by Amanda Rose
Shira opened the first and gasped. A glossy photograph of the painting gleamed at her. It was beautiful, and in no way fitting with the rest of the collection.
Pale pinks, blues, grays, and greens smudged in a series of quick strokes that identified the piece as Impressionist.
It was a stretch to call works by artists like Monet, or Pissarro, forbidden. Sure, the Impressionists were rejected by The Salon, which in the eighteen hundreds was the greatest art event in the Western world. But that wasn’t the end for them. Some of the painters had been able to find rich patrons, and sold enough of their work see a profit.
How the hell was she supposed to fit this into the auction?
It wasn’t that the paintings wouldn’t sell. Impressionist pieces brought in millions of dollars. Christie’s, the famous auction house, had had five bidders locked in a war for a Monet which eventually sold for over eighty million dollars.
This piece, if she wasn’t wrong, was one of Camille Pissarro’s. With shaking fingers, she turned over the photograph and skimmed the provenance.
1881: Given by Pissarro in lieu of medical fees to Dr. Charles Pinot.
1915: Sold to Georges Porak, Paris.
1932: 4 January, sold via Pietor Menten, Dublin and Saint-Tropez.
1946: By descent to Sir Clifford and Lady Guinton.
1993: Bought by Dirk Joel.
Shira actually felt her brain screech to a halt. Quickly, she reviewed the provenance again and closed the folder. Shit. She grabbed the next file, opened it, and choked on her spit. Shaking, she took another sip of cold coffee.
The photograph showed a modernist painting. Done in beige, crimson, and black, a woman’s stark profile stared at her. She recognized the woman. It was the German artist Elfriede Lohse-Wächtler, who had been murdered by the Nazis for being mentally ill.
Shira read the title of the piece, Arnsdorfer Heads. She’d never heard of this painting, and the artist was one of her favorites. Both because of her honest, stripped down portraits, but also her tragic story.
1927: Sold by artist to Hamburger Kunsthalle Museum.
1953: Sold via Pietor Menten, Dublin and Saint-Tropez to H. Princehorn, Heidleberg, Deutschland.
Shira’s heart pounded in her chest. Manically, she thumbed through the rest of the provenances and then sat, staring sightlessly at the pile of folders on her desk.
Was it her imagination, or did each of those provenances have a very significant gap in their chronology?
“Shira!” Director Lohse stormed into her office, a stack of files under his arm. Imperiously, he thrust them toward her and she had to grab them, or let them drop to the floor. “These are the correct files. The ones on your desk are incomplete.”
Her shoulders slumped in relief. She hoped Lohse didn't see her hands tremble as she gathered the files to hand to him. “I hoped so,” she said, and laughed nervously.
“Why do you say that?” The director cocked his head to the side, staring at her. He suddenly seemed to loom larger, crowding her in the small office. All at once, she was aware of being the only one left in the gallery.
“The dates.” Damn her voice for shaking. “There is a significant gap in the chronology that would raise the suspicions of any art collector.”
He blinked, and then his entire body relaxed. He smiled, actually smiled, and shrugged. “Hence the ones now in your hand. All the gaps have been filled with verifiable information. I would hate for the provenance papers to raise any sort of suspicion. Especially with this being our first event.”
“Of course not,” she replied. His name was on the gallery. No wonder he’d been irate at his partner about these incomplete papers. She opened the file, reading the provenance and reviewing some of the information.
Signed certificate of authenticity from an authority she recognized?
Check. Exhibition stickers attached to the art? It was a photograph, but she could verify that when she saw the piece, so check.
A written statement from the artist, Pissarro, stating he’d sold the piece to the gallery, yes. Check.
And finally, the names of the previous owners, along with gallery receipts, filled in the gap between 1933 and 1945.
Shira let out a sigh of relief. It looked like everything was in order. She’d need to do research on each of these pieces of evidence, but for now, it was good.
