The Reincarnationist Papers

by D. Eric Maikranz

  “Is the Sumerfest still held today?”

  “Yes, it just happened a little over a month ago. Anyway, back to the painting. I stopped in Delft for bread and saw an exquisite painting hanging behind the counter of the bread shop. It was small, but miraculous in its detail. It depicted a young woman seated at a table admiring a glistening loaf of fresh bread. The only way to properly describe it is to say that it looked like a modern color photograph. The shadow, the tone, the contrast, the detail, were all perfect. He was better than Da Vinci and even Caravaggio. The baker told me the man’s name, Jan Vermeer, and that he lived in Delft. Vermeer, the baker told me, had offered him the painting for half a year’s worth of bread but that had been a year and a half ago. I knew I had a real find in this sleepy town. The baker told me that Vermeer came into his shop every Monday, and I left word that I wanted to commission his services and would like to meet with Vermeer two Mondays hence at midday in the bakery.”

  “Did Vermeer actually show for the meeting?” I asked.

  “I returned on the appointed day, eager to see the hand that could work such miracles. He was small in stature and wore his best threadbare clothing. An immodest man of meager means, he carried himself with the confidence of his art.

  “‘I understand you wish to purchase my services?’ he asked in a mousy voice that matched his small frame. He looked to be in his midforties and had frizzy hair poking out from under his paint-smeared hat. I hadn’t expected such an exquisite artist to look such a mess,” Samas said with a chuckle.

  “I asked him if he took commissions, and he told me he had not yet, but would hear my offer. I gave him my name, which at the time was Emily Restoud, and told him I would like him to paint my portrait and that I was prepared to offer him five hundred silver francs,” Samas continued.

  “Did Vermeer accept the offer?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes. Vermeer accepted and asked when I would like him to call on me. I told him to come to my address in Amsterdam in one week and gave him a hundred silver francs for supplies.” Samas smiled as he recalled the happenings of that day.

  “He arrived exactly on time, canvas and supplies in hand. He was quite attractive in his paint-spattered clothes. Over lunch, he told me about himself. He’d studied with no one and had no explanation for his natural talent. We spoke until sunset. I put him up in a guest room so that we could begin early the next morning.”

  “How many days did it take him to complete the work?” I asked.

  Samas replied, “The only problem with Vermeer was that he worked at a painfully slow pace and would keep me in the same position for hours on end. I really think he had no concept of time when he held a brush. That’s probably what accounted for his mastery of detail. I had little patience to begin with, and modeling for him was close to unbearable.” Samas sighed with a faraway look in his eyes as he recalled the next part of the story. “The whole painting took a week of ten-hour-long sessions to complete. I remember I would get tired after only half an hour in the same pose and would try to secretly adjust my position. Each time I did so, he would patiently set his brush down, stand up, walk over to me, and gently reset my position. His small elfin hands felt comforting, and in time I began to shift positions on purpose so that he would have to come over. My ruse worked in my favor, because by the fourth day, we were lovers.”

  I was beginning to understand why the painting was so important to Samas. I nodded for him to continue telling the story.

  “He called the painting The Rendezvous.29 It seemed appropriate. That was the only picture I have of myself as Emily Restoud, and I kept it hanging in my Amsterdam home for over two hundred and fifty years. I bought three more works in the fall of 1674 at five hundred silver francs apiece. He, of course, delivered them to me personally. He died the next year.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Do you have an attachment like that with all the pieces in your collection?”

  “I have a history with all of them, and they are all very precious to me, but The Rendezvous is special, as special as Jan was. I loved him and I loved that portrait. It hung in the same room in which he painted it for over two hundred fifty years. I lost a part of myself when those bastards took it off my wall.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “It’s in Tunis,” he said, brightening up. “The Italians have leased it to them for one year. I intend for it to be in my possession by the end of that year. Security in the Tunisian National Gallery is suspect.”

  “How will you go about finding someone if I choose not to help you?”

  “There are several people I can contact. This certainly wouldn’t be the first piece I’ve procured outside of an auction house,” he said in a sly voice.

  “Do you have a plan for how to do it?”

  “Yes, I do.” He smiled wide and leaned back. “Do you know much about security systems?”

  “Some,” I said, thinking back to the planning of dozens of arson jobs.

  “I know a few things as well,” he confessed. “But I know everything about the system in the National Gallery in Tunis.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I have a master schematic of the security system as well as a floor plan to the building. I bought them from an inside source last month. That’s how I know their security is suspect.”

  “All right,” I said, smiling. “What does the place look like?”

  “Wait here, and I’ll show you.” He came back minutes later, a tight roll of blueprints clamped under his arm.

  I studied the blue-and-white paper over his shoulder as he rolled them out on the kitchen table. “It’s not very big.”

  “I know. Small country, small National Gallery.” He chuckled. “That works against us, really. It has been my experience that it’s easier to steal something out of a large building than one of this size.”

