A Place in the World

by Amy Maroney

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, pulling away a little.

  “Nothing,” she reassured him. “Our promise to your family will be fulfilled now. And the thought of getting off that mule’s back for good makes me want to weep with relief. I just—I went out myself this morning, you see.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I sold my mother’s necklace to a goldsmith,” she said haltingly.

  “What?” Arnaud was stunned. “With her portrait gone, you’ve got nothing else that binds you to her. Let’s return to the shop. We can buy it back from him.”

  Mira shook her head. “I still have her ivory shell. Perhaps one day, when our fortunes turn, we can buy another chain of gold.”

  “Did it cross your mind to ask me to accompany you?” There was a flicker of anger in Arnaud’s voice. “A woman alone, selling her jewelry in a stranger’s shop? You have told me many times these past few days that your reckless ways are over. But here’s yet another example.”

  “Forgive me,” she pleaded. “I only wanted to help. Why should you shoulder all the responsibility for our troubles? Look what I have drawn you into. We left Ronzal intent on making our fortunes in Bayonne. We told your family we would find a way to transport their oak to the sea. And since then, we have encountered one danger after the next—all because of me. I wanted to help the Abbey of Belarac. I decided we would live in Toulouse. I insisted we keep Rose when her mother died—though you were right all along. Harboring a Cagot ruined us.”

  “I don’t regret keeping Rose,” he insisted. “I never did. She couldn’t help being born a Cagot.”

  “She died because of choices I made,” Mira said, weeping. “I wanted to go to the Valley of Maury—”

  “What happened to Rose there was not your fault, Mira,” Arnaud said fiercely.

  An avalanche of sorrow thundered in Mira’s heart, threatening to crush her.

  “What I mean to say is—” she took a long breath, steadying her voice. “You stayed at my side through it all. You have looked death in the face far too often for my sake. I simply want to ease your worries.”

  “In that case, promise me you’ll not repeat what you did this morning.”

  Mira smiled. “That is an easy promise to make. I possess nothing else of value.”

  “Yes, you do,” Arnaud said, cradling her face with tender hands. “You possess the only thing that matters. Your life.”

  12

  October, 2016

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Zari

  Zari took a sip of tea, listening to rain patter against the window. She had wanted to rent a studio apartment, but Andreas insisted on booking a room in this hotel near his employer Darius Eberly’s office.

  He’s your employer now, too. The thought set off a nervous tingle in her stomach. She distracted herself by taking in her surroundings.

  Though its decor was a bit sterile and masculine for Zari’s tastes—all gray and black, with a stark white duvet on the bed—the room was elegant. The bed linens were high-end, the furniture well-crafted. There was absolutely no noise from neighboring rooms. She had already bathed in the wondrously deep tub and helped herself to all the amenities the bathroom had to offer.

  Now she was wrapped in a plush white robe, sitting cross-legged in a gray-upholstered armchair by the desk, fighting sleep. It was seven o’clock. If she could just stay awake another hour or two, she might sleep through the night without jet lag forcing her up long before dawn. A good night’s rest would boost her chances of making a decent impression on Darius Eberly, thereby smoothing her reentry into Europe.

  A bad night’s rest?

  Zari flinched, imagining her sleep-deprived brain misfiring at warp speed, causing moronic small talk to spew from her mouth like lava. To compound that, she would likely show up at the meeting clad in one running shoe and one boot—and to top it off, she’d have dried toothpaste plastered to her hair or a giant coffee stain on the front of her dress.

  No, she absolutely needed plenty of calm, refreshing sleep.

  Flipping her laptop open, she created a series of social media posts related to Miramonde de Oto and Renaissance-era female artists, wondering if her new boss would fire her if he found out she was lobbying for her pet cause in a hotel room he had paid for.

  Act first, apologize later, she decided.

  If Zari got nothing done on Mira’s behalf over the next six months, she would never forgive herself.

  The desk was strewn with photocopies of the papers Lena Mendieta had given her that heat-seared August day in Oregon. Zari leaned over and rifled through a few pages. Originally inked in blue ballpoint pen, the writing was shaky but mostly legible. It looked like Lena had jotted down fragments of conversations, along with a series of hand-sketched designs that looked vaguely Celtic.

  “The hill Mendietas and the sea Mendietas,” she read aloud. “Mendieta homestead Erkodun. Farmers, shepherds. But also whalers, fishermen. Some Mendietas lived near coast in Pasai Donibane. Border France/Spain now.”

  Zari yawned mightily. She pushed away her fatigue and squinted at the page again, trying to make out an unfamiliar word.

  “Chalupas,” she read aloud, liking the sound of it. She rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

  Chalupas sounded like delicious doughnuts, crisp and brown and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The word spun through Zari’s mind, weaving through all the flotsam and jetsam of half-remembered worries, fragments of to-do lists, and memories that swelled and ebbed in her brain until she drifted into a dreamless sleep.

