Etruscan Chimera

by Lyn Hamilton

  "What is more like it?" I said. I was exhausted, and a little depressed by my day.

  "That one over there," she said, gesturing toward Antonio, who was paying his bill. "Clive told me you have a new boyfriend."

  "No, Dottie, he's not my boyfriend, either." I sighed.

  "Too bad," she said. "He's one of the most gorgeous young men I have ever seen." Kyle thought about that for a minute or two and then frowned.

  FOUR

  "GODARD WON'T SELL," I SAID TO LAKE. "Then offer him more," he said. "I want that horse."

  "It's possible I could talk him into selling it for one hundred fifty thousand, if you insist," I said.

  "A hundred fifty thousand what?" he said.

  "Dollars."

  "You're joking. Is that all? I thought I'd have to pay millions. So what's the problem?"

  "It's a fake."

  There was a pause on the line. "Are you sure?" he said.

  "Yes."

  "What makes you think so?"

  "Workmanship, primarily. The quality of the work is not even close to that of the Chimera of Arezzo. I'm making the assumption that the same artist, or at least the same atelier, would have made both pieces, so you should see some similarities between the two, and the workmanship would be equally competent. It's not. Then there's the Etruscan inscription on the leg. It looks the same as the one on the Chimera, and indeed says the same thing. However, the Chimera was made using the lost wax method."

  "What?" he interrupted.

  "Lost wax," I said. "An exact image was carved in wax, then the hot metal poured into the mold containing the wax chimera. The wax melts, the metal cools, and presto, a bronze statue."

  "Yes, yes," he interrupted. "I know. Get to the point."

  "The point is that the inscription on the Chimera, the dedication to Tinia, was carved into the wax before the statue was made. The inscription on the horse, on the other hand, was etched into the leg after the bronze was cast. I think the statue may well be a hundred years old or so, but someone, an enterprising sort, carved the inscription on the horse's leg rather recently, hoping to make it appear rather older than that.

  "I see," he said. "Disappointing."

  "Yes," I said. "I think Godard knows it's a fake, too, and has decided to do me a favor and not sell it to me, despite the fact he really needs the money."

  "I see," he said again. "Well, did he have anything else you think I might be interested in? There must have been something. My new fund launches in two weeks. I need a big splash here."

  "There's one particularly interesting terra-cotta. It's a hydria, a water jug, black figures. Strangely enough, it actually shows Bellerophon killing the chimera. You could get that for one hundred fifty thousand, too, and it would be worth it."

  "I don't collect chimeras, you know," he said.

  "I understand that. But you would probably be interested in a piece by the Micali painter."

  There was a pause. "I don't think so," he said. I was a bit surprised at that. He didn't seem to even recognize the name. Sometimes, through careful study, it's possible to identify the work of a single artist, even hundreds of years after the fact. The painter, or sculptor, or whatever, uses a particular technique or the same symbol over and over. There are at least three such artists from Etruscan times, one called the Bearded Sphinx painter because of the use of that image, another the Swallow painter, and the most famous of them all, the Micali painter, named for the man who identified the work. The chimera hydria showed all the signs of the Micali painter, a rather energetic style, not particularly refined, and some very nice swirls around the top of the vase. It would take an expert to be sure, but it was certainly worth a gamble.

  "Anything else?" he said.

  "If you're interested in big, there's a terra-cotta temple frieze. It also depicts the chimera myth. I think it's probably authentic."

  "Get it," he said.

  "Godard may not want to sell it."

  "Get it anyway. A hundred fifty is what I'll pay."

  "I'll try," I said.

  "Don't try," Lake said as he hung up. "Do it."

  It was still relatively early when I headed downstairs to find myself some coffee. Dottie, dressed in a very smart red leather suit and surrounded by expensive luggage, was at the front desk.

  "Hi," she called. "Hoped I'd see you before I left. We've decided to check out. Heading farther south: Provence. Bound to be some fabulous finds there, although overpriced, no doubt. Still, people pay just about anything for something old from Provence, even if it is farmhouse furniture that's seen better days. I can't understand it, when they could have Louis XVI. I'm going to stop by the chateau first to see if Godard will reconsider. If not, then I'm on my way. I decided in the middle of the night that I can't waste time fretting over the ones that got away, no matter how fantastic. Now where is that Kyle?" she asked, looking out on to the street. "I sent him on an errand this morning, and he's taking rather longer than he should. Oh, there he is," she said, as the Renault pulled up in front of the hotel. "Gotta go, sweetie. Come to New Orleans anytime. You can stay with me."

  "Bye, Dottie," I said, as she hugged me. "Maybe I'll see you in New York this winter. It's my turn to go to the antique fair."

  "Bring the new boyfriend," she said. "I'm dying to meet him. I'll bring whomever I happen to be with, and we'll make it a foursome." Kyle, who obviously had missed this last remark, waved prettily.

