Masterpiece

by Elise Broach

  Marvin was determined not to respond.

  “What’s the matter?” James coaxed. He was quiet for a minute. “It’s your street drawing, isn’t it? You don’t want me to sell it.” He let out a long breath and flopped into the chair at his desk. “I don’t want to sell it either,” he said softly.

  Marvin remained in his tight huddle, trying not to listen.

  “You know that, right?” James persisted. “I love that picture you made for me. That was my best birthday present ever.” He sighed. “It’s just . . . You probably can’t understand this, but my mom—she’s . . . ”

  James set Marvin down on the desktop, lightly rolling him off his palm. “You can go if you want. I didn’t mean to stop you.”

  Marvin slowly uncurled his legs, but stayed where he was.

  James kept talking. “The thing is, she’s so proud of me, you know? That’s not how she is, usually. And it’s not even for something I did—it’s for something you did.” He crossed his arms on the desk and rested his head on them, his pale face close to Marvin, his breath warm and slightly salty. “It’s like this is a special trick she can show off to her friends. I wish”—he hesitated—“I wish she’d be proud of me for regular reasons . . . you know?”

  Marvin turned to face him. He thought of Mama and Papa, who were always ridiculously proud of him, even for things that didn’t warrant it. It was like being followed around by your own personal cheering section. Sometimes it bothered him, but mostly it was pretty nice to know that his parents wholeheartedly believed he could do anything, yet were still bursting with pride when he did. He wondered if James had ever felt that way.

  James kept talking, his voice husky and low. “They said it wasn’t my fault they got divorced. They said that over and over. It’s not your fault, we still love you, you’re the most important thing to us. But if I was the most important thing, how come I wasn’t important enough for them to stay together?”

  He watched Marvin and waited, as if he thought Marvin might really know the answer. Finally he said, “Because if they’d ever asked me, ‘What do you want?’ that’s what I would have said: all of us together.”

  Marvin crawled to the edge of James’s elbow and looked up at him, not feeling angry anymore.

  He sighed. He saw that he would have to forgive James for the drawing. There were too many other things between them.

  James let out another long breath. “But you know what? If they hadn’t gotten divorced, there’d be no William. So William was the one good thing that came out of it.”

  Marvin recoiled in surprise. The beetles all thought William was quite horrible—grabby, irrational, and dangerous. He knew that James didn’t feel that way, but he hadn’t ever imagined that James would see William as a blessing. However shocking, it was somehow comforting to hear that the pesky baby had brought a spark of pleasure to James’s life.

  James sat up and rubbed his face. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he said sheepishly. “I just like talking to you, I guess.” He grinned. “And I know you won’t tell anyone.”

  He stretched out his hand again. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  Marvin climbed onto the boy’s finger, and James headed for the kitchen.

  That night, after the fuss over his return, a full report of what had happened at the museum, and a stern scolding from Mama about the risks he’d taken when he disobeyed her, Marvin lay in his bed thinking about what James had said. Eventually, he called to his mother.

  “What is it, darling? Your father and I are about to go foraging.”

  “I can’t sleep,” Marvin said.

  “Well, I’m not surprised. You’re completely off schedule from living on human time these past few days. But you must be exhausted from your outing. . . . What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking about something James said.”

  Mama sat on the edge of the cotton ball and stroked his shell. “What?” she asked.

  “About his parents getting divorced.” Marvin thought back to the conversation in James’s bedroom. “Why don’t beetles ever get divorced?”

  His mother considered that for a moment. “Well, our lives are short, darling. What would be the point? We have so little time, we must spend it as happily as possible.”

  She tucked the cotton fluff more securely around Marvin. “And we expect a lot less than people do. If we get through the day without being stepped on, with a little food to fill our bellies, a safe place to bed down for a few hours, and our family and friends close by—well, that’s a good day, isn’t it? In fact, a perfect day. Who could ask for more?”

  Marvin snuggled into the soft bedding and nodded sleepily. “I guess,” he said.

