Spoils of the Game (15 page)

“Father, did I hear you say that you would be an ally in this effort?”

“Perhaps. It might be best if I don’t tell you what the Church will allow. It might be best if I tell you what it will reject out of hand. There will be shades of gray—in a healthy, cash-rich church, the politics might be against you, but I suspect that today there will be areas where your help would be accepted. Now that I have said that, let me give you a compressed perspective of the official party line of the Church. Are you ready?” said the priest.

Austin smiled at the priest and said, “Sure, I am ready.”

“Mr. Clay, the Church values its art and has some of the best resources in the world to manage and maintain its art inventory. We appreciate your interest and would welcome your financial support, but we believe that our current resources are fully capable and up to the task. In other words, Mr. Clay, send us a check, and then disappear. I won’t call this a lie, I will call it a perspective that may not be accurate.”

Austin sat quietly and looked at the priest. He understood and valued the contrast that the priest had provided. It confirmed that Father Moreau wanted to be an ally, if Austin gave him the ammunition.

“Father, I am currently putting together about a forty-page document that is intended for presentation to Andre. It is very preliminary and is intended as a basis for additional discussion, and hopefully that will result in a final plan. In talking with you I sense that I am not talking to the Church as much as I might be talking to a Church coach. If I am correct, I am very thankful and appreciative.”

“When you are ready, show me your draft.”

“How about Tuesday of next week? I hope to make my presentation to Vassar and others next Thursday.”

The priest checked his book and then looked at Austin. “Tuesday morning will be fine. Monsieur Clay, do you like beer?”

Austin was taken off guard. “I like beer very much.”

“Good. Let’s take an hour or so, and I will take you to a favorite place of mine around the corner.”

“I would be honored, but I insist on paying.”

“Well, I am sure that paying for beer is not the same as paying for a painting rescue effort, but it is a start,” replied Moreau with a laugh.

Austin was happy that he was getting some more face time with the cleric. The priesthood was for someone committed to a cause, and although Austin was not Catholic, he admired the commitment that Moreau had made.

In a little bar on a back street, the two men sat and communicated. The bar had seen better times, but the selection of beer was interesting, and so were some of the faces that occupied the space. It was clear that the priest was not concerned about posturing and was willing to mix with all levels of humanity. Austin kept checking to ensure that his wallet did not mysteriously disappear thanks to some of the other patrons.

“Monsieur Clay, I appreciate this meeting. If I were fully honest with you, I would tell you that the Church is desperate for someone to come in and inject your kind of thinking into many things. I became a priest to serve God. The Lord and I have come to an understanding that he will direct me to do his will on his schedule. That is why I am satisfied to be working on an art preservation program instead of serving the sick or people in the parishes of France where the need is very strong. It seems like a minor topic, but the art of the Church is the heritage of the Church and something that must be preserved, as a means to preserve the word of God. Unfortunately the Church has to increase its efforts in marketing both itself and its message, but it has one foot in the fifteenth century while trying to compete with television, the Internet, and cell phones. With all of the competition in this world, the Church is losing its importance in people’s lives. There is a slowness to react that is secure in Rome and a resistance to admit that the Church has committed mistakes in the past. This sets up the Church for criticism, and in today’s world it only helps the detractors. Monsieur Clay, I have seen examples of the artwork you talk about. I have seen the effects of time on many of the buildings, and worst of all I have seen the empty churches on Sunday. All of this gives the impression that the Church is dead. Unofficially, Monsieur Clay, I support you 100 percent, even if I may not agree with your methods. I look forward to reviewing your information prior to your presentation, and perhaps with an edit or two we can make everyone happy.”

“I would appreciate that very much.”

“So tell me, Monsieur Clay, what do you do when you are not out saving art.”

“I own a medical device company in North Carolina. I am an engineer that makes things to help cure people.”

“Are you a Catholic?” asked the priest.

