A surrealist affair, p.5
A Surrealist Affair, page 5
“I came to Paris to meet with Jean-Pierre Luc—”
“Ah, c’est triste, no?”
“Very triste, very sad, yes. I’m so sorry.” Elle felt compelled to launch into the backstory of why she was to meet with Jean-Pierre, unsure if Babette would let her in. But Babette had already turned to the next guest—an older man with a mop of white hair—with a round of double kisses.
Elle stood, awkward for a second, and then scolded herself—what are you waiting for? She moved forward to a table with wine bottles and sodden corks lying on their sides. Elle had been schooled by Diane about the penchant for white wine at galleries and openings because of the potential spill and stain factor of red wine. But the French had no such inhibitions apparently; it was all red wine here. She poured a glass.
Her stomach was assaulted by the smell of ripe cheese arrayed in circles along with sliced hunks of French bread with gaping, misshapen holes, and wheat-flecked crackers from a brand you couldn’t buy in the U.S. Before coming, in her studio apartment, she had eaten half of a baguette and chunks of a more conservative cheese she could relate to.
As she sipped the heavy red wine, she looked around. Typical of galleries, the space was cavernous compared to the amount of work actually displayed. Her gaze traveled up the front-and-center piece, a lavender line of lights in the unmistakable shape of a phallus that stretched up the entryway to the cathedral-high ceiling. That had not been there earlier. Babette’s staff must have spent all afternoon installing it.
When she shifted her gaze, she felt her eyes widen. Out of two million people in Paris, it was the same man that had saved her from the pickpocket in baggage claim!
Her heart beat so hard, it made her blood feel like it was fizzing. Was it the wine? She’d only had a few swallows.
She realized her gaze had been locked on his. Neither of them smiling, it seemed like foreplay, and her stomach dove deliciously, as if she had taken a sudden dip on a roller coaster.
All of this was going through her and yet, she stood motionless. She was afraid she was going to topple over and make a fool of herself, when she’d never wanted to impress anyone more.
Her face grew warm. Part of it was the force of their eye contact, but it was also at the blatant symbolism of that lavender installation, a visible sign of what throbbed between them.
He finally broke eye contact as Babette addressed him, smiling in a way she hadn’t at Elle. Of course, Babette found this man attractive, too. Who wouldn’t? He was too good-looking for Elle anyway. She would never have a chance with this one if a sophisticated, successful woman like Babette set her sights on him.
Elle moved off, feeling unsteady, gripping her plastic wineglass, trying not to snap it. She was here to find out about Jean-Pierre and the Luc he’d supposedly found. Now that he was dead and she’d tried to tell the police, surely she no longer had to—and shouldn’t—keep the secret. Babette Alain, the owner of the gallery that showed Luc’s work, had to know.
…
Ryan tore his gaze away from the woman from baggage claim, who, in her heels and black dress, looked even more gorgeous than before. But he had to get his head in the game and speak to Babette. “Hello, I’m sorry for just showing up here like this, but my friend Gregory Williams—”
“Ah, oui, Gregorie.”
Ryan paused. “Hopefully, he got in touch with you that I was coming.”
“Oui, oui. It is okay.” Babette gave him a wide smile. Was it the slight overbite or was her smile coquettish? Kevin wanted him to work that angle, so he returned the smile full-on.
“Please…” She gestured at a table laden with wine bottles.
And he was in. He scooted off, grateful for the older couple in long black coats coming in behind him. He didn’t need any questions about how he knew Gregory. There was a made-up story involving his export business out of Manhattan, but he didn’t want to get into it if he didn’t have to.
He poured a glass of wine. This job had to end in success. If only he cared more about what he was trying to find. Oh, well, it was a job, so he couldn’t expect to always feel it. And if he solved this, he could return to where his interests lay—Counterterrorism. He couldn’t blow it now.
…
Elle wandered around the gallery trying to look absorbed and interested by focusing on the placards. The Gallery made a lot of the fact they “were the original art dealer for the Surrealists.” That wasn’t quite true. Although they had represented Marc Luc, there was no gallery that represented all the Surrealist artists.
The rest of the crowd veered between wealthy-looking patrons and hip people about her own age. She felt decidedly from the Midwest, despite her getting a PhD in art history.
In the next exhibit was a display of twisted plastic forks and distorted self-portraits that looked like they peeked out from fun house mirrors. The remaining couple of spaces confirmed the work failed to capture the spirit of Surrealism. The fantastical element was missing; instead, it was derivative, cold, and humorless. Of course, Elle could appreciate conceptual art from her training. It wasn’t about pretty and instead intent on provoking a reaction. But this work was just for the sake of it.
However, looking at art, even art she personally didn’t care for, calmed Elle. The act of analyzing and categorizing the methods and the context absorbed her attention. Her heels thunking against the parquet wooden floor, she started toward the next installation—a 3-D display of eyeballs attached to stems like a bouquet of flowers.
Marc Luc’s sketches had been placed so people passed by all the mediocre artwork to get there, the starring attraction of the night, given both the theft and the death of his grandson. The Alain Galerie was trying to cash in. Elle guessed that’s how they stayed in business so long.
