The Thief of Hearts

by Ripley Proserpina

  “Hold on,” she said, and gestured to Carmen for her bag. She dug in the side pocket for her cash, foregoing stealth. “Here.” She held it out. “Thank you for last night.”

  “We don’t want your money,” Pascal said.

  Shira faced Ravi, and held out the cash. “Please. Let me repay you for the car, at least.”

  Ravi stared at her, but not like Pascal had. His gaze was sad again. “Keep it, Shira. It was our good deed. Let us have that.”

  She understood what he wasn’t saying. They’d performed a mitzvah—followed the commandment of helping a stranger in need—and they hadn’t done it to be rewarded. Slowly, she drew the cash back, and put it in her pocket. “All right.”

  Ravi gave her a smile, the dimple flashing for just a second.

  “Thank you all for checking on me. I’m sorry if I put you out,” she said the last bit while glancing between Dov and Pascal, the two brothers she seemed to have pissed off the most.

  “Good luck with your auction,” Yaphet said. He gazed at the lamp as he spoke. “Does this have a provenance?” he asked, suddenly.

  “Not one I’ve authenticated,” she answered. “And if I can’t, it will be given to the police.”

  “It has a provenance,” Director Lohse’s booming voice echoed through the gallery. “All of our art has verifiable provenances.” The man strode toward the group quickly, and he stuck his hand out at Dov. “I’m the owner of this gallery, Bruno Lohse. And you are?”

  “Dov Hasmone.” He shook the director’s hand quickly and then let go. From the corner of her eye, Shira caught Dov wiping his palm on his jeans. “These are my brothers. Yaphet, Pascal, and Ravi.”

  “Coming to the auction?” Lohse asked, gazing from one brother to the other. In the bright lights, Director Lohse appeared sweaty and sallow. He’d been as stressed about the auction as she was, and very likely wasn’t sleeping much either.

  “Perhaps,” Yaphet spoke over Dov, who’d begun to shake his head. “We met your curator last night, and she was explaining how dedicated the gallery is to authenticating each piece here. You interrupted us just as she was explaining why this one wasn’t in the first catalogue we received.”

  As Yaphet spoke, he drew off his glasses and folded them into his pocket. Without them, the angles of his face seemed sharper—harder. He stood tall, taller than the director. For all of Director Lohse’s culture and sophistication, he appeared lacking, sandwiched as he was, between these brothers.

  Shira had been so distracted by her comparison, she missed what Yaphet had said. The catalogue? Had she mentioned the catalogue to them and not realized it?

  “Yes, well. We know how important reputation is to any art dealer,” Lohse said. He cleared his throat. “Good day, gentlemen. We hope to see you Tuesday. Shira, I need to see you in my office when you’re finished here.” With that, he left hurriedly, fancy loafers clicking against the wood floors.

  “He’s awful,” Pascal stated, drily.

  Shira snorted, but… “This is my first job as curator.”

  “So you’re just establishing yourself,” Dov said, as if everything made sense now.

  “Shira!” Lohse called. Apparently, he couldn’t wait until the Hasmones left.

  “I’m sorry.” She started down the hallway. “I need to go. Thank you again.”

  “Wait.” Pascal stepped forward, but didn’t speak. Shira shifted from one foot to the other, waiting while her stomach churned.

  “Shira!” Lohse yelled again.

  “I’m sorry!” With a wave, she jogged down the hallway and into Director Lohse’s office.

  “Sit down,” he said before she’d come through the door.

  As she lowered herself into the worn leather Mission-style chair, she imagined how the conversation would go. She was fired, most likely, but what came next? Would the director ruin her reputation? Was this not only the end of her job, but her career?

  “Do you make it a practice to tell potential clients that our artwork is not for sale? Or does not have a provenance?” His voice was deceptively soft.

  “No. I was explaining provenance to them, and that the lamp hadn’t been authenticated yet.”

  “Do you think I would acquire something without an authenticated provenance?” he asked, steepling his fingers and leaning forward, elbows on his desk.

