The Cézanne Chase (16 page)

“You won't be.”

Kim led the way. All the staff seemed to know her, and she, in turn, greeted nearly everyone by name. They went down one flight of stairs, walked through two libraries, then on to a series of very large rooms closed to the public where paintings and statuary were stored in controlled temperature and humidity. Here were the not-so-great pieces of art by great artists, the donations from well-meaning patrons, and the works of lesser artists not yet—and most likely never to be—recognized. Other rooms housed carpenters' and electricians' shops. Eventually they entered a small elevator, and Kim pressed a button marked PH.

“We have a penthouse,” she said in her puckish way. “It's where we make things last a long time.”

Kim put her own key in the lock of a wide, high door, then ushered her guests into a room that was ninety feet long and opened to the sky with a sloping wall of glass. The room faced north, and the glass angled back so that half of the forty-foot-high ceiling let in diffused, natural light. Kim introduced her guests to the assistant director of the conservation department, who guided the little tour group past a row of easels, where they paused to watch skilled artists at work. They were told how warped panels were being straightened, how the X-ray and the computer were employed to reveal the underdrawing in centuries-old paintings, and why natural resins were preferable to synthetics.

“We are principally concerned with preserving our collection. There is a difference between conservation and restoration,” the conservator said. She was a young woman with soft, blue eyes and a name Llewellyn recognized as Dutch.

Llewellyn asked, “Can anything be done with the Cézanne portraits?”

A frown replaced the smile. “From what we know, the destruction is complete. And the paintings can't be reconstructed. Even if it were possible, they would no longer be Cézannes.”

Llewellyn did not answer, but nodded and thoughtfully bit on his lower lip.

After a while they circled back to the high, wide door and gave their thanks. The tour ended in front of the employees' cafeteria, where Kim said her good-byes.

Astrid said, “Thank you, it was perfect.” She did not wait for a response, but kissed Llewlleyn on his lips and said softly, “Tusen takk.”

He watched her walk away, a trace of her perfume caught in the palm of his hand. He followed behind her then began walking faster and caught up to her as she turned into the Great Hall.

“I had hoped we would have a chance to talk. Let's have dinner. Something special.”

Astrid laughed. “I think I would like that very much.”

“Fraser is still the best chef in Manhattan, as long as it's veal chops or chicken piccata. Eight o'clock?”

“Eight-thirty,” she said.

He gripped her hand tightly, then let her go.

 

Fraser chose the chicken for the simple reason that his butcher did not have veal chops. Just as well; he personally preferred chicken. He dispelled any illusions that he was the finest chef in Manhattan, and only a magnificent salad made his dinner a mild success. Llewellyn improved matters with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape.

Conversation during the meal began amiably, each telling the other of their early school years and of their families. Astrid had lost her parents when she was barely nine and had grown up in the home of a strict and unloving grandmother. Her mood darkened as old memories came to life.

“At first I lived with my father's mother. She was kind, and I was comfortable with her. But she was sickly, and there wasn't much money. She died when I was twelve. I cried for weeks. Then I was put with my other grandmother, who lived in Trondheim. I hated it,” she said bitterly. “School was boring, and life at home was always so
serious. There was money, but my grandmother wouldn't give me any.” Then she said with a trace of anger, “My girlfriends had an allowance.” She was now talking slowly and in a voice barely above a whisper. “So I learned to steal. I thought it was all right to steal because then I had money and I could be like my friends. I became good at it. ”The smile disappeared. “I was caught and punished.” She stared blankly at a few white carnations Fraser had found in the patio. “Later I went to the design school, the Kunst Og Handverks.”

Llewellyn poured the last drops of the wine into his glass. “I was, in the vernacular, spoiled rotten. My father gave me money and expected me to spend it wisely, but nonetheless, spend it; then he taught me how to invest and preserve it. Money was revered beyond church and the family name. It seems you had too little when you were young; I had too much.”

