by M. J. Rose
“Thanks for telling me.”
“You still do, don’t you?”
He shrugged.
“How could it be your fault?”
“I was late getting to the store. If I’d been there a half hour earlier like I was supposed to be, we would have been gone before your father’s clerk closed up. Solange wouldn’t have been there alone, waiting for me, and this bastard would have just taken the damn painting and left.”
She’d veered off the path, and they walked up a grassy incline. The noise of the park around them struck a discordant note. This conversation should be taking place in a somber, windowless room, Lucian thought, not in daylight, not interrupted by the sounds of kids and dogs and bicycle bells.
“How long did it take for you to get over Solange? For you to find someone else?”
“I was nineteen…I don’t know…eventually…” The truth was, he felt incapable of describing how he had and hadn’t recovered after the accident. Lucian didn’t know how to talk about Solange, to anyone, but especially not to this woman who was also inextricably tied to her. His feelings were twisted strands of so many conflicted emotions, tucked away where they were out of sight and he didn’t have to get tangled up in them.
“It’s easy to mythologize a relationship that ends like that,” Emeline said. “Especially when you’re so young and new at being with someone. Andre put her on a pedestal, too.” She sighed. “To him she’s forever nineteen and beautiful, with so much potential and so much promise.”
“That you couldn’t live up to? That you couldn’t fulfill?”
She glanced at him sideways and smiled sadly. “Could anyone? You probably can give me the answer to that better than anyone. Can anyone live up to your memories?”
They were meandering through a grove of magnolias now with gnarled trunks, shiny, dark green leaves and a few late, pale pink blossoms. The trees in the Met’s Van Gogh would have smelled like this, sweet with just a hint of citrus.
By the time they reached the top of the hillock, Lucian still hadn’t answered her question. Emeline stopped beside one of the trees, put her hand on its trunk for balance and reached up to pluck a blossom. Her fingers rested on a weathered emblem cut into the bark: a twisting line snaking around a straight line dug out with a penknife years before.
Lucian flinched at the sudden recollection. He and Solange had come to the park for a picnic with a bottle of wine, a baguette, some apples and cheese and found this very spot to spread out their feast. She’d had this romantic notion of the überpicnic inspired by some movie she’d seen and had brought a book of poetry along that she asked him to read. He’d laughed at her and teased her, but he’d done it. The poem was about ill-fated lovers and time that flies too fast and had depressed her. He’d tried to coax her out of her unhappiness, but she wasn’t letting go.
What if something happens to us like that? she’d asked. No one will know we ever existed. There has to be some permanent proof we’ve been together.
Lucian had pulled out his Swiss Army knife and scratched their initials in the bark, an L with an S twisted around it.
Now Emeline’s polished fingernail was tracing those letters, the pale oval touching the curves of the S and the straight lines of the L. As he watched, mesmerized by the repetitive movement, he wondered just how they had wound up here, at this spot. He hadn’t led Emeline here, he was sure of that.
“I put those initials there.” As he told Emeline about that afternoon he watched her face. Was she surprised by the story? Had she known? He tried, but failed, to glean a telltale reaction.
There must be a logical explanation for how she knew about this spot. Maybe Solange had drawn it in one of her journals and Emeline had recognized it.
“It sounds like an idyllic afternoon,” she mused. “Young lovers at a picnic in the park.” Her tone had started out sympathetic but turned caustic. “But you erased all the smudges. Come on, Lucian, try to remember. Didn’t the cheese have mold? Didn’t a kid come along with a ball and knock over the wine? Maybe Solange had allergies and had a sneezing fit?”
“What are you doing?”
“You turned that afternoon into a painting, Lucian. You can’t see it for what it was anymore. Everything about those days is idealized, bathed in sunshine.”
The most frequent arguments he’d had with the last woman he’d lived with were about his being a workaholic. But the most damaging argument had been about Solange. Gilly had come across some old and very bad paintings of Solange in one of Lucian’s closets and suggested he get rid of them. He’d over-reacted, and she’d accused him of practically the same thing as Emeline had.
What do you think it’s like to compete with the ghost of a nineteen-year-old sexpot?
He’d argued that she was wrong, that he never compared her, or any woman, to Solange. But that was what he was doing now, wasn’t he? Looking at Emeline, who had brought him here, to this one tree in the park that only he and Solange had known about, and comparing her to a dead girl, noticing not the things, the many things that were different, but what about her was familiar. Except wouldn’t it make sense for Emeline to be familiar? She’d been raised in the same home by the same parents. There had to be similarities and shared knowledge.
The sun was filtering through the canopy of leaves, and a breeze was blowing a rain of petals down around her. It should have been a lovely image, but in her amber eyes he saw a ferocious loneliness. It was her own loneliness, not Solange’s. Solange had never been abandoned and—until her death—had never really suffered. She had only just grown up, and hadn’t yet started to grow old.
