by M. J. Rose
The wall, he said, hadn’t always been there but appeared overnight after the treasures were hidden in the crypt. His ancestors claimed God himself had caused the avalanche to safeguard and protect the legacy from anyone discovering it via the outside entrance. Over time, whenever a family member became curious and started digging out the rocks, whatever they managed to move during the day caused even more stones to cave in during the night and the wall grew thicker than it had been before.
When he was thirteen and heard the story, Hosh had argued that it must be a fable. His grandfather had smiled and invited him to disprove it. The next day Hosh and his two brothers removed twenty-two rocks, and the following morning when they returned to the crypt there’d been a new cave-in and the barrier encroached two feet deeper into the cave than it had been the night before.
But Hosh’s grandfather was long gone, and the wall had finally been breached from the other side by a French archaeologist. He’d come to their front door three days ago and, in surprisingly good Farsi, requested that Hosh give him access to the crypt through the house because it would be easier to remove the antiquities that way.
Allow him entry so he could steal their treasures? Hosh had refused. The cave and its contents belonged to his family. The archaeologist was trespassing.
The Frenchman had a declaration on thick vellum from the Minister of Culture granting him the right to excavate the cave and stipulating that he could keep fifty percent of whatever he found for himself as payment. Hosh ripped up the sheets and threw the shreds in the man’s face.
“I don’t care about the partage system,” he shouted. “The cavern doesn’t belong to the government, so the government can’t give away anything in it.”
Hosh and his sons spent the following days and nights reinforcing the stone wall, but this afternoon, while they were observing the Sabbath at schul, the archaeologist and his workers had broken through once again.
Now their sons were out, rounding up men from the shtetl to fight off the looters. All Bibi wanted was for Hosh to wait until their help arrived, even if it meant that while they waited, the archaeologist and his workers carried off one or two of the treasures. What did a bowl or a bracelet matter compared to Hosh’s life? But her husband was a stubborn man.
Despite her pleas, he put his knife between his teeth, grabbed hold of a lantern and descended into the earth via a ladder that his ancestors had used before him. The rungs creaked with his weight. Once he’d disappeared from her sight, Bibi counted to ten, gathered her skirts, tucked them into her waistband and followed him into the darkness.
Hugging the sharp, rocky walls, hiding in the heavy shadows, Bibi watched Hosh confront the archaeologist. He wasn’t alone. She counted ten young Persians. Filthy from climbing through the rubble and shining with sweat, each was armed with a knife that glittered in the low light. The weapons were redundant. Every one of them was strong enough to take Hosh with his bare hands. Why couldn’t her husband see that? Why was he willing to risk so much for these things?
“You’re on my property.” Hosh shook his fist. It was a futile, childish gesture, and Bibi’s heart broke for him. “Leave or you will be arrested for looting. My sons are on their way with help. They’re bringing the whole ghetto with them. If you don’t go, you’ll get hurt.”
The archaeologist held out another sheaf of official-looking documents that looked similar to the one Hosh had ripped up earlier that week. “These give me the right to excavate here.”
Hosh knocked them out of the intruder’s hand, and they landed in a crazy mosaic pattern on the dirt floor.
“It’s you who is the thief,” the Frenchman said, each word spoken with righteous indignation. “You who are hiding ancient treasures here that belong to Persia, to history and to mankind.”
Hosh laughed bitterly. “Is that what you are going to do with them? Give them to mankind? Or are you going to sell them to collectors in Europe and America? Don’t think I’m a fool because I’m old. We all know what happens to the antiquities that are dug up in our land.”
Bibi’s mouth was dry, and her heart was like a small animal running fast, trying to escape the cage of her chest. None of this would be happening—her husband would not be in danger and her sons would not be rounding up their neighbors—if Hosh had listened to her and sold these things a long time ago. What good were pots, jugs, jewelry and graven images doing anyone sitting underground?
She was sure the wooden man with wings on either side of his forehead, holding poppies in one hand and a drinking horn in the other, was an evil thing. But her husband had argued that whatever the religion of the men who’d created the treasures, they were important in the same way that the Torah in the synagogue was important—not just for the words they read from it every Shabbat but for the past that the scroll carried into present and would one day carry into the future.
“Get out of my way, old man!” the archaeologist shouted. He was out of patience.
Hosh didn’t move. Not a single muscle in his hand or his neck twitched. Not even his eyes blinked.
“For the last time, get out of my way.”
Hosh pulled his knife from its sheath.
“Is your life so worthless to you that you would throw it away on these objects?” the archaeologist asked less aggressively, as if he were talking to a child now.
When Hosh didn’t reply, Bibi guessed he was trying to stall, hoping his sons would arrive soon with help. But the archaeologist was impatient. He gestured to two of his workers, who stepped forward with the assuredness of the very young and very strong. Bibi thought she heard laughter as they approached her husband. She knew that unless help arrived right away, he was doomed.
Hosh continued to hold his ground.
“Get out of our way,” the younger of the two Persians said and pushed Hosh back toward the wall. Falling, he landed on his side and winced. Bibi had to hold herself back. Was he hurt? She hoped that he was. Then he’d stay there out of their way. A small injury could keep him safe.