  I noticed his use of the plural when he spoke, but kept it to myself. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing to a small red sticker on the floor plan.

  “That’s where The Rendezvous hangs.”

  “How do you know?”

  Samas turned his head and looked at me seriously. “Because I went there to see it, twice. I went to see it, but also to look for the cameras and sensors on this schematic.”

  “And?”

  “And it’s all accurate, right down to the guards’ schedules. The piece hangs right here and looks the same, as though not a day has passed,” he said, placing a chubby finger on the red dot. “But do you want to know what’s ironic? It was taken off my wall in 1940, traveled God knows where on its way to Berlin, went to Moscow for forty years, and then went to Rome, New York, Singapore, Johannesburg, and finally Tunis. And after all that, it still rests in the same gold-painted oak frame I put it in as soon as the oils had dried.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “We’re lucky about that.”

  I looked at him curiously.

  “I put it in the frame and I know how to get it out.”

  “Is getting it out of the frame part of your plan?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “Let’s hear it.”

  “Basically the plan is to get in, get the portrait out of the frame, cut it off the internal frame, and get out.”

  “What security measures are in place to prevent a would-be thief from doing just that?”

  “All the doors are alarmed, as are the windows and skylights. Two guards are on duty at all times and make rounds every twenty minutes. The entire floor plan is covered by motion detectors, and the paintings hang on pressure-sensitive mounts that are wired into the main alarm system.”

  “It doesn’t sound very suspect to me.”

  “Believe me, it is. The only real problem is getting out of the building.”

  “I’m listening,” I said.

  “The first trick isn’t gett
ing in, it’s staying in.” A wave of childlike enthusiasm washed over his face as he began to describe the details. “The gallery closes at six p.m., Sunday through Thursday, and is only open for private parties on Saturdays. You’ll need to go into the gallery about five or five thirty on a regular business day, carrying a small fanny pack with the tools you’ll need. Minutes before six, you’ll go into the women’s bathroom and wait.”

  “Don’t they check the bathrooms?”

  “They do, but they only check them after the gallery is closed, and only one at a time. The guard will check the men’s room first. When you hear the guard enter the men’s room, quickly and silently go to the trashcan standing between the men’s and women’s bathrooms and climb inside. It has a top that will conceal you and is large enough for you to sit in comfortably for several hours. You should wait inside until dark, when the guards settle into their normal routine, then get out of the trashcan after you hear a guard pass. If they keep to their schedule, you’ll have twenty minutes to get the painting and get out.”

  “How do you know they check the men’s room first?” I interjected.

  “Because I tried it. Besides, it’s habit. When you think of going to the bathroom which one do you go to?”

  I nodded. “I see your point.”

  “What about the motion detectors?”

  He shook his head. “They’re only for show. They can’t use them because of the rats.”

  “Rats?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Samas laughed. “There is an ancient saying about the city of Carthage, where modern Tunis stands today. It’s said that if the foreigners ever outnumber the original inhabitants of Carthage, the rats, that Hannibal will return from the dead to protect them. Hannibal still rests, they say, because the rats outnumber the humans five to one. I saw four inside the gallery as large as house cats, and if they’re in there during the day, then there will be ten times as many at night. I do business with curators all over the world, and they all complain of the same problem with the types of sensors used in the gallery, the systems cannot be adjusted to discern between mice, rats, and humans. Modern systems use lasers that scan the room down to six inches above the floor to avoid the problem, but the Tunisians don’t have that system.”

  “Okay,” I said, conceding his point for the moment. “What about the pressure-sensitive mounts?”

  “Ah.” He held up his finger. “I had my source find out their manufacturer, then I called the company as a prospective buyer and queried the sales representative about the unit’s shortcomings compared to their more expensive models. His sales pitch was quite enlightening. The gallery’s units are sensitive to a positive weight, usually five to ten pounds. They are programmed to trigger the alarm if that five-to-ten-pound burden is removed but they won’t trigger the alarm if they are burdened with more weight. This is how they can be overcome.” He drew on the edge of the floor plan as he spoke. “We simply fashion a noose out of fishing line and drape it behind the frame. Once on the mount, you simply attach a ten-pound weight to the line and carefully remove the painting from the mount.”

  “It’s so simple, it’s ingenious,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he said with pride.

  “What’s next?” I asked.

  “The painting needs to be taken out of the frame. It’s held in place with two small nails in each inside corner. They could be easily removed with a small hammer carried in your backpack. When you have it out, cut the canvas along the back side of the internal stretch frame. If you cut it so, it will leave enough material for me to have it restretched to its normal size. After that, you roll it up so that the painted surface is on the inside, and you leave.”

  “I’m sure the guards are just going to let me walk right out the front door,” I said sarcastically. “Why couldn’t I spend the night in the trash can?”

