by Lyn Hamilton
The next day, after a night primarily spent fretting over the two Roberts, Luczka and Godard, I started out on the Right Bank, with the Louvre des Antiquaires on the Place du Palais Royal, where I picked up a couple of very fine pieces of furniture, at fine furniture prices, regrettably, but my brush with wealth in the person of Crawford Lake seemed to have dulled my more parsimonious instincts. Then I headed for Le Marais, and some dealers in St. Paul near La Souris Verte, followed by a shop selling lovely old silver by weight on Rue des Francs Bourgeois, before collapsing into a chair in a cafe in Place des Vosges. Then it was across the Seine to the Champ de Mars, and the Village Suisse's collection of antiques dealers. After that, it was over to the Louvre to look at all things Etruscan, so I could be the expert Lake expected me to be, and then, for good measure, and thinking I still wouldn't be able to sleep, I took in a performance of Verdi's Requiem at the Eglise St. Roch on the Rue St. Honore. There was no message from Boucher when I got back, rather late, to my room.
The following day being Saturday, I headed for the flea markets—Clignancourt and Montreuil—zipping on and off the Metro and walking for miles. I didn't come up with much, just some nice old linens, but it kept me moving and not thinking, which was the real point of the exercise. At some point, as I was zipping about Paris, I realized that I was being followed. Crawford Lake may have done business on the strength of a handshake, but he was hedging his bets. Antonio the Beautiful was following me everywhere. As irritating as this might be, I resolved to make the best of it. Antonio believed at first, I think, that I didn't see him, but my cheerful wave disavowed him of that. He waved back but kept his distance, which was fine with me. After my wave, however, he made no pretense of hiding.
On Sunday, I went first to the flea market at Vanves to see an antiquarian book dealer I know, picking up a 1924 edition of Sir Richard Francis Burton's The Kasidah for a client who collects Burton. Then I went to check out the boquinistes on the banks of the Seine, finding two very fine maps that I was pretty sure my favorite map collector client, a man by the name of Matthew Wright, would be happy to see.
In between all these jaunts, I drank gallons of coffee and read piles of newspapers. As far as I could see, the news in Europe was pretty much the same as it had been last time I'd been over. According to the papers, the Italian government had once again declared war on organized crime, their last effort, presumably, having been as unsuccessful as all previous attempts. French truck drivers had declared war on their government, as had British farmers on theirs, and Irish fishermen, eager to join in the fray, had declared war on Spanish fishermen, who they claimed were fishing illegally. Some relief from all this bellicose behavior could be found in a story about an arts administrator in Germany who had denied that his comments about a rival's race had been anti-Semitism, but instead a glowing comment on the diversity of the new Germany, and another about an Italian businessman by the name of Gianpiero Ponte who had left his Milan office of a Friday afternoon, and rather than going straight home to his wife and children, had driven instead to his weekend home in Tuscany. There Signore Ponte had either fallen, jumped, or been pushed over the edge of a cliff. While death by misadventure had not been ruled put—there was some rather lurid speculation on that subject—an investigation into his business affairs had begun, and it appeared that he had suffered some rather serious financial setbacks in the days before his fatal plunge. Photos of his grieving widow, the rather lovely Eugenia Ponte, and his gorgeous children, were much in evidence.
The one moment of excitement, if not fear, in the midst of days of increasing boredom peppered with worry about Rob, occurred as I was window shopping on a little street off the Boulevard St. Germain. Before I knew what was happening, I was swarmed by a group of Gypsies, one of whom grabbed at my handbag. I backed up against the wall and held tight to my bag, but I couldn't figure out how to get away from them. I did the only thing I could think of: I started yelling. In a matter of seconds, help came in the person of Antonio, who waded into the crowd and pulled me free.
"Multo grazie, Antonio," I said.
"Very bad," he said in careful English. "You must watch more carefully."
"Can I buy you a drink?" I said. "Or a coffee or something? To say thank you?"
"I am not supposed to have intercourse with you," he said. "No speaking," he added, no doubt because of the startled expression on my face.
"But it is important for me to practice English," he said. "We speak English, okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Then it is possible for us to have a drink together. Do you think there is Italian wine?"
"I'll ask," I said. The waiter looked horrified. "French wine only, Antonio," I said.
"Is okay," he said, but he didn't look any too happy. I ordered a nice Cotes du Rhone.
"How goes your work here?" he asked after a few tentative sips.
"Slowly."
"Yes," he said. "Do you think we will be many more days here?"
"I sure hope not."
"Me, also," he said. "I'm not certain about that man you had meeting with," he added, putting his hand over his heart in Boucher's favorite mannerism. "I think he wants to be success, but always, he fails. It is not good to be with men like him. They pull you down. You become like them."
"That's an interesting observation, Antonio," I said, and it was. Antonio was not only good-looking, he was also rather perceptive. He'd pretty well summed up Boucher, and he'd done it from a considerable distance. "But Mr. Lake wants me to deal with him, so what else can I do?"