What happened next was automatic, instinctive. Lucian moved closer, put his hands on Emeline’s slight shoulders and leaned down. The pressure of the kiss pushed her backward, up against the tree. The whole of his body was pressing against hers, and he could smell the grass and the liquor of the blooming flowers mixing suddenly with another scent, of lilies of the valley mixed with turpentine and linseed oil—a memory scent of Solange, something he couldn’t understand and something he stopped thinking about as Emeline opened her mouth to him. He felt her long, thin fingers grip his shoulders with surprising strength as she pulled him impossibly closer into her body, erasing the space between them until he was lost in a new dimension made of the past and the present and a hint of something so tenuous and fragile he’d forgotten how it could flavor the taste of someone’s kiss…a promise of the future.
And then she pulled away with a fierce jerk, as if he’d been holding her there against her will. She gave him a look that was more accusation than question. “I’m not her,” she said.
“That’s not why I want you—”
“It is. I can feel it in the way you touch me—you’re searching for her with your fingers and your tongue. You’re trying to smell her and taste her. But you can’t, can you? I became what they wanted, to please them, and it’s going to haunt me forever.”
Emeline was crying now, and Lucian had to hold himself back from reaching out for her. “I don’t know who I might have become without her shadow hanging over me.” Her voice was brittle and angry as she threw her words at him so hard he imagined they were breaking. “But that doesn’t make me her, Lucian. I can’t be her so you can assuage your guilt. Don’t you do that to me, too.” And then Emeline turned and ran through the grove of trees, up the rise of the hill, and disappeared over the other side.
Chapter
THIRTY
When Elgin Barindra returned from taking a walk during his lunch hour on Monday, even though it was seventy-five degrees outside, as soon as he got back to his desk he put on a brown wool cardigan sweater. It was always just a little too cool in the suite of library rooms in the subbasement of the Phoenix Foundation.
Seated at the stainless steel table, he studied an elaborate Egyptian stamp postmarked 1881 affixed to a thick, cream-colored envelope. This was the tenth letter he’d examined today, one of the hundreds written during the second half of th
e nineteenth century, none of which had been properly archived. The paper had yellowed, and the corners and edges flaked off so easily there was antique confetti left on the tabletop every night when he was done.
The envelope was addressed only to Davenport Talmage at the Phoenix Club, New York City, New York, in an old-fashioned spidery script, written by someone who’d studied penmanship. There was no street name or number or zip code on the envelope, which was something to marvel at in itself—to think that once Manhattan had been that small a town.
Dear Davenport,
I am writing to let you know about papers I will soon be publishing that should create some controversy. Here in Egypt, I have seen accounts of objects including amulets, ornaments and stones, which suggest that the ancient Memory Tools you are so interested in are indeed fact, not legend. I believe I have found proof they were smuggled out of India and brought into Egypt well before 1500 BC, which, you realize, suggests that present-day historians are incorrect about when the trade routes opened. This is going to create quite a bit of debate among the professors at my alma mater and yours when I publish my findings—but I do love a good fight, as I know you do.
I will be in New York at the end of the month upon my return to the States and will stop by the club and give you a preview of what I’ve discovered. I think you’ll be very interested.
Best Wishes,
John Macgregor
Luxor, Egypt, 1881
Tantalizing but nonspecific. Barindra made notes on a legal pad, then logged the letter in and filed it away. Moving on, he repeated the process with six more letters over the next hour. Most of the correspondence was addressed to either Trevor Talmage or his brother, Davenport, who were both prolific writers and communicated with scientists, philosophers, historians, explorers, archaeologists and theologists all over the world. Elgin had made his way through five boxes so far, and there were at least fifteen more to go.
Halfway into the next post, he heard the door open and then Malachai Samuels’s cultured voice. “Good afternoon, Elgin. How are we doing?”
Pulling up a chair, Malachai sat beside the librarian and pored over the last letter Elgin had logged in. “I would love to know how this news was received.” He paused, glanced at the shelves of still-untouched ephemera and smiled enigmatically. “It will be amazing to see what treasures you find. There could be extremely important information in here. Perhaps real proof…” His voice slipped into a sigh. “Can you imagine what that would be like—how the world would respond to the knowledge?”
“But isn’t that what you’ve been doing here all these years? Collecting proof?”
“We’ve documented and researched the past-life memories of over three thousand children. Extremely carefully, I might add. We’ve discovered coincidences too amazing to be anything but evidence and confirmation of past lives. But there’s always a way to cast suspicion on our results. My aunt and I thought we were collecting proof, but the scientific community hasn’t regarded it as such.”
“That must be frustrating.”
Malachai’s eyes narrowed. “We’ve accomplished more than any other scientists and still are not given the respect we deserve. I thought Vienna was going to change all that…” His words drifted off as he again scrutinized the letter in front of him. “I’ll be damned if anyone gets to the next tool before me.” In his lap, Malachai’s hands tightened.
“How many of your own past lives have you accessed?” Elgin asked.
Malachai pushed his chair back and stood up too quickly. “You, my friend, have very important work to do, and I don’t want to detain you. There is much resting on what you can find. So very, very much.” With a forced, enigmatic smile, he gave Elgin a formal little bow and left.
None. The word hung in the air like a miasma even though it had not been uttered out loud. None. Why else wouldn’t he have answered? None. Was that what motivated Malachai Samuels and pushed him so far into desperation that he’d embraced malevolence? None.
