Starry Nights

by Daisy Whitney

  “Like how? Am I supposed to smuggle you in? Be your Sherpa?” I say in a cutting voice that makes me feel like a jerk.

  “We don’t have to go in through the front doors, Julien. We go at night through the bridges. Remember? The Japanese bridges, how they all connect but only when we touch them together? Most of the museums with the sick art have Monets in them with bridges. Because he made all the bridge paintings after me, they’ll be intact. We can travel through them almost instantly.”

  I want to kiss her and tell her she’s brilliant. I want to pump a fist high in the air because breaking into a museum through a painting is the smartest, coolest thing I’ve ever heard. But it hardly feels like we’re on the same team. “Okay, so we’ll go together,” I say, and it hits me—I have to witness my own execution. I’ll have to watch her fall out of love with me.

  “Let’s go now,” I say and walk over to the nearest bridge painting. I want to get this over with. I want to drop in and out of the world’s museums in the dark of night, and then I want to open the door and say good-bye to her because I will barely be able to stand this at all.

  “There’s only one problem with going now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Louvre doesn’t have any Monets, or any other Impressionist paintings of the bridge. We can’t get into the Louvre that way. And I think we should start at the Louvre,” she says, and I can see the logic—the outbreak, for whatever random reason, started at the Louvre.

  “Let’s go there now. Walk over. It’s just across the river. There’s got to be a door that’s open somewhere,” I say even though it’s a horrible idea—you can’t just walk into the Louvre at night—but I feel horrible.

  “It’ll never work that way. You know we can’t get in there now,” she says, and wipes a hand across her cheeks. She dries her tears and steels herself. “Look, this is my problem. I’ll have to do it myself during the day after you free me and try to be fast. I’ll take the risk.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “I should never have asked you. It’s not fair.”

  “Of course it’s not fair. It sucks in every way imaginable. But I’m in this with you, and we have to fix it together. I want to protect you, and I will. The trouble is anyone can see me anytime. So how do you suppose I not get caught in the Hermitage or the National Gallery in the middle of the night?”

  “I actually have a few ideas,” she says with a grin. “But what about the Louvre? Is there any way we can get one of the Japanese bridges from the Musée d’Orsay into the Louvre?”

  I shake my head several times. “I can ask, but I seriously don’t think I can convince my mom to let me take one of our bridges on a sleepover.”

  “Do you know anybody, any private collectors maybe, who have a bridge painting? Anyone at all?”

  In a flash, I picture dusky-blue light on the slatted bridge. I smile wickedly. “As a matter of fact, I do know a collector.”

  We spend the rest of the night mapping out a plan. We study the layouts of the Art Institute of Chicago, the Met in New York, the National Gallery in London, and the Hermitage in St. Petersburg. I look up the floor plan for the Louvre too, double-checking where the sick paintings reside and plotting the fastest course to the art. The Louvre is a beast and has several sick paintings. But my primary focus with the Louvre maps is in locating the best restroom.

  Next, we search through interactive maps, along with pictures of the galleries in each museum that houses one of the Monet bridges, writing down the names of the nearby works and whether they were painted before or after 1885 so we’ll know which are safe. We hunt for photos online of the benches inside those rooms. I study the map of the Monet exhibit that’s at the Hermitage right now. I try to ignore the fact that we were once planning a date at the Hermitage and now we’re preparing for our demise.

  The last order of business for Clio is with Gustave. She slips a hand into his pocket, carefully takes out his cell phone, and scrolls through his calls for the one that came from his friend who runs the night shift at the Louvre. She memorizes the number, drops the phone into his pocket, and gives me the digits.

  Somehow, I don’t think Gustave will mind the small part he’s going to inadvertently play. He’s always liked art.

  Then Clio heals the warped Degas, and the orchestra stops playing out of tune. I’m afraid to look at her, afraid she won’t care for me anymore, but she gives me one more kiss good night, and I do my best to savor it.