“What do you think, eh?” A man who had entered the gallery behind her was perhaps in his fifties, and not much taller than her. He sidled up, holding a wineglass. He had a great mass of snowy hair.
He could be anyone—a collector, a friend of Babette, the artist of the eyeballs himself.
Careful to stay away from all personal likes and dislikes, she spoke about the Dadaist influence on the eyeballs. As he listened, he looked the picture of an urbane European, swirling his wineglass with its heavy, dark contents. He was smiling now, like at a precocious child. “What brings you to Paris?”
“I’m a student at university.” She had learned to leave the article out on her last trip by following Diane’s lead. “Art history. I’m getting my PhD.” She tucked her hair behind her ear.
He leaned back to appraise her. “Eh, not only beautiful but clever, too.”
Was he hitting on her? She had to guard against that.
“Comment vous appelez vous?” What is your name, he asked. The brackets around his mouth creased in a smile. Lines drew down from the edges of his mouth like a marionette.
This was first-day French she could handle. “Elle Dakin. Et vous?”
“Francois Gaillot. I will speak in the Anglais, no?”
She agreed that would probably be easier, and he went on. “You’re not the first student to seek inspiration in Paris.” He waved his hand at the space as if to conjure up all of art. “And what is your area?”
She, too, gestured. “Marc Luc.”
“And what is your to-peec?”
She admitted she had nothing at this point.
“Somebody should write about the great romance behind Luc’s work.”
Elle wondered if by romance, he meant Luc’s being lost in the bottles of absinthe and the arms of other women.
“There were no paintings after his wife died of a heart ailment.” He touched his heart as if the allusion was wasted on her. “Marc Luc never painted again. Not many people are so inspired by love, eh?”
She didn’t want this older gentleman to get any ideas, talking about love. He looked older than her father, and her father had looked older than his years.
“She was his muse,” he said, the glass swirling faster.
It was a funny way to treat a muse—make her worry over bills, cheat on her constantly, become soused on absinthe every night. Just because Elle adored his art didn’t mean she had any illusions about the man. She changed the subject. “It is so sad about Jean-Pierre.”
“Ah, oui.” Francois shook his head.
It confused her when the French said yes and then shook their heads, and said no and nodded.
“How did you know him?” she asked as they moved to the next piece, eyeballs goggling out of a canvas.
“Our families have known each other for generations. My father had enough foresight to collect during World War II.”
This wasn’t a bad start at all, much more than she could have expected from her first real conversation here—someone who had family members directly connected to the original movement. The noise of chatter rose to the high ceilings.
He moved closer as if to be heard, eyeing her over his wineglass. “Perhaps you can see my collection sometime.”
Did he really have Surrealists handed down by his grandfather, or was this a line? She made a noncommittal noise and pretended to be fascinated by a conglomeration of what looked like rags stiff with oil on the wall.
When she glanced over at his reaction to the artwork, he stared at it and said, “I should really take advantage of the market right now. A death—it is awful—but people tend to want—” He broke off and looked over at her. “Ah, but never mind that. Let us look in the next room, shall we not, where the sketches—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Francois was swallowed up by a small crowd of older patrons, like him. As she continued on her own to see how the sketches looked framed and presented, Babette crossed the room toward her.
Elle raised her hand in a half wave. “Hello? Yes, hi, bonjour, I met you last year. I’m Elle.” For a moment, she wasn’t sure if Babette was even going to stop. Elle stepped forward. “I was the one who catalogued Marc Luc’s drawings for the catalogue—with Diane Roche?”
“Ah, oui,” Babette said, her lips stained dark with either lipstick or wine.
“I was waiting for a chance to speak to you alone about Jean-Pierre. You were just so busy talking to other people.” Elle could barely breathe around her rapid pulse. This was always her greatest fear—being exposed as an imposter, a fraud, told she didn’t belong.
She told as short a version of the story as she could in the face of Babette’s stare, but the tale sounded garbled and incoherent, even to her own ears. Elle kept losing her breath as if she had run up and down the street before coming in here.
“Professeur Roche—she is not here?”
Elle shifted her weight. “Well, no.” She repeated her explanation, wondering how well Babette understood the English; the premise rested on the fact that Jean-Pierre had been unable to reach Diane.
Babette folded her arms against her chest, so thin the rib bones were clearly outlined. “So Jean-Pierre asked an etudiante to attribute a new Marc Luc?”
Elle’s face grew hot at Babette’s disdain. She tried to salvage the conversation. “So you have not heard of a new work by Marc Luc?”
Babette stiffened and stood taller. “This gallery has handled Luc’s work for over seventy years, so—” An incongruous smile crossed her face, and she said, “Ah, there you are!”
Elle turned to see the handsome man she’d been eyeing. This was not how Elle had wanted to meet him—red-faced, intimidated, embarrassed.
Babette linked her arm in his, said, “Ah, the sketches you wanted to see. Let us go now to them.”
Elle turned away, clearly dismissed. Her cue to leave.
