In Buchs, the train portion ended, and everyone’s passports were inspected and some people’s bags were gone through as we disembarked and transferred to another bus. It would take us over the Rhine into Liechtenstein. Just as I sat down in the back, I noticed two burly men hustle onto the bus at the last second. Neither of them looked at me and both sat in the first row. But I recognized the taller one as the ski guide on the tram out of Ischgl.
A deluge of anxiety jumbled my thoughts. I closed my eyes to slow my brain. At some point, I felt the bus come to a stop. I opened my eyes and realized I was breathing like a panting dog.
They exited first. I stayed on and out the window saw a police officer writing parking tickets. He’d flip the ticket pad, smooth it out, raise his pen, and gaze off for a moment as if preparing an important lecture. I wasn’t sure why but I knew he was my best chance. The driver ordered me off and I hobbled onto the sidewalk. The two burly guys were milling at the depot entrance, pretending to be waiting for someone to pick them up. I made a beeline for the cop.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said in German, keeping my voice conspiratorially low. “Are you the real police or do you just write tickets?” Relying on my crude German to naively pepper the question with insult, I lifted my eyebrows impatiently.
“I’m real,” he said defensively.
“Well, those two men behind you. Don’t look. But they tried to sell me heroin on the bus.”
The officer looked at me skeptically and I gave him a wide-eyed, frightened look that was easy to pull under the circumstances.
“I thought I should tell you.”
“Ya. You did the right thing.”
I waited for him to turn in their direction and then hustled to the taxi stand. Pretending to adjust my pack, I glanced behind me. The two burly guys were walking toward me, and the police officer was walking toward them. When he held up his hand, stopping them, I knocked on the taxi window.
It was a big Mercedes. I pulled out a hundred-euro note so there’d be no hassle about fitting the skis in.
“Where to?” asked the driver when I closed the door.
“Feldkirch,” I said, and we took off.
Although they might have been tailing me only in order to make sure I was heading back to the château as planned, I wasn’t going to hang around to find out. I assumed they’d call ahead, and that someone might be waiting for me at the Liechtenstein-Austrian border and also at the train station in Feldkirch, Austria. Furthermore, my plane ticket was booked out of Charles de Gaulle and I wasn’t sure if it would work from another airport. I asked the driver if he knew about the old road that “skirted” the checkpoint into Austria.
He shook his head and I explained that the road I was looking for was close to Feldkirch, close to the Austrian border. The driver brought up a map on his GPS display and pointed at various blue and white lines, roads and highways, but none of them went up a mountain.
A few kilometers from the border, parallel to Feldkirch now, he turned off the highway and drove through a series of small communities, mostly gingerbread-looking houses, separated by farmland. I decided to change out Hal’s phone card with the one I’d bought so that no one would know where I was. After a few minutes, I noticed a hill rising to my right, the top half covered in snow, which reflected out from the darkness. It had to be where I’d skied with Artur Dorfmein—the arcane road into Austria up there somewhere.
It took an hour before we finally found a road that seemed right. We snaked up a mild foothill and then the road got steep. When we hit the switchbacks, I knew it was the right one. The wooden guard tower appeared above in the headlights and we seemed to slip into the 1940s. The tires began to lose traction in the deeper snow.
“I can’t go any farther,” the driver told me, and he stopped.
I thanked him, and having spotted a fifth of schnapps tucked between his seat and the center console, I asked him, in German slang, if I could steal a nip. I pointed at my swollen knee. “Need a little extra help tonight,” I added.
I swilled down eight more pills, and the schnapps burned my chest and boosted my depraved spirits. After helping maneuver the car around, pushing the ass end sideways in the snow, I waved goodbye. The headlights streaked across the lower part of the hill and then suddenly the car was too low, too far down below me, and the hill went black as coal.
I put on my headlamp, changed into my ski boots, parka, and hat, clicked into my bindings, and set off across the hillside. If I needed to climb at any point, my skins were in the pack, but I doubted my tenuous knee would allow me to endure much more than this mild traverse.
seventy-eight
By sunrise I could see the town of Feldkirch far below. It looked like a miniature model, especially the medieval castle on the bluff. The secret road was only a hundred meters beneath me, and it wound down the hill and blended into another snow-dusted track that cut through the countryside. That track weaved onto a paved road that worked its way like a crooked creek onto a highway coming out of Feldkirch. At some point in the night, after numbing my knee several times with snow, I had crossed the border into Austria.
Clicking out of the bindings, I sat down and opened my backpack. On top was the tamper tape I’d bought in Paris with Anaïs. In my weariness at the pensione in Ischgl, I’d left the used end exposed and it was stuck on a flannel shirt. After delicately peeling away the tape, I unrolled the flannel in my lap.
The image tucked inside, now set against the crystalline air and rolling glades of snow, radiated off the paper. Egon Schiele’s Reclining Nude, Left Leg Raised. The woman in the portrait, grasping to hold her poise while simultaneously expressing herself erotically, alone with me in the high country, was asking for my desire without sacrificing any of her dignity. Her essence pinpointed a timeless, fundamentally human moment—vulnerable and full of sensuality, asking to still be loved and respected—and it reinforced why I was risking my life to preserve her.
