“Vodka, bourbon?”
Marion didn’t respond. Her nerves were as taut as violin strings. Why had he closed the blinds in the middle of the day?
“I also have sparkling water and cola, if you prefer,” he pressed.
“Sparkling water please…”
Her voice drifted off. She watched the appraiser’s shadow on the ceiling lengthen as he walked toward a small refrigerator. He took out two bottles and started back, his shadow shortening to human size the closer he got. Finally, he sat down across from her, reached down and pulled up his newly acquired mask. He set it atop the workbench, directly under the lamp.
“This is how Magni said an object should be assessed once the love-at-first-sight feeling passed,” he said, gazing at the mask. “I haven’t found a better system. He’d make the room pitch black, with the exception of a single spotlight, to eliminate all distractions. If the piece was able to captivate him for several hours, his decision was made. It would stay by his side, his sole selection, while he waited for something better. But if it failed to sustain his interest, it would go in the closet. In his cellar, I’m assuming. I don’t know where he hid his collection. And yet I really thought,” he continued pensively, “that he was planning to show us. I seriously believed that was why he organized the dinner.”
Twice now Duverger had brought up the dinner, as if he was expecting Marion to pursue the subject. She decided to follow his lead.
“Which dinner?”
“Do you have time to hear the whole story? Because once I get started…” He was still staring at the mask.
She nodded, even though she had the distinct feeling that she was being steered out to sea by a crazed captain. Even more ludicrous, Duverger appeared to be talking to the mask, not her. His mimicking of Magni’s methodology bordered on absurd.
“There were fifteen of us,” Duverger said. “Magni had brought together the biggest names in the art world: historians, auctioneers, and antiques dealers. All of us shared an interest in pre-Columbian art, and we knew one another, by name at least…”
Duverger continued to observe the mask as he went on. “Think about it. One of the world’s most famous art collectors had invited us to his private mansion. A privilege that, up until this night, hadn’t been granted to anyone else. Everyone was dressed to the nines. But guess how he greeted us. Like Hugh Hefner. In a dressing gown. But this was no ordinary dressing gown. It was Persian silk. And on his feet were oriental slippers. What an impression he made. He was wearing a heavy vetiver fragrance. His hair was slicked back. And even I noticed his eyes. They were a true green with thick black lashes. He cut quite a figure. He was a Persian prince straight out of Scheherazade. All that was missing were the eunuchs. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Just imagine the expressions on the faces of the stuck-up guests squeezed into their tuxes and sequin dresses.”
Marion had no problem picturing the scene.
“They were all trying desperately to keep their cool and act as though nothing was strange. I’m sure they wanted their host to believe that nothing could shock them. After all, Magni did have a reputation of being a bit of a kook. I wondered what he had in store for us. The parlor décor was overstated, to say the least. Venetian mirrors hung all over the walls. Some of them were opposite each other, so it was easy to lose perspective. Dozens of candelabras accentuated the other-worldly feel. A table in the middle of the room was loaded with silver and orange peonies. In the corners there were Greco-Roman statues made of pink-veined marble and life-sized lions with gaping mouths. The ambiance was very strange. Very eccentric.”
Marion shifted and rubbed her hands together.
“We settled down little by little, and the conversation picked up a rhythm. Eventually we started talking about pre-Columbian art. I can still hear Joseph Chartier, the socialite and historian. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Marion couldn’t believe how a piece of art could hold anyone’s attention this long. Her mother was capable of staring at a painting for a long time, but it was nothing compared with this. Sooner or later, Duverger had to look away from the mask.
“Anyway, Chartier was all about pre-Columbian art that night—I’d say even more than the rest of us. Mind you, one-on-one, he was a sharp and insightful guy. He could tell terrific stories. But on this night, he was full of clichés and had nothing but derision for so-called art experts who never gave these Latin American pieces their due. He was prattling on and on. And he was going at it with that parvenu Alain Ozenberg, a Parisian dealer—one of the biggest in pre-Columbian art. Nobody likes Ozenberg—he’s too good-looking and too successful.”
Duverger tilted his head slightly to get a new perspective on the mask.
“Anyway, that’s when Magni stood up. ‘The greatest art, the only art, is fucking!’ he declared, raising his glass of 1929 Romanée-Conti. There he was, the renowned art collector, standing at the head of the table with his dressing gown open, giving everyone a full view of his pecs, which were actually well defined, now that I look back on it. I can tell you, the silence at that table was heavy. None of us knew how to react. You can imagine the look of fear on some of the faces.”
Duverger paused for a minute—a very long minute for Marion.
“‘Fucking calls on every sense, every emotion,’ Magni continued, looking each of us in the eye. ‘The smells, the sounds, the touch, the taste, the sight, the lust, the creativity. What other art form is more complete? Hell, after one good fuck you can’t wait to get your mojo back to go at it again. When was the last time you felt that way about a statue or a painting?’
“The woman next to me almost choked on her magret de canard. You’ll never guess who it was: Françoise Vigan.”
La Medici? What was she doing there? Sure, her boss was a great schmoozer, but Marion had a hard time imagining Magni putting her on par with all those major players and granting her a spot at his dinner table.