He held up his glass. “Here's to us. Survivors.”

“You have good company with Fraser and Clyde and your beautiful paintings. I can't feel sorry for the way you have survived.”

“I wasn't complaining, but the painting is an example of how possessions can possess. I can't say I truly enjoy it because up to now I haven't been able to share it with more than a few friends.”

Astrid smiled, “You're famous because of it. Is that so bad?”

“Very bad.” He shook his head. “The price was too high. But that's enough serious chatter. I'll get some brandy.”

She said softly, “I feel very comfortable.” She drew him close to her, then kissed him firmly on the lips. It was more than a kiss of appreciation, it was clearly an invitation.

He held her tightly and returned the kiss. “I know a better place for us to sniff brandy. And it's the good stuff, too.” He tucked a bottle of Courvoisier under his arm, put two brandy glasses in one hand and Astrid's hand in the other and led her up a flight of stairs. At one end of his bedroom was an oversized leather chair, and next to it a long, low cabinet in which was a wealthy bachelor's accumulation of electronic gadgetry. He turned on the audio system and Borodin's Orchestral Suite flowed from four speakers. They faced each other, nearly touching, faces relaxed and smiling self-consciously. She unloosened his necktie and slipped it over his head. Then she unbuttoned his shirt, kissing him each time a button came free. Without exchanging words, they went to the bed, where each helped the other in the ritual of undressing and passing quickly through the brief awkwardness
of seeing each other naked for the first time. They sat cross-legged on the bed. They sipped their drinks slowly.

Nothing about her disappointed him. He ran his tongue across her mouth and chin, then slowly down her neck to the deep hollow between her breasts. For nearly an hour they kissed, exploring with fingers and tongues, discovering how to excite the other into low murmuring sounds of pleasure. He entered her, and she moved her hips and thighs, thrusting foward then away until he felt the ecstasy of his climax.

They lay in an embrace, neither speaking. The music ended, and the sounds of the city trickled through an open window.

“You were gentle,” she said in an almost surprised yet very soft voice.

“Beauty wears a sign, ‘fragile, handle with care.'”

Then, quite clearly, her mood changed. She stared at him, eyes unblinking, her lips slightly parted but silent. She rose up and sat on the edge of the bed. Suddenly she was on her feet.

“Are you all right?”

“It's late,” she said.

“A little past eleven.”

“When you're alone in this city, after eleven is late.”

“I'll take you home,” he said with tenderness. She dressed and put on fresh lipstick. She did it all quickly and without speaking. She brushed her hair, and he wanted her to stop and say that she would stay; he wanted her to smile, but her smile was gone. She inspected herself in the mirror and said she was ready to leave.

They taxied to her hotel, where in a single fluid motion, she gave him a motherly kiss, opened the door, and stepped out to the sidewalk. He watched her disappear into the lobby of the hotel, then ordered the driver back to 65th Street, and on the return thought about the day that had started with the phone call from Scooter Albany, his brief meeting with Pourville, the tour with Kim Klein, then finally dinner and an hour in bed with Astrid. He remembered how eagerly she had encouraged him, and how skillfully she had performed. But why, when he said that beauty must be handled carefully, had she become so detached and distant?

 

Astrid locked the door and went directly to the window where she stared down to the red taillights moving west along 69th street. But it was a blinking red light reflected in the window that caused cold fear
to sweep over her. It was the message light on the telephone. It meant, she feared, that Peder had called, wanting to learn how well she had carried out her assignment in Boston and asking her to share her excitement with him. He would also say that he had not read about it in the newspapers. Then, when he learned what actually had happened, he would be angry, perhaps violently so. The fear of facing up to Peder had swept over her when she was with Llewellyn. She wanted at first to confide in him, but instead she ran from him. Her amphetamine supply was gone, and Valium merely smoothed her out for several hours, then left her depressed. Heroin would put her at ease, just a touch of white lady, she thought, a small amount in her left forearm where she had put a needle so many times.

