The Chrysalis

by Heather Terrell

  As the burgomaster’s darlings, the Masters Van Maes and Miereveld, sometimes with Pieter in tow, attend banquets and balls, entertain visits by cultivated gentlemen on connoisseurs’ tours of preeminent studios, and regale fellow guild members with insiders’ tales of the courtly life in exchange for ribald marketplace gossip. Days are spent in the studio and evenings building business. Only in the late-night hours, when lips are loosened by wine, does the master lament the lost beauty of his young bride and the wasted promise of his infant son. Otherwise, the years pass by idyllically.

  Then the master dies, and like orphans, Johannes and Pieter unravel in their sorrow. They leave commissions unfinished, supply accounts unpaid, and guild duties untended. The master’s extensive holdings, his family home, its luxurious appointments, his inventory of paintings, even his library of engravings used by Johannes and Pieter for training, are auctioned off to pay wine merchant bills and gambling debts—part of the master’s secret nightlife of mourning. Clients tending toward Master Van Maes’s portraits go elsewhere, and even those favoring Johannes’s innovative style chase other, less beleaguered artists. The studio fails.

  The enterprise maintains precarious solvency thanks to the largesse of one wealthy patron, the linen merchant Carl Jantzen. He floats the venture, lending money and making advances for future commissions in exchange for preemptive rights over Johannes’s output, though he dares not dictate the nature of all of Johannes’s pieces. And so Johannes carries on, making painting after painting that are seen by no one but Jantzen and circulated nowhere but Jantzen’s private saal. The patron is equal measures curse and blessing.

  Johannes pores over the account books, drawing on the master’s commercial tutelage in an effort to gather enough guilders together to purchase costly pigments and hairs for brushes. He trims all fat, letting journeymen and apprentices go, keeping only himself and Pieter to maintain the studio of Van Maes and Miereveld, a title Johannes continues to use in honor of the master.

  As he balances the ledger again and again, hoping to see numbers overlooked and pathways to more projects, Pieter rushes into the studio, throwing open the door with a slam. “What say you to a commission?” he exclaims.

  “Another Jantzen commission?” Johannes replies, without even lifting his eyes from the page. He will welcome the money but knows it will never garner more clients.

  “No.”

  “Who, then?”

  “A commission from a new client.”

  “Who?”

  “The new burgomaster.”

  Johannes looks up in wonder, and Pieter greets him with a smirk.

  “The new burgomaster? Come now, Pieter.” Johannes grows impatient with his teasing.

  “Yes, Johannes, the burgomaster Brecht.”

  The two men grin at each other in amazement and relief. As they wander off in search of an inn still open to share a pasglas, they speculate about how they were selected. A painting for the new burgomaster would have widespread exposure, and praise from the official would yield commissions from his elite and monied circle. Jantzen would not dare exercise his preemptive rights to the painting; his linen venture depends on the burgomaster’s support as well. Perhaps the purgatory of Masters Van Maes and Miereveld is ending.

  eighteen

  NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

  THE NEXT DAY, MARA SNEAKED OUT OF WORK EARLY TO stroll through Central Park before meeting Michael for the evening he had planned in honor of the anticipated success. They were to have dinner at Daniel followed by the Metropolitan Opera’s Madame Butterfly. Too apropos to pass up, Michael had said.

  Mara floated through the park. For the past twenty-four hours, she had been walking on wispy clouds filled with dreams of a future with Michael and a successful career at Severin. Spring had arrived early this year and left in its wake a kaleidoscopic wash of green buds, blooming tulip tips, daffodils, hyacinths, and the scent of new chances. Throngs of cooped-up New Yorkers responded to the siren call and, despite the lingering chill, filled the park.

  Mara made her way to Beazley’s, where she registered in the lobby and hailed one of the security guards she’d grown to know. Larry was a former New York City cop, and he always regaled Mara with tidbits of local gossip and renditions of Sinatra tunes as he rode the elevator with her to the twenty-fourth floor. Mara loved it; he reminded her of her great-uncles, men whose brogues and unpolished ways had caused her father no end of embarrassment but whose warmth Mara had always adored.