“As always, she was wearing black—a lace dress. It looked great on her, by the way. That’s one woman who doesn’t get thrown off easily. Am I right? But she was as white as a sheet and sweating.”
Marion was getting annoyed. Duverger was trying to mess with her. And he still hadn’t taken his eyes off the mask.
“I wanted to applaud him. Yes, he was considered an eccentric, but Magni was also shrewd, cold, relentless, and cruel. He stared at us with a victorious look on his face, while we glared back with suspicion. You see, we were prisoners of convention. A glimmer of compassion flashed in his eyes before he snapped his fingers and introduced the second act of his little farce.”
Marion stood up and started pacing. Last week she was an ordinary woman going about her ordinary life—not the daughter of a larger-than-life... What? A larger-than-life what? A number of contradicting answers to that question ran through her head.
Duverger didn’t seem to take notice of her agitation and continued his tale.
“Two women emerged from behind a silk wall hanging at the back of the room. Their bodies were tight and muscular, and their bronze skin was sprinkled with gold dust. They wore gauzy white veils, gold hammered cuffs around their necks, nariguera nose rings, and dangling earrings. They were beautiful: almond eyes, high cheekbones, and long black hair with cinnamon highlights.
“I was mesmerized, and I wasn’t the only one. I had never seen such splendid creatures. They looked like Huastec goddesses of fertility. Or rather, given the circumstances, Inca virgins that the cacique nobles and priests offered Inti, the sun god. Because, right then and there, Magni was going to sacrifice them himself!
“He swept everything in front of him off the table. He took one of the young women by the arm and laid her out. He slowly slipped his hands up her gold-sequin cloak until he reached her breasts. I glimpsed an emerald in her navel. It looked like a cat’s eye.”
Marion took note: an emerald.
“As beautiful as the girl was, I was fascinated with the stone,” the appraiser continued. “It
was gorgeous, perfectly round, like a marble. Not a single flaw. Nature’s mastery at work. It was a translucent greenish-blue. I hadn’t seen this color in a very long time.”
Marion looked up instinctively in search of the jewels she had spotted in the cabinets. But the room was too dark.
“Then Magni spread her legs and opened his robe all the way. I closed my eyes. It was more than even I could handle. One after another, we stood up and got out of there. I was the last to leave. When I reached the door, I turned and saw that he was back in his chair, an arrogant smile on his face. The two majestic women were standing behind him. I pitied him.”
“You pitied him?” Marion said. “After such a display? You should have loathed him!”
“You couldn’t,” Duverger replied coolly. “He was a genius, a man with a sharp eye and an instinct that never failed. I watched his performances at the auction houses countless times. He’d stand in the doorway for a brief moment and get a feel for the room. And without fail, he’d walk right up to the most interesting object on display. He didn’t need a catalog, a certificate of analysis, or expert advice. He just knew how to read a piece. In a glance, he could tell exactly where it came from and exactly how it was used.”
Listening to Duverger, Marion realized that Bruno had been right. Magni was such a paragon, no one—not even this well-known appraiser—questioned his brilliance. As far as she was concerned, though, there was something exaggerated and ridiculous about the way people idolized him.
“He was intuitive and inspired,” Duverger continued. “And he eschewed civility and pretense. He was trying to tell us that our gut instincts and senses are just as important—if not more important—than our degrees. His message was intended for the curators who are uninformed about what they have in their museums, the people who call themselves experts because they’ve gone to the right school, and the gallery owners who run trendy businesses just so they can socialize with the big names. The problem with Magni was that his message got lost in the delivery. And that’s what happened. The day after the dinner, the only thing people were wondering was whether he actually fucked those women. They didn’t give a shit about what he was actually saying.”
Marion didn’t know what to think. What Duverger was telling her made no sense to her.
“What good is it being a master if you don’t have followers?” she eventually asked. “Magni knew that hardly anyone would get his point.”
“I thought the same thing at first, but I was wrong. He made his own rules. He wasn’t concerned with morals or conventions. He was a free agent who found animosity easier to deal with than admiration if it was coming from people or institutions that he didn’t like. He actually took joy in inspiring scorn. That’s exactly what made him free. He had no followers, no expectations, no fear.”
Marion was baffled. The more information she took in, the more confused she became. What was she to make of this man whose cellar was full of centuries-old figures with hollow eyes and oversized genitals? A man who’d invite important people to his home and then proceed to have sex in front of them. But also an intellectual tyrant who dictated what others should believe and had absolute conviction in the correctness of his own opinions.
“You seem distracted.”
“It’s just that your description of my…”
“My?” the broker repeated.
She looked up and, after making unexpected eye contact with Duverger, felt the blood rising like a schoolgirl with a flushed face.
“My client. Magni entrusted us with a file just before he died,” she said, immediately regretting the cover-up. He’d have no trouble finding out that this was a lie if he talked to La Medici.
“Ah,” Duverger replied, sounding unconvinced by her evasive response. “That would explain why you saw my shaman at his home.”
And they had come full circle. She doubted that Duverger had brought her to his office just to tell her stories about Magni and his high jinks. Was he waiting for her to trip up and using this time to observe her?
