by Elise Broach
Above him, Karl and James seemed not to suspect a thing. “It’s fantastic, James,” Karl was whispering. “Everything about it looks real.”
That’s because it IS real! Marvin wanted to shout. He scuttled back into hiding before Karl could see him, awash in panic. How could he tell them? The real Dürer Fortitude was about to be stolen, just like the other three Virtues!
“Look at the detail,” Karl continued. “To see a drawing, really see it, takes time.”
Yes! Marvin thought. Look at it, James. Look at it and you’ll know.
But James only stood quietly before the drawing, gazing at it steadily. Finally, Karl said, “We should go. You’ll see it again before too long.”
No! Marvin screamed silently.
“I hope so,” James said uncertainly. He shifted from one foot to the other, hesitating. Please, James, Marvin prayed. It’s not my drawing.
“Come on, buddy.” Karl clasped James’s shoulder.
As James started to turn away, all Marvin could think of was the drawing. He couldn’t bear to leave. Not knowing what else to do, he rushed to the tip of James’s collar, pointed himself toward the wall, and jumped into the void.
Fate and Fortitude
Marvin plummeted headlong through space for several long seconds. Thump! He crashed into the floor of the gallery, rolled twice, and came to a halt. Fortunately, the room’s low-pile gray carpet softened his landing. He was a little dazed but none the worse for wear. Shoe-clad feet milled around him, and James’s blue sneakers were fast disappearing in the distance. He knew it was suicide to linger out in the open. He crawled as fast as he could to the wall and waited near the scuffed baseboard.
Marvin had to make his way to the drawing, but it seemed too risky to climb the wall when so many people were looking at the pictures. He knew that his black shell would be hard to miss once he started the trek across the expanse of wall. Though his stomach clenched over the danger facing Dürer’s drawing, he decided there was nothing to do but wait till the gallery cleared out. In the flurry of closing, he hoped he could make his way to Fortitude unnoticed, before the FBI agent did.
The evening passed quickly. To take his mind off his fears, Marvin occupied himself with people-watching, which was one of his favorite pastimes anyway. He counted the different types of shoes that strolled past his hiding place: 12 black loafers, 6 brown loafers, 4 stilettos, 8 black lace-up shoes, 6 pumps, 4 hiking boots, 8 dress boots, 11 sneakers (and one cast). He tried to predict how long people would linger in front of the pictures based on their type of shoe. The pumps and black loafers won, with the hiking boots a close second. The sneakers were divided between those who stayed longer than anyone (college students, Marvin decided), and those who rushed off with barely a glance (children).
After a couple hours of this, Marvin was starving. The floor was disappointingly free of litter, probably due to the museum’s prohibitions on food and drink. But a few minutes later, a woman walked by pushing a stroller, and Marvin was delighted to see a Cheerio tumble off her toddler’s lap. He studied the movements of the crowd thoroughly before making a mad dash to retrieve it. Then, just as he and Elaine did at home, he wedged his head and forelegs through the hole in the Cheerio, pushed off with his rear legs, and sent it rolling like a hoop toward the baseboard, whisking him to safety. When he reached the edge of the carpet, he extracted himself and settled down to dine. The Cheerio was a little stale, but sweet and crunchy nonetheless: a very satisfying evening meal.
Finally, the speaker system chimed, and a woman’s voice echoed through the gallery: “The museum will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please proceed to the exits now.”
Marvin hesitated only a moment, making sure that people were really turning to leave, then scurried up the wall as fast as he could. When he reached the corner of Fortitude’s wooden frame, he paused just long enough to look at the drawing, admiring the delicacy of lines that weren’t his own. Then he ducked out of sight behind the lower left corner of the frame.
He didn’t have long to wait. A moment later, he heard swift footsteps approach the drawing, then felt the picture being lifted from the wall. He held fast as the frame was shoved hastily into some kind of canvas bag, pitch-black inside. Marvin could see nothing but dark fabric all around him. He looked up, and through the narrow opening at the top, he caught sight of thick fingers gripping the handle, the knuckles sparsely covered in hair. The bag swayed and bounced for a few minutes; then, with a gentle thud, it stopped.
