The Chrysalis

by Heather Terrell

  Gradually, they extend their furtive walks farther and farther away from the town walls, through the city gates into deserted country meadows. Here, Amalia shines to her full luminosity under Johannes’s passion.

  Their bond intensifies with a lesson. She wants to understand his magic, how he renders her interior so exactly. She arranges herself at the paint table, mortar and pestle in hand, gleaming pigments surrounding her. He stands behind her, leans against her back, arms on her arms, and guides her efforts to mix the oil and colors in a gentle rhythm.

  Their intimacy deepens with a stolen kiss. Tentative caresses turn into breathless, impatient envelopings. The envelopings grow closer, become flesh on flesh as he unlaces her corset. He brings her closer still, pulling her to him, entering her, transfiguring them both.

  With Amalia’s consent, the Jesuits’ painting begins to change. Johannes imbues it with a second, private meaning for him and Amalia alone. The Virgin’s crown of ivy becomes a crown of myrtle: the crown of brides, an emblem of marital union and fidelity. The Virgin’s belly swells as a sign of her fertility. Over the Virgin’s head, in perfect parallel with the pierced window, a silver mirror appears, capturing the blurred image of Johannes, as he in turn captures his subject: Amalia the Virgin, and Amalia his lover. He moves the vanishing point from the Virgin’s hand to Amalia’s face. Underfoot, the Virgin crushes a serpent; she vanquishes the heretical Reformation and the secrecy of their relationship. The lovers crave revelation, purification.

  In the Virgin’s hand, the goldfinch of Christ becomes a rupturing chrysalis. Its growth from pupa to butterfly symbolizes a transformation of the spirit but also a transition to a new life. The lovers lay claim to the painting; The Chrysalis is no longer the Jesuits’ alone.

  Johannes and Amalia lie naked, wrapped in the fabric depicted in the burgomaster’s painting. They plan for the time when they will walk freely along the canals, for the time when her father will give his leave to their union, for the time when Amalia will become helpmate and partner to Johannes, for the time when the world shall see the wished-for swollen belly of Amalia the subject become the real swollen belly of Amalia the lover and wife.

  Johannes cannot bear their twilight partings, and he takes to spending nights with her image. He holds a lamp close to the canvas and imagines the silken feel of her real flesh. He hears a rustling in the eaves and hurries to cover the painting.

  “Don’t do this, Johannes.” Pieter’s voice reaches him.

  “What do you mean?” Johannes is not sure what Pieter has seen, what he knows.

  “This painting, this relationship with the burgomaster’s daughter.”

  “Her name is Amalia.”

  “Johannes, she will always be the burgomaster’s daughter, and you will always be a tradesman. Skilled, yes, but a tradesman always.”

  “We will make her family understand.”

  “Make them understand? Make them understand that their precious daughter, their priceless commodity, has given herself to a struggling tradesman? And a Catholic one by the looks of it? That’s rich, Johannes.”

  “We are only for each other, Pieter, even if they do not support her choice.”

  “What about me, Johannes? What about the studio? Who will be for us? Don’t you see you are destroying all that we have built, all that the master gave us? The relationship, the paintings, they will take all of it away.”

  Johannes pushes past Pieter’s outstretched hand and disappears into the night.

  twenty-eight

  NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

  AT THE FORMIDABLE WROUGHT-IRON GATES TO HER FIFTH Avenue apartment building, Lillian turned and waved to Mara. Two uniformed concierges and doormen fluttered to her aid and ushered her inside while the limousine taking Mara home proceeded. Mara watched the privileged Upper East Side street scene through the car’s darkened window. Moneyed matrons set out for dusky promenades, nannies strolled with their infant charges, and Vuitton-bangled young celebutantes dashed off to exclusive benefits. In that moment, the trip to London—capped off with the furtive stashing away of the Strasser documents in an airport locker—seemed like a dream, and she was able to forget the task that lay before her, the weighty responsibility that was hers alone now.