She undressed and showered, first in warm, soothing water, then gradually she turned the water to an icy cold and forced herself to stay under the harsh spray until she was gasping for air. She put on a thick, white bathrobe, went back into the darkness by the window, and rubbed a towel through her hair. She stared, trancelike, at the blinking red light, her thoughts a jumble. Out of the confusion came a fresh memory of Edwin Llewellyn, of his room and the music. His bed. His warmth.

The phone rang, a jarring, unwelcome sound. It was a quarter to twelve, barely dawn in Cannes. Time was unimportant to Peder.

A trembling hand reached for the phone. She took the receiver in both hands and said, “Hello.” The word was barely audible.

“Astrid, darling.” It was Llewellyn, sounding jaunty and cheerful. “I've called to say I had a marvelous day, and I hope you did as well.” There was a pause, then he continued. “You were a bit on edge when I dropped you off,” and he rambled on as if he were not certain what he wanted to say but pleased he was saying whatever came out. “I meant to ask if you were free on Thursday. I've got a dinner party to go to, and I want to show you off. Don't misunderstand, they're perfectly lovely people, just rich and terribly social. More important, someone might give you an assignment.” He laughed. “They all have deplorable taste and need you.”

She smiled. “Yes, I'm free.” She wanted to say more, but the words didn't come to her.

“I'll pick you up at six,” he said enthusiastically. “Oh, by the way, I have your earrings.”

She touched an ear, surprised she hadn't missed them. “Bring them on Thursday?”

“Of course. Sleep well, darling,” he said.

She put down the receiver. A police siren wailed, and as usually happens in New York, another did the same. The sounds died away, replaced by the low whisper of the air conditioning.

When the phone rang again, her hand was still on the receiver. She picked it up, hoping Llewellyn had called again. An indistinct, metallic-sounding voice came from the receiver. “Hello ... hello ... Astrid?” The voice became insistent. “Astrid?”

She put the receiver to her ear, and the deep-pitched voice became clear.

“Hello,” she said mechanically.

“I called earlier, did you get my message?”

“I haven't had time to call.”

“You are never too busy to call me.” The voice was hard. “Did everything go well on Monday?”

“I'm very tired. I was with Llewellyn today,” she said with the hope of moving to another subject.

“Tell me about Monday,” he insisted.

“Everything went as you planned it. No one saw me go up to the galleries, and I got to the painting. I was alone. I took out the spray can, Peder, I truly did, but I ...” She began to cry. “I'm sorry, but I couldn't do it.”

“That's not acceptable.” His voice grew loud. “The plans aren't subject to your whims or being sorry. Do you understand?”

“I can't destroy something beautiful.”

“It's a picture of an old man. That's not beauty. Money is beauty.”

“You don't have to destroy any more.”

“Yes, my Astrid. One more, one in America. The newspapers and television will make a sensation of it.” Again a short silence. He went on calmly. “You must return to Boston and do it properly. There will be more receptions and more special exhibitions and more occasions when they ask their benefactors for more money. You see, I have agreed to remove four of the paintings. It must be done.”

Her head was angled to the side, both hands cradling the phone. Her eyes were closed as she listened to the man to whom she had sworn her unreserved loyalty. She suddenly felt an intense desire to please him. “I'll try,” she said. “I'll try.”

“You will be proud,” Peder responded. “And my love for you will be eternal.”

“Do you truly love me?”

During a short pause she heard the faint sound of laughter on the satellite connection, then the words, “I love you.”

Tears fell on her cheeks. “Thank you, Peder.”

“You are getting on with Llewellyn?”

“Yes, as you asked me to do.”

“And you have become good friends?”

“We are good friends, yes.”

“Good. He is important to us.” She collapsed into a chair, waiting for Peder to continue. “Prepare new plans for Boston as early as possible. I'll call on Thursday, six o'clock New York time.”