  13

  October, 2016

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Zari

  Zari threaded her way along the sidewalks through a sea of expensively-dressed, pale-skinned Swiss people, pausing occasionally to consult the map on her mobile. Finally, she turned down a quiet street near Geneva’s historic Old Town district. Passing galleries, clothing shops, and restaurants, she stopped in front of a building made of oyster-colored stone. Black awnings shaded the windows like half-closed eyelids. The words “Darius Eberly” were printed in an elegant creamy-white font across each awning.

  Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the front door of the gallery. Slowly she walked through the high-ceilinged space, eyeing a series of canvases speckled with red, black, and yellow paint that hung from invisible supports on the walls.

  A blond woman poked her head out from an interior doorway, looking at Zari with one eyebrow raised and a faint frown on her face. She was clearly not expecting anyone.

  “Darius Eberly...?” Zari said. “I have an appointment.”

  “Ah.” The woman nodded. “Keep walking. There is an elevator at the back of the gallery. Fourth floor.”

  A few minutes later Zari emerged upstairs in a hallway hung with another series of contemporary paintings. Andreas was waiting for her there. After greeting Zari and offering her mineral water, he ushered her into a conference room outfitted with a screen that descended from the ceiling when he touched a button. Clutching her glass, Zari sank into a leather-and-chrome chair.

  She half-wished coffee had been offered instead of water, but she’d already downed two cups this morning. Any more than that, and her hands would start shaking. She had managed six hours of fitful slumber and was feeling reasonably alert and well-groomed, all things considered.

  After dispensing with pleasantries and a brief discussion of Zari’s journey from San Francisco, Andreas started a slideshow depicting various Old Master paintings that had fetched high prices at auctions in recent years.

  “The eye is always seeking discordant images, things that do not fit patterns,” Andreas said, clicking through the slides. “Unsmiling men and women wearing stiff lace collars and black clothing are often called to mind when we think of the sixteenth century. The portraits I am showing you are different.
They make the eye linger. They make us stop. And stare. Sometimes for so long that we decide we want the image for ourselves. We decide we will pay for the privilege of possessing a five-hundred-year-old puzzle and hanging it on a wall.”

  This was a pitch, Zari realized. With crisp energy, Andreas was reciting a statement he had practiced many times. She understood all too well. She had been lobbying for Mira with a well-honed pitch for two years now. You never knew when someone would become an ally, an advocate. Or in Andreas’s case, a client—a potential buyer of art.

  In their limited interactions, Andreas had been reserved and formal. And yet when they spoke at the conference in Bordeaux last spring, after her world had been rocked by the double blow of her mother’s car accident and Dotie Butterfield-Swinton’s public discrediting of her research on Mira, Andreas’s compassion had risen to the surface. He offered words of understanding in a moment when she felt unmoored, alone, and out of her element.

  Watching him now in his gray suit and starched white shirt, a gleaming gold watch peeking out under one sleeve, she recalled his story: Andreas’s Swiss parents adopted him while working at an international school in Asia. But when his father died, he and his mother had returned to her home town, a small community in the Swiss Alps. She guessed from Andreas’s russet-brown skin, wide dark eyes, and glossy black hair that his birth family came from India or someplace near it. After less than twenty-four hours in Switzerland, she was beginning to comprehend exactly what he had meant when he told her in Bordeaux that he understood all too well what it was to be an outsider.

  He flicked on the lights. “Obviously I don’t expect you to vet all the portraits you see in private collections and make the call about whether they’re good prospects for us. You’re on the hunt for Cornelia van der Zee, specifically. But I want you to become familiar with what we’re after. I’ll send you digital images of other Old Master paintings we’ve sold that fit these parameters.”

  Zari nodded. “I’ll make sure I’m clear on what I’m looking for. And what I’m not.”

  “Darius’s reputation for spinning straw into gold often makes us the first choice for families dealing with estates. What few people understand is how much it costs to restore and investigate old paintings before bringing them to market,” Andreas said. “Often sellers are upset to learn how little we are willing to pay for their decayed works of art, not realizing the costs and risks to the dealer of refurbishing paintings that might, in the end, prove worthless. You may be the butt of anger in those instances—but it’s not really directed at you. It’s the result of the high emotions that come with death and change.”

  He pressed the lid of his laptop shut and touched a switch on the wall. The screen disappeared into the ceiling with a faint metallic whir.

  “Darius will explain the scope of your work for us in more detail.”

  Zari stood.

  “Is your hotel comfortable?” He led her through the doorway.

  “Very,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t normally stay in places quite so nice.”

  Andreas smiled at her. “You’re not in the academic world now, you’re in the world of Swiss art dealers. As you can tell from your salary.”

  It was true. Her paychecks would exceed the income she brought in from moonlighting as a website designer. Both of her post-docs, in contrast, had barely paid enough to cover travel and living expenses.

  Zari followed Andreas into a corner office that was flooded with natural light from four large windows. The room was dominated by an immaculate glass desk. Andreas waved Zari into a black leather chair near the desk.

  She sat gazing around the room, nervous anticipation thrumming in her belly. All of the art on the walls was contemporary. There were no personal photos or any other mementos on the desk.