  “Also, we have no lawyers,” his mother added, leaving the room.

  A Perfect Crime

  The following week passed uneventfully. Mama and Papa were thrilled to have Marvin safe at home again. Elaine was delighted to be regaled with more tales of the outside world. The Pompadays, still gloating over the sale of James’s drawing, were busy with their usual activities, though briefly inconvenienced when the timer on the microwave stopped working. Fortunately, Uncle Albert was able to maneuver his way through the vents at the back of the oven and reconnect a loose wire. This fixed the problem, though not before the Pompadays had a heated exchange about unreliable foreign appliances, Mr. Pompaday’s lack of handiness, and the fact that if Mrs. Pompaday were a real cook, she wouldn’t be using a microwave anyway. Their argument ended abruptly when the microwave’s clock started blinking again and Albert slipped triumphantly out the back. (Mrs. Pompaday: “Oh! Look, it’s working now.” Mr. Pompaday: “See, I fixed it.”)

  James himself seemed noticeably more cheerful and confident. Marvin spent nearly every afternoon in his bedroom, and he couldn’t decide what accounted for the change: the success of copying Fortitude? the attention from Mrs. Pompaday over his new talent? the excitement of the pending burglary? Whatever it was, James was happy, which made Marvin happy.

  When Friday came, Karl and James, with Marvin in tow, arrived at Christina’s office at exactly five-thirty, as she had instructed. Mama and Papa hadn’t even put up a fuss about Marvin leaving the apartment this time, since Marvin had spent most of the intervening week extolling the importance of seeing his beloved drawing again for what might be the last time. The burglary had been arranged for that evening, and now that plans were in place, everything seemed to be proceeding very quickly.

  Christina greeted them warmly, her eyes bright. When she saw James, she swooped down and hugged him. He looked startled, but Marvin could tell he was pleased. “How’s my favorite forger?” she asked, smiling.

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Ready for a last look at your drawing? It’s hanging in the gallery now, right where the original was, and nobody has suspected a thing! Denny helped me make the switch last night. Imagine that, James: All day long people have been staring at a James Terik miniature, thinking it’s a Dürer.”

  James grinned. “Really?”

  “Really! When you look at the two drawings side by side, the resemblance is uncanny. And the matting and framing are identical to the original. Denny and I were working on that all day yesterday.”

  “What about the tracking device?” Karl asked.

  “The FBI will handle it,” Christina said. “But they explained it to us yesterday. Their agent is going to embed a microchip in the matting before he leaves the building.”

  “And it won’t set off any kind of alarm?” Karl asked. “When the drawing is taken from the museum?”

  Christina shook her head. “The microchip can be detected only by the FBI’s tracking equipment, not a regular security system. And we don’t search visitors exiting the museum. So there shouldn’t be a problem. With the tracking unit, the FBI will be able to follow the drawing through the city, until—”

  “Until it leads you to the thieves,” Karl finished for her.

  “Yes! An
d hopefully, the other stolen drawings.”

  Karl rubbed his beard. “What if the thief takes just the drawing, not the matting? Then you’d lose the tracking device.”

  Christina pursed her lips. “I know. We discussed that at length. It’s one reason we didn’t put the device on any part of the frame. Even if the FBI agent took the drawing as it is, it seems likely the next guy would get rid of the frame for easier transport.” She pushed her glasses up more firmly to the bridge of her nose. “But we didn’t really have a choice. The microchip would be visible if we put it anywhere on the drawing, because the paper is so old and fragile. If we put it on the matting—well, we all feel more confident the thieves won’t see it.” She looked at Karl soberly. “But you’re right, it’s a risk.”

  Marvin could see that James looked worried, and he was beginning to feel a gnawing pit in his own stomach. “Where’s the real drawing?” James asked.

  Christina smiled. “It was here in my office last night. I can’t tell you how many times Denny and I compared the two, to make sure everything looked exactly right. Then we wrapped up the Dürer and sent it to the vault in the director’s office for safekeeping.”