  As I leave I send a group text to Bonheur, Sophie, Simon, and Lucy, letting them know I desperately need their help and could they please meet me in the late morning. I tell Bonheur and Sophie that the girl they’ve been protecting all these years is a Muse and that she needs our help to fix the art. They don’t write back. They’re all asleep. I manage to go home and snag a few troubled hours myself. I’ve had better nights of sleep, that’s for sure.

  The thing about museum security is this—it’s a myth. Those movies where master thieves break into museums inside horse statues and then rewire cameras to show video from the day before, or the ones where infrared lights shine at unpredictable angles and the hero executes a series of acrobatic moves while suspended via ropes? That’s all Las Vegas–casino–level stuff. That’s the sort of security you need when you have millions of dollars in cash on hand. Because cash is nameless. Cash goes anywhere. Paintings don’t.

  The reality is most museums have little more than simple alarms on doors and a couple guards yawning as they stroll a few galleries after dark. It’s just not that hard for thieves to slice canvases from frames under the cloak of night, or even in the bright light of day, and slip out among the afternoon crowds with invaluable art tucked inside a shirt. The real security system museums rely on is the astronomical difficulty in selling a priceless work of art. It’s virtually impossible to fence a museum piece anywhere, even in countries where it once was popular, like Japan or Switzerland.

  Sure, there are some camera systems in the museums I’ll need to visit. The Louvre has the most secure setup, but I won’t be seen there. If cameras catch me in any of the other four locations, I’m going to have to rely on the sheer logical impossibility of having been anywhere else but Paris in the same night.

  Even so, I’d rather not be spotted by camera lenses or human eyes, so once my friends join me at a cafe I run down the basics of the who, why, and where of the mission. I leave out the part about Clio falling out of love with me. I don’t want pity.

  “So, here in this room in the National Gallery. That’s where I need the pencil and paper,” I say as I tap the layout of the museum in London where the Turners have been weeping waves. “Who knows someone in London who can get over there today?”

  “I’ve got a friend there,” Simon says. “My buddy Patrick. He’ll do it.”

  I down my third coffee of the morning and take a bite of a chicken sandwich. There is a huge plate of french fries on the table that we’ve been sharing. A grandmotherly old woman with white hair and an even whiter Maltese sits at the table next to us, feeding her dog pieces of ham.

  “Next, Chicago. Lucy, you used to live there, right?”

  Lucy nods excitedly. She and Simon are done eating, so he’s braiding her hair. She leans back into him, as he loops one brown-and-emerald strand over another. I try to quell my jealousy over him being out with his girlfriend during the day, over him likely being out with her tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. “For a year. And I know just who to call.”

  “Better not be a guy,” Simon says.

  “Oh, Simon. I never ever dated anyone before you, don’t you know that?”

  “Impressive,” I say, tipping my forehead to Simon’s hair-dresser handiwork.

  “I have many talents.”

  I show Lucy where the pencil and paper should go in the Art Institute. “I’m on it,” she says and dives into her purse for her phone.

  Simon loses hold of the braid. “Look at that. I’ll have to start all over.�
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  “Oh, boo-hoo. I know how you hate having your hands in my hair,” Lucy says.

  “All right, where else do we need people?” Simon asks.

  “Well, I’m guessing the chances of knowing someone in St. Petersburg are pretty slim?”

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  “That’s okay. I’ve got another plan for the Hermitage. What about New York?”

  Bonheur waves a hand. “I have plenty of friends in New York. Where do we need to plant this clandestine sheet of paper and pencil to help you and the Muse?” he asks in a Sherlock Holmesian voice.

  I show him the location in the Met.

  “Consider it done. Americans are so friendly. They do love to help, you know,” he says as he whisks off a quick text message.

  When he’s done, he looks up at me.

  “Something else?”

  “That’s going to be the easiest thing you do today, Bonheur,” I tell him. “The next part is going to require you and Sophie.”

  “Good, because I was feeling left out,” Sophie says.