  As they made their way down Fifth Avenue, Mara glimpsed the enormous blue Dutch art exhibit banner flapping over the entrance to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “Stop,” she called out, but the car kept moving. Mara struggled for a minute to remember the name of Lillian’s driver, and then it came to her. “George, please stop here.”

  “But, miss, my clear instructions from Miss Joyce are to leave you at your apartment building.”

  “Don’t worry, George, I’ll find my own way home.”

  Although he shook his head at her impertinence, George pulled up where Mara had indicated. He turned back toward her and eyed her suspiciously over the glass partition; he was reluctant to defy Lillian’s orders quite so easily. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes, I’m certain.” So he sighed and heaved himself off his seat to open her door.

  As soon as George pulled away, Mara started up the grand exterior staircase to the Met. Her boots clicked up the mercifully unpopulated expanse, and she breezed past security and the admissions desk with uncharacteristic ease. For once, there were no tourist throngs to bar her way. It was the museum’s one late evening of the week, but it was nearly empty.

  Mara walked through the Great Hall and up the vast staircase leading to the second floor. Signs heralding the Dutch art exhibit marked the route through the maze of rooms. She entered the exhibit by passing over the heavy kilim rug, evocative of so many Dutch paintings, that delineated its space. Guide in hand, she took in the breathtaking array of landscapes, still lifes, portraits, and genre paintings, borrowed from public institutions and private collections from all over Europe and North America. The collection, unprecedented in its breadth and immensity, dwarfed the offerings at the Beazley’s auction and reminded her of the importance of the risks she was taking for The Chrysalis.

  She exited the exhibit via a back staircase that passed by the Sackler Wing. She couldn’t resist a quick visit to the Temple of Dendur, hoping that its tranquillity would somehow seep into her head to clear away the stain left by The Chrysalis’s sordid past and illuminate the steps she knew she had to take to rectify its history.

  The ancient Egyptian temple, set high on a marble platform overlooking black reflecting pools, was housed in its very own wing of the museum. It was created in 15 B.C. to honor the goddess Isis. When ever-rising lake waters from the Aswân Dam threatened to destroy it, the enormous sandstone temple was transported block by block from the banks of the Nile to New York City. Egypt gifted the temple to the United States in 1965 in recognition of America’s contribution to the UNESCO campaign to save Egyptian monuments.

  Mara passed by the two marble statues guarding the temple entrance and stepped onto the pinkish-hued platform. For a moment, she stood at the barred entrance to the interior, noting the etched papyrus and lotus flowers that grew from the temple’s base, the two pillars that rose to the sky like bundles of papyrus stock, and the image over the temple gate: a sun disk sporting great wings, a symbol of the sun god Re and the sky god Horus.

  After a while, Mara stepped back and settled onto a marble bench facing the temple. She reveled in the stillness and the momentary escape, until the setting brought an old conversation with Michael to mind. One day, after their Byzantine art class, they had had a heated discussion about where a country’s prized artifacts should reside, with Michael strongly advocating their display only in the home country and Mara taking a more moderate view that they should be housed where they would be best studied and valued. Mara shook her head thinking just how far Michael had drifted from his youthful idealism.

  Then the thought of the next day came at her in a rush, and her stomach churned. Mara fashioned proposals for Michael and speeches for Harlan, if her appeal to Michael proved frui
tless. She tried to steel herself for every possible ramification, but nothing calmed her inner turmoil.

  It was almost a relief when the guard interrupted her and announced that the museum was about to close. Mara wound her way through the empty exhibit halls to the heavy exit doors. Like eager daffodils in early spring, a line of yellow cabs waited at the curb.

  But Mara didn’t hail one. Instead, she walked down Eighty-fourth Street to a little French bistro she had passed many times before and had been told had exquisite mussels and a long mirrored bar with an extensive wine list. She opened the door to find the bar crowded with couples waiting for tables, so she grabbed one of the only empty stools. Mara caught the bartender’s eye and asked what chardonnay he recommended. While she waited for her wine to be poured, she noticed a familiar Hermès scarf on the shoulders of the woman sitting on the next bar stool; it was just like one that Lillian often wore.