  Director Lohse, on his best days, was an intimidating man. But today, he seemed to be seething. She preferred his louder aggression to this one which seemed to be bubbling beneath the surface. A quick peek over her shoulder assured her the door was open. At least Carmen would hear her if she screamed.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Director Lohse may fire her, but he wouldn’t hurt her.

  His narrowed dark eyes flashed, and suddenly her fear didn’t seem so crazy. “I’m waiting for an answer, Shira.”

  “Not purposefully, no,” she answered, choosing her words carefully. “I am doing my best to verify all the information in the provenances you’ve provided, but there are some problems.”

  “I don’t want an explanation.” He stood, leaned his hands on the desk and loomed forward. Thank goodness, she had the desk as a buffer. “I want your assurance you will not say such a thing to a client again.”

  Now the words stuck in Shira’s throat. This wasn’t a promise she could make. Director Lohse had a good reputation, but, as of yet, she was unknown. It would take years for her to gain the clout and trust of the art world.

  He waited for her. As much as she wanted to speak, she couldn’t. Slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, he strolled around the desk until he could rest on the edge directly in front of her. So long, buffer. “Well?”

  “I—” Her voice trembled and she had to start again. “I am committed to upholding the guidelines for curators. I will always do what is legal and right.”

  His smile, when it came, was so tight Shira worried his perfectly white teeth would crack from pressure. “You have work to do, Shira. I do not want to repeat this conversation. Consider this your first and final warning.”

  She wasn’t fired? The relief she should have felt, however, was absent. Was this the way it worked in auction houses and galleries? Had she been wholly unprepared for the pressure and drama that came with curating art collections?

  This should have been her dream job. She should have been happy.

  But she wasn’t.

  In all her life, she’d never had such a pit in her stomach. Nor had she experienced anything like the sense of dread that dogged her footsteps since those crates of art had arrived.

  4

  The Fourth Day

  “Do you need anything?”

  Shira glanced up through the curtain of her hair, blowing the black strands out of her face. “Help.”

  Carmen giggled and dragged a round stool next to her desk, the legs scraping against the concrete floor. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need sustenance, and coffee. Has the Posse Gallery called back?” A cup of coffee sat near her elbow, without thinking she lifted it to her lips and grimaced.

  “I’ll get you coffee!” Carmen leaned forward and swiped the cup from her hands. She muttered as she left, “Pathetic.”

  Shira smiled at Carmen’s retreating form before she turned her attention back to the provenance in front of her. Nearby, she’d placed the painting in question. It was a post-Impressionist work, allegedly a Gaugin, but for the life of her, she couldn’t find the stamp photographed in the provenance. The photo was grainy, and blurred. She read the provenance again. Sergei Ivanovich Shchukin. Pushkin Gallery.

  It was possible the stamp came off the work. Sighing, Shira left her office in search of another lamp. Perhaps she would find evidence of it with more light. There had to be something—glue, peeled paper—anything.

  She’d already had Carmen recall the catalogues. No matter what Lohse wanted, she couldn’t put the pieces in the auction.

  Lamps were kept in a supply closet in th
e back of the gallery, along with cleaning supplies. Once she found what she needed, she hefted it off the ground. The thing was heavy, set with special lights that wouldn’t fade or dull fragile artwork.

  “Miss Rose, you have a phone call.” Carmen’s voice echoed through the building as it came over the intercom. The lamp swung, hit the back of her heel, and she groaned. This day was the worst.

  The worst.

  Anger gave her strength, but she was still out of breath by the time she answered the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Shira?” A deep male voice came over the line.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Ravi. Ravi Hasmone. I was in your gallery yesterday, and the other night…”

  Automatically, she’d assumed the caller was from Posse Gallery, but she couldn’t find it in herself to be disappointed that Ravi was the one calling.

  And his introduction!

  She found it endearing Ravi would think she needed as much background as he gave her. “I remember you, Ravi. How are you?”