“I’ll get right to work on these, but you should be prepared to hold some of the pieces if the provenance can’t be verified—” She spoke while reading, but happened to glance up at the director, and stuttered to a stop.
His body seemed to vibrate with anger, but as soon as he saw her face, he relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he said right away, and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m anxious about the auction, and on edge. I don't normally get so riled up.”
Ignoring the pit in her stomach, she nodded. “I understand. It’s a stressful time.”
“Why don’t you go home, Shira,” he said. “I’m only going to get crankier as the night goes on. Get some rest and come in early. I want these pieces in the catalogue by Tuesday’s auction.”
Shira glanced at the work piled on her desk before meeting Lohse’s gaze. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” As if to punctuate his words with actions, he reached for her coat on the back of the door and held it out to her. Recognizing a dismissal when she saw one, Shira stood. Once it was on, Lohse handed her the soft purple scarf she’d paired with her coat and waited for her to wrap it around her neck.
Though she wanted him to wave goodbye, Lohse walked next to her as she headed toward the exit. He pushed open the heavy wooden door, and smiled. “I just remembered, it’s the first night of Hanukkah, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Digging in her pocket to find her gloves, she nodded distractedly.
“You’re Jewish, aren’t you?” he asked.
“I am,” she said. Something about his tone, something dry and exhausted, caused her to glance up at him. His face was serene though, not at all like his voice.
“Happy Hanukkah.” He smiled and shut the door, locking it behind her.
Shira glanced at her watch. She was going to be late, but she might still have time to make it to her grandparent’s house before her parents left.
Decision made, she hurried down the quiet city street toward home.
SECOND NIGHT
“Director Lohse…” Shira rubbed her forehead with one hand, while the other clutched her phone so tightly, the plastic case creaked. “Director, I’m sorry, but I don’t see how these pieces are going to be ready in time for the auction. I’m doing everything I can, but I’ve only made it through two of the eight provenances.”
A blast of static over the line made her jerk her head back. “Shira—I swear to God and all that’s holy if you don’t get your ass in gear, finish this in time, you’ll be fired before you can—” His diatribe was interrupted by someone, and he cut off abruptly. “Do it, Shira. I don’t care how many hours it takes. You don’t leave that gallery until it’s finished. Got it?”
Shira had returned to the gallery that morning only to be greeted by utter chaos. The paintings and sculptures from yesterday, the ones whose provenances she hadn’t had time to certify, had already been hung and displayed. Apparently in the six hours she’d slept, Lohse had ordered new catalogues, emailed buyers, and notified the papers about their new acquisitions.
For someone like Director Lohse, a man who’d spent years building his reputation and business, a mistake with provenance probably wouldn’t mean the end of their career. It would be a blip. Something he could sweep under the rug or blame on an inexperienced curator.
But for Shira?
It would be the end of everything she was reaching for. No one would hire her; she’d be done.
“Do it, Shira.” The call disconnected and Shira placed the phone on the receptionist’s desk. Carmen, their receptionist, gave her a blinding white, though sympathetic, smile. Tall, blonde, and beautiful, Carmen w
as only working for the gallery while head shots were passed around various modeling agencies. With Shira’s luck, the girl would be jetting off to Italy on the day of the auction, leaving Shira in the lurch.
“I’m hiding this here,” she told Carmen. “If it rings, let it go to voicemail and then call me. I have to much to do to be interrupted again.”
Carmen nodded, her blue eyes widening. “You got it.” It was unfortunate she wouldn’t stay. Shira found her to be reliable, considerate, and drama free—unlike the director—these days.
Not for the first time, Shira tried to figure out where she’d gone wrong. Had she let herself be blinded by Lohse and Gottleib’s reputations, and ignored the warning signs at her interview? Looking back, she remembered haughty tones, and side-eye glances between the co-owners and directors.
Shira paused in the main sculpture gallery. The lights overhead were directed to each piece, highlighting each plane and angle.