“And what if the shaman that was stolen from me is actually at his place?” Duverger asked.
Marion didn’t know how to answer. “What would it be doing there?” she was barely able to muster.
“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me…”
4
Her thoughts racing, Marion threw off her coat. “He knows. He knows I’m Magni’s daughter. That auctioneer who called me, Mr. Rambert, figured it out. Why wouldn’t Duverger? The case he brought us could be a complete lie. Was La Medici in cahoots with him?” She bent down to unlace her ankle boots. “That means the shaman may not have been stolen. But why would it be at my dad’s house?” She took off her turtleneck and wiggled out of her pants. “What’s his game plan? Why didn’t he put all his cards on the table at the start?” She stuffed her bra and panties into her bag and slipped into her bathing suit. “And that dinner… Why did he tell me all about Magni’s creepy behavior in full detail?” Marion grabbed her towel and jetted out of the changing room.
The inner dialogue continued. “Magni throws a party at his place for the first time in his life, and it becomes a scandal, perfectly planned and orchestrated.” She instinctively handed her things to a sixty-year-old rocker planted behind the counter. “What was on his mind?” She slipped on a yellow plastic bracelet bearing her locker number. “The dinner, then, a few months later, the auction.” An old black wall phone started ringing. “Magni becomes even more reclusive. Won’t appear in public, won’t sell…” Carried by the King’s voice on the radio, Marion rushed toward the pool.
Swimming laps was Marion’s stress reliever and her means of escape.
The pool was practically empty. It was always empty, actually. Only twenty-five meters long, it wasn’t big enough for competitive athletes and not hip enough for cool kids. But it was charming, with its Art Nouveau columns and sage-green ceramic tiles with lotus details.
Behind her goggles, which gave the pool lights a bluish tint, Marion was starting to feel looser and stronger. Only her neck was still holding some tension, but it soon succumbed to the rhythm of her strokes. She thought again about Duverger’s innuendos and subtle approach. The appraiser was sneaky, adept at scheming and manipulating. “My exact opposite,” she said to herself as she started her fifth lap.
“Life is a chess game.” Peter—her ex—loved that cliché. Incapable of anticipating her opponent’s moves, she greedily gobbled his pieces, not realizing that they could be sacrificed until after she had placed her stakes elsewhere.
Ten feet below and on the left side of the pool, two scuba divers, with fins on their feet, oxygen tanks on their backs, and masks covering half their faces, were sealing cracks in the tiles. They looked like a couple of sea mammals as they worked their way from one tiny fissure to another.
Marion had been swimming for a while now, and she was no longer thinking about Duverger. She had her rhythm and was absorbed in the act of stroking and breathing. One kilometer down… She was tired, but that wouldn’t stop her. The hands on the wall clock pointed to four thirty. Just below it was the lifeguard, his nose deep in a newspaper. She glanced from time to time at the divers sharing the pool with her.
She focused on her crawl. It was becoming slower with each stroke. As she neared the spot where she had seen the divers on her last lap, she noticed that they were gone. They didn’t stay very long. She looked around the pool between breaths, trying to spot them. Distracted, she lost her rhythm. She kicked to regain speed and inadvertently swallowed water. She started choking. Now her strokes were all off. Her goggles had become a nuisance. They had fogged up.
Marion stopped at the end of the pool to catch her breath. Her lungs were barely replenished when she felt someone wrap his hands around her ankles and pull her down. Someone was yanking her toward the bottom. She clutched the side of the pool with all her might, but she lost her grip, and her head went under. Frantic, she tried to claw her way to the surface. Where was t
he lifeguard?
She looked down, powerless. The two divers were latched onto her ankles and looking up at her. Their large eyes bulged behind the deforming lenses of their masks. She fought. After a few seconds, the desire to surrender washed over her. But a voice screamed in her head. “Don’t give up!”
Anger, aggression, and survival instinct gave her a final burst of energy. She jerked her right leg free. But the hold on her other ankle tightened. She was being pulled deeper into the abyss. There was no air left in her lungs. The water blocked all ways out. Blood rushed to her head, and her eyes rolled back. Her mouth filled with water. Marion sank like a dead weight.
~ ~ ~
She heard voices. A door closed softly. Someone took a seat beside her. She wanted to keep her eyes shut. Her heart was beating wildly. She felt wound up like a cuckoo clock. She was scared. What had happened? Marion pictured the two twisted faces, their features distorted by their masks. Did those guys want her dead? Just thinking about it made her shiver. She wanted to go to sleep and forget about it. She was exhausted. Her body was as floppy as a rag doll.
She cracked one eye open anyway. Then closed it just as quickly. It was her mother. She was easily the last person Marion wanted to see. The woman’s manic depression was more than she could handle at the moment. Marion peeked again. Yep, the woman staring at her was definitely her mother. Usually her pupils were fixed and dilated, a symptom of her self-absorption. But now she was giving Marion a harsh look. “Probably because she had to think of me for once, instead of herself,” Marion thought.
Marion couldn’t fake sleep much longer. Her mother was making her too uncomfortable. She opened her eyes and glanced around the white room humming with fluorescent lights.
The Collector Page 4