  The stomach churning anxiety she’d had all week dissipated somewhat, and she lowered herself into her chair. This may only be a brief respite from the shit storm of her job, but she’d take it.

  “I’m—” He stopped and started again. “I was wondering if I could take you out tonight. For dinner.”

  Her stomach filled with butterflies. Dinner with Ravi? She would love to, but… “I have so much work here, Ravi. I don’t think I’ll get out early enough.”

  “That’s okay,” he answered quickly. “I’d pick you up for an early dinner, and then bring you back. If you need to work late that is. Or else, I can pick you up late and take you out to dinner. Or bring you dinner. Or meet you somewhere. My grandmother is nearby. We could even go there, if you’re not sure you want to be somewhere with me.”

  Unable to stop herself, Shira giggled. “A first date with your grandmother?” She loved it.

  Ravi chuckled. The warm sound sent tingles over Shira’s skin. “She’s a wonderful woman.”

  “No doubt,” Shira said, remembering how Dov had said they were in town to celebrate Hanukkah with her. “Would you like me to come there? For Hanukkah?” A niggle of guilt wormed its way into her stomach. So she’d go to Ravi’s grandmother’s home for Hanukkah, but hadn’t been able to make it to her own grandmother’s? The thought, as it occurred to her, came accompanied by her grandmother’s voice.

  “You’d do that?”

  “Um.” Unsure now, Shira paused. “If you want. If you’re only here to see her, I’d go with you to her house. If it was okay with her. And it wouldn’t put her out.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly. “She’d love that. My grandmother loves guests.”

  Shira suddenly remembered the other people who may be at Ravi’s grandmother’s. She couldn’t say for certain, but it was possible Dov and Pascal wouldn’t be so pleased to see her. “What about your brothers? Should you check with them? What if they only want their family there?”

  “Don’t worry about them.” There was a note of irritation in Ravi’s voice. “They won’t be there.”

  “Oh.” It wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Nor was she expecting the surge of disappointment she felt.

  “If we’re going to my grandmother’s, I should probably pick you up early. We need to be there before sundown.”

  “Right.” Shira glanced at her watch. It was almost four, and the sun would be down in close to an hour. Two piles lay on her desk. The bad news pile, and the maybe-bad-news pile. She’d cleared two provenances, had two that, in her opinion, couldn’t be authenticated, and four more she’d barely touched. Slowly, she reached forward and closed the Gaugin provenance, shifting it to the bad news pile. “I’m ready now.”

  “Really?” he asked. “Great. Wonderful! I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. What time does your gallery close?”

  The question threw her off, and she struggled to remember for a moment. “Six,” she answered. “It closes at six.”

  “Okay.” She wondered why he needed to know. “You won’t be leaving too early then.”

  “No.” She wouldn’t be. The truth was, the pieces Lohse wanted in the auction couldn’t be authenticated in time. These piles were the death knell of her job—perhaps her career. Hopefully not, but she couldn’t see Lohse agreeing to be her job reference.

  “I’ll be there soon,” he said.

  “Okay,” she answered again.

  “Bye, Shira. I’m looking forward to seeing you.” His voice was kind, and it almost undid her. In combination with her epiphany, exhaustion, and the general shitiness of her life this week, she was closer to tears than she wanted to admit.

  Once they’d hung up, Shira dove into the next provenance. To her relief, it was a relatively simple authentication process, especially compared to the others.

  This piece actually fit into the rest of her collection. The artist, Max Beckmann, had been identified by the Nazis as creating Entartete Kunst, Degenerate Art. Whoever had owned this piece had managed to hide it from the Nazis and pass it, by descent to their children.

  And now, here it was.

  “Shira?”

  Startled, she squealed and spun in her chair. Ravi watched her from her door. He had a small smile on his lips, but she could see his dimple. It was his tell. He was smiling a real smile if she could see his dimple.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “I am.” She took another picture of the gallery stamp on the frame of the painting.