  Michael’s assistant, Hannah, took over from Larry when the elevator opened and escorted Mara back to Michael’s office. In her typically formal manner, Hannah explained that a meeting outside the office had detained Michael.

  “He asked me to have you wait in his office. He plans on meeting you back here no later than seven thirty, in advance of your eight o’clock engagement.” Hannah’s voice carried no hint of innuendo. Mara wondered what Hannah really knew or suspected about her relationship with Michael. She was just too efficient to be oblivious but too professional to be suggestive.

  Mara looked down at her watch; it was only 6:00. She and Michael wouldn’t make dinner before the opera, so she’d just have to entertain herself in his office until he arrived. “That’s fine, Hannah. I have plenty of calls to return and papers to review in the meantime.”

  “Can I get you a cup of tea while you’re waiting? If I recall correctly, Earl Grey with lemon?”

  “Thanks so much, Hannah. That’d be perfect.”

  Mara relaxed on Michael’s couch with her steaming cup of tea. For an hour or so, she returned phone calls and reviewed some research a junior associate had prepared for her. But she grew restless and wandered over to Michael’s desk.

  She was a snoop at heart. Even as a child, Mara had carefully unwrapped, and then rewrapped, her Christmas gifts weeks before Santa’s arrival just so she could begin dreaming about the treasures. Her father still joked that it was this instinct to unearth secrets that made her a successful lawyer. It was the same impulse that had propelled Mara to spend long evenings puzzling out whodunits with her grandmother and to devote long days in college to piecing together medieval mysteries. So when she started looking through Michael’s papers and his calendar, she did so casually, almost unconsciously. Her fingers lifted and sifted, not looking for anything in particular but curious about what she could learn. Or at least that was what she told herself—though, if she were being very honest, she wanted to uncover more about Michael’s life before and outside her, particularly since he divulged so much less than she in their late-night confessionals.

  Sitting in his chair, she hit a button on his computer, and his e-mail screen popped up. Mara knew she should exit the screen, but she could not resist. After all, she rationalized to herself, it was just a list of e-mail headers. For the most part, the subject lines were clipped and official, and Mara’s attention wandered as she mused on the differences between the businessman Michael and the Michael with whom she spent her nights. As she delved further and poked around in the e-mail texts, a very shrewd, methodical Michael emerged.

  Suddenly, an e-mail folder with the subject “Baum SJ Briefs” snared her attention. She clicked it open and read the e-mails from the bottom of the chain to the top, her curiosity piqued particularly since it contained e-mails from Philip. Now her actions were much more deliberate and self-serving: She was consciously looking for compliments.

  TO:

  Michael Roarke

  FROM:

  Philip Robichaux

  RE:

  FW: Baum Summary Judgment Briefs

  I read the summary judgment briefs. It seems your pretty little friend can be quite the clever lawyer when she is persuaded to adopt the right frame of mind. Nice work—your uncle would be proud. I assume the actual papers are safe and sound?

  TO:

  Philip Robichaux

  FROM:

  Michael Roarke

  RE:

  FW: Baum Summary Judgment Briefs
<
br />   Under lock and key in St. Peter’s own hands.

  TO:

  Michael Roarke

  FROM:

  Philip Robichaux

  RE:

  FW: Baum Summary Judgment Briefs

  Your dedication to the task has not gone unnoticed. I almost wish that I had kept the courting for myself, though. Why don’t you arrange for one more of those romantic dinners? After all, we still have to wait for the judge to rule on the summary judgment motion. There may be more work for her to do if he doesn’t issue the opinion we’re hoping for.

  TO:

  Philip Robichaux

  FROM:

  Michael Roarke

  RE:

  FW: Baum Summary Judgment Briefs

  A good idea. I am thinking about a night at the opera.