  The wine arrived. As Mara reached for it, the woman turned toward her. At first glance, the woman looked like a well-appointed Upper East Side matron, complete with a Ferragamo handbag and coordinating shoes, and the two exchanged cordial smiles. But, as Mara drew deeply from her glass, she noticed the boozy bob of the woman’s head, the uneven red smear of lipstick applied with a tremulous hand, and the glassy, unfocused eyes and recognized the woman for what she was: a heavy drinker barely hanging on to the threads of her façade. Mara saw a flash of a possible future. The wine, which had begun its journey down Mara’s throat in a welcome burn, transformed to a bilious liquid and rose up in her gorge. She put the wineglass down, tossed a ten on the bar, and rushed out. She flagged down the first cab she saw and headed home.

  By the time she reached her street, Mara was exhausted. She rolled out of the cab and into her lobby, then stumbled into her apartment without even turning on the lights. She dropped her bag in the front hall and headed to the bathroom to wash off the residue of her long day—days, really.

  As she dried her face and hands with a towel, she flicked on the switch in her living area, and there sat Michael, quiet as a mouse, waiting for her.

  Mara screamed.

  Michael didn’t flinch. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I scare you?” His voice was a curious blend of sarcasm and arid concern.

  “Of course you did. What’re you doing here?”

  He stood up and walked toward her. “What do you mean ‘What am I doing here?’ Can’t I surprise my girlfriend with a visit?”

  Mara couldn’t tell how to read him. She rapidly reviewed the roles she could assume and settled on the safety of girlfriend. “Oh, of course you can. That’s sweet of you to surprise me. You just startled me, that’s all.”

  “Just like you startled me,” he responded, moving in her direction as if to embrace her.

  Mara had no overt reason to second-guess him, but his movement toward her felt calculated. She backed away with slow steps, trying to keep at a safe distance without alarming him. “What do you mean I startled you?” She smiled and hoped her voice sounded light.

  “What do you think I mean?”

  Mara faltered in the face of his challenge. “I don’t know,” she whispered. She wanted to know what he knew before she revealed anything herself.

  He continued toward her, speaking so softly she could not read his voice. “Where shall I begin, Mara? Let’s see. I was ‘startled’ to learn from Larry that he’d seen you outside Beazley’s yesterday—with Lillian, at that. He found it very strange that, though you said you had been working at Beazley’s for several days, he never saw you come in or leave. And I thought you were off at depositions.”

  Taking another step closer to her, he said, “Let’s see, let’s see. How else did you ‘startle’ me? Well, after checking with Lillian’s secretary to find out where you and Lillian were headed, I was ‘startled’ to learn that you and Lillian had left for London.”

  He advanced. “Hmmm. So, that got me wondering, just what were you two up to? Why were you heading off to London together without telling me? So I did some investigating, checked with some of the security logs and guards. And there you ‘startled’ me again, by holing up with Lillian down in Beazley’s library, day after day. I’m sure you can imagine that I was confused by all this ‘startling’ news. I asked myself, what were you two doing down there? What were you undertaking that would necessitate a trip to London? So I had to keep digging.”

  He took a further step toward her, then leaned her up against the kitchen doorway off the living room as though to kiss her. He continued, “And that’s where you ‘startled’ me the most. Do you know how you did that, Mara?”

  She knew, of course, but couldn’t bring herself to answer.

  His face was so close to her that she felt the heat of his breath. “You don’t know? Really?” He feigned surprise. “Well, I’ll tell you, then. You ‘startled’ me the most by breaking into my office safe and stealing my uncle Edward’s papers out of it. Sure, you—or perhaps you and Lillian, for all I know—replaced the documents with copies that looked pretty close to the originals. But I could tell the difference….”

  Mara was speechless. He knew everything.