Chapter
THIRTY-ONE
Los Angeles, California
Expecting the Matisse Monster’s call sometime after nine o’clock, Lucian Glass was showered, shaved and dressed and had ordered a breakfast of orange juice, black coffee, whole-wheat toast and honey by eight. The woman from room service told him his order would arrive within a half hour, but after only eighteen minutes he heard a knock on the door. Looking though the peephole, he saw the waiter.
A young man wheeled the cart into the room, closing the door halfway behind him. “Mr. Ryan, would you sign here?” He held out a black leatherette folder opened to reveal a charge slip.
After signing it and adding a gratuity, Lucian handed it back and watched the waiter walk out. Just as he’d closed the door behind him, right before the lock clicked shut, the door was pushed opened again.
“You can’t walk into a guest’s room,” the waiter shouted from the hall.
“I’m his business partner,” a voice snapped back, and a man stepped inside, slamming the door and drowning out the waiter’s objections.
Lucian looked around for his cell phone, an advanced pocket Taser the local FBI had outfitted him with that could fire two probes up to a distance of fifteen feet, transmitting pulsed energy into the central nervous system of the target, causing him to become immediately incapacitated and immobilized. Unlike a gun, it was legal to carry and something that an art appraiser like James Ryan would have no trouble explaining. But the device was clear across the room on the desk. He couldn’t get to it without being obvious. More important, James Ryan wouldn’t run for a weapon if a stranger walked into his room; he was a civilian and he’d be confused but not worried. Not right away.
“Mr. Ryan, I’m Bill Weller. I’m representing the owner of the paintings you’re here to see.” He was about five foot ten inches tall, dressed casually in khakis and a polo shirt. He had tightly curled black hair, tinted eyeglasses that were too large for his face and a thick mustache. Lucian assessed his features, clothing and appearance, filing the information away, but even as he did he knew it was an exercise in futility: the man was wearing a wig and a false mustache and probably had lifts in his shoes. If Lucian ran into him the next day in the elevator he doubted he’d even recognize him. “Would you come with me?” Weller said, more of a command than a question.
“Where?” Lucian asked with more concern than he was experiencing. To an FBI agent this situation wasn’t at all stressful, but as an art appraiser it should have been making him extremely anxious.
“Just across the hall.”
“I need my phone.” He started to turn.
“Actually, the last thing you need is your phone.”
Weller waited until Lucian had crossed the threshold, followed him out and motioned to room 715, on the opposite side of the corridor, one door up. “It’s a short walk.”
Damn. They’d planned for every contingency but this. All the backup FBI agents were either in the lobby or parked outside ready to follow Lucian to the assignation point. Then, when he was certain the paintings were authentic and that he was with the architect of the plan, he’d give a signal and his team would step in and arrest the Matisse Monster for buying stolen artwork. Once he was in custody they planned to use him to track the men responsible for stealing the five paintings—the criminals they wanted the most.
If Lucian didn’t give a signal, his team would know he was only with an envoy whom they’d need to tail in the hope that he would lead them to the Monster.
If anything went wrong, Lucian would insist on making a phone call to Tyler Weil to report on the paintings. Based on which coded message Lucian used, the FBI, who were monitoring Weil’s calls, would know what kind of help he was requesting.
But if Lucian called now—from up here—they’d step in and blow his cover. That wouldn’t have mattered much if the man with him in the hotel room had been the lynchpin of the operation. But he wasn’t.
It didn’t matter anyway. Lucian didn�
��t have his phone.
The suite was almost identical to his own. Despite the fact that the curtains were drawn against the daylight and the light was low, it was like seeing the sun after spending days in a dark, dank dungeon. His instinct was to shield his eyes, but he knew from experience the gesture wouldn’t help. This wasn’t sunshine—it was the stunning impact of the artwork.
“These are the paintings,” Weller said unnecessarily.
Lucian knew his immediate visceral impression was as critical as any other test and so, slowly, one by one, he focused on each canvas, concentrating, making a slight clucking sound with his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
The small Renoir of lush pink roses was so evocative he almost sniffed the air for their fragrance. Approaching it, Lucian examined the brushstrokes closely. On Sunday, when he’d been studying these artists’ work, he’d focused on each one’s distinctive patterns and palettes.
Lucian didn’t need to take a sample from the Renoir; he had no doubt who’d painted it. Moving on, he focused on the View of the Sea at Scheveningen by Vincent Van Gogh. In addition to looking closely at the gray-green, stormy sea and shore, Lucian ran his fingertips over it. A Van Gogh’s impasto was part of its identity, Marie Grimshaw had said and told him there were supposed to be actual grains of sand mixed in with the paint in this seascape as well as several others.
Lucian could feel them, grit on his flesh.
Every art student identified with Van Gogh’s yearning and longing—and his madness and failure were their nightmare. He remembered how Solange had been angry with one of their teachers who’d said dying young would be worth it if your work would live on for so long after your death. That’s anti-life, she’d said in retort. How could it be worth it to reach the greatest peak of renown if you’re not alive to experience it?