  “And what about the FBI guy who’s going to take James’s drawing?” Karl asked. “Is he here yet?”

  Christina glanced at her closed office door. “No, not yet. It’s been a crazy day. I’ve been so busy with the FBI, I just got back here a little while ago. I’m not supposed to discuss the details. . . .” She looked at them apologetically for a moment, then capitulated. “Oh, how can I not tell you two, when you’re the ones who’ve made it all possible?”

  She took James’s hand and pulled him closer, lowering her voice. “No one can know anything about this. Do you understand, James? This whole thing depends on the public—and the underground art world—believing that the real Dürer has been stolen.”

  Karl, James, and Marvin all watched her intently, waiting for her to go on.

  Christina hesitated. “So here’s the plan: Tonight we’re open late, till nine o’clock. About fifteen minutes before closing, the guards will clear the galleries. Our contact from the FBI stolen-art unit has a Met guard uniform. He’ll come into the gallery with a canvas bag after the public has left.”

  “But don’t the other guards know one another?” Karl asked. “Won’t they be surprised if they don’t recognize him?”

  Christina shook her head. “Not on a Friday. On weekends and evenings, we have several fill-in security staff, so that part should be fine.”

  “And then he’ll just take the picture?” James asked. “Right off the wall?” Marvin felt a strange twinge of foreboding.

  Christina nodded. “He’ll have to make sure no one is watching, and he’ll have to move quickly. The idea is that he’ll slip the drawing into the bag and go immediately to the left-hand supply closet in the gift shop. . . . You’ve seen the little gift shop on the second floor, just outside the drawings exhibit? We’ve left that closet unlocked for him.”

  “But why?” James asked. “If he’s got the drawing, why can’t he just leave with it?”

  “Let her finish, James,” Karl said gently. He turned to Christina. “I’m assuming nobody can walk through the checkpoints carrying a large bag, even a security guard.”

  “It’s safer not to risk that,” she agreed. “So we’ll have a change of clothes for him in the closet, including a suit jacket with an inside pouch—you know, flat, reinforced, waterproof—that is the right size to hold Fortitude. He’ll also find the tools he needs to remove it from the framing material and to install the microchip in the matting. He’ll change into regular clothes, put the drawing in the inside jacket pocket, leave the supply closet when he’s sure the hallway is empty, and exit with the rest of the crowds as the museum is closing.”

  From beneath James’s cuff, Marvin could see Christina’s pleased expression, as if the entire plan had been executed flawlessly in the few moments she took to describe it.

  “Wow,” James said.

  Karl nodded thoughtfully. “It’s the perfect crime. You seem to have thought of everything.”

  Christina frowned slightly. “Well, I’d better have thought of everything. There’s a lot at stake. He’ll only have about fifteen minutes to accomplish all this without arousing suspicion and without another guard noticing the drawing is missing. But if everything goes smoothly, it should work.”

  James rocked nervously back and forth on his sneakers, and Marvin clung to his jacket for dear life. “Can I see it now? My drawing?”

  Christina looked at her watch. “Oh, I wanted to go with you! I haven’t had a chance to get to the gallery all day. But I can’t now, unfortunately. Denny and I have to review everything one more time with the FBI agent. Go and have a good look . . . and James?” She rested her hand on his head and smiled at him. “Don’t worry. This isn’t the last time you’ll see your wonderful drawing. I’m sure of it.”

  James looked up at her suddenly. “What about you? Will we see you again?” he asked.

  Startled, Marvin turned to Christina. James had a point, he realized. All the preparations for the fake burglary were finished now, so there would be no further reason to meet with Christina . . . not until Marvin’s drawing was recovered. If it was recovered.

  “Sure we will, buddy,” Karl said quickly, sounding embarrassed. “You’ll let us know what happens, right, Christina?”

