The Imperial Wife (34 page)

I call him on my cell phone. “I've been meaning to touch base about the Order, Sash. Between you and me. It might not be such a hot idea.”

“What the hell is going on, Tanyush? I just got a call from Natasha at the Hermitage. Is what she saying true? Are they starting to question the provenance?” His voice is looming larger, this time for a good reason. What I'm implying is unnatural, unprofessional under any circumstances.

“I'm afraid so. But you know what? We just don't know for sure. It's a wonderful piece.”

It's not too late to leave matters in the hands of the open market, to back away as I'm supposed to do. But would I ever lie to a client? And hasn't Medovsky become more than a client? Hasn't he become a friend?

“You said you were a hundred percent sure,” he snaps.

The business manager runs by my cubicle with an iPad, on his way to meetings inaccessible to me. Upstairs, there's a boardroom for vice presidents. Up there, the table is mahogany and oval-shaped, and it's always topped with trays of grapes and berries. The walls are adorned with art from the upcoming sale; right now, it is the Goncharova. This is where the chief executive meets shareholders, where the vice presidents do their debriefing. The room is all windows, but veiled behind frosted glass. In Worthington's, I was told again and again, you either move up to that room, sit around the table with Dean and eat his fruit, or you collect your things and go.

“Can we trust Natasha? I'm pretty sure we can,” I say. “And let's not forget her original assessment. I'm just telling you what I know, that there are a few missing pieces of information.”

“I can't believe I'm finding out now that it's not one hundred percent.” His voice is flooded with disappointment and, if I'm not mistaken, with fear.

“I'm sorry, Sash. I just found out myself. But you know we wouldn't sell it unless we were ninety-nine percent.”

Your clients have done shady things, some of them have killed or had enemies killed, and because I'm focused on Carl, on making certain I do everything I can to patch us, I don't want to think about that. In any case, Medovsky is no angel, and I remind myself that money laundering was one of the only charges against him that saw the light of day. They've come of age inside a vortex of amorality, my clients, just as I did. Their brains are wired to beat the system in order to survive its daily absurdities. They've suffered too. They were schoolchildren in the Soviet system, weaned on a single television station, they played piano and ice-skated in the winter. They were victims of Jewish quotas, turned away from schools because the “nationalities” in their passports screamed “Jewish.” Earnestly pinning their little Lenin decorations to their chests, reciting, “I am entering the team of the Soviet Union Pioneer Organization, in front of all my comrade mates, I solemnly declare: to love and to protect my country, live as the great Lenin advised, as the Communist party guides, as the Pioneer Laws require,” their red kerchiefs tight around their necks. Like me, they fervently believed their words, put all their faith into the truth of them, lived with the certainty of a united, single-minded society for many years. Marching and singing with a clear voice, hair smoothed to one side. But I left. They stayed to watch the dissolution happen outside their doors, tuning into news one fateful August to watch Nureyev performing
Swan Lake
all day long. Knowing that the government only clogs all the channels with
Swan Lake
to distract people from some national calamity. In this case, it is the fact of tanks approaching Red Square.

Still, these clients touch me, they pull at my heart despite myself. Is it their fault they're good at what they do? That they saw the door of opportunity, an unprepared country with countless pathways to new money? That they watched as Russia was cracking open its hidden gold and they seized it?

“I don't understand. You said it belonged to Catherine the Great. You said there was no doubt.”

I waver. “It is. There isn't. You know what? Forget I said anything, actually.”

“But the fact it's Catherine's is important, crucial really, symbolic in this case. The president has made that very clear. You know where he receives foreign diplomats, don't you—in the Kremlin's hall of Saint Catherine. This order would go there, on display. He's counting on receiving it, I have already promised him. He would not be pleased if it turned out to be fake, and not pleased is an understatement.” His voice slurs into cloudy film.

“Oh, I completely understand. And it is not fake. I'm sure of it.” I allow my heart to harden, picturing the president showing off the Order to his courtiers. The final sentence lies there naked, with no additional reinforcement. “I'll call you a little later from the room.”