  “What are you working on?” Ravi asked, coming inside. His gaze left hers and went to the portrait. Almost immediately his face changed from lighthearted to dour. The dimple disappeared and he frowned.

  “Not a modern art fan?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Is that what this is?” Stepping closer, he peered at the painting. As she watched, he examined each brush stroke and line.

  “Yes,” she said. “This is a Max Beckmann. He was an Expressionist. Banned by the Nazis.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “I’m surprised it wasn’t destroyed.”

  “Are you familiar with—”

  He cut her off. “The Reich Culture Chamber?” he said. “Yes. I’m familiar with a lot. In Israel, that is not a period of time we gloss over.”

  “We don’t gloss over it here,” she said quickly. It seemed to her he was accusing her of something.

  “I had family expelled from Spain in the 1500’s,” she said. “Both of my great-grandfathers fought in World War II. They had family in Europe who died in the gas chambers. The Holocaust is part and parcel of who I am as a Jewish woman, as an American, and as a human.”

  He stared at her, green eyes roving her face.

  “I’m not lying,” she felt compelled to say.

  “I know.” Ravi shook his head, sighed, and ran his fingers through his wavy hair. Mussed, he seemed lost and overwhelmed. “I didn’t mean to—or—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed that era affected you less than it has affected me, or my brothers.”

  He’d turned so serious, like Pascal and Dov.

  “I understand if you don’t want me to go with you anymore.” Whatever he was feeling that made him go from lighthearted to not, made her want to give him an out.

  “No!” His answer came immediately. “I asked you out and I want you to come with me to meet my grandmother. She’ll love you.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  He turned his back on the painting and stepped toward her. Skimming her arms, he gently grasped her elbows. “I hoped to have this time with you. Since meeting you, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you.”

  Shira bit her lip, trying to keep her dopey smile from covering her entire face.

  “Don’t hide.” Ravi touched her chin with his thumb, dislodging her lip. It lingered where her teeth had dug into her skin.

  The air between them crackled with an electricity she could almost see. She swayed toward him, but he dropped his
hands and stepped back, leaving her off-balance.

  Blinking rapidly, she tried to regain her focus.

  “Here.” Ravi held her coat for her. Silently, she stuck her arms in the sleeves. As she buttoned it, she happened to peek at him. He stared at the painting over her shoulder, head canted, eyes narrowed.

  “Ready?” she asked.

  He stared a moment longer before glancing away. “Yup.”

  She led the way toward the exit, while Ravi followed silently behind her. “Are you good to lock up?” she asked Carmen, as they approached the front desk.

  “Leaving now?” The receptionist peeked at the clock.

  “I’ll be back,” she answered quickly. “Just forward calls to my…”

  “Right…” Carmen reminded her. “Your cell…”

  It had been in her purse.

  The purse that was stolen.

  “Here.” Ravi reached into his pocket, withdrew his wallet and gave Carmen a card. “Leave me a message here. It’ll be on silent, but I’ll check it.”

  “Great.” Carmen read the card. “Lawyer, huh? I wouldn’t have pegged you that way.”

  Shira wondered now how Carmen would have categorized him. Her musings were interrupted by the woman’s next words. “Too many muscles.”

  Widening her eyes, she wordlessly begged Carmen to stop. Ravi merely laughed, and a wave of unexpected jealousy whipped through her. Was he interested in the beautiful receptionist?

  She was funny and, socially, she seemed to banter effortlessly.

  Also, she was a model.

  But Ravi had gripped her hand, and now he dragged her toward the door. All the while, his thumb stroked the back of her hand. The slide of skin over skin made her shiver, and suddenly she didn't care about Carmen anymore.

  “Cold?”

  “No,” she answered, holding his gaze.

  Two bright spots of color appeared on his cheeks. She squeezed his hand. Having pity on him, she changed the subject. “How far is your grandmother?”

  “Couple of blocks.” He followed her lead, allowing her to go to a less charged subject. Still, they held onto each other’s hands, despite the chilly wind and the fact that neither of them wore gloves.