The Chrysalis

by Heather Terrell

  He beamed a charmingly sheepish smile. “Thanks, I’m almost embarrassed by it sometimes, especially after six years behind that banged-up metal desk at Ellis. Unlike my former white-shoe partners who found it appropriate for the associates to work in squalor, my patrons here expect to see us surrounded by exquisite objects…even if they’re just on loan.”

  Michael launched into the day’s schedule, and Mara noted, with both relief and a hint of disappointment, that his tone was friendly but businesslike. He informed her that her day would culminate with a meeting with the Provenance Department chief, Lillian Joyce, a woman he characterized as prickly. She served as Beazley’s ultimate gatekeeper: It was her job to guarantee the untainted pedigree of all the artwork that passed through the institution, and she would assure Mara of the purity of The Chrysalis’s title.

  Michael’s words faded into the background as Mara’s eyes cast about for any clues that would help her read this man. The snoop in her longed to study the bookshelves, examine the photographs, and paw through drawers. Was there a story behind the jade Fu dogs that served as bookends or the richly carved teakwood elephant collection on an end table? Where and when had he acquired such beautiful exotic objects? Had he done a lot of traveling? Did he travel alone? Or did all the items come from Beazley’s coffers? She realized that, in fact, she had learned very little about the adult Michael over dinner, then told herself that two professionals having dinner should learn very little about each others’ personal lives. If anything, she had perhaps learned way too much.

  “If you’re not too tired after all that,” she heard him saying, “I’m hoping you’ll join me at the cocktail party and the auction?”

  Mara nodded. In spite of herself, she was happy that he hadn’t forgotten his original invitation.

  After brief, futile meetings with the operations and auction departments, Mara rejoined Michael for their appointment with Lillian. They entered a conference room, unlike any meeting space Mara had ever encountered. Three walls covered with priceless carved antique cherry paneling enclosed a phalanx of French doors that opened onto a flagstone terrace looking over the park. A John Singer Sargent portrait of a well-dressed man who had to be Beazley’s founder presided at the head of an impossibly long boardroom table, while Impressionist paintings, a Cassatt, a Seurat, and a tiny Renoir adorned the remaining walls.

  Mara held out her hand to greet Lillian, who wore an immaculately tailored navy skirt suit that was somehow au courant and classic at once. If she overlooked the severity of the tight chignon of thick, silvery hair and the harsh slash of deep red lipstick, Mara found Lillian attractive, particularly her piercing, nearly turquoise eyes. She certainly looked younger than what Mara had assumed, given her years at Beazley’s. But she very quickly understood Michael’s “prickly” label. Lillian’s terse welcome and brusque handshake conveyed the fact that she both begrudged the time spent away from her research and resented the implicit challenge to her work.

  In contrast, however, Lillian bestowed a grandmotherly kiss upon Michael’s cheek and even allowed him to snake his arm around the back of her chair in a protective nonembrace once they settled at the table. Mara understood now why he had deemed it necessary to attend this meeting as opposed to the others: His presence was a peace offering to Lillian.

  Lillian began with a primer on the provenance search. “A provenance is the history of ownership of a prized object.” Lillian spoke as if reading from a textbook, her accent clipped in the mixed British and New England manner of the stars of Hollywood’s golden era. “A completed provenance search results in a document, which enumerates the known owners of the object. Sometimes this document is combined with a list of the scholarly literature where the object is mentioned and the exhibitions where it has been displayed.”

  “How do you create a provenance?” Mara jumped in. She wanted to manage this meeting in her standard take-charge fashion.

  Lillian, however, refused to fall back in the face of Mara’s attempt at control. She paused for a moment, and then, when she resumed, her voice dripped with condescension. “Let’s not be hasty, Ms. Coyne. That’s a very difficult question. I’ll answer it as best I can, in my time, in a simple way that you will surely be able to understand.”

