The Chrysalis (4 page)

Lillian shuddered as she talked. “As the Nazi war machine swept through Europe, the primary branch charged with confiscating art, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, or ERR, was never far behind, plundering artwork wherever it went. In the beginning, the ERR—with Nazi Party leader Alfred Rosenberg, for whom it was named, at its head—limited itself to taking artwork from the libraries or museums belonging to its conquered political enemies. But as time went on, the power of the ERR and its local counterparts expanded, and so did its looting, especially from the Jews. Interestingly, though, the ERR wasn't permitted simply to march into a Jewish home and rip the art from the walls. No, the Nazis set up an entire body of law governing this thievery: ‘Confiscation' they called it. According to the regulations, which differed a bit from country to country, the ERR and its local equivalents could take Jewish goods only if the owners voluntarily relinquished them or the owners ‘abandoned' them by fleeing, being deported to camps or ghettos, or dying. So, though the ERR created lists of prominent Jewish art collections and marked them for acquisition, if it couldn't get the Jewish owners to sign over the art, the ERR would mark their owners for the ghettos or the camps.”

Lillian rose and wandered over to the French doors, where she peered out over the terrace topiary and caught sight of the start of Central Park's simmering fall foliage. “Once confiscated, the art was sent to a central location, oftentimes the famous Jeu de Paume Museum in Paris after France was conquered, to be categorized as either ‘suitable' or ‘degenerate.' If the painting was deemed ‘degenerate,' the Nazis used the artwork as currency. They brought in collaborating art dealers who'd either buy the painting, usually at a low price, to resell it on the free market, or exchange the painting for several Nazi-appropriate ones. If the piece of artwork was ‘suitable,' then Nazi leaders would descend on the site like carrion birds to decide which of the spoils they wanted for their own walls.”

She fixed her eyes on Mara. “The methodical Nazis had a penchant for meticulous record keeping of their booty; they believed they were divinely decreed to take ownership of their plunder so had no shame in recording their spoils. This means that with Nazi-era art provenances, my researchers are hoping to prove a negative: that the artwork does
not
appear on any of the Nazi lists of looted art, such as the ERR inventories, or in declassified intelligence reports from American agents operating in Europe just after World War II. These latter documents, reports by art historians working for the Art Looting Investigation Unit of the United States Office of Strategic Services, contain detailed interrogation reports of those involved as well as records of the stolen pieces. Why do my researchers hope
not
to find the piece of artwork listed in these documents? If the art appears on the Nazi lists or in the intelligence reports, it means that the Nazis looted it—which, in turn, means that Beazley's cannot possibly provide a clean provenance for the art.”

Standing up and startling Mara, Michael interrupted. “Lillian, I hate to stop you before you even get to
The Chrysalis
's provenance, but Mara and I have to head to the auction. Would it be possible for her to set up another appointment with you?” Michael gifted Lillian with a disarming grin.

She could not suppress a return smile, though she tried. “Oh, Michael, you know I've never been able to say no to you.” Mara wondered how Michael had managed to forge such a warm relationship with the thorny, bureaucratic Lillian.

When she turned to Mara, Lillian's tone iced over once again. “Ms. Coyne, just call my assistant to set up a time. I'll be in Europe all next week.” Head held high as if it were bearing a crown, Lillian exited the room.

five

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

A
TRAY OF CRYSTAL CHAMPAGNE FLUTES FLOATED BY ON THE
arm of a tuxedoed waiter. Michael grabbed two glasses, pressing into Mara as he handed her one. He raised his glass. “Cheers. To seeing you again.”

She clinked her glass with his. “Cheers.” Mara took a healthy gulp to calm her nerves, though she knew she needed to keep her wits about her.

He lifted his drink again. “And to working together.”

Their flutes chimed one more time.

Mara scanned the party, luminous with the glow of the city's elite. She smelled the perfume of the fresh-cut flame roses that filled the blue-and-white porcelain vases all around the entryway. The ballroom sparkled from the suspended chandeliers and the jewels worn by the guests. A constant, seamless flow of champagne and hors d'oeuvres sustained the room, though the rail-thin female patrons paid the delicacies no heed. She thought how Sophia would soak up every detail of the event.

Michael touched her hand. “I'm sorry about Lillian. She droned on much longer than any other time I've heard her give that spiel. She must've wanted to impress you. I thought we'd be able to duck out and join the party a while ago.”

“Michael, please don't apologize. You have no idea how much more interesting this case is than my usual work on securities fraud.”

He chuckled. “Oh, I have a pretty good idea. Still, I don't want Lillian's off-putting manner to make the whole Nazi-era provenance process sound more daunting than it really is. She has a big team of people who do nothing but ensure that contaminated artwork doesn't pass through Beazley's doors out into the world.”

“Don't worry. That's precisely the impression that I got.” Mara took a long sip of champagne and then owned up. “I also get the impression that Lillian doesn't much care for me.”