  TO:

  Michael Roarke

  FROM:

  Philip Robichaux

  RE:

  FW: Baum Summary Judgment Briefs

  Keep me posted.

  Mara froze. She read the e-mails over and over, and her mind raced through the possible interpretations. But only one seemed to fit.

  The door behind her creaked open. Mara swiveled around in Michael’s chair to find Hannah looming in the doorway. Mara blocked the computer screen, hoping that Hannah hadn’t witnessed her prying, but Hannah seemed her usual imperturbable self.

  “Michael just called. He’s running extremely late and won’t have time to meet you here. He wants me to apologize and to request that you meet him under the red Chagall at seven fifty. Does that make sense?”

  “Yes, it does. Thanks, Hannah. I‘ll just pack up my things and head over there now.” Mara prayed that Hannah couldn’t hear her heart hammering.

  Hannah shut Michael’s office door. Mara pivoted back to the screen and hit Print.

  nineteen

  NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

  MARA COULD NOT REMEMBER MAKING HER WAY TO LINCOLN Center, greeting Michael, locating their seats, watching the opera house’s famous rock-candy crystal chandeliers rise, or listening to the melodic strains of Puccini. Son venuta al richiamo d’amor. She could see and feel and hear only the roar of questions in her own head.

  A surge of emotions accompanied the roar. At first, she wanted to rage at Michael, confront him with her suspicions, and physically hurt him. But her fury faded away in place of shame, as she began to feel that everyone around her must know her secret. She must somehow bear the mark of her naïveté, her foolish, unknowing participation in Michael’s deception. She looked down at her hands. She saw that they clapped, just like everyone else’s. She felt the fingers touch. But there was no sound.

  As the crowd rose, she did, too. She could almost see herself through another’s eyes, following Michael’s lead and Michael’s smile and touching Michael’s hand as they exited through the throngs. Oh God, touching Michael’s hand. Why were the people around her not staring? Worst of all, what would her grandmother think?

  She must have allowed herself to be led into the cab. For, with a jolt, she came back into herself, just as Michael leaned toward her with a kiss and they approached her building. She recoiled, winding herself into the corner of the cab. His eyes anticipated the usual invitation upstairs, but Mara quickly muttered something about not feeling well and rushed inside.

  Once upstairs, her door bolted shut, Mara reached into her fridge for a bottle of white wine. She knew that she really shouldn’t, that she needed to remain clearheaded. But her confusion and pain were too much to bear. Hands shaking, she poured a second glass, and a third.

  She awakened hours later on the couch, with a bone-dry bottle on the coffee table. For a moment, her consciousness was free of the specter of the e-mails, but when it rushed at her in a deluge, she returned to the fridge again and opened a new bottle, the pit in her stomach growing. Just one glass to take the edge off, she told herself. Then she could face it. Then she could decide what to do. But, of course, it wasn’t the one glass.

  It was still dark. She proceeded with her normal motions, washing her face, brushing her teeth and hair, changing into pajamas. She padded back to the family room, picked up the half-empty bottle, and poured the rest of it into a tall glass. She downed a good portion of the wine, crawled into bed, and, as she flicked through the channels, finished off the rest.

  Early the next afternoon, she returned to herself. Foggy, but strong enough not to head back to the fridge, she checked into her impersonation of a life and reviewed her messages. At work, all seemed under control—just a few voice mails from legal assistants and junior associates, all excuses to let her know that they were working on Saturday.

  At home, it was different. On Saturday morning, her father called on the return leg of a business trip, checking to see if she had reigned victorious on her summary judgment argument. Michael called three times to see how she was feeling. The pit in her stomach expanded. She had never once heard the phone ring.