Now they're filtering in, the rest of my groggy department, to their desks. They're wearing their most polished unstructured shifts, their crispest ties, prepared for their roles in the public spectacle. An auction is like a movie, the specialists its high-grossing actors. At the phone bank, you must exude control, be calm but urgent enough to instigate competition. You do not smile too much.
You look ridiculously hot up there,
Carl used to say. Our best sex may have been after auctions.

Regan places a coffee and mixed berry muffin on my desk, eyes bright behind the red rims of her glasses.

“I love this shit, don't you? Are we going to make serious coin or what?”

“It's exciting.” I don't sound my usual peppy self.

“What's wrong with you today? Someone better drink coffee right quick.”

It's eight in the morning, the fax machines spitting paper. The business manager swings back from his meeting with crossed fingers and, in the distance, I see Marjorie returning to her office, phone balanced on a shoulder, fingers searching her desk for a writing implement. I take the opportunity to steal into the storage room, unlock the safe, and pick up the Order for the last time.

“Good-bye, Catherine.” I feel silly chatting with a medal. “I hope you wind up at the place that deserves you.”

And Carl never did get to see it. At the museum, wasn't the Order the last argument we had?

“Tanya, where are you?” I hear. “Tanya, the phones!”

I freeze. Is it possible that it's not another woman? Not Victoria, not Hermione? Is it even remotely possible that Carl left me for Catherine?

“Tanya, Vitya Kharkov's calling again.”

There's no choice but to return her. All the lines are ringing. Clients are ordering skyboxes at the last minute. Reporters insisting that this year they want actual photos of the purchasers, the men always hiding behind agents, murky voices over the telephone, swathed behind the anonymity of skyboxes. Time for the oligarchs to come out with their bids! Demands from all directions are being hurled at me. There's no time to think, to make any sense of it. I start to lose the thread of the connection I made in the storage room. The very idea, whatever it was, seems ridiculous in the very immediate chaos.

The flurry of the day gives way to six o'clock, and the auction regulars take their seats in the room, flipping through marked-up catalogues. Nigel sits cradling his gavel, eyes closed in preauction meditation. It's pure theater. Whatever details remain must be left to chance. I take one last look at myself in the mirror, a swipe of lipstick, an expression of poised urgency, and step out to the phone bank. I'm the Specialist again.

In the back, by the elevators, client reps pluck secretive men and briskly escort them to skyboxes before the reporters can make note of their presence. The dance is seamless, everyone where they should be. Igor arrives with a quick scan of the floor. He slinks along the side walls and disappears into his box.

Then to my surprise, the Vandermotters walk in. Frances in her pearls, her vintage Chanel, Armand in his special-occasion Brooks Brothers head to toe. What are they doing here? They make rounds at the important rows, bend down to kiss the Nahmads' cheeks, shake hands with Larry Gagosian, who came with one of his Russian artists. Carl's parents have never attended a Russian sale before. They wave vaguely at me, a brief glimmer of gold bangle. I monitor them from my place along the telephone bank as Nigel rattles off the conditions of sale. Then their presence makes sense. They must know on some level that this auction is tightly linked to the future of the Foster Children's Alliance.

“A very warm welcome to tonight's sale of Russian art,” Nigel announces. And it begins.

One final survey of my bid sheet, then the phone begins to blink furiously. Medovsky is calling on line one.

*   *   *

As an auction proceeds, I remind myself to breathe.
Focus. You have committed to nothing.

“Someone's just exceeded her high estimate,” the business manager whispers as the Goncharova is whisked off the dais. “This is going to be a landmark sale for Russian art and we're not even up to the Order yet.”

“Great news.”

“Are you kidding? This is more than great. It puts yours as the highest-grossing department at Worthington's.” He sings. “Someone's getting a promotion, Ms. Vice President.”

I knock on wood, three times.

“Oh God, you Russian Jews.” He rises, an exasperated ceilingward glance. “Can't ever take any pleasure in victory. The Cossacks are coming, aren't they?”

“The Cossacks are always coming,” I sing after him.

