Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  Émile held back. “We should go,” he said. “We don’t have time to waste.”

  “Who’s wasting time? We might need to go down there during our getaway. We should reconnoiter.”

  “Why would we go down there when we can just cross the bridge?”

  “I don’t know,” she said impatiently. “Come on, the exercise will do us good. Besides, what am I going to do by myself all afternoon at Madame Charneau’s house?”

  Émile said nothing, so Julia took hold of his arm and dragged him down the steps.

  In one direction the embankment was almost blocked by a group of barbers shaving men seated in the shade of the bridge, so they turned in the direction of Notre-Dame. A light, fresh breeze wafted off the river, gently ruffling the water’s surface.

  “Funny place for a barbershop,” said Julia, “don’t you think?”

  But Émile didn’t seem to hear a word she had said. Instead, he detached himself from her arm and moved away from the water’s edge closer to the hewn stones of the high retaining wall.

  “Why are you all the way over there?” Julia asked.

  “It’s less windy,” Émile replied, seemingly more interested in the wall than the river.

  “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “Oh, look!”

  A long riverboat, half full of sightseers sitting on deck chairs on its wide-open deck, pulled into a small dock ahead of them on the embankment.

  “What kind of boat is that?” Julia asked eagerly.

  “It’s a bateau-mouche,” said Émile after a brief glance.

  “Let’s go for a ride. It’ll be fun.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Oh, please,” Julia pleaded in an exaggerated childlike whine.

  “Go on if you want,” he said irritably. “I’ve had enough of this.” He hurried along the embankment a short distance before climbing another set of steps back up to the street-level quay.

  “Afraid you’ll get seasick?” she shouted. Then she gave up and followed him, muttering to herself, “Spoilsport.”

  Chapter 14

  Valfierno sat at an outside table in front of the Café de Cluny at the corner of boulevards Saint-Michel and Saint-Germain. His chair faced the street, as did all the others on the small terrace. After all, one spent time at a café not to escape the world but to observe it. Since he had arrived ten minutes ago, he had derived great enjoyment from witnessing the ebb and flow of the colorful stream of people coursing along the boulevard as if it were a human tributary of the Seine. A pair of young women, daringly hatless to show off their bobbed hair, sashayed arm in arm along the narrow pavement in front of him. As they passed, they turned their heads to give him an appraising glance. His acknowledging nod elicited smiles from the women, which quickly turned into shared giggles as they disappeared around the corner. He suddenly realized how much he had missed Paris.

  “Eduardo!”

  Valfierno turned in the direction of the jovial voice. The stocky man standing before him held out his arms in a wide gesture that said: Well, here I am. Isn’t it wonderful?

  “Guillaume,” Valfierno exclaimed, rising to his feet and extending his hand.

  “None of that,” the man said as he stepped forward, his arms enclosing Valfierno in a tight embrace. “Mon Dieu. I see you still use that same cologne. I never forget a face or a smell.”

  Apart from the fact that he had gained quite a bit of weight, Guillaume Apollinaire had changed little since Valfierno last saw him. He still embraced life with such fervor that he radiated energy and vigor. Valfierno could always recharge himself just by being around the man; on the other hand, he was also taken best in small doses.

  “It’s good to see you,” Valfierno said after extricating himself from the bear hug and gesturing to a chair.

  Guillaume Apollinaire removed a short-brimmed hat and mopped small beads of sweat from his brow.

  “You never even said good-bye, you know,” Apollinaire said with an admonishing waggle of his finger.

  “Please accept my apologies,” said Valfierno with a slight canting nod of his head. “Everything happened so quickly at the time.”

  “I always suspected it had something to do with the wife of that art dealer, Laroche. What was her name?”

  “Chloe.”

  “Ah yes, the beautiful Chloe, beautiful as a rose with thorns to match.”

  “Actually,” Valfierno explained, “I didn’t leave Paris until sometime after that incident.”