  “So, I guess you’ve discovered the dirty Roarke family secret.” He brought his face even closer, almost resting it in the arch of her neck. If onlookers saw them through a window, they would have assumed that they were lovers.

  When he spoke next, his voice was gentle, disarming. “Why didn’t you come to me? Ask me about what you had found? Mara, I can only imagine that you think I have been playing a game with you, that all of this between us is just one big deception. But I do care about you. I’m not going to pretend that my motivations were entirely pure in the beginning, but that’s all changed. However this began, I have grown to care about you very deeply. Let’s put the past and its secrets behind us. We have something more important to focus on.” He pulled back to look at her and caressed the curve of her jaw, a place he knew was particularly vulnerable to his touch.

  For a moment, he seemed like the Michael she thought she knew. But Mara couldn’t be sure that his appeal to her emotions wasn’t just another of his ploys. She didn’t know what to believe, and his touch on her skin burned. The moment had come to make her proposal, so she danced along with him. “Michael, I’m sorry for lying and for not coming to you with this. But maybe we can make it right, together. What if we said that we found your uncle’s documents when we were doing discovery? Then we could return The Chrysalis to Hilda Baum and the other paintings to their rightful owners without any stigma attaching to you. We could even restitute privately, so the court and the public need never know about the deceptions.”

  He shook his head, casting his eyes downward as if repenting. “I’m sorry, Mara, I can’t do that. No matter how hard we might try to keep my uncle’s documents secret, eventually they’d come to light as we went through the process of returning the paintings. Someone would be bound to leak the story.”

  “Please, Michael,” she implored him. If only he agreed to her proposal, then Mara could serve all her masters—Lillian, Nana, her own conscience—with the least jeopardy to herself and to the career she was hanging on to by a very thin thread.

  “You saw my uncle’s will when you were in my safe, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.” There was no sense in feigning innocence now.

  “So you saw, then, that I am the sole beneficiary of his entire estate.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, where do you think he got all that money? Certainly not from his Beazley’s salary. Certainly not from family money, like yours.”

  Finally understanding, Mara whispered, “If all this came out, even if you were entirely innocent, the law wouldn’t permit you to keep the fruits of his crime.”

  “Exactly. And, even if we managed to keep it secret, where do you think all the money for your private restitutions would come from? So I have no intention of letting all this come out. I have no intention of giving up my inheritance. Mara, you don’t know what
it’s like to come from nothing. That’s what I grew up with, Mara, nothing—no trust fund, no security blanket, only debts—and I will not return to it.” His hand moved from her face to her hand, lacing his fingers into hers. “Please give me the documents, Mara. I’m going to destroy them, and we’re going to pretend that this never happened. And so is Lillian.”

  “I don’t have them,” Mara answered truthfully; they were in a temporary storage locker at the airport.

  Michael pulled his fingers from hers and clutched her wrist instead. “What do you mean you don’t have them?” The sudden sharpness in his voice revealed how much of an act it had been for him to play the caring, decent Michael.

  “They’re in a safe-deposit box.” She tried to wrench her arm free, but his grip tightened.

  “Then let’s go get them.” He dragged her toward the door. Her arm began to bruise under the pressure of his fingers.

  “Just let me get my bag. It has the key in it.”

  “All right,” he conceded.

  As Mara bent down to pick up her bag, Michael let go of her arm for a moment. Seizing the opportunity, she ran out the door. She sprinted toward the elevator, pressing the Down button over and over in an attempt to speed its arrival. A door slammed. Without turning around to confirm what she already knew, she ran to the stairwell. Flying down the ten flights, Mara reached the lobby just seconds before Michael got off the elevator. She bolted through the lobby, nearly running over several of her neighbors, and heard Michael yell her name.

  She hurled herself in front of the first available cab, opened the car door, and was climbing in when Michael grabbed her. With one leg already in the cab, she struggled to escape from him and get into the cab fully. “Start driving!” she ordered the cabbie.

  Without even turning around, he answered in a thick accent, “I can’t get involved in this, miss. Sorry. Please get out of the cab.”