Honestly, the pieces Lohse had acquired were beautiful. More than beautiful. Amazing, really. Shira approached one of the more unique treasures: a Hanukkah lamp. Eight holes were drilled into the dull bronze. A menorah was carefully etched into the center of the lamp. According to the provenance for this one, it had been sold by a woman in Jerusalem to someone here in the city.
Tapping her finger against her lips, she stared at it, considering the person who would be forced to part with something so old and steeped in history.
Her finger paused above her lip. Forced. For some reason, the word seemed to fit. Who would willingly sell something this beautiful?
Nearby sat the white cotton gloves she used to handle artwork. She carefully pulled them on before removing the lamp from its perch. As she walked, she examined it, turning it from side to side and upside down. Once she reached her desk, she bit the fingers of one glove and pulled it off. With that hand, she turned on the extra-bright, adjustable light and angled the beam toward the lamp.
The folder containing the provenance sat at her elbow, and she flicked open the file. Any piece that had gone through a reputable art house would have some mark of that gallery. According to the paper, the Posse Gallery, an auction house near Paris, had handled the transfer of ownership from the woman in Jerusalem to someone named Alfred Linz, here in New York City.
There was a photo of the lamp, and the original gallery receipt. Everything was in order.
Shira removed the other glove. Her computer sat idle, and she touched a key, bringing it to life.
Posse Gallery. It wasn’t a place she was familiar with, but she hadn’t heard of every gallery in the world. A dark gray brick building appeared on her screen, along with a number. Shira glanced at her watch. Paris was five hours ahead of NYC, which meant it was ten o’clock in the evening at the gallery.
It was worth a shot.
For God’s sake, she’d worked last night past nine. Maybe somewhere in the world was another overworked and anxious curator flipping out over provenance papers—a comforting thought.
Mind made up, Shira returned to the reception desk to collect her phone. Carmen had gathered her things, and was shrugging into her coat when Shira appeared. “I’m headed out, okay?”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she answered, accepting the phone Carmen handed to her.
“Don’t stay too late,” Carmen said, frowning. “If you do, call a ride. This neighborhood may be up and coming, but it still has some sketchy parts.”
True enough. But Shira was already thinking about Paris. Waving distractedly, she hurried back to her office.
Please pick up. Please pick up. Shira dialed the number for Posse Gallery. As she did, she reached into her desk for yet another pair of gloves.
“Allô?”
“Oh, thank god,” Shira said before wincing. So much for professionalism. Switching into the French she’d spent countless hours practicing for just such a moment as this, she hurriedly explained what she needed, only to be rewarded by the person on the other end answering in English. “I’m sorry. Provenance papers for what piece?”
“A seventeenth century bronze oil lamp. 1998: Sold to Alfred Linz via Maurice de Palme, Posse Gallery, Paris,” she read the provenance, and waited for the person on the other end.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “In the mid-nineties, Posse Gallery was sold by Maurice to its current owners, the Printemps, and our records are not as well organized from that time. What is your name and your phone number?”
Shira told him.
“And what gallery?”
“Lohse and Gottleib House,” she answered, tapping a pen she didn’t remember picking up against the edge of her desk. Shit. Another pair of gloves for the trash.
“Bruno Lohse?” the man asked.
“Yes,” Shira answered.
“I will call you tomorrow or the next day with this,” he said, his voice a little colder than it was before—or perhaps she’d imagined it—there was a certain haughtiness she unconsciously attributed to anyone with a French accent.
“As soon as possible,” she said. “I have an auction in six days.”
“Very good,” he answered, which Shira interpreted as, “Not my problem.”
Without saying goodbye, the man hung up. Sighing, Shira got yet another pair of gloves from her desk to carry the lamp back to its base in the gallery.
As she seated it in the perfect position, she found herself imagining all the Hanukkahs the lamp had passed.
The seventeenth century was a difficult time for Jews; many of Shira’s ancestors literally had no home, and nowhere to go.