  “Oh, you won’t feel left out now, trust me.”

  Sophie’s eyes widen, and Bonheur’s face turns white when I tell them what they have to do with their priceless Monet. “Just look at it this way—it’s much easier to get a painting into the Louvre than out of the Louvre.”

  “Oh, well then. Piece of cake. But how are we going to get it back? My mother will kill me if anything happens to that painting.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to it. It’s going to be in the safest place in the world for a piece of art.”

  “So I just walk back in tomorrow morning and say, ‘Excuse me, did I happen to leave my Monet here?’ “

  Sophie rolls her eyes and swats her brother’s arm. He’s in a sleeveless red top today. “Seriously. Mom bought that painting at Christie’s, you dodo. Everyone knows it belongs to us, so we’ll get it back.”

  “Actually, you’ll get it back tonight. Or at least, it’ll be safe tonight. I promise. Besides, the worst-case scenario is you look like an idiot in front of your mom. It’s not like you might get caught in the Louvre after midnight. And if you have to explain to your mom, something tells me she’ll be cool with you having helped out on an Avant-Garde mission to save the world’s art.” I look at my watch. “But you should probably get going soon. You have a lot to do, and I’m guessing you’ll want to get over there a few minutes before closing time. I’ll wait outside for you guys for moral support.”

  “I’m going to need some absinthe for real after this,” Bonheur says as he slinks down into the wicker chair.

  For once, Bonheur does not stand out in a crowd. He’s outside the pyramid at the Louvre and he’s wearing jeans and a brown T-shirt. Sophie has ditched her trademark tap shoes in favor of sneakers. They’re about to do something totally legal, but completely unusual, so there’s no need to draw attention.

  Bonheur pats the side of his messenger bag. “It’s like carrying around a freaking diamond.”

  “More like thousands of diamonds,” I correct.

  He rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. My heart is already beating ten thousand times a minute. That’s fast, right?”

  “Very,” I say with a small laugh. “Okay, let’s go through this. The Monet canvas is inside the bag, right?”

  “We took it out of the frame and off the stretcher bars,” he says, referring to the wooden bars that keep canvases taut inside frames. “Then we put it into a padded envelope and caught a taxi because there was no way I was taking a Monet on the Metro.”

  “Correction. I took it off the stretchers. Your hands were shaking too much to do that,” Sophie points out.

  Bonheur holds up a palm to his sister. “Whatever.”

  I continue to review the plan. “So you’re going to go through security. They’ll scan your bag, just like they scan every bag. There’s nothing in it to alert them, and even if for whatever reason they looked through the bag, there’s no law that says you can’t take a work of art you own out for a stroll.”

  “Right. Right,” Bonheur says and nods several times, as if the repetitive motion will calm his nerves. “Then we go to the ladies’ room on the second floor.”

  “The one by the far stairwell,” I add. We picked that bathroom because it’s unlikely anyone from museum security will patrol a small, two-stall restroom at night.

  “And that’s where I come in,” Sophie says and bounces on her toes. She’s game for anything. “I have the double-sided tape in my purse.” She shows me a small purple purse. “I take the canvas from the envelope and hang it under the sink, so no one will see it. Then we leave the padded envelope behind in the bathroom.”

  “There you go,” I say and clap them both on the back. “You can do it. I’ll see you in a few minutes. You better get in there now because it’s going to close soon.”

  Bonheur salutes me, and Sophie grabs his elbow. I watch as they head into the pyramid entrance. I’d go with them, but I know far too many people who work there and I can’t take any chances today. So I wait and I wander, and twenty minutes later, they rush out, breathless and full of adrenaline.

  “We did it!” Sophie declares, then tells me how she hung their prized Monet. It’s now out of sight, suspended on the wooden underside of the sink counter with sturdy, double-sided tape Sophie pressed against the unpainted outer edge of the canvas, the white border that’s normally wrapped around the stretcher bars. That way the tape won’t mar a brushstroke of Monet’s nor affect the value of the art.