“Not at all. That's just the prickliness I told you about; she'll warm up. Okay, let me show you around.”

Removing her jacket to reveal her sheath, Mara maneuvered through the room on Michael's arm, brushing up against society mavens and corporate moguls she had read about in magazines, and watching the auction's behind-the-scenes staging as the crew prepared to unveil the breathtaking paintings to the room. Michael explained to her that the lavish party was just one small attempt to woo art collectors and win over prospective consignors and estates. Dealing in glitz as much as art, Beazley's threw elaborate dinner parties, organized all-expense-paid trips to exotic locales, employed collectors' children, sponsored black-tie balls on its premises, and made donations to patrons' favorite causes as part of its ongoing battle with Masterson's. At the end of each season, the competitors tallied sales and designated collections to determine who dominated as the market leader and then used that nugget to garner ever more collectors and consignors.

A gong sounded. On cue, the luminaries shifted their glow from the ballroom and lit the pathway to the auction theater. While no less exquisite than the ballroom, the theater, with its serious, hushed tenor, reeked of commerce.

Mara sat down in a reserved seat next to Michael. She was giddy from the three glasses of champagne and the room's palpable sense of anticipation. The lights dimmed, and a hush descended upon the audience as they awaited the first painting.
A Merry Company,
a rare work by Pieter de Hooch, the second most important painter in the Delft school after the master Johannes Vermeer, took the stage. Set in a tavern filled with sunlight, the painted scene showed a red-robed serving girl pouring wine for three revelers, two of whom vied for the attentions of the young maiden. The painting's radiance and scarcity transfixed the audience and upstaged the priggish auctioneer and his officious underlings for a moment. Then the bidding began.

Hands rose, heads nodded, paddles flashed. As the bids climbed, so did the auctioneer's voice and tempo. Mara glanced at the auction catalog and then stared in wonder at Michael, who laughed. The bids far exceeded the catalog's preauction price estimates. The gavel slammed.

“Sold. For $3,250,000.”

Bucolic tavern scenes; tranquil domestic visions; dark historical paintings and portraits; whitewashed, expansive church interiors; Saenredam; van Ruisdael—the goods flew on and off the stage. They went for twice the estimates, three times, again and again. Each painting competed with the next for the highest bid at the already legendary auction.

Afterward, Michael and Mara made their way across the auction theater to the receiving room, the scene of the private postauction gathering. A miniature of the ballroom, the space flowed with champagne, though the bubbly was of an even more extraordinary vintage. Self-congratulatory backslaps and air kisses surrounded them. The mood was euphoric, not just among the new owners of the Dutch masterworks and their previous possessors but also among the recently richer Beazley's principals and senior executives. For a moment, a tiny voice imbued with her grandmother's familiar lilt whispered in Mara's mind, cautioning her against the scene's artifice, but she banished it.

A few minutes into the party, Michael murmured in Mara's ear, “Do you mind if we leave? I've made plans for us.”

She was shocked. It was a huge night for Beazley's, and based on their earlier conversation, she understood it to be a critical evening for Michael to mingle and share the success with his colleagues and their patrons. Moreover, it was her chance to meet more of the players at Beazley's. But he was the client, and she was intrigued, so she agreed.

They made their way through the throngs. Just as they neared the polished door, a meticulously manicured male hand clamped down on Michael's shoulder. Its ageless owner was similarly well maintained, with a full head of thick, skillfully cut silver hair and a custom-made navy pinstriped suit. Mara felt Michael's entire body stiffen.

The man looked straight at her. “Michael, aren't you going to introduce me to your pretty friend?”

“My apologies, Philip. May I introduce Mara Coyne? She is the Severin lawyer who will be representing us on the
Baum
case. Mara, this is Philip Robichaux, the cochairman of Beazley's. The success of this auction can be attributed to him.”

As Mara and Philip shook hands, he demurred at Michael's comment, a bit unconvincingly. “Michael, there's no need for flattery. The success of this evening belongs to Beazley's as an institution.” Michael and Philip spent the next few minutes reveling in the evening's sales and laughing over the fact that Beazley's had acquired many of the paintings for the auction—beating out Masterson's—because one keen intern had combed the obituaries, found the estate containing much of the art, and then wooed the bereaved, vulnerable widow away from the family's long-standing relationship with the rival house. Mara found their gloating over the underhanded but seemingly standard scooping a bit distasteful.

Philip interrupted their self-satisfied banter with an abrupt change of topic. “So, Miss Coyne, you'll be defending us on the
Baum
case. As a lawyer at a firm of Severin's magnitude, I'm sure you'll be able to swat away Baum's flimsy claims with ease.”

“I certainly plan on it, Mr. Robichaux.”

“Please, call me Philip.”

