Pryce was the same?”
“No. No. Seth was accumulating price tags.”
“You say you met him once after he became wealthy. To sell him a piece?”
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
De Bok seemed to hesitate. “A gold coin, of course. Priceless. I never understood why Thaddeus was so devoted to Seth.”
“Did he love him that much?” Sixtine asked.
“Oh yes, certainly. One of the strongest friendships I have ever known. I would even say that Thaddeus and Seth considered themselves brothers. This explains why their personality differences have never come in the middle of their friendship. A brother is very forgiving.”
As Sixtine was about to ask the question that burned her mouth and her whole body, she felt the fat man squeezing her throat with his rotten stone fingers. “And Seth Pryce’s wife, did you know her?”
De Bok glanced at his plate. “Yes, well, no. A tasteless kid. She was there that day when I saw Seth again. Or not really, she seemed distracted and vacant. Probably high on something.”
Then De Bok looked at her with a charming, confident smile. “So different from you, Sixtine, yet, I imagine you are the same age?
Sixtine- The Complete Trilogy Box Set Page 39