This must be the supply closet, Marvin realized. He heard the rustle of cloth and inched up the side of the frame. The darkness of the closet was no impediment to Marvin, who was well used to navigating at night. He could see a short, stocky man moving quickly and confidently, casting aside a navy blue guard uniform.
Suddenly, the frame was snatched from the canvas bag and laid facedown. Marvin had to reposition himself on its side, flattening his body. He’d forgotten this part of Christina’s plan. The frame was about to be disassembled. He had to keep out of sight. He heard the clip, clip of wire cutters removing the hanging apparatus. A knife flashed above him, perilously close. He shrunk away from the blade that glided expertly through the backing of the picture in a crisp rectangle.
Marvin prayed he wouldn’t be knocked off. The next few minutes were critical. If he got bumped or shaken loose—or worse yet, if the man saw him and swatted him away—who could say where Fortitude would end up?
He heard the tear of paper. Abruptly, a penlight flashed in the darkness, sending a narrow white beam onto the back of the picture.
Marvin dodged out of sight, terrified. Now he could see the man, his forehead creased in concentration. He had dark hair and an otherwise bland appearance. He could be anyone, Marvin thought—probably an advantage for an undercover FBI agent. The man grunted, tearing off the rest of the backing until Marvin saw the pale matting. Just as the man was about to lift the drawing from the frame, Marvin leapt onto the matting. It felt firm beneath his legs. When he peered over the edge, he saw the yellowed, ancient paper that was surely the reverse of Dürer’s masterpiece. He could smell it too—the musty scent of centuries.
Holding the matting gingerly with one hand, the man set down the penlight. Marvin cowered out of sight, watching him remove something tiny and silver from his inside pocket. It must be the microchip, he realized. The man lifted the matting and turned it quickly and expertly, making a small cut with his knife, while Marvin hugged the edge. It was like surgery, Marvin thought, this delicate task of embedding the microchip in the side of the matting, where it wouldn’t be seen. After several minutes of manipulation, during which Marvin could hear the man’s heavy, impatient breathing, the penlight clicked off.
The microchip was in place.
Marvin barely had time to secure himself against the back of the matting when a piece of something stiff was pressed against his shell. The drawing swung through the air and glided smoothly into a small, tight space.
It must be the jacket pouch, Marvin realized. Fortitude was ready for its journey.
It was completely dark inside the jacket, and even Marvin, who was very accustomed to small, dark places, felt a wave of claustrophobia. He remembered the time he and Elaine had gotten stuck in Mrs. Pompaday’s eyeglass case when she’d snapped it shut one evening; how he’d panicked and pushed futilely against the felt walls, and Elaine had made fun of him for almost throwing up. Fortunately, Mrs. Pompaday had decided to watch a rerun of one of her shows, and it wasn’t long before the case was opened again. (Even more fortunately, she was so absorbed in the television that she didn’t notice two shiny black beetles making their escape.)
Now, Marvin felt the jacket sway with the movements of its owner. He could tell when the man left the closet; when he paused to make sure he hadn’t been seen; when he strode through the hallway and tripped briskly down the museum’s central staircase. Fragments of Cheerio sloshed uncomfortably in Marvin’s stomach.
Bouncing along
against the man’s warm, substantial chest, Marvin could hear the noises of the crowds through the thick cloth. He felt the change in temperature as they exited the Met into a chilly New York evening. A car door opened and slammed shut. The man mumbled an address to someone, then Marvin heard the rapid beeps of a cell phone keypad.
He strained to follow the conversation.
“Yeah, it’s done,” the man said. “Nope. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. What’s the room number? Okay, see you then.”