  Mara yielded to Lillian and listened without further interruption. She settled into her chair and folded her hands in her lap. Lillian, meanwhile, sat up more erectly and returned to her practiced presentation. Mara felt as if she, not just Hilda Baum, were the enemy. “We have here at Beazley’s one of the world’s most extensive collections of documents dedicated to provenance outside of certain world-class museums and universities. We deliver to our clients a guarantee that our artwork’s lineage is clear, and this is among the reasons we are considered one of the country’s premier auction houses. That’s the goal of my research team, all of whom I require to have Ph.D.’s in art history. Their job is to ferret out all references to a piece of artwork that are available. I know it may sound rather peculiar to you, but our researchers must love combing through all types of historical documents, no matter how obscure, to find clues to the art’s earlier whereabouts.” She paused, waiting for a response from Mara that ensured she understood the magnitude and intricacy of the work they performed.

  Mara weighed her next remark carefully before speaking. “Ms. Joyce, it doesn’t sound odd at all. It’s very similar to how we lawyers prepare for a brief or an argument: We, too, pore through countless documents—in our case, legal decisions and treatises—hoping to find that one key piece of support for our proposition. Rummaging through historical documents, I must admit, sounds a lot more interesting.”

  Lillian softened a bit as she enumerated the categories of documents in which the history of an artwork’s ownership might be found: home inventories, dowry lists, auction sale catalogs, bills of sale, museum provenance files, indexes to paintings in public collections, governmental records, collectors’ files. Michael registered in Mara’s peripheral vision from time to time, though she locked in on Lillian’s lesson by sheer dint of will and a certain fear of her instructor.

  Lillian finished and indicated that she would hear Mara’s questions.

  “Ms. Joyce,” Mara began, “would I be wrong in assuming that you have a computer index of some sort, that you wouldn’t have to look through each and every document in a particular category?”

  Lillian nodded. “Your assumption is correct. Each category of documents has its own word-searchable index, which is organized by type of artwork, owner, country, time period, artist, title, subject matter, even size of the painting and color of the paint.”

  “Are many of the documents comprising the index loaded onto a database?”

  “Yes, we call it PROVID, for Provenance Index Database. We are just finalizing it now.”

  Lillian moved the conversation into the historical realm of the Baums. “With the Nazi-era artwork, the process of documenting provenance becomes much more complicated, particularly since the Nazis may have confiscated approximately 20 percent of the world’s Western artwork. But I’ve probably jumped ahead a bit. Do you know what I mean by Nazi-era artwork?”

  “No.”

  “It is artwork acquired after 1932 and created before 1946 that changed hands during those years and was, or could have been, in continental Europe during that time. But before we go into the provenance process for the Nazi era, you need to understand the historical context.” Her voice quavering a bit, Lillian described Hitler’s obsession with the arts and the resultant Nazi art lust. A failed artist himself, Hitler believed that, as the ultimate leader of the “superior” Aryan race, he needed to involve himself in even the smallest aesthetic details of his domain. He dreamed of a Germanic empire, in which all “degenerate” artwork—including such modern movements as Impressionism or works created by artists who were either religiously, politically, or racially “incorrect,” such as Jews or Catholics—was purged and only Aryan dogma displayed. For Hitler, the only art tha
t counted was the brown, varnished Germanic art or art celebrating “proper” ideals, such as domestic tranquillity or the heroic Germanic past of the Valkyries.

  Lillian shuddered as she talked. “As the Nazi war machine swept through Europe, the primary branch charged with confiscating art, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, or ERR, was never far behind, plundering artwork wherever it went. In the beginning, the ERR—with Nazi Party leader Alfred Rosenberg, for whom it was named, at its head—limited itself to taking artwork from the libraries or museums belonging to its conquered political enemies. But as time went on, the power of the ERR and its local counterparts expanded, and so did its looting, especially from the Jews. Interestingly, though, the ERR wasn’t permitted simply to march into a Jewish home and rip the art from the walls. No, the Nazis set up an entire body of law governing this thievery: ‘Confiscation’ they called it. According to the regulations, which differed a bit from country to country, the ERR and its local equivalents could take Jewish goods only if the owners voluntarily relinquished them or the owners ‘abandoned’ them by fleeing, being deported to camps or ghettos, or dying. So, though the ERR created lists of prominent Jewish art collections and marked them for acquisition, if it couldn’t get the Jewish owners to sign over the art, the ERR would mark their owners for the ghettos or the camps.”