I sat with her for a spell. Unfurled the other three Schieles, each one a revelation. I took my time with them. When the sun got too bright, I rolled them back into my flannels and packed them away.
Then I called Artur Dorfmein.
seventy-nine
The Innsbruck station was crowded, good camouflage, while at the same time anyone looking for me would also be camouflaged. After eating breakfast, I downed one of Artur’s painkillers and called Anaïs’s landline from a phone booth.
The phone rang and rang. She must be in a black hole of despair over her father’s death, buried away, unreachable, I thought, and I flashed on her, curled on the ground, twelve years old. I tried her cell and it went straight to voicemail. I did not mention the video; I didn’t want to burden her with yet another source of anguish. Instead I left her one specific request, hung up, and headed for my train.
Mr. Beck’s eighteen-hour timeline expired at noon and I was still four hours from Paris. I guessed that the Swiss scoundrel would have opened the metal tubes by now and discovered that the Schieles had been replaced with my two portraits of Anaïs. I’d sacrificed them because there was always the outside chance that the delivery boy might open the tubes before leaving the apartment, or at some point along the way to Bern, and I counted on the fact that he’d most likely just give the contents a cursory glance, or, at the very most, peek to make sure there were in fact erotic drawings in the tubes.
Even though the Swiss scoundrel would obviously check the contents once the tubes arrived in Bern, and as a result abort the exchange with the prince, I figured that Hal would at least now be able to identify him and would find another way to bust him. What I didn’t know was whether or not Bernard had been arrested. Or if Hal had gotten wind of my double cross yet and was going to arrest me too—I’d anticipated being on an airplane by now.
When I disembarked in Gare de l’Est that afternoon, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Would Mr. Beck or Bernard or the Swiss guy’s associates, or all of them, be looking for me?
Walking th
e platform, I pulled my ski cap down over my brow, eyes on the ground, and chastised myself for not abandoning the skis long ago, a glaring come and get me. The storage facility was in the back of the station. I checked in the skis and then called Anaïs’s apartment again.
“Oui,” answered Sophie.
“Is Anaïs with you?”
“No. I cannot find her.”
“Are you okay?”
“No. No. They found his body in the Seine, Nathan. How can that be?”
“I have no idea.”
“I don’t believe you. Where are you? Bernard keeps calling me, looking for you.”
Was someone there listening? If so, she would ask me to come over, lure me in. And why wasn’t she at her own apartment? Regardless, I hung up.
The only rational choice was to take a taxi to the airport and get out.
eighty
Stepping on the train, I decided to trade back the new phone card with the one Hal had given me, just in case Anaïs had tried to call or text on that number. The train was packed and as I stood in a long line in the aisle, I popped in Hal’s card. Instantly, a chain of texts appeared from Janet.
Where are you? . . . Please call me back . . . Are you okay?
The line started to move and with nowhere to sit I made my way into the next wagon, planning on changing the card back out once I found a seat. The phone rang. Thankfully it wasn’t Hal.
“Hey, Janet.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, sorry, my battery died and I had no way to charge it.”
“Ah. I have good news,” she said.
“That’s a relief.”
“I was having lunch earlier today with Michael Dolson. Do you know who he is?”
“The collector?”
“That’s the understatement of the decade. He’s probably the biggest in America right now. Anyway, he asked about the upcoming show and on a lark I showed him the photo you sent of the double portrait.”
I stopped walking and was standing motionless in the aisle, holding my breath.
“Nathan, can you hear me?”
“Yeah, what did Dolson say?”
“He was very moved. And he wants to see the real thing. He told me it was potentially what he’s been looking for.”
Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I was blocking the aisle and I started moving again.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, that’s fantastic. I’m on my way to get the double portrait right now.”
“Great. I called the gallery and took care of the costs, so just get it there ASAP.”
“No problem. I’m on it. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Nathan. And please thank your wonderful women.”
eighty-one
They’d expect me to run, get out of France. Not return to the château, I reassured myself. It would be the last place I’d go. Then I changed out the phone card so that Hal couldn’t track me.
Taxis didn’t serve the remote train stop in Grez, so I got off in Fontainebleau and took a taxi, a mini Ford courier van, from there. On the hill overlooking the entrance gate, I had the driver pull over. From that vantage point, I could see the last half of the driveway curving to the front of the house. No cars. No movement. The corner of the house eclipsed the driveway where it forked off, went around the back, and connected with the dirt track. I ripped a hundred-euro note in two and gave the driver one half.
“Wait for me . . .”
I trotted down the incline and spied through a bullet hole in the gate. I could see the first half of the driveway now, but not beyond where it split and went around the corner of the house. No cars or people on this side of the house. I watched the big windows for a few minutes. No shadows. Nothing moving inside.
Opening the gate, I waved the taxi through; I closed the gate and gestured for him to follow me along the driveway. I passed the first stall. The double portrait, everything I aspired toward, was hidden in there.