This would be the first exchange, Marvin thought, but not the endpoint of the journey for the drawing. It was so hard to remember what was supposed to happen, and yet so important to do so! Marvin hunched fretfully in his spot trying to concentrate, with what seemed like cardboard pressing against him. First, the FBI agent was supposed to give the drawing to an intermediary—wasn’t that what Christina had told them? A contact in the underground art world. Then it would be handed off to the real thieves.
The FBI must be tracking the drawing’s path, right? Maybe everything would be okay. After all, the plan had been to follow the trail of the fake drawing and ultimately retrieve it. Marvin thought of Christina, of the dangers she’d mentioned, the chance that they’d never see his drawing again. He thought of James and his uncertainty when he looked at the drawing for the last time. Then, suddenly and in a flood of longing, he thought of Mama and Papa. A destination twenty minutes away would still be in the city . . . but what if the drawing was bound for someplace else? And what if Marvin was stuck here, its unwitting companion and helpless protector, unable to escape? He might never see his family again.
The risk he had taken became shockingly clear: His fate and Fortitude’s were one and the same. He shuddered, feeling the dull thrum of the car’s engine as it made its way through the busy, tired city.
The Middleman
Marvin felt the car stop. The man rustled out and strode a short distance, purposefully and without hesitation. Inside the dark pocket, Marvin tried to guess what was happening. The man had asked for a room number on the phone: Were they now in an office? a hotel? He could tell from the falling sensation in his stomach that they’d boarded an elevator. Then the motion stopped and there were quick steps, followed by a muted knock.
A new voice, muffled but terse, asked, “Do you have it?”
Was this the go-between, ready to ferry the Dürer drawing to the real thieves?
“In here.”
“Show it to me.”
Marvin had no time to prepare. He tried to stay where he was, frozen, while the drawing was lifted from its protective sleeve. Just as Fortitude emerged into the bright light of the room, a lip of fabric caught Marvin’s shell and knocked him from his perch. He grasped in vain for the edge of the matting, but missed. He found himself hurtling through the air, landing with a smack on the hard, smooth surface of a laminated table.
Tucking his legs beneath him, Marvin held perfectly still, hoping he hadn’t been seen. The wood surface was dark, fortunately. When he peeked around, he saw the bland decor of a hotel room, fully recognizable from all the soap operas he and Elaine had watched on television with Mrs. Pompaday: dark carpeting, floral bedspread, simple, shiny furniture. The FBI agent had set the Dürer drawing in the middle of the table, inches from Marvin. A thin, bearded man leaned over it with a magnifying glass, scrutinizing the details.
For a minute, Marvin felt a jolt of fear. But then he remembered that this was the real drawing, not his forgery. It was sure to pass inspection.
Neither man spoke.
“Okay,” the bearded man said finally. “I’ll take it to my contact.”
“What about my share?” the FBI agent asked.
“There, in the envelope.” The bearded man gestured to a flat brown package on the nightstand, which the FBI agent promptly slipped into his suit pocket.
The two men turned toward the door, and Marvin drew a deep breath. Here was his chance. He dashed across the expanse of table in the direction of the drawing. But suddenly he heard a thump! A huge hand slapped the surface next to him, sweeping him off the table. He tumbled through the air and landed in a dense woven forest of green carpeting. It smelled faintly like cigarettes.
A shoe stamped the ground near him, then stamped again, closer. Marvin raced for the shelter of the table leg.
Far above him he heard the FBI agent ask, “What was it?”
“Some kind of beetle,” the bearded man answered. “This thing better not be infested with bugs.”
“Nah, it’s probably from the hotel. Bedbugs.”
Bedbugs! Marvin stiffened with indignation. Humans were so ignorant.
The thin man snorted in disgust, then followed the FBI agent to the door.
As Marvin watched the FBI agent leave the room—his last link to the museum and James and safety—he felt truly alone.
The Secret Journey
For Marvin, the prospect of spending the night in the hotel room was a grim one, but it quickly became apparent that the bearded man wasn’t going anywhere. He made two phone calls with a cell phone. During one, he spoke in a language Marvin didn’t understand. During the second, he said: “I have it.” Then: “Tomorrow at ten o’clock, where we discussed. Yes, I’ll make sure. See you then.”