  “Oh, of course I will!” Christina swept a strand of hair off her forehead and tucked it firmly behind her ear, as though all the challenges they faced would be resolved as easily. “I couldn’t have done any of this without you. Hopefully I’ll have something to report this weekend.” She smiled at them ruefully. “But I have to tell you, these FBI people are not very forthcoming. They won’t include me in anything! I can’t see their tracking equipment; I can’t be with them while they monitor what’s happening to the drawing.”

  Karl laughed at her. “Well, that’s not surprising. We’re talking about the FBI, after all. It’s their job to be secretive.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. And at least they’ve promised to give me updates over the weekend. Who knows? Maybe before too long, I’ll have the pleasure of introducing you to Justice herself.” Christina beamed at them, then hurriedly ushered them out of her office.

  “We can’t stay long, buddy, okay?” Karl said as they walked down the long hall and through the hidden door into the drawings gallery. “I promised your mom I’d have you back by seven, and it’s after six already.”

  “Okay,” James agreed. “I just want to see it, that’s all.”

  In the distance, where the gallery opened onto the second-floor stairwell, Marvin could see the airy marble hall, flanked by statues and softly lit display cases of vases and bowls. A crush of people in winter coats poured through the gallery entrance.

  Karl’s hand landed on James’s shoulder. “This way,” he said, and then, crouching next to James and pointing across the room: “Look!”

  And there, right where the original had hung, was Fortitude, the girl’s curved arms sturdily clasping the lion. Marvin felt a swell of pride. He held the edge of James’s cuff, straining for a better view.

  James reached for his father’s hand, tugging him toward the drawing. “It’s hanging there with all the real ones!” he whispered.

  “Well, it sure looks like it belongs.” Karl grinned. “You’re the master.”

  They threaded their way through the crowd toward the wall, then patiently waited for an older couple to step aside.

  “Okay, two minutes, buddy,” Karl said softly.

  James nodded, staring at the drawing. Marvin wanted to climb higher for a better look, but there were so many people around he didn’t dare. Just as he was growing frustrated with his angled, partially obscured view, James raised his arm to his shoulder, pretending to scratch the side of his neck. Grateful, Marvin quickly crawled from jacket sleeve to collar. Now he was almost eye level with the drawing.

&n
bsp; He took a deep, happy breath and gazed at his work.

  And then his heart stopped.

  This wasn’t his drawing.

  It was Dürer’s.

  Dürer’s! Marvin could tell instantly. But all he felt was confusion. Had he misunderstood? Had they not switched the drawings yet?

  He was certain that he was looking at the original. As faithfully as he had followed Dürer’s lines, as carefully and reverently as he’d copied each whorl of hair and bulge of sinew, Marvin knew that the intricate strokes in the artwork before him weren’t his. A drawing was as personal as handwriting. Yours might look similar to someone else’s—even identical in the eyes of a stranger—but you could always recognize your own.

  Marvin crawled out from under James’s collar. He was fully exposed to the light and air, directly in the sightlines of the surrounding museum-goers, but he couldn’t help himself. This was the original, as dignified and melancholy and fully Dürer’s as it had ever been.

  His mind raced. Why was the Dürer drawing hanging here instead of the copy? Where was his own drawing? He gripped James’s jacket, trying to piece together what could have happened. Christina had said the real drawing was in the museum director’s office, in a vault. How could this be? Marvin felt a growing sense of dread.

  He began to run back and forth along the edge of James’s collar, frantic. The FBI agent was coming to take this drawing, in nearly two hours’ time. What if Christina had made a mistake? What if she’d somehow mixed up the two pictures?

  There was a tracking device, Marvin reminded himself, trying to calm down. The FBI would be monitoring that. But now he had to consider the possibility that the tracking device was about to be affixed to the Dürer original by mistake. And suddenly, Christina’s warnings about the danger of the plan—the chance that the drawing would be truly stolen and lost forever—filled his head like a drumbeat. That had been alarming enough when Marvin believed his own drawing was at risk. But now it looked like the real Dürer might be taken from the museum and whisked into that strange, foggy world of art thieves and stolen masterpieces.