  Lillian rose and wandered over to the French doors, where she peered out over the terrace topiary and caught sight of the start of Central Park’s simmering fall foliage. “Once confiscated, the art was sent to a central location, oftentimes the famous Jeu de Paume Museum in Paris after France was conquered, to be categorized as either ‘suitable’ or ‘degenerate.’ If the painting was deemed ‘degenerate,’ the Nazis used the artwork as currency. They brought in collaborating art dealers who’d either buy the painting, usually at a low price, to resell it on the free market, or exchange the painting for several Nazi-appropriate ones. If the piece of artwork was ‘suitable,’ then Nazi leaders would descend on the site like carrion birds to decide which of the spoils they wanted for their own walls.”

  She fixed her eyes on Mara. “The methodical Nazis had a penchant for meticulous record keeping of their booty; they believed they were divinely decreed to take ownership of their plunder so had no shame in recording their spoils. This means that with Nazi-era art provenances, my researchers are hoping to prove a negative: that the artwork does not appear on any of the Nazi lists of looted art, such as the ERR inventories, or in declassified intelligence reports from American agents operating in Europe just after World War II. These latter documents, reports by art historians working for the Art Looting Investigation Unit of the United States Office of Strategic Services, contain detailed interrogation reports of those involved as well as records of the stolen pieces. Why do my researchers hope not to find the piece of artwork listed in these documents? If the art appears on the Nazi lists or in the intelligence reports, it means that the Nazis looted it—which, in turn, means that Beazley’s cannot possibly provide a clean provenance for the art.”

  Standing up and startling Mara, Michael interrupted. “Lillian, I hate to stop you before you even get to The Chrysalis’s provenance, but Mara and I have to head to the auction. Would it be possible for her to set up another appointment with you?” Michael gifted Lillian with a disarming grin.

  She could not suppress a return smile, though she tried. “Oh, Michael, you know I’ve never been able to say no to you.” Mara wondered how Michael had managed to forge such a warm relationship with the thorny, bureaucratic Lillian.

  When she turned to Mara, Lillian’s tone iced over once again. “Ms. Coyne, just call my assistant to set up a time. I’ll be in Europe all next week.” Head held high as if it were bearing a crown, Lillian exited the room.

  five

  NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

  A TRAY OF CRYSTAL CHAMPAGNE FLUTES FLOATED BY ON THE arm of a tuxedoed waiter. Michael grabbed two glasses, pressing into Mara as he handed her one. He raised his glass. “Cheers. To seeing you again.”

  She clinked her glass with his. “Cheers.” Mara took a healthy gulp to calm her nerves, though she knew she needed to keep her wits about her.

  He lifted his drink again. “And to working together.”

  Their flutes chimed one more time.

  Mara scanned the party, luminous with the glow of the city’s elite. She smelled the perfume of the fresh-cut flame roses that filled the blue-and-white porcelain vases all around the entryway. The ballroom sparkled from the suspended chandeliers and the jewels worn by the guests. A constant, seamless flow of champagne and hors d’oeuvres sustained the room, though the rail-thin female patrons paid the delicacies no heed. She thought how Sophia would soak up every detail of the event.

  Michael touched her hand. “I’m sorry about Lillian. She droned on much longer than any other time I’ve heard her give that spiel. She must’ve wanted to impress you. I thought we’d be able to duck out and join the party a while ago.”

  “Michael, please don’t apologize. You have no idea how much more interesting this case is than my usual work on securities fraud.”