While Marvin concealed himself in the dense carpet beneath the table, the man strode to the closet and removed a black leather satchel. He placed it flat on the floor a few feet from Marvin, unzipping it. Inside were several thick paper folders. After opening one of these, he lifted the drawing carefully from the table and settled it between the leaves of the folder. Then, deftly, he closed the entire bundle and zipped the satchel shut.
Marvin watched all this with mounting apprehension. He had to make his way back to the drawing, but zippers were notoriously beetle-proof.
The man put the satchel back in the hotel closet. He bolted and chained the door, kicked off his shoes, and lay on the bed. A minute later, the TV came on, and Marvin heard the man tear open a plastic wrapper and begin crunching on something. The evening passed uneventfully, with the TV droning, the man snacking, and Marvin lulled into a fitful sleep in his hiding place.
When Marvin opened his eyes, the room was pitch-black, and the man was snoring. Marvin knew he had to figure out a way to get inside the satchel, but he was hungry, and morning was hours away. He crawled laboriously across the thick carpet to the nightstand, where the man was sure to have left the remains of whatever he was eating. And indeed, when Marvin reached the top, he found a crumpled red and yellow wrapper and a pile of hard shells.
Peanut shells, Marvin realized. He felt a pang of longing for his peanut-shell float, lost in the Pompadays’ bathroom drain. Oh, how lovely it would be to take a dip in his bottle cap–swimming pool right now! It had only been two weeks since his post-drainpipe bubble bath, but it seemed like centuries ago . . . before he made his first drawing, before he and James became friends, before he knew anything about an artist named Albrecht Dürer.
There was nothing left to eat on the nightstand, but there was a half-filled glass of water. Feeling slightly cheered, Marvin tucked a piece of peanut shell under one leg and climbed up the side of the glass. He hesitated a moment on the rim, staring at the placid water below. Then he held his breath and dove, landing with a soft plop! A few feet away, the man stirred and rolled over. Marvin pushed the peanut shell in front of him and kicked his legs, swimming in widening circles, with the cool, clean water lapping over his shell. He felt better already.
Sometime later, refreshed from his midnight swim, Marvin climbed the wet wall of the glass and shook himself off. He found a crumpled tissue near the clock radio and carefully wiped off his shell. Then he crawled down to the floor, across the rug, and under the closet door, which took a considerable amount of time.
Marvin hesitated at the base of the satchel, trying to decide where best to secure himself. Eventually he chose the flap that covered the outside pocket, wedging himself under the leather buckle. Here, he had bo
th a firm grip and a good vantage point for seeing what was going on.
He must have fallen asleep again, because he awoke jarringly to the bang of the closet door being thrust open and a bright wash of sunlight flooding over him. The thin, bearded man lifted the satchel and set it on the table. He moved about the hotel room quickly, gathering his things, then picked up the satchel again and hurried out of the room.
Minutes later, they were outside on the sidewalk, moving at a brisk pace through a steady stream of people bundled in winter coats and scarves. Marvin shivered under the buckle; it had been much warmer inside the FBI agent’s coat. Where were they going now? Another rendezvous. This was a part of the city Marvin had never seen before. Immense buildings shouldering against one another and reaching up, up, up to the sky. Broad avenues crowded with cars and buses. Vast shop windows filled with clothing, jewelry, electronics. After several blocks, they came to a massive gray building with spires—a church, Marvin decided. The man climbed the steps quickly and ducked inside.
The cavernous, shadowy space was crowded with people, some lighting candles, some whispering in small groups, some nestled in the pews, heads bowed in prayer. The thin, bearded man sat near the end of the last pew. Marvin looked quickly around. What now? A few minutes later, another man slid into the pew. Neither one spoke. The thin, bearded one set the satchel down next to the other man, stood up, and walked away.