  “Incident indeed,” Apollinaire said. “Those despicable street apaches.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. “You know, I always suspected that when that little minx couldn’t entice you into her bed, she told her husband that you had tried to seduce her. She knew what his reaction would be.”

  “I wouldn’t think that even she would be capable of such a thing,” Valfierno said.

  “You never know what a woman is capable of until you disappoint her, mark my word.”

  “And you,” Valfierno began, trying to change the subject. “I understand that you have not been idle, that you have published a book.”

  “An epic, no less,” said Apollinaire expansively. “L’Enchanteur pourrissant, a poetic discourse upon the hazards of love.” He leaned forward theatrically. “Merlin the Enchanter becomes captivated by none other than Viviane, the Lady of the Lake herself. He reveals all his secrets, which, naturally, leads to his undoing. He has even foreseen it all yet is helpless to resist her charms. You see? In the end, all men would willingly go to their doom simply for the vague promise of a woman’s pleasure.”

  “It sounds … fascinating,” Valfierno said, distracted, “although surely not every man is so lacking in willpower.”

  Apollinaire shrugged. “Perhaps not, but life is worth living only when you give in to temptation at least once in a while.”

  A waiter wearing a long black apron appeared. “Ah,” Apollinaire said eagerly, “there’s our man!” Valfierno ordered another Petit Noir, Apollinaire, brandy. The larger man dominated the conversation, reminding Valfierno of all the wonders and pleasures of Paris he had missed. Valfierno mentioned only that he had done quite well with his importing and exporting business in Buenos Aires but had decided that the time had come to return to Paris.

  “Importing and exporting,” Apollinaire commented, weighing the words. “I don’t suppose that would include certain works of art of dubious provenance.”

  “Let’s just say that the customer’s desires must always be catered to.”

  “Speaking of which,” Apollinaire said, “how is my old friend Monsieur Chaudron?”

  Valfierno sighed. “I’m afraid he is no longer with us. His health was never good, though I like to think the agreeable climate of South America extended his days.”

  “What a pity. A man of such prodigious talents. I am afraid they were wasted on those little copies he poured his heart and soul into.”

  “A man must make a living,” Valfierno said.

  “There you are wrong.” Apollinaire fixed Valfierno with his stare. “A man must create a life. There’s a big difference.”

  There was a long pause as the waiter brought fresh drinks.

  “Guillaume,” Valfierno finally began, “there is a reason I asked you to meet me today.”

  “Of course,” Apollinaire said. “For my amusing and stimulating company.”

  Valfierno smiled. “Certainly for that, but also for something else. It’s the reason I returned in the first place. I know you were always involved with new artists trying to establish themselves in Paris. I assume you still are.”

  “But of course. It’s the most fascinating thing about this city. You wouldn’t believe what’s been going on. As soon as the Impressionists were allowed into bed with the Classicists, along came the next group of renegades. They don’t even have a name yet, though I’ve proposed one that I’m hoping will catch on. At first I thought perhaps the term Art-Anarchists, but I discarded it. I’m playing with another o
ne now, Surrealists. What do you think? Too obscure?”

  “But surely that’s the point, isn’t it?” Valfierno added, “But tell me, do these…”

  “Surrealists.”

  “Do they make any money?”

  “Of course not. That would ruin everything.”

  “Then I was wondering if perhaps you knew one who is well trained, well versed in the classical style of painting, who might be interested in making some money, and whose scruples are … let’s just say flexible.”

  “A forger, you mean,” Apollinaire clarified.

  Valfierno allowed this with a flourish of his hand.

  “As it turns out,” Apollinaire said, “I may have just the man for you. He has achieved some success in his own circle but little beyond that. He’s grown tired of the work he’s been doing and the people he knows, and even went so far as to move away from Montmarte, if you can believe that. Looking for inspiration or some such. I mean, I can understand the need for fresh ideas, but moving from Montmartre…”

  He let the thought hang as if it were the most absurd notion in the world.