Oliver Cromwell had tossed them out of England. They’d long ago been expelled from Spain, and in Italy, they were already wearing the yellow badges that would haunt them in the years of the Nazis.
Most practicing Jews in Europe worshipped in secret.
So where had this come from? What borders had it crossed? It had meant something to survive so long, and end up here, in America, all these years later.
Many of Director Lohse’s pieces had come through France, but that wasn’t unheard of. In fact, it wasn’t a cause for concern at all. France had some of the best, most well-established, auction houses in the world. Perhaps they weren’t as well-known as Christie’s or Sotheby’s, but even the least art-savvy person knew “Paris” and “art” went hand-in-hand.
Leaving the lamp in place, Shira returned to her office to muddle through the rest of the provenances.
By the time she glanced at her phone again, it was nearly midnight, and she’d only made it through one provenance.
At least the ones she’d finished were legit. That was something.
Her fingers felt thick as she struggled to button her coat, and she could barely see through her bleary and aching eyes..
The gallery was quiet as she walked through the building, flicking off lights and setting alarms. Now and again a car would fly by, but it was a Wednesday night. Most people were home in bed, warm and tucked beneath their covers.
The final alarm was set, and she was locking the front door before she remembered Carmen’s directive to call a lift.
“Don’t move.”
Shira’s heart dropped to her toes—along with her keys.
Something poked into her side. A gun? A knife? It was blunt and rounded, so probably a gun. Oh God, she was going to die here.
“Give me your purse and empty your pockets.” The man’s voice was low, barely above a whisper, and hoarse, like he had a cold.
Okay. She was being mugged. Her hands slid across her coat. For the life of her, she couldn’t find her pockets.
What would happen if she took too long? Would the guy holding the gun get mad? Shoot her because she couldn’t get the travel pack of tissues out of her pocket? Her purse hit the ground, and from the corner of her eye, she saw the man duck his head to pick it up.
Something came over her. She didn’t know what it was, because her mind wasn’t working right, but her body acted all on its own.
&
nbsp; Throwing her weight to the side, she knocked into the man, sending him sprawling to the ground. He landed with an “oomph!” and she took off, tearing down the street as fast as she could run, and slipping on the ice that had formed when the sun went down. She skidded into the side of the building as she ran around the corner toward the bright lights of the 24-hour Denny’s a block away.
She couldn’t hear anything over her breathing, and the pathetic, half-sob, half-squeaks, she was making as she ran. But she imagined the man behind her, running full-tilt, ready to lunge and drag her into an alley to finish her off.
The lights bobbed ahead of her. Almost there. Safety was ten feet away. She was going to make it.
Her foot hit a slick patch of pavement, and her legs flew out from under her. She saw the lights and darker rooftops against the lighter, city-lit sky before her head cracked into the pavement.
Now the only stars she saw were the ones dancing in front of her eyes as she waited to be murdered.
Her breath made little white clouds. Move. Get up.
Her body wouldn’t obey. Like earlier, it let her down. Far away, someone ran toward her. Here they come. This is the end.
Green eyes met hers, and a warm hand cupped her cheek. “Are you okay? Don’t move. Dov!”
Shira couldn’t move if she wanted to.
Another set of green eyes in a more serious face appeared next to the first. The man studied her and frowned. “Stay still. You’re okay.” Shira glanced up at the sky, but it was hidden by the men. A moment later the two were joined by a third man, and then another.
Four beautiful faces stared back at her.
“Wow,” she breathed. Later, she could blame fright and adrenaline for her slip-up, but right now, Shira would enjoy the sense of shelter and protection these guys gave her.
“What happened, Ravi?” the serious man asked. Shira’s gaze slid toward the man to whom the question was addressed. Ravi. She made a mental note. Worried green eyes and warm hands.
“She ran and slipped, Dov,” Ravi answered shortly. The frowning man had a name, Dov.
Her head was starting to pound, a concentrated throb right on the back of her skull. Slapping her hands around the pavement, Shira tried to find a patch that wasn’t ice to push herself up.