“No, Father, I am a weak Baptist who has probably spent more Sunday mornings on the golf course than in church,” confessed Austin.

“Well, if you have not chosen God, perhaps he has chosen you. I think what you are trying to do is, in its own way, very important to the art world, and perhaps it is very important to the Church.”

The priest pointed at one of the beer taps. On top of the tap was an ornate figure with the name Fleur De Houblon cast in bold letters. “Have you ever tried this beer? It is Belgian and very good.” Father Moreau signaled the bartender that two more beers were required.

He said, “Monsieur Clay, I could assume a posture that some in Rome or some here in Paris would take and be an obstacle to your efforts. What the Church needs is someone to lead. Remember, Monsieur Clay, they just don’t fire priests, and I am not going to be pope, so I have nothing to lose. Let me make sure that you heard me earlier. The adopt-a-painting idea—like the adopt-a-highway idea in your country—is one that I see working. It would allow all levels of society to participate.”

Austin understood the coded message very well:
“Do it the Father Moreau way, and I will support you.”

The afternoon drifted on. and the beer continued to flow. Suddenly the priest reacted to a new bartender that came on duty. “Austin, I want you to meet my girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Monsieur Clay, this is Bridget,” said the priest as he put his arm around the woman’s waist.

Without hesitation the woman kissed the priest on the cheek, gave him a big hug, and then put her head on his shoulder, while Austin sat at the bar, bewildered. The French were known for liberal attitudes on many subjects, but this was unexpected.

“So, Father,” said Bridget, “what can I get you two fine gentlemen?”

The priest looked at Austin and said, “Do you have room for just one more?”

“Sure, why not?” said Austin, who understood how important face time with Moreau was.

With Bridget at the other end of the bar, Austin had to say, “Father, I am a little confused with your comments about Bridget.”

The priest smiled and took a drink of beer with a smile on his face. “Monsieur, before you get nervous, Bridget is a good friend and nothing more. Five years ago she was a stripper, and then she became a heroin addict and then a prostitute … or maybe she was a prostitute first. Anyway, she got into some trouble with a pimp, and he threatened to kill her.”

Austin listened very carefully, but the conversation just stopped.

“And?” said Austin, hoping to learn the rest of the story.

“And I beat the shit out of him, and he has not been a problem since. I knew the owner of this bar, and after Bridget got herself cleaned up and off the drugs, I got her a job here.”

Austin was amazed. “Father, I thought the message of the Church was peace, and turning the other cheek, and stuff like that.”

“It can be, but on occasion, you have to make a lasting impression. I did a little boxing in seminary, but I think the pimp got the message when I smashed a chair on his head. I see him at Mass now and then, and I think he is trying to be a better person. You must remember, God works in mysterious ways”

Austin laughed. With a big smile on his face, he said, “Father, you and I are going to get along just fine.”

“Monsieur Clay, some priests would like to address the masses, but I find that I can do more by addressing people one by one. Sometimes you can have a real impact, and sometimes you get to see evil directly. Years ago, just after I was ordained, I was hearing confessions late one afternoon. Sitting in the confessional, I heard a noise and saw a small, youthful man using a metal bar to try to remove the lock from the poor box and steal the money. The Church will support those who need money, but stealing money from God is just not a good idea. I confronted the man, and he tried to hit me with the metal bar. I grabbed the bar after I felt it brush past my hair and almost kill me. With the bar in my hands, I thought the problem would soon be over, but the man pulled a knife. Suddenly I looked into the eyes of evil. I did something that I have long regretted. I hit the man on the side of his head with the bar. The bar had a sharpened end, and it caught him on the left side of his face and removed part of his ear. At first I regretted hitting the man, even though it was in self-defense. I quickly realized that evil takes many forms and that the real crime was that Satan had control of the man I hit, and I only wish I could have hit Satan himself. God makes many miracles, but we priests can only do so much.”