  There was no sign of Antonio the Beautiful nor of any of the others, to my general relief, so I sat in the cafe and ordered a croissant, apricot jam, and coffee. The air was crisp but the sun pleasant, and I tried to get myself into a more positive frame of mind by refusing to think too much about what I was doing there, and what unpleasantness might await me out at the chateau when I went back to try to buy the temple frieze.

  Several unbidden thoughts kept presenting themselves, however much I might try to ignore them. One was Lake himself. I'd thought Lake was a significant collector, knew him to be, in fact, from all the reports of his purchases, and the fact that he was on all the biggest collector lists worldwide that there were. For a man who spent a lot of money at it, he didn't seem to know that much about what he was collecting. The collectors I knew took some pride in knowing as much as they possibly could about their passion. It bothered me that someone like Lake wouldn't know the Micali painter, and even more so that he hadn't seemed to know about the lost wax method of manufacture, although he'd recovered quickly when I had explained it. It wasn't something I'd expect everyone to know, of course, but Lake collected bronzes, at least a few of them, notably the Apollo he'd missed, and now the Bellerophon. I couldn't help remembering the collection at his apartment in Rome: all that stuff, expensive but not exceptional, and all over the map, literally and figuratively speaking. This said to me that either he did it for the show, not because he was truly interested in what he was collecting, or he was pathologically inclined to acquire things, regardless of taste. Both of these possibilities diminished him in my eyes.

  My reverie was interrupted by the unwanted arrival of Yves Boucher. "Leclerc has gone to the chateau," he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down without asking. "I saw him leave about forty-five minutes ago. He's really annoyed with you. I'm sure he's going to get that horse."

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "He'll be in touch soon," he said. "To gloat, and also to sell it to you at a much higher price."

  "I can hardly wait to hear from him," I said.

  "I was always on your side, you know," Boucher said. "I know you think I wasn't, but I was. I still am. In fact, I could try to negotiate a very small increase on his part. He and I are still on pretty good terms."

  "I don't think so, thank you," I said.

  "Why not?" he said. "If I could get him down to say, five percent, that, together with my flat fee of five thousand, wouldn't be too bad. I'm sure Leclerc will get it for a good price, maybe better than you could do, and so you wouldn't in the end be paying any mor
e for it."

  "No, thank you," I said again.

  "But why?" he repeated.

  "I'm no longer interested in the horse," I said.

  "I feel you're not being completely open with me," he said, hand over heart. "There's something you're not telling me."

  "Well, that's certainly the pot calling the kettle black," I said. "You have been stringing me a line ever since we met. Godard was jet-setting about the world, was he? He'd changed his mind, he was being difficult. Leclerc is the only person who can get me an appointment with Godard. Wasn't that it? The man is in a wheelchair, and he's holding a contents sale! How stupid do you think I am?"

  "I brought you here. You wouldn't have found Godard if I hadn't."

  "Actually, I've been thinking about that. If I hadn't been given your name as a starting point, I could have tracked Godard down. It would have taken me a day or two, but I have contacts, and collections like his tend to be known in the circles I travel in. I could probably have done it in less time than it took you to bring me down here. What were you making me wait for? The first day of the sale?"

  "I really was having trouble getting you an appointment with Godard. He's not quite well, mentally I mean, as anyone can see, but I thought he'd come around eventually, and I didn't want you to lose heart. I didn't know about the contents sale, either. I really believed Leclerc could help you. I'll grant you he's not the most pleasant person to deal with, but he has purchased objects from Godard, paintings and so on, over the past several months. I was as much the dupe as you were in all of this. Maybe more. But I was told to see to it that you got to meet Godard, and that was what I was trying to do."

  "Who told you?"

  "Told me what?"

  "To see to it I got to see Godard?" I said, impatiently.

  "I can't reveal that."

  "Well then, this conversation is at an end."

  "Look," he said. "I need the money. You promised me a flat fee of five thousand dollars if the deal didn't go through."

  "No," I said.

  "I will try to get you the horse," he said.

  "It's a fake," I said.

  "What?" he said.

  "F-A-K-E, fake," I said. "You probably knew that, too."

  "No," he said, swallowing. "I didn't. Really and truly." For once he didn't put his hand on his heart. He was probably telling the truth.

  "Then you're not much of an antique expert, are you?"

  "Perhaps not," he said. "But the man who asked me to set this up . . ."

  "And who might that be?"

  "I can't tell you," he said. "I already said that. But he knows his stuff. I cannot believe ..." He sat staring at the table.

  "Will you give me a lift back to Paris?" he said at last.

  "No, I'm not going back to Paris," I lied. "You'll have to take the train."

  "I don't have enough money," he said. "Look, is there anything I can do here to earn my commission."

  "You could tell me who got you into this."

  "I assume it was your client," he said.

  "No, I don't think so. I doubt very much my client contacted you directly."

  "Then I'll tell you who my contact is, if you tell me the name of your client."

  "Do you want to be paid something, or don't you?"

  "Five thousand?"

  "Twenty-five hundred."

  "Four," he said.