"I know," he said. "You are not married?"
"No."
"You have a boyfriend, though."
"Yes, I do. He's a policeman."
"A policeman! That is dangerous work. It is a worry?"
"Yes. I'm worried right now."
"Too bad. I worry also, about my girlfriend. Her work is not dangerous, like your policeman. She is a bank teller. But still, I worry. Do you have photo of your policeman?"
"You know, I don't," I said. "Perhaps I should have."
"Too bad. I have a photo," he said, taking a rather dog-eared picture from his wallet. "Here."
"She's really lovely," I said, studying the photograph of a rather conventionally pretty young woman. "What's her name?"
"Teresa," he said. "And she is lovely. That is the problem. She is like the most beautiful flower, and there are many bees who admire her. I am afraid that while I'm away, another bee will take my place."
I tried not to smile. "Antonio, you are very good-looking yourself," I said. "I'm sure she will be glad to see you when you get home."
"Looks are not enough," he said. "Teresa is feminist." We both thought about that for a moment. "That is why I have taken this work, to watch for you," he said. "My employer pays very well. Teresa is very interested in money."
"You don't work for Mr. Lake on a permanent basis, then?"
"No," he said. "From time to time only. This time only until you have done what he wants."
"I'll try to do that just as quickly as possible," I said.
"That will be very good," he said.
"So what do you do when you're not working for Mr. Lake?"
"Many things. I am an actor, with the Corelli Ponte agency. It is very important agency in Rome," he added, having judged correctly by my vacant expression that I had no idea about Italian agencies. "But usually there is no work, so I do many things: cook, waiter. But I hope one day to be famous. Like Gian-carlo Giannini, you know. Work in Italy, but also Hollywood. That would make Teresa very happy. It is for this reason I must practice English, and why I have intercourse with you now."
"You know, Antonio," I said. "Given that this is an English lesson, I think that intercourse expression . . . perhaps you should say have a conversation, or speaking instead. Technically it is correct, but your meaning might be misconstrued." He looked slightly baffled. "Misunderstood, I mean. Someone might interpret it a different way."
"Like what?"
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"I was afraid you'd ask me that question. Well, um, now it tends to mean having sex."
"Ohhh," he said, slapping his forehead with his palm. "That is very bad. I was taught that in school by my teacher of English, Signora Longo. She was very old, and we, the other boys and I, were certain she was a virgin. Perhaps she knew only the old expressions, or," he said, smiling suddenly, "she knew more about life than we thought."
We both laughed. "It is good you tell me this. I save you from Gypsies, and you save me from being mis-con-strued. Very excellent new word for me. Before, we are associates only. Now I think we are friends, no?"
"We are friends," I said.
"Being a friend is a responsibility, I think."
"Well, yes, I suppose, but it's also . . ."
"A joy?" he said.
"Yes, exactly," I said.
"I think so, too," he said.
We finished our wine. "And now," he said, "we will return to before. You work. I watch you."
"Okay," I said. "Thank you again for coming to my rescue."
"It was for me a pleasure. Also speaking with you in English. Thank you for French wine," he said. "Is not so bad."
"Prego, I said.
When I got back to the hotel, there was finally a message from Boucher saying that he'd been in touch with Godard again, and things were looking up. Go-dard was coming to Paris in the next day or two and would probably see me. Boucher would be back in touch with something more concrete as soon as he could.
By this time, I had done absolutely everything I could think of to do in Paris and was starting to get a little impatient, if not downright irritable, although there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. I had no idea what the fellow looked like, where he lived, or anything else except that he apparently had an Etruscan horse that he might or might not be prepared to sell, and that he would probably speak to me sometime, somewhere.
Boucher called again that evening. "Look," he said in a whisper. "I'm in the Cafe de la Paix with a friend of Godard's. Why don't you wander over here and happen upon me, if you see what I mean. You know. Chance encounter. Here he comes. I've got to sign off." The phone went dead in my ear.
I hailed a cab and headed for the cafe. "Hello Yves,"
I said, coming up to the table. "Fancy meeting you here."
"Lara!" he said, rising from his seat. "Good to see you. Pierre, this is the woman I've been telling you about, the antique dealer from Toronto. Lara, this is Pierre Leclerc, a colleague of mine from Lyons. Pierre is an antique dealer as well. How fortunate we should run into each other." He placed his hand against his chest and just oozed surprise and pleasure. He was so good at it, I decided I would never be able to trust the man.
"Won't you join us?" Leclerc said, pulling out a chair rather gallantly. The two men were a study in contrasts. Where Boucher favored the casual turtleneck and black jeans look, Leclerc was the well-dressed dandy, in tan suit, cream shirt, and lovely gold and brown tie with matching puff, and some rather expensive-looking gold cufflinks. They were also quite different in style, Boucher favoring an air of sincerity, or at least he tried to, while Leclerc had a rather oily charm.