  Mara called Sophia and arranged to have an early dinner with her, even going so far as to suggest that she had an important issue to discuss. Sophia’s curiosity would keep Mara focused and hopefully spark the anger that had diminished in favor of shame the night before. She needed to get herself into a more active mode. If what she was thinking were true, then she had been played for a fool, her professional authority taken advantage of, and her emotional vulnerability mocked. At the moment, she was still stunned and incredulous, but she needed Sophia to help her get her strength back so she could act.

  Finally, she tried Michael. Thank God, she got his voice mail and could elaborate on her illness to explain her behavior. She told him she was heading back to bed for the day. He had plans to leave for Paris the next day, and she needed to buy herself as much time as she could.

  Then Mara lined her stomach with a bagel and headed out for a punishing run. She showered, poured herself a cup of coffee, and removed the documents from her bag. Her hands trembled, but whether it was from the booze or the e-mails, she didn’t know. She handled the papers with care and laid them out on the dining room table. Deliberately, she slowed her breath.

  Maybe she’d misread them and jumped to conclusions. She carefully studied the printouts. But once again, it was clear that there was no other interpretation to make. The documents Michael had given her to prove the airtight nature of The Chrysalis provenance were false. “Actual papers” existed that told a different story. Although Mara did not know the exact details of this story, she knew that somehow her legal attacks on Hilda Baum’s claim, her skillful, calculated undermining of the old woman’s emotional appeal, had been based on lies. Most damning and humiliating of all, Michael had used Mara as his pawn and exploited her—blinded her vision with the pink clouds of their relationship—to ensure his victory. All of this duplicity and subterfuge to dupe a victim of the Holocaust. What game did Michael play? She assumed the Saint Peter of Michael’s e-mails was the Saint Peter of Michael’s office sketches, but what was Saint Peter holding “under lock and key”? She had to find out.

  Mara sealed the e-mails in a bag and headed off to meet Sophia. She clenched her fist so tightly around the strap that welts formed on her palm. As she worked her way up Third Avenue, the doorways of numerous bars reminded her how she wanted to drown out the emotions starting to emerge from her night of anesthetization, the feelings of rage at Michael’s abuse of her and devastation at the wound to her heart and her pride. She tried to focus her mind on uncovering Saint Peter’s secret, on the practical steps she could take to rectify the damage done, but she kept coming back to the fact that whatever Michael had done, he had done with her oblivious help.

  Mara arrived at the designated diner, sank deep into the worn crimson leather of her favorite booth, ordered a large coffee instead of the Greek wine she so desperately wanted, and waited for Sophia. She watched the clock tick with growing desperation. Of all the times for Sophia to be late.

  After a seeming eternity, Mara saw Sophia round the corner toward the
diner. She exhaled. Her friend walked in, and Mara rose to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. They faced each other in the booth, and Mara felt as if the past day had been a dream. Maybe she could slip back to her reality, no matter how ill-fitting it had become, and forget it all. After expunging Michael from her life, of course.

  “So, what’s going on? You sounded so mysterious on the phone.”

  Mara burst into tears.

  She pushed aside Sophia’s outstretched arms of consolation and dashed to the bathroom. There, in the corner of the coolly tiled room, she sank back on her haunches and let herself sob at the thought of Michael’s deception, at her complicity, at the damage they had inflicted on Hilda Baum and all the others like her, at her own selfishness at even caring about Michael in light of the magnitude of their acts, at all of it.

  When she recovered her breath, she ran her hands under the cold water and pressed them onto her eyes. She tucked her hair behind her ears and walked back to the booth with as much confidence as she could muster, even painting on a tiny smile. But Sophia was not to be deceived.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Mara, with that smile. What the hell has happened?” Sophia looked ready to fight, prepared to take on whatever, whoever had caused her stalwart friend such pain.

  Mara reached into her purse and spread out the evidence for Sophia.

  twenty

  NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

  THE NEXT DAY, MARA’S HEART QUICKENED WITH EACH ADVANCING step as she strode to the front desk of Beazley’s. She made a point of giving Larry a little wave and a wide smile.