Chapter Six
The Melancholy of Departure, Giorgio de Chirico (1916-1918)
Ryan so wanted to talk to the woman in the black dress and realized he’d lost his chance. She was already leaving. It was amazing that here she was again after she’d captured his attention at the airport.
But he was here on the job, not to date, and he had to take advantage of Babette’s invitation.
As he and Babette strolled to the exhibit room with the sketches, arms still linked, Ryan asked, “So what’s your take on the theft of Expectation of Time?” In his haste to get things going on the case, he’d been too obvious and wanted to groan.
“L’expectative du temps?” She followed the French version of the title with a prolonged shrug. She seemed a little defensive. Perhaps it stung to not have had dealings with one of Marc Luc’s main masterpieces. “We have not shown that painting in a long time.”
If ever. He indicated the gallery space with the arm she wasn’t clutching onto. “Jean-Pierre’s death must really be a loss for you—both personally and professionally.”
“Ah, it is.” Her eyes became round with sadness. “Did you ever meet him?”
“I never had the pleasure.”
“So exuberant, so full of joie de vivre, as we say here.”
“What are they saying about his death?” he asked.
“Apparently, a cambriolage. Awful—a man’s life over theft of silly electronic devices.” She flapped her hand in dismissal of said devices. “And he was shot. The guns—” She shuddered. “I know you Americans like your guns.”
She might not like him so much if she knew he typically carried a gun for work. “Was Jean-Paul Luc a collector? Did he have any of his grandfather’s work?”
“Non,” she said and spread her arms out wide. “Ah, here you see, Marc Luc’s work.”
Each one looked childishly simple but held a large place of pride on the wall. He could have parked cars in the spaces between the sketches mounted in glass.
He forced his face to be impassive, and he searched for something meaningful to say that wouldn’t give away his amateur status.
“Wow.” He turned as if to stare at a rectangle across the space and stifled a yawn. Jet lag.
When he thought he’d pretended interest long enough, he said, “What should I tell my clients you’re asking?”
It was such a stereotype to start coughing at a high price tag, but he wanted to make some kind of explosive sound of derision when she told him. She was watching him closely now, so he tightened his lips against any possible sound and just nodded seriously.
“If you would like more than one, perhaps we can work out—what do you call it? A deal?” Babette had misunderstood his reaction.
That suited his purposes. “Good to know.”
She gave a wide smile, cocking her head. “I am so terribly happy that Gregorie told you about our little soirée tonight.”
“Same here,” he said, finding his own acting a little fake.
“And how is it you know Gregorie?”
“He’s one of my contacts over here. Scouts out prospects. Lets me know if there’s something my clients might be interested in.”
He was always surprised when people accepted such vague answers. She nodded, then added, “I would watch out if I were you.”
He raised his eyebrows. Those weren’t the words he wanted to hear just starting out undercover.
She shook her head. “I shouldn’t say. He’s a friend of yours.”
“Gregory? I would call him a business associate, not a friend.” When she still hesitated, he added, “Come on, it’s okay. You can’t bring it up and not tell me.” He forced himself to put on a flirtatious smile.
“Well, he has a bit of a réputation.” She paused, but he didn’t jump in, waiting for her to say more. “It’s only what I have heard, nothing I have seen myself. He has sold some of his work in the U.S., where they might not know…”
She let the words dangle, but he recognized the implication about dumb Americans.
“He can only imitate, not create, you realize. But as an imitator—” She pursed her lips and touched them with her finger. “He is par excellence.”
“Good to know,” he said again as an older couple approached, their skin crinkling with smiles. “Go ahead, I know you need to mingle.”
What he wanted to do was go after the woman who had left so abruptly. He wondered if she was going to the metro. If he jogged, he could probably catch up to her. If she was taking a taxi, perhaps she would still be waiting outside. But it was such an amazing coincidence he’d seen her again. He hadn’t thought there would be another chance. He would catch up to her, they would talk, and then he would head back to the gallery, continue with his investigation. Hopefully all before Babette had seen him leave.
…
Why when you were embarrassed were you more likely to do something embarrassing?
Elle had stumbled out of the Alain Gallery, tripping over an uneven stone, and had nearly crashed headlong down the stairs.
The crooked streets with uneven cobblestones shrouded by narrow, tall doorways were no longer charming; they were dark, where people could be skulking in the shadows. It was only a few short blocks to the Metro, she told herself. She had done the walk on the way here. The air was sharp with cold, but not as bad as what she was used to in Michigan.
But after some winding and curving streets, she realized it was taking her longer than the way here. The next street sign said Rue de Saintonge, not Rue des Archives. Elle was used to grid-plan streets, but here they meandered along, this way and that, shooting off from each other diametrically. No longer quaint now that it was nighttime.
She decided to double back. Across the road, a man’s shape suddenly withdrew into an alleyway. Great. She was lost and some weirdo was hiding in the shadows.
After she turned and hurried along, footsteps fired up behind her on the stones. She twisted her ankle trying to go faster, but the footsteps were closer now. When she looked back, her worst fear—a man with the hood of a sweatshirt enveloping his head. Her scream tore into the night, echoing down the alleyway in waves of sound that lasted until he was close enough to yank her purse strap off her shoulder.