  Now all I have to do is hope no one goes into that bathroom for the next several hours.

  Chapter 30

  Last Dance

  I don’t have any carry-on luggage. This trip doesn’t allow it, since you can’t take anything into a painting. All we need are hands and wits. I hope they’re mightier than the sword, or the nightstick, I should say.

  “Ready?”

  “I just need to do one more thing. Come with me,” Clio says and walks across the main floor. I follow her and we stop at a Toulouse-Lautrec. She tilts her head and offers a faint smile, tinged with regret. “A proper good-bye?”

  That is something I can’t resist. I take her hand and the museum is gone, wiped clean by the sounds of the cancan, the dance that originated at a cabaret with windmills at the top of Montmartre. How I wish I were truly dancing with her in Montmartre. But this is as close as we’ll come. We’ve fallen into the festivities as only Toulouse-Lautrec could imagine them, surrounded by turn-of-the-century-dressed men and women with high-laced boots and ruffled skirts who don’t notice that we’ve crashed their painted party. Music plays from a band on the stage, drinks are shared freely, and everywhere are revelers. It’s always a fete at the Moulin Rouge, but it is bittersweet tonight.

  She holds her hands out, ready to dance. “May I have this dance?”

  “But of course,” I say with a smile, trying my best to keep the sadness at bay.

  “This is what I want you to remember of me, not what happens next. This is what I’ll remember. The before,” she says, and her eyes are so tough and so earnest at the same time. I know she wants to believe what she’s saying. I know right now she suspects she’ll never forget this. But she won’t feel it again. I will be just another memory, the same as all her other memories. Nothing special, just the week she ditched work. What made it so compelling? she’ll wonder days and weeks from now, barely able to recall what it was like.

  I wrap my arms tight around her as she leans into me, and I take my here and my now. I layer kisses on her neck, I plunge my hands into her soft curls that have come home underneath my fingers. The dancers kicking their legs high in the air onstage might as well be in Peru. This is all there is. This is all I want. “I will never forget you.”

  “You saved me, you know. You saved me from being trapped. You’re the reason I can be free of that painting,” she says, and with her words my heart is both caving and pounding. “I want you to know how much
I wish there were another way. I love you, Julien. More than art.”

  That, in a nutshell, is the problem.

  I fold her into my arms, and we dance for a few minutes inside a Toulouse-Lautrec, aware the whole time of a ticking bomb on the other side. But I let this moment stretch into itself, here in our sliver of time.

  I wish I could say I don’t care if I ever return to the real world.

  But I can’t say that.

  The enemy was never really Renoir. The real enemy has always been the impossibility of us.

  I kiss her once more, a last kiss that has to last for all time.

  Chapter 31

  Night at the Museums

  It is midnight. We’re starting now so we can reach all the museums while it’s nighttime in their time zones. I leave my backpack and phone under a bench, a home base here in Musée d’Orsay. A few feet away is the Japanese bridge Monet painted. I step inside it with Clio, and we place our clasped hands together on the railing.

  “To the Louvre,” she says, and we step forward, our feet landing on another bridge, this one in Bonheur’s painting.

  I jam my palms out but still smack the tiled floor of the ladies’ room hard with my hands. Clio falls out next, banging her forehead on a metal pipe.

  “Ouch,” she mouths.

  “You okay?”

  She nods and rolls from under the sink. She stumbles as she stands up, getting tangled in her long dress. I reach out for her hand, so she won’t trip and attract attention. She steadies herself, and I crawl out next. I smile at my partner-in-crime, or rather, my partner-in-uncrime. “It worked,” I whisper, relieved that the painting’s been safe from people and water since closing time.

  “It’s showtime,” I say and hold open the door for Clio. This part of the job is easy for me, since the Louvre is the one museum where we could control the arrival spot, giving me a place to hide. Clio takes off for the Géricault, and the halls are eerily silent.