Hosh got back on his feet, shaky at first but then, rebounding, he lashed out with his knife, surprising his assailant and nicking him on the arm. The man looked down, saw the trickle of blood, and without any hesitation, shoved his knife into Hosh’s ribs.
Bibi didn’t see the expression on her husband’s face change, but she heard him express a small, surprised Oh. She’d never heard such a weak sound come from his lips or seen him so defeated. Forgetting the danger she’d be in, thinking only that Hosh was hurt and needed her, she ran out from the shadows and toward him.
No. She wailed as she saw the blood oozing out of him. No. His face was slack. There was no flicker of life left in his eyes. No. A long, drawn-out note of disbelief. No!
When their sons arrived with the men from the ghetto, all the treasures were gone. The crypt was empty except for the tableau of two bodies: Hosh on his back in the dust and dirt with his frail wife on top of him, her blood mixing with his in a red-black stain beneath them.
Chapter
TWENTY-NINE
“It appears to me impossible that I should cease to exist, or that this active, restless spirit, equally alive to joy and sorrow, should be only organized dust—ready to fly abroad the moment the spring snaps, or the spark goes out, which kept it together. Surely something resides in this heart that is not perishable—and life is more than a dream.”
—Mary Wollstonecraft
“I always think it helps to fill up your eyes with the real thing before you go off into battle,” Marie Grimshaw said as she and Lucian walked toward the suite of Impressionism galleries. Lucian was aware how carefully the curator kept out of his personal space, despite the Sunday crowds pressing in on them.
“Battle?” he asked.
“Authentication is the one arena where the paintings are the enemy. You have to fight them and force them to reveal themselves to you. Take charge of them. Never allow them to overpower you. Subdue them, make them surrender their secrets.” S
he laughed nervously. “I must sound crazy.”
“Not at all. It’s an interesting way to approach it. I like it,” Lucian said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. Marie never seemed able to relax around him, and it was disconcerting.
Lucian had been upstairs with the director. According to the note that arrived with the destroyed Matisse, the man who wanted to exchange Hypnos for the four masterpieces would be contacting Weil sometime Monday between nine and noon. If the museum was willing to make the trade, arrangements would be made on this call. The FBI wanted Weil to insist that a representative from the museum see the paintings before any negotiations took place. Lucian, posing as James Ryan, a Sotheby’s appraiser, would play that role. Done with the prep work for the call, Lucian told Weil he wanted to spend some time downstairs looking at the Van Goghs, Renoirs, Klimts and Monets, refreshing himself with the artists’ nuances and styles. It was possible that he’d have to leave quickly once the call came. Despite Lucian’s insistence that he didn’t need a guide, Weil called Marie Grimshaw at home and asked if she’d come in for a few hours and work with Lucian.
When she had arrived and seen him in the director’s office, she’d acted almost afraid. Weil had been aware of it, too, and made a joke about the FBI being on their side. Marie had forced a smile, folded her arms across her chest and asked Lucian if he was ready.
He wished he were visiting the paintings on his own. Other than Solange, he’d never liked going through a museum with anyone…he had his own pacing…pacing only she had matched.
In the first gallery of the Annenberg collection, Marie stopped in front of a medium-size still life. “There was no flower Renoir loved as much as roses…and none he painted as often as red roses. While his early work had delicate, nuanced characteristics, by the time he painted the canvas in the photograph and this one, he had given up on subtlety and was trying to evoke the tangible rose itself in an expressive, expansive way. You can see that in the circular brushstrokes and—”
Lucian massaged either side of his forehead forcefully. The headache that had been under control all day seemed to have suddenly burst into life inside his skull. Reaching into his pocket, he found the painkillers, shook out three tablets, threw them in his mouth and swallowed them without water.
“Are you all right?” Marie asked with concern. How could she be so uncomfortable around him, almost wary of him, and yet be worried for him, too?
“Thanks. Yes, let’s move on.”
Walking just slightly ahead, Marie led him through rooms he knew well. Lucian often came to visit with these paintings for their beauty and the grace he felt in their presence. He was almost sorry when she stopped in front of Van Gogh’s First Steps. He wasn’t sure he wanted to look at one of his favorite paintings with her. The soft colors of the painter’s Arles palette always soothed Lucian; the aquas, blues and pastel lemons were serene compared to the colors in his darker, more turbulent works. Despite the subject matter’s potential for sentiment—a father holding his arms open as his child takes her first steps toward him, the baby’s mother letting go of her child—the master had rendered the moment honestly.
Beside him, Marie talked about Van Gogh painting this in 1890, while he was staying in the asylum at Saint-Rémy. “He based it on an engraving of Jean-François Millet’s painting. He wrote to his brother, Theo, that he felt justified in trying to reproduce the drawing into oils. It was more like translating the impressions of light and shade in black and white into another language—the language of color.”
While she talked, Lucian’s mind turned the father into Andre Jacobs, the woman into Andre’s deceased wife and the child into Solange.