  “What is his name?”

  Apollinaire hesitated for a moment before answering. “His name is … Diego. In fact, he has a small studio not far from here.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “Oh, around the corner on rue Serpente, but you won’t find him there. He has been dabbling in high-quality museum copies to sell to tourists. How is that for inspiration? As it turns out, I just saw him not an hour ago, set up on the other side of the river on the quai de la Mégisserie. You’ll know him when you see him. He’ll have the highest prices and the worst sales technique.”

  “Thank you,” Valfierno said, putting down some francs on the tabletop.

  “But I warn you,” Apollinaire said with a sly smile, “he can be a little difficult at times.”

  * * *

  Eduardo de Valfierno sauntered by the line of dark green stalls sprawling along the parapets of the river walls along the quai de la Mégisserie. Enjoying the early afternoon sunshine, he politely waved off the numerous invitations to buy collections of supposedly rare stamps or to inspect antiques guaranteed to be genuine. He strolled past stalls filled with old books and colorful postcards with the casual but confident gait of a man without a care in the world. Occasionally he stopped to pick up a faux antique Chinese vase or examine the thread of a Persian rug, but he always declined when presented with prices that would start astronomically high before tumbling with astonishing speed.

  He was particularly interested in the stalls that displayed copies of the great masterpieces. Some were not bad, though most were hopelessly amateurish. Even so, Valfierno never insulted the artists, only begged off respectfully, commenting that it wasn’t exactly what he was looking for. None of these artists could possibly have been the man Apollinaire had described.

  Finally he stopped at a stall prominently displaying various-sized copies of La Joconde painted on wooden panels. They were, by a large margin, the highest quality work Valfierno had seen so far. The artist, a solidly built young man with a shock of dark hair that constantly threatened to fall over his eyes, sat at his easel working on another one. Holding an unlit briar pipe in his mouth, he paid no attention to his potential customer. Or so it seemed.

  “No charge for looking,” muttered the artist without taking his eyes from his work.

  “These are not bad,” said Valfierno, “not bad at all.”

  The artist put down his brush and relit his pipe.

  “Perhaps you’d even like to buy one,” he said in a tone that suggested he was already bored with their exchange.

  Valfierno wondered about the man’s accent. Italian? Spanish perhaps? And still the artist had not made eye contact with him.

  Valfierno checked a price tag. “The prices seem a bit steep.”

  The artist resumed his painting. “You need to see the Tuscan in the next booth but one down that way,” he said. “He churns them out by the hour.”

  “No,” Valfierno said. “I’ll take this one.”

  The artist looked up at Valfierno for the first time, giving him an appraising stare, almost as if he was suspicious of a customer who was willing to pay his price. Then he turned back to his work as if a sale was of no consequence to him.

  “Can you deliver it?”

  The man turned back to Valfierno. “Do I look like a postman to you?” His tone was even, but it held a hint of a challenge.

  Valfierno smiled as he retrieved a wad of francs from his pocket. This had to be Apollinaire’s artist.

  “I wonder, my friend,” he asked, peeling off the notes, “if you might be interested in doing a little work for me.”

  “And why would I want to do that?” asked the man, resuming his painting.

  “What would you say if I told you that I could get you a thousand times more for one copy?”

  “I would say that you are either a raving lunatic … or a brilliant judge of talent.”

  Valfierno held out the money. “My name is Eduardo de Valfierno.”

  The intense young man peered at the offering for a moment before looking up. Slowly and deliberately, he put down his brush and rose to his feet. He was quite a bit shorter than Valfierno, yet with his stocky build and wide-legged stance he gave the impression of an implacable bull. He took the money and slipped the wad into his pocket without counting it.

  Valfierno extended his hand in greeting. The artist considered it for a moment.

  “I am José Diego Santiago de la Santísima,” he said, grasping it with a firm, almost aggressive grip.