The Vandermotters are sitting diagonally across the room, calmly directing their attention from catalogue to art to me. I can feel a moist spot spreading under the elastic of my tights. Returning to the phones, I find that on line two, Medovsky's friend Oleg is playing hardball, trying to trick me into revealing the reserve.

“But how much is it approximately? Come, Tan'ka, I might have to give up if it's too high.”

“Why don't we try for the Aivazovsky? That reserve's not bad at all. All the energy has been on the Goncharova and Larionov. I think you should get in there.”

Line one is blinking, a cold red eye. In the audience, Frances stands out from the crowd with her looming bowl of blond hair and black-rimmed glasses, her tight face, her paisley scarf, the square of her chin. It takes effort not to glance up at the appropriate skybox where Igor must be facing the podium.

“Tanyush,” Medovsky says. “How's it looking?”

“Great, great. The Order's next.” My throat is almost caulked shut. I am fully aware of each word I'm uttering; our phone calls are taped by Worthington's. If there's any dispute, the slightest doubt about a specialist's deportment, someone in Dean's office will meticulously go over the recordings.

“What we talked about earlier. Just give it to me straight. Is it hers or not?”

If you can't juggle tones and people, if you can't make the right snap decisions, you shouldn't be sitting at the telephone bank. You're moving between souls, between bank accounts palpitating with desire. I think of Medovsky at his own party. How small he looked by the vastness of the sea, the squeals of Marina in the empty house above. How we stood shoulder to shoulder, two dealmakers before the razor slip of shore.

“Sure it is, Sash. How's Lena?”

“The Queen is fine, her kingdom intact, thank God for all of us.”

“Give my regards. Thank her again for the splendid dinner. I'd like to host you guys in New York next time you're in town.”

“We would love that, Tan'ka,” he says, warmly gracious in spite of it all.

The Order is displayed on the screen, magnified so the saint is projected onto an entire wall in her peaceful stance, her blue cape. An order rarely excites this much interest, but its aura of Catherine the Great animates the crowd. They lean in closer. It looks identical to the way it appears in that portrait at the Tretyakov, the red of the ribbon against the canary of Catherine's dress, the silver of the diamonds reflected in the white lace of her sleeves. The saint examines us all, gauging our worthiness. And it occurs to me: they're all here for this. Gagosian, who never goes to Russian sales, the Nahmads, the Vandermotters, they all want to witness the passing on of an imperial relic. Its powerful feminine magic did its work on me, on Carl, and now it has infected everyone else. I meet Frances's eyes and can almost be sure I detect a nod, a license to move forward, as if the deal I made was not just with Igor, but larger, some kind of covenant that encompasses all women.

When the bidding tops a shocking twenty million, I begin to tell Medovsky that our phone connection is terrible. May I call him right back from my cell phone? Then I proceed to a series of gentle nudges that quietly imply disapproval. “Sash, I don't have a good feeling about this. Maybe we should stop here. If it turns out not to be hers, you would be in a vulnerable position.” My voice is as low as I can make it without drawing suspicion. The bank is chaotic for eavesdropping; Regan and the others are deep inside their own negotiations with future bidders.

“Twenty million. Shall we do one more?” Nigel coaxes.

The room is too hot, the air-conditioning broken and the fans are pointing in my direction. The secondary bidders have long ago given up and now the Order is ricocheting between Sasha and Igor, as I knew it would. When my picture appears in the art blogs that evening (“Landmark Sale for the Russian Department at Worthington's, Exceeds Christie's”) it will probably be of a glistening chin and faded lipstick.

“Are you sure I should stop?” Medovsky says, doubtful. “Who the hell's bidding against me? Lazarenko? Yardanov?”

“I just want you to realize how high we are in this moment. The competition's not backing down, and you know I'm only thinking of you.”

“I need it, Tan'. I need it and I need it to be authentic beyond any doubt.”

I cup my mouth with a palm as if for Medovsky's benefit. “I know, but do you really want to spend this kind of money on an order, especially one whose authenticity is in question? It could go up and up. Think of Lena, would she approve?” I was saving the wife for last, the specter of aerobicized Lena, her scowl, her future vengeance.