  He chuckled. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea. Still, I don’t want Lillian’s off-putting manner to make the whole Nazi-era provenance process sound more daunting than it really is. She has a big team of people who do nothing but ensure that contaminated artwork doesn’t pass through Beazley’s doors out into the world.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s precisely the impression that I got.” Mara took a long sip of champagne and then owned up. “I also get the impression that Lillian doesn’t much care for me.”

  “Not at all. That’s just the prickliness I told you about; she’ll warm up. Okay, let me show you around.”

  Removing her jacket to reveal her sheath, Mara maneuvered through the room on Michael’s arm, brushing up against society mavens and corporate moguls she had read about in magazines, and watching the auction’s behind-the-scenes staging as the crew prepared to unveil the breathtaking paintings to the room. Michael explained to her that the lavish party was just one small attempt to woo art collectors and win over prospective consignors and estates. Dealing in glitz as much as art, Beazley’s threw elaborate dinner parties, organized all-expense-paid trips to exotic locales, employed collectors’ children, sponsored black-tie balls on its premises, and made donations to patrons’ favorite causes as part of its ongoing battle with Masterson’s. At the end of each season, the competitors tallied sales and designated collections to determine who dominated as the market leader and then used that nugget to garner ever more collectors and consignors.

  A gong sounded. On cue, the luminaries shifted their glow from the ballroom and lit the pathway to the auction theater. While no less exquisite than the ballroom, the theater, with its serious, hushed tenor, reeked of commerce.

  Mara sat down in a reserved seat next to Michael. She was giddy from the three glasses of champagne and the room’s palpable sense of anticipation. The lights dimmed, and a hush descended upon the audience as they awaited the first painting. A Merry Company, a rare work by Pieter de Hooch, the second most important painter in the Delft school after the master Johannes Vermeer, took the stage. Set in a tavern filled with sunlight, the painted scene showed a red-robed serving girl pouring wine for three revelers, two of whom vied for the attentions of the young maiden. The painting’s radiance and scarcity transfixed the audience and upstaged the priggish auctioneer and his officious underlings for a moment. Then the bidding began.

  Hands rose, heads nodded, paddles flashed. As the bids climbed, so did the auctioneer’s voice and tempo. Mara glanced at the auction catalog and then stared in wonder at Michael, who laughed. The bids far exceeded the catalog’s preauction price estimates. The gavel slammed.

  “Sold. For $3,250,000.”

  Bucolic tavern scenes; tranquil domestic visions; dark historical paintings and portraits; whitewashed, expansive church interiors; Saenredam; van Ruisdael—the goods flew on and off t
he stage. They went for twice the estimates, three times, again and again. Each painting competed with the next for the highest bid at the already legendary auction.

  Afterward, Michael and Mara made their way across the auction theater to the receiving room, the scene of the private postauction gathering. A miniature of the ballroom, the space flowed with champagne, though the bubbly was of an even more extraordinary vintage. Self-congratulatory backslaps and air kisses surrounded them. The mood was euphoric, not just among the new owners of the Dutch masterworks and their previous possessors but also among the recently richer Beazley’s principals and senior executives. For a moment, a tiny voice imbued with her grandmother’s familiar lilt whispered in Mara’s mind, cautioning her against the scene’s artifice, but she banished it.

  A few minutes into the party, Michael murmured in Mara’s ear, “Do you mind if we leave? I’ve made plans for us.”

  She was shocked. It was a huge night for Beazley’s, and based on their earlier conversation, she understood it to be a critical evening for Michael to mingle and share the success with his colleagues and their patrons. Moreover, it was her chance to meet more of the players at Beazley’s. But he was the client, and she was intrigued, so she agreed.

  They made their way through the throngs. Just as they neared the polished door, a meticulously manicured male hand clamped down on Michael’s shoulder. Its ageless owner was similarly well maintained, with a full head of thick, skillfully cut silver hair and a custom-made navy pinstriped suit. Mara felt Michael’s entire body stiffen.

  The man looked straight at her. “Michael, aren’t you going to introduce me to your pretty friend?”