  Zari had seen Darius once before, at an art conference last year in Amsterdam. He was written up in Art News Weekly often enough for Zari to recognize him right away when he had taken the seat next to her, Andreas at his side. White hair clipped close to his skull, deep-set hazel eyes, skin that was so ashen it looked as if he had never set foot in sunlight. He’d worn a slim-fitting bespoke gray suit, black wingtip shoes, and a scarlet tie. The finishing touch was the aroma of expensive cologne that clung to his clothes, dousing Zari in a vapor of luxury every time he shifted in his seat.

  The door swung open, interrupting her memories. Darius entered, slipping his mobile phone into his suit pocket.

  Zari stood. He stretched out one arm to shake her hand, lips parted in a polite smile.

  “Welcome, Ms. Durrell.”

  His cool eyes assessed her, taking in her charcoal-gray wool sheath dress, knee-high black boots (beloved, but a bit scuffed), and burnt-orange silk scarf.

  Zari swallowed, wishing she had thought to polish her boots. She stepped forward, smiling broadly, and reached for his hand.

  14

  October, 2016

  Geneva, Switzerland

  Zari

  “I want to be clear that you understand who I am and why you are here,” Darius said to Zari as they all took their seats. “This is a family-run operation. My grandfather started the business in the 1950s. In the beginning, our buyers were mostly Swiss. Today, they are almost all international. We study emerging markets and try to stay a step or two ahead of other dealers that way. As I’m sure you observed in the gallery downstairs, our focus is on modern works. But the market for Old Masters is more robust than it was a few years ago.”

  He shifted in his chair, crossed one leg over the other. “We not only sell both Old Masters and contemporary art, we sometimes exhibit them side-by-side. The old boundary lines are blurring. Obviously there aren’t as many women painters from the pre-modern era, but rising values will root out more examples of their work. Take the Van der Zee that sold at auction recently. In a situation like this, what typically happens is the heightened perception of value drives interest in the artist, there’s more scholarship devoted to him—”

  “—Or her,” Zari corrected Darius without thinking.

  He hesitated. “My point is,” he said sharply, “there are old portraits gathering dust in homes all around Europe. Often we’re contacted by their owners in the wake of such a sale.”

  “This is where you come in,” Andreas added, glancing at her from his perch in the chair to her right.

  “We have a list of queries for works purported to be by Cornelia van der Zee that need to be investigated,” Darius said. “With private collections, your job will be to examine the portraits, study the provenance of each, and write reports on your findings. Most of them will be duds, mind you. For museum investigating, you’ll be given a list of curators who have agreed to cooperate with our search for more works by Van der Zee.”

  “And I’ll be traveling for the duration of the project?” Zari asked.

  Darius leaned back in his chair. “Consider yourself an investigative reporter on assignment. Your research will inform Andreas’s decisions on whether to invest in a painting. It would not make sense for you to settle in one location, particularly as this is a brief contract.”

  Did he emphasize the word ‘brief’ or was that just Zari’s imagination?

  “And when a piece gets the green light?” she asked.

  “Then it comes back here to our conservation lab for preliminary study,” he said. “Our first order of business is always to learn if a painting is truly as old as advertised, and whether it was in fact made by the artist who was credited with the work.”

  Zari remembered that this man had been burned by a scandal years ago in which a painting attributed to an Old Master had turned out to be a forgery. He was sued by the collector who had purchased the painting. Now he protected his investments and his reputation by proving the authenticity of paintings before bringing them to auction.

  “Do you think Cornelia van der Zee will ever garner a
price tag in the millions?” she asked him.

  “It’s happening with Artemisia Gentileschi,” Darius said. “It could happen for other Old Mistresses, too.”

  “Old Mistresses doesn’t quite have the same ring as Old Masters,” Zari pointed out.

  Darius raised one eyebrow. “ ‘Female artists of the pre-modern era’ doesn’t roll off the tongue with ease either, does it?”

  Zari held his gaze. She felt slightly queasy. “I think ‘female Old Masters’ is perfectly adequate.”

  “To answer your question,” he went on after a beat, a trace of irritation in his voice, “what happens in the real world impacts the choices collectors make. So when art historians start developing a body of research about an artist, the market plays catch-up eventually. That’s what happened with Artemisia.”

  “Some dealers will tell you that the market for Old Masters is fading,” Andreas added. “But the market for these women artists is just developing. We want to be on the forefront of that wave.”

  “That’s why I hired you,” Darius said. “Yes, your knowledge of Cornelia van der Zee is valuable. But so is your skill with social media channels. It has taken us some time to appreciate social media’s ability to build buzz around a particular artist. Then interest spikes among collectors, pushing prices up. Andreas has been quite impressed with your ability to push a message about this Miramonde de Oto character using those platforms. You’re relentless, he tells me.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a compliment,” she said wryly.

  “Believe me, it is.” A faint smile flitted across his face.

  “I was able to get some real momentum going for Mira,” she admitted. “I’m thrilled to have another chance now.”

  Her fingers went to the silver scallop shell that dangled from a thin chain around her throat. It always gave her comfort, though she no longer thought of it as a good-luck talisman.