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Señor—”

  “Diego will do.”

  “Señor Diego.”

  Diego bowed his head slightly before sitting back down at his easel to take up his brush and resume his work.

  “I notice,” said Valfierno, “that you’re painting with your left hand. Leonardo was left-handed, was he not?”

  “It is essential in making a good copy.”

  “Then perhaps that’s the reason you’re so good.”

  Diego stopped his brushwork and looked up at Valfierno. For the first time his lips formed into a hint of a smile.

  “No,” he said. “The reason I’m so good,” he switched the brush to his other hand, “is that I’m right-handed.”

  Chapter 15

  The great white battleship, bristling with guns, pennants flapping wildly in the wind, steamed toward its prey, a sleek three-masted wooden schooner. The warship’s sharp prow sliced through the water like a blade. In a desperate move, the schooner tacked hard to starboard to avoid a collision, but it was too late. The metal ship’s underwater snout struck the sailboat’s hull with sickening force. The sailing vessel flipped over onto its side, only its broad linen sails saving it from completely capsizing.

  A young boy dressed in a sailor suit stood hooting in triumph at the edge of le petit bassin in the Tuileries Garden. On the other side of the large circular pool, another boy, wearing a dirty yellow tablier and sabots, whimpered to his mother about the injustice perpetrated by the wind-up tin warship against his defenseless sailboat. Oblivious to the drama, scores of men reclined on rented chairs around the periphery of the circle, reading their newspapers beneath the straw boaters jauntily perched on their heads. In the center of the pool, coruscating with the orange flashes of Chinese goldfish, a fountain shot water into the air, forming a misty plume in the light breeze.

  In the shade of a nearby chestnut tree, a group of men and women squatted in various poses around a checkered tablecloth spread out on the grass. Bread crumbs littered the cloth; in its center, a wicker basket held the remnants of various wedges of cheese and denuded stalks of grapes. Half-empty bottles of red wine stood guard over the leftovers. Madame Charneau, her back leaning up against the tree trunk, seemed determined to finish off the sole remaining baguette. Émile and Julia sat across from each other on the ground, Julia’s attention constan
tly distracted by the parade of Parisian society couples strolling arm in arm along the central path, the Axe Historique.

  Diego squatted with his knees sticking out at a wide angle, steadying a bottle of wine as he drained its contents into his glass. Valfierno, one arm resting on a raised knee, considered a red grape he held between his thumb and forefinger. In the background, the various wings of the Louvre surrounded the large open courtyard that led into the gardens.

  “There is a problem,” said Émile with an air of forced authority.

  “There are no problems,” Valfierno corrected him, “only challenges.”

  “A challenge, then,” said Émile, a little exasperated. “With the installation of these new shadow boxes, it will be impossible to place a copy behind any of the protected paintings. It just can’t be done.”

  “Good point,” said Valfierno, “but, in this case, a moot one.”

  “After all,” Julia said, “not every painting is in one of those boxes.”

  “But the painting we want will most surely be part of that exclusive group,” Valfierno pointed out.

  “And which painting would that be?” she asked.

  “That’s a stupid question,” said Émile. “We won’t know which painting until we’ve found our customer. It’s what he wants that counts.”

  “Émile would be right,” Valfierno began, “under normal circumstances.”

  “You see,” said Julia, savoring a small triumph, “not so stupid after all.”

  “This time,” Valfierno continued, “the painting will come first. We’ll concentrate all our efforts on one piece, something that anyone and everyone will want.”

  “Such as?” asked Émile.

  Valfierno turned to the new member of their party. “Señor Diego…”

  The artist was in the process of pouring the glass of red wine down his throat. He took a final gulp before laying the glass on its side on the lawn. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he reached behind him to produce a panel draped in cloth. With a flourish, he removed the cover like a matador pulling back his cape, revealing a remarkably accurate reproduction of La Joconde.