  “I had thought about that, but it won’t work. A new shift of guards comes on at midnight. They empty the trash and mop the floors just before the gallery reopens.

  “Leaving is going to be the trickiest part, because no matter how it’s done, you will set off the alarm when you exit the building. The upside is that you will already have the piece. It doesn’t really make much difference, but I think this door might be best,” he said, pointing to the floor plan. “It exits to the alley. From there, all you have to do is get to the harbor. I’ll have a boat and crew ready to take you to that beach,” he said, pointing out the living room window to the sea.

  “What about the two million?” I asked.

  “What about it? An account will be opened for you upon your confirmation. When I receive the painting, I will have Diltz transfer the money to you. You can call to confirm it if you want.”

  I nodded slowly. “Your plan seems easy, too easy for the two million dollar price tag attached to it.”

  “Well, of course, you would think so. The risks for you aren’t the same as those for a normal person, but that doesn’t mean you should do it for any less.”

  “Why would you say the risk is less for me?”

  “This is what I mentioned last night. The two million is for someone who has a fear of incarceration if caught. You don’t have that fear because of what you are. If you are caught, you need only to take your own life and wait to remember who you are when you come back. The money would be waiting for your next Ascension. Their prisons can’t hold you. That’s why it seems so easy for you.”

  It hit me then, it really was that simple. Their justice couldn’t touch me. His offer became even more tantalizing, knowing it was within my power to commute any sentence if it came to that. That kind of freedom was intoxicating. It was like a declaration of independence from everything. I began to see why Samas enjoyed this life as he did, and it made me yearn for it. “I like the way you think,” I said, turning to the floor plan.

  “Thank you. I’ve been working on this plan almost every day for three months. It’s solid.”

  “I understand what you mean when you say that their justice can’t touch us. But with that in mind, why don’t you steal the piece yourself?”

  He erupted with laughter as he placed his hands on his hips. “As if I could fit this girth inside a trash can. Besides, the sum I offer is affordable. It’s no bargain, but it’s not unreasonable to me. I’ve thought about stealing it myself and I think I would derive much more satisfaction if I could. But I can’t ignore that the odds of success would be much higher if a more qualified man did it. The Rendezvous’s return will be satisfaction enough. What I really wanted was—” An abbreviated ring from the phone cut him off midsentence. He turned an ear toward it and waited for a second ring. It rang again fifteen seconds later.

  “I know who that is,” he said. He walked over to the phone. “Mr. Diltz, what a pleasant surprise,” he said into the receiver before the caller could speak. “I understand. Thank you. Goodbye.” A serious cast came over his face as he hung up the phone and walked back to the table. “They want us back tomorrow. They are close to a decision.”

  “That’s quicker than you thought,” I said.

  “Yes it is, but it’s probably a good sign. Diltz said they want one more session with you first.”

  “What do you think that means?” I asked.

  “We’re about to find out, Evan.”

  The Vermeer described by Samas here and detailed by the author later in the notebooks as The Rendezvous does not match the description of any of the artist’s known thirty-seven paintings, though nineteenth-century art critic Thore Burger details sixty-six additional works attributed to Jan Vermeer in an essay detailed in Thore-Burger and the Art of the PastBurger is widely credited with having “discovered” the seventeenth-century Vermeer.

  18

  Familiar Zurich welcomed me as though it had been patiently awaiting my return. The nearer we got to the Hotel St. Germain, the more aware I became of the feelings I’d h
ad since Diltz’s call. Curiously, it wasn’t fear or anxiety. It was confidence. I knew what I was and knew that I could convince them.

  Samas stood beside me before the panel in the grotto. The gallery against the curtain was filled to capacity. Several new faces looked out at me. Poppy’s was not among them. Torches crackled above the murmur of voices as the five members of the panel walked out from behind the curtain and sat down. Their expressionless faces told me nothing.

  “Mr. Michaels,” said the old man, leaning forward. “Are you and your new advocate prepared to continue with these proceedings?”

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Very well. There are a few things we still need to ask you,” he said, nodding to the other judges.

  “Hello, Mr. Michaels,” said the professor, smiling warmly. “Welcome back.” The gaps between his long, narrow teeth appeared like missing boards in a white fence. His unusual warmness boosted my confidence even further.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  He nodded. “Let’s jump right in. I want to know if you remember the name of the judge who convicted you, as Vasili, in 1946.”

  I took a drink of water from the tall glass in front of me. “I will never forget his name, Comrade Vlad Dukchov of the Committee for the People’s Justice.”

  The professor circled something on his notes, while the members to his left and right looked on. “And the name of the commandant at State Camp number four?”

  “Colonel Stohla.”

  “Do you remember the names of any of the guards?”

  “I was only close to two guards, Similenka and Bukar. After I’d been there for three months, I mentioned to them that I’d fought with Captain Hoxa. Bukar and Similenka arranged for me to become a trustee so that I could work in the laundry and tell them stories about the captain.”