Austin left the beer lunch with the priest impressed and elated. In the last few hours, Austin had learned a lot. His concerns that Vassar might be working against him were now resolved, and he had a new friend that he respected and valued. As he walked down the streets of Paris, his cell phone rang.

“So how did your phone call go?” said Madeline.

“It resulted in an actual meeting with Father Moreau, and I just left. I will give you the details later.”

“Well, was it good news or bad news?”

“It may have been the best news ever.”

“Oh, that is wonderful. The reason I called is that it will cost you twelve hundred euros to cover the infrared photography that you wanted.”

“Is that a good price?” asked Austin, revealing his thrift.

“I think so. The guy wants to get more work from the Louvre, and I’m pretty sure he gave you a deal. I told him that he should talk to you in person about the details. I suggested that you were a private art investor and that his actions had to be secret. You can stress this in more detail when you talk with him. I will send you his e-mail with all of the info. All of the paintings we got from Saint-Abban were still in the Louvre workshops. Just let me know when this man is coming in, and I will make the Maetan painting available.”

“Does everybody, including the guys in the shop, know this is a secret?”

“I didn’t want to make too much of it. I know the men in the shop, and they will keep it quiet and work with me.”

“Okay, depending on what happens next Thursday with Vassar, I may have nothing to do on Friday,” said Austin with a smile in his voice.

“You will do great. Am I invited?”

“Sure. I will get you a ticket for a front-row seat”

“I have to run,” said Madeline. “Love you.”

“Okay, see ya. Love you too.”

Austin hung up the phone and realized what he’d said.
Oh, well,
he thought to himself.

Back at his apartment, Austin continued the writing effort. The preliminary presentation was about forty-five pages. A lot of thought had gone into the presentation, but now was not the time to generate the document that would be used to enlist funds for the project. It was important to say enough to stimulate interest and not invite criticism on details; however, in the short term it had to be good enough for the priest to get the confirmation he needed. Austin had made hundreds of presentations in the past to raise money or to close a deal, and he could turn them out almost without effort. This one was different. The environment was different, the same jokes would not work, the language was different, and the history and cultural foundation of those who would see it was different. But a good idea was a good idea, and if he could survive the politics, he should win. He went through about four dry runs and felt confident. He would show the preliminary slides to Madeline for her blessing.

Austin had not felt this relaxed in weeks. He took a break and decided to take a walk. Paris was alive. He walked down Boulevard Haussmann and into the Galeries Lafayette. This was a shopping paradise. In many ways the European stores did a better job than US stores, with more products and better marketing. The stores were packed. Austin roamed them, taking time to study the watches and the men’s clothing. By chance he found himself in the women’s jewelry section. There were so many nice things. The value of the dollar made many of the items overly expensive, but the thought crossed his mind that he should get something for Madeline. She had been a big help, but that was not the real reason. He just wanted to get her a gift. Maybe he should let her pick something. Maybe he should wait until after the meeting with Vassar, but that should not be a reason. He would think about it.

In the basement of one store there was an elaborate food section that included fabulous pastries—so much to choose from. Thoughts of jewelry were rapidly replaced with thoughts of cheesecake and those little custard-filled shells with strawberries on top. They say a hungry man should never go food shopping. Sending someone like Austin to a pastry shop late in the day is a bigger mistake. Thirty euros later, he left the store and headed home. He called Madeline on his cell.

“So are you ready for your meeting with Vassar?” asked Madeline.

“I dressed up a few slides, and I want to show them to Moreau, but it should be fine. I would love you to see the presentation before I say it is finished.”

“Okay, I would love to,” said Madeline, hoping she would get the chance.

“I did a very bad thing,” said Austin.

“A bad thing? What? Did you rob a bank? Did you kiss another woman?”

“I bought you something.”

“Was it expensive?”

“Everything in this town is expensive.”

“So what did you buy me?”

“A cheesecake.”

“Oh, that is bad. I will be over to your place in thirty minutes.”