Before they could discuss the case further, Michael announced their imminent departure. Philip raised an eyebrow. “So soon, Michael? You know how important these events are. There are many people here that I'd like you to meet. People that your uncle Edward would've wanted you to meet.”

“I'm sorry to disappoint you. But I promised Mara we would take some time tonight to discuss the lawsuit. I hope you understand.”

“Of course I do. Well, you'll be missed; as will you, Miss Coyne. It was lovely meeting you. I hope to see you again very soon.” His eyes glanced adeptly at her legs, chest, face, and ring finger.

They said their farewells, and Michael ushered her through the door.

Outside, they walked past a caravan of limousines to a Town Car that Michael had waiting for them. Though the night air was bracing, it felt oddly heavy to Mara, weighted down with her disappointment at Michael's whisking her away from the party—just as she had the opportunity to make an impression on one of Beazley's leaders. She was thinking about the best way to broach the subject when the car pulled away from the auction house and Michael brought it up himself.

“I'm sorry for the half-baked introduction to Philip Robichaux. It's just that I wanted us to be able to go, and nothing less would satisfy Philip.”

“Please, Michael, there's no need to apologize.” She was still frustrated, but the fact that he had addressed his caginess placated her.

His eyes met hers. “Anyway, I'm looking forward to us spending the rest of the evening together.”

Mara didn't know how to respond and wasn't sure she should take his comment as the suggestive remark it seemed. He hadn't been overtly flirtatious before, so she averted her eyes. But she caught herself smiling in the dark. She reminded herself that he was a client, first and foremost, and one critical to her success at that.

He interrupted the quiet hum of the car. “There's something I thought you might like to see. In private.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

         

In a block and a half, Michael directed the car to pull into a back entrance to the Beazley's mansion. They got out of the car in a dark, narrow alleyway, and Mara stood tensely by while Michael fished around in his pocket. Finally, he pulled her toward a nondescript door, where he slipped an identification card into a disguised security panel and tried out a number of the keys. When the door opened, he gestured for Mara to step inside. They made their way down a long, pitch-black hallway, following the low red lights that ran along the walls. Michael advanced, mumbling to himself, as if trying to remember directions, and Mara grew more apprehensive about the “plans” he had in store for their evening.

Then he stopped in front of a door. He turned toward her, his eyes eerie in the red light. “This is it,” he announced. He slid another key into the lock and held open the door.

There stood
The Chrysalis.
Alone, in a room as dark as midnight, it was illuminated from above, as if from a single beam of starlight.

A rapturously, indulgently beautiful woman commanded its center. With an enigmatic, otherworldly face and a small, involuntary smile, she stared out at the viewer with turquoise eyes, directly, invitingly. Her open arms and hands stretched out ever so slightly. Her hair encircled her head, a mellifluous halo crowned with tiny leaves. Mesmerized by the woman's face, Mara failed to notice her garments or setting for some time.

When she did, she saw that they were equal to the woman's face. She wore a sumptuous, pure white, long dress. A cloak of cerulean blue and crimson sinuously wrapped around her and draped down to and around the slight, mysterious swell of her belly. Pellucid rays of sunlight pierced through an oval window to her right, irradiating her, washing over her. The listless head of a dead serpent lay under her foot, the only jarring image in the otherwise perfectly serene scene. In a dark corner of her room, on a rough-hewn wooden table, the flame from a single candle was reflected on the petals of an alabaster lily and illuminated the silhouettes of a crucifix, a chalice, and a terrestrial globe.

Finally, in the woman's left hand, a yellow butterfly burst forth from a ruptured cocoon:
The Chrysalis.
Mara wondered what it all meant.

Surprising, inexplicable tears welled up as Mara met the woman's eyes and saw the woman's inscrutable smile turn empathetic. Mara felt as if the woman were telling her that she stood at some crossroads and was inviting Mara to transform, like the golden butterfly emerging from the pupa in her palm. She wiped away the unprofessional tears as inconspicuously as she could, then twisted back toward Michael. “How can I begin to thank you for this?”

Michael's smile lit up the dark. “I thought you'd want to see her alone.”

         

Hours and many, too many, mojitos later, Mara found herself burrowed deep in the brocade pillows of the corner booth in a sexy little tapas restaurant, so tiny that it felt like a secret. Michael's hand began to brush against her knee and on her arm and in her hair, and she realized that he had meant his earlier comment to be as suggestive as it sounded. Mara extricated herself from the hazy allure of his touch to stumble to the bathroom. There, the mirror said it all: her tousled hair and disheveled dress, her failure to walk the tightrope of her attraction and her professional responsibilities, her disregard for her career.

When Mara returned to the table, Michael moved toward her to draw her in for a kiss. But her resolve had been restored when she looked in the mirror, and she backed away into the nubby tapestry of the banquette. When Michael continued his steady progress, Mara grabbed her bag and stood up. “I-I'm sorry, Michael,” she stammered. “I can't do this.”