"Kir Royale, isn't it?" Boucher said, signaling the waiter and ordering both mine and another round for the two men. I wondered whether I'd now be buying drinks for three. We engaged in small talk for a few minutes—the weather, Paris traffic, that sort of thing— until finally we got around to the subject at hand.
"Do you have a shop in Lyons, Pierre?" I asked.
"No," he replied. "Not anymore."
"He's a broker," Boucher said.
This made me nervous. In fact, the antiquities market in general makes me nervous. There is always the question of authenticity, where antiquities are concerned. There are so many fakes, and it's not always easy to tell. There is also the rather tricky question of provenance, where the objects came from, and whether or not they were acquired legally. Collectors' appetites, and by collectors I mean both individual and institutional, museums and the like, are fed by a shadowy group of dealers and brokers who find the desired objects. From time to time, people of rather dubious reputation get into the field. I had the horrible feeling I was in the presence of one now.
"Are you in the market for anything in particular?" Leclerc asked, adjusting the French cuffs on his impeccable shirt and straightening his cufflinks, which were rather ostentatious, two rather large gold disks.
"My client is interested in a bronze Pegasus," I said. "He's the horsy type," I added. "Collects with that theme in mind." I had no reason to think this was true, but I wanted to steer clear of the word Etruscan, which I was reasonably sure would narrow the field of collectors and put the price up. "I've heard that a Robert Godard might have such a thing, and I'm trying to get in touch with him through Yves here."
"I know Godard," Leclerc exclaimed. "Rather well, in fact. I've supplied him with several pieces in the past." He paused for a moment and then gave me an impish smile. "Perhaps we could do business together." His knee pressed against mine. I could not help but wonder what kind of business he meant.
"Godard is playing a little hard to get," Boucher said.
"I thought you said he was on his way to Paris," I said. "Arriving tomorrow or the next day?"
"He's changed his mind," Boucher said. "He's like that."
"He does become difficult to deal with from time to time," Leclerc agreed. "Doesn't like to part with anything. But he is in a selling mood right now. Approached properly, I think you might be successful in convincing him to part with it. Now, will you please forgive me? I must make a telephone call."
As he left, his hand brushed the back of my neck.
"He wants a cut," Boucher said.
"How do you know?" I replied. "He didn't say anything."
"That's why he's gone to the telephone. He's giving us time to discuss it."
"I thought you were going to put me in touch with Godard," I said.
Boucher looked pained and pressed his hand harder against his chest. "That's what I'm doing," he said. "That's why I set up this meeting. Leclerc is someone close to Godard. You don't have to include him, of course, but he will certainly make everything move a lot faster. It's entirely up to you."
"How much?" I sighed.
"I don't know," he said. "He may want a percentage. If you're lucky, though, and he likes you—I think he does, by the way, I saw him looking rather admiringly at you when you came in—he might take a flat fee, say ten thousand. If you're really lucky," he added.
"I'm going to the ladies' room," I said. "Be right back."
What I really wanted was time to think. I went outside, pulled out my cell phone, held it to my ear, as if making a call, and then looked back through the windows to the table. Across the street, Antonio sat with a cup of coffee on the table in front of him. He flashed a grin, his beautiful teeth evident even from where I stood. I looked back to the cafe I'd just left. From the street, the interior was quite visible. Leclerc returned, and the two men sat, heads together in a conspiratorial way. Boucher said something, and they both laughed. I knew, somehow, that the joke was at my expense.
Suddenly, all the sleepless nights, and waiting, and worry caught up with me, to say nothing of the pressure of working for Lake. I went back to the table. "Sorry, gentlemen, but I have to go. I've had a call from an agent in Amsterdam," I said. "He has something I know my client will be very interested in: painting of a horse and rider, Flemish. I'll have to try to get a flight out first thing in the morning. Perhaps I'll swing by here on my way home, and we can talk again. Yves, I think you owe me a drink," I smiled. "So thanks for the Kir Royale." I stomped out of the place, hailed a cab, and went back to the hotel, leaving them, I hoped, in some disarray. With any luck, I'd forced the issue. Because I was sick and tired of waiting for Godard.
THREE
VICHY
We reached the outskirts of Vichy about four o'clock the next afternoon. It had taken most of the day to get
there, partly because I was determined not to appear overeager, but also because Boucher had insisted on coming with me, a fact I found rather irritating, despite the fact I'd apparently won the war of nerves. My snit of the previous evening had had the desired effect: I'd had about ten minutes' sleep— at least that's the way it felt after a night spent alternately fuming and plotting how I'd find Godard myself and convincing myself that Boucher would come through now, if he believed my little subterfuge—before the telephone jarred me awake.
"I've located Godard," Boucher had said without so much as a hello. "He's back home now. He was difficult to persuade, but I explained the situation. We can see him today. We'll have to get a move on, though. It will take the better part of the day to get there."