Forty minutes later, having spent time with paintings from all four artists, Lucian left the museum. Outside, he stood on the granite steps and peered down Fifth Avenue. There was a long vista of uninterrupted cityscape on one side and the verdant park on the other. There were people lounging on the steps, some smoking, others talking on cell phones or listening to music.
The pills Lucian had taken hadn’t offered any relief today, and he still had a brutal headache. Sometimes fresh air helped when the painkillers didn’t, so instead of hailing a cab and heading home, he decided to walk downtown through the park.
Legions of New Yorkers were taking advantage of the warm afternoon and the city’s lush playground, and Lucian strolled among them. His headache started to lift almost right away, and he felt grateful for the familiar environs. The air smelled green and fecund, the way it did only in early June, when summer was still a hope instead of an actuality. It didn’t matter which way he went; there wasn’t a path that he didn’t know. Lucian had grown up in Manhattan and, as it was for most city kids, Central Park was his backyard. His school brought students here to play softball in the spring and football into the fall and to ice-skate in the winter. Lucian had smoked his first joint on the hill overlooking Bethesda Fountain and kissed a girl for the first time in the Belvedere Castle, during a rainstorm.
When he reached the sailboat pond, he stopped to watch. He used to come here with his father, envious of the elaborate boats the richer kids had. Lucian’s was homemade. His father had helped him to build it and then encouraged him to decorate it however he wanted and he’d painted it in dozens of crazy colors. Lucian couldn’t remember any of those boats he’d coveted back then, but he could still picture his messy, rainbow-striped vessel gliding proudly on the water, the only one of its kind.
With a loud splash, a little boy with auburn hair dropped his boat into the water, held his breath and watched as it bobbed, tilted side to side, then balanced out and righted itself. “Dad? Dad? Are you watching?” he shouted, and looked back for a second in Lucian’s direction.
Turning to look for the boy’s father, Lucian instead saw Emeline Jacobs.
She was about ten feet away, wearing faded blue jeans and a big white shirt with the sleeves rolled up exposing her fragile wrists. She hadn’t seen him yet. Lucian was struck by how young she looked, how vulnerable. It was an odd coincidence—her being here. Or was it? She lived just across the street. It was a beautiful day. She was taking a walk in the park.
“Daddy, are you watching?”
“Yes, I’m watching!” a man answered. At the same time, Emeline noticed Lucian and called out his name.
Right there, in the sunshine, by the pond, with who knew how many people around, the sight of her mouth forming that one word set off a reaction that surprised him—a physical craving that was different from what he experienced with most women. This was edged with memory and melancholy—and fear. His arms ached to hold her, hold on to her and keep her with him, to keep her safe.
As he went to her he worried that something was wrong, that she’d come to find him, except no one knew where he was.
“Are you all right?” he asked when he reached her side.
“It was too beautiful out to stay inside all day.”
He concentrated on what she was actually saying, trying to let go of the crazy things he was thinking. There were dark circles under her eyes that hadn’t been there two days ago when he’d last seen her.
“Have you gotten any e-mails today?”
Her eyes clouded. “One.”
“Was it the same message?”
“More or less. Warning me not to talk to the police or he’d come after Andre and me.”
“Are you being careful?”
“Yes, but between Broderick’s instructions about using a car service to go everywhere and being there for my father, I feel trapped.”
“That’s why you came here, to the park, by yourself?”
“On a Sunday with a million people out. What could happen?”
“You can’t take chances, Emeline. It’s not smart.”
“I really am being careful.”
“Not careful enough. You’re here. I don’t want anything to happen.”
The words to you were unsaid, but they were implied. Emeline held his glance.
&nb
sp; “Did you see anyone following you?”
“Not today. Yesterday, I got that same sensation. But I didn’t see anything.”
They’d started walking and were making a slow circle around the pond.
“When? Where were you?”
“I just left the store to go across the street and get a sandwich. I can’t take a car across the street.”
“No, but you can order in.”
“Are you sure I’m not just getting paranoid?”
“It’s not paranoid when you’re getting threatening e-mails. I know you’re having a tough time, but give me a few more days. I haven’t given up putting pressure on Broderick to give you a security detail. He’s fighting a slashed budget, but he should know tomorrow.”
“Can’t they just find him?”
“They’re trying.” Lucian’s hands turned to fists. He wanted Emeline safe, and he wanted Solange’s killer. “How is your father?” he asked.
“He’s never well anymore, but better today than he was on Friday. I think he’s energized by the idea that whoever was behind the robbery might finally be found. Sometimes I think that’s all that’s been keeping him alive, wanting to see someone caught.”
“You said you didn’t want him to know about the e-mails.”
“I don’t. I didn’t tell him. He thinks you’re going to find whoever stole the painting by tracking down the person who destroyed it.”
“So do I.”
“That makes it my turn to tell you to be careful.” She put her hand out and touched his arm, and he felt her fingers through his jacket sleeve.
They’d come full circle. There were several paths radiating away from the pond, and Emeline took the one that led west. Lucian didn’t notice where they were headed at first. They were just strolling. One direction was as good as the next.
“You should know that Andre doesn’t hold you responsible for what happened to Solange,” she said, her voice even softer than usual, so that he had to strain to hear her, as if even saying Solange’s name was verboten.