  "Twenty-five hundred," I said. "Final offer. Considering all that's happened, I really have no obligation to give you anything at all. You can give me a blank check of yours, canceled of course, and I'll see to it that the money is transferred today."

  "How do I know you'll do that, once I've told you?"

  "Because where I come from, a person's word is good. I realize that is a foreign concept to people like you and Leclerc, but there it is," I snapped.

  "Vittorio Palladini," he said.

  "Who's he?" I said.

  "Italian lawyer. Big collector. Not particularly discriminating. Rather nouveau riche, if you know what I mean. Don't tell him I said so. He just started collecting about three years ago. I sometimes help him find stuff. You really don't know him, do you? He's not your client?"

  "Did he pay you a commission?" I asked, ignoring his question.

  "No, he said you would."

  "Well you've been screwed all round, haven't you?"

  "Yes," he said. "That is certainly true. I was offended, you know, that Palladini wasn't using me. But this is a tough and unforgiving business, I'm sure you'll agree. He, the secretary, asked me if I knew Godard. I did, even if he doesn't like me, so I said yes. I called Godard, but he hung up on me, told me not to call again. I kept at it because I was afraid I'd lose Palladini as a client. He buys a lot of stuff, most of it from other people, but every now and then I get lucky. That's when I had the idea of bringing in Leclerc. Will you really pay me?"

  "Yes," I said. The fellow was so inadequate, I found myself feeling sorry for him. But I had no intention of paying for nothing. "But first, tell me more. Did this Palladini person contact you directly?"

  "Of course not," he said. "He's too big a personage for that. His secretary did. But I have found a few things for him in the past, so I did what I was asked. Also, I needed the money, as I've already admitted. Business hasn't been so hot lately. I'm out of my league here, I know."

  "So this Palladini's secretary just said that you were to see that I meet Godard. Nothing more?" I said.

  "Yes," he said.

  "Okay," I said. "The money will be in your account later today. You can check it this afternoon. I'll say good-bye now," I said, picking up the bill. I wasn't going to leave money on the table with Boucher around.

  "Au revoir," he said. "And thank you."

  I went back to my room, got out the laptop, and reluctantly transferred twenty-five hundred dollars to Boucher's account, sent a few E-mails of my own to the store and to Jennifer Luczka, checking on her and asking if she'd heard from her dad. At this point, I just wanted to go home. I wished I'd never heard of Lake, never been dazzled by all his money, never had to deal with pathetic people like Godard and Boucher, nor miscreants like Leclerc.

  It was in this rather melancholy frame of mind that I headed back to the chateau. It was late morning, and I was reasonably sure that Leclerc would be long gone. Indeed, I waited an extra hour to make sure of it. I didn't think I could stand another encounter with the man. Dottie would have come and gone by then as well. I hoped she got the furniture, but I thought if she hadn't, and given that the sheep's liver had said I was the one, I might have a go at Godard about that. If I got it, then the trip might have been worthwhile. I'd let Dottie know, of course. I wasn't that mean-spirited.

  She might pay me a small commission if she still wanted it. If not, it would make a rather fine display at McClintoch & Swain.

  By the time I arrived, the sun had gone behind the clouds, and a rain shower was passing through. The autumn colors that had seemed so beautiful in the sun were now a rather dreary and sere yellow. The sheep and the little lambs were gone, and my heart sank. It was all so unspeakably dismal, I could hardly get out of the car.

  I knocked rather perfunctorily, not really expecting anyone to answer. Once again, the door creaked unpleasantly as I pushed it open.

  "Monsieur Godard," I called into the gloom. "It's Lara McClintoch. I'm back, as promised." There was no reply.

  I stepped into the dining room and gasped as a mouse scampered across the room. There was no sold sign on the dining room table. Dottie had apparently been unsuccessful in convincing Godard to part with it.

  I went into the living room. There had been a fire in the fireplace, but it was now merely smoldering, giving off a rather unpleasant odor, as if someone had doused it.

  "Monsieur Godard," I called out again. The place was absolutely silent. I crossed the threshold of the tower. The horse was still there. I walked up to it and saw a sold sign. Leclerc, I thought with some satisfaction. / hope he paid a bundle for it.
<
br />   My enjoyment was short-lived however, because the very next thing I saw was a sold sign on the floor beneath the temple frieze. "Oh no," I groaned. "What will I do now?" I didn't think Lake would be too impressed with me when I called him back to tell him I'd lost the temple frieze, too.

  The Micali painter: Lake hadn't been very interested, but perhaps that was because he didn't know what it was and could be persuaded. I turned to the glass case. The case was open, and the chimera hydria, the object that Godard had said was the very last thing he would part with, was gone. I suddenly had a very bad feeling about the place, a sense that something awful had happened. Perhaps it was just too quiet, I don't really know, but my feet felt like lead as I stepped into the study. The trapdoor was open, and Godard's wheelchair lay on its side nearby. I knew there was something wrong with that, but it took a second or two for me to remember that he had let the chair down on the rope before he descended himself.