“Wait here,” I told the driver. “I’ll be right back.”
Before I grabbed the canvas and got the hell out, I had one more thing to do.
I followed the driveway around the back of the château onto the track. The unsteady pile of wood—the Holz Hausen—came into view. Circling to the rear of the pile, I reached the opening and looked inside. A jolt went down my legs, the shock of seeing her again when I believed I never would. Anaïs was lying on the ground, staring at the sky. She had a book with her and she was wearing headphones. I approached carefully but managed to startle her anyway. She bolted upright and screamed.
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s me.”
She shook her head and pulled out her earbuds. “Stay away from me,” she growled.
“Anaïs . . .”
“Why would Papa kill himself? Answer me that? Why would he leave me? There has to be a reason.”
“He didn’t leave you. He was involved with some bad people.”
“No, no. The police said he committed suicide . . .”
“Anaïs. Those Schieles Bernard had were stolen. Your father and Bernard fence stolen art through a guy in Switzerland. That was the errand I had to do. Carry the Schieles across the border on skis. Something very bad is going down.”
Her head was shaking but her eyes stuttered and then froze in place, as if some previous tidbit of information, something she’d heard or seen or had suspected, converged with what I was telling her. Still, it was too much for her to digest. She shook her head.
“I’m in real danger,” I told her. “You might be too. You could also get arrested. But please. We have to go . . .”
“Why are you here?” she insisted.
“I came to get you. And a portrait I left in the horse stall.”
“No.” She swung the back of her hand at me. “No more about your work.” She took in a sharp breath, held it. “You should have to choose.”
“Choose what?” I said, growing anxious about time.
“Choose between me or your fucking portraits.”
Fed up, I pointed toward the stalls and said, “You need to follow me to the taxi waiting for us in the drive. Now!”
As I walked around the corner of the château, I saw a sedan—BMW or Mercedes—rolling to a stop at the top of the hill above the gate. Shit. Bernard leaned out the passenger window and squinted at the drive—fortunately the taxi was too far up the drive for Bernard to see it. I eased back around the corner, hidden from him, but could still partially see the taxi driver. He was leaning against the hood of the taxi.
Turning to warn Anaïs not to follow me, I saw her standing in front of the woodpile, lagging far behind. I raised my hand. Stay put. She scoffed.
I peeked around the corner. Bernard had ducked back into the sedan. I couldn’t see through the reflections in the windshield, and for the moment the sedan was not moving.
My eyes fell to the last stall and stayed riveted there.
If Michael Dolson bought the double portrait for his collection, it would change my career, doors would fly open, critics would take notice, and I’d have a chance to really excel. No longer some dreamer who’d wasted his life in pursuit of art. Everything I’d worked for as an artist was inside that stall.
Crouched, the torn ligaments in my damaged knee were throbbing. I set my jaw and debated if I would have time to open the stall, grab the canvas, hobble back to the taxi, then grab Anaïs—allowing a certain amount of time for that struggle—with enough of a head start down the dirt track before they got through the gate.
Maybe.
Once I stepped around the corner of the château, Bernard would have an opportunity to spot me. If he did, they’d come tearing down that hill. And there’d be barely enough time to grab the canvas, much less stop for Anaïs.
The taxi driver spotted me, crouched and tucked away, and wanted some sort of clue as to what the hell I was doing.
I held up my hand. Please, one minute.
I turned to Anaïs. She’d moved a
few feet closer onto the edge of the track. She had one hand on her hip, as if to ask, What do you choose?
Her question, like her entire being, was a protest against everything but acting out of passion, a way of living that had helped me produce my most important work, the thing that would change my life, and I felt the double portrait pulsate behind me, warning me not to ignore it. There was no time to spare. I had to make a run for it. Now or never.
Anaïs opened her arms. What do you choose?
Don’t be stupid, Nathan. The choice has been made for you. Take the canvas.
Like a falling shadow from a fast-moving cloud, the light dimmed and then came back. In that flicker of time, the scene had changed; it was as if I were the sun, piercing a haze, and whatever it was that hung over my craving for recognition began to burn away; standing in the growing beam of light, I saw Anaïs, the source of my creative virility. Regardless of the games with her mother, her manipulative family, the suspicious video, I knew that she was the embodiment of what I was really after.
Even while I waved the taxi forward, staying behind the corner of the château, I couldn’t believe what I was doing. The driver took his time getting in and starting the car, before putting it in gear, and it made my decision all the more agonizing.
Something squealed. I peered around the corner. The sedan was no longer on the hill. The noise was coming from the stake that held the gate shut, lifting and grating against its metal clasps.
“Come on!” I yelled at the taxi.
He sped up.
“Get in, Anaïs! Get in!” I urged her along.
She stepped forward. I waved the taxi past me, toward her, sauntering at her own pace. The taxi pulled up alongside her.
“Open the back,” she told him, suspecting I might have hidden the portraits there.
French Girl with Mother Page 18
