The Same River Twice (12 page)

“Maybe a hundred years ago it did,” Dominique confided to Max, “but now it has no meaning. It means I have a tattoo.”

“You see what I’m up against,” said Eddie.

After salad and dessert, Dominique, who had tickets to a death-metal concert at La Villette, asked to be excused. Kissing Max goodbye, she told him to say hello to Allegra for her, and he was obliged to notice yet again how nearly adult she had become. He recalled with guilt that he hadn’t yet responded to his daughter’s e-mail.

“In the end,” said Eddie, when he and Max were alone, “you have to allow them their concerts, their revolting boys …” He shrugged. “One suffers, of course.”

The two men retired to the living room for cigars and Armagnac.

In the thirty-six hours since the gasoline bomb had smashed against the
Nachtvlinder
’s wheelhouse, Max had tried to imagine a scenario that would explain the attack, or at least make it less improbable in the light of day. And he had gone further, seeking to link the event with the break-in at the apartment. He’d put his speculations to Odile before she left for Vertou, inviting her response. But though she agreed that it was possible to see a connection between the two incidents and didn’t contradict him when he spoke of intimidation and harassment, systematic or otherwise, she added nothing useful to his imaginings and he let the subject drop.

Eddie said, “Are you working?”

“I’m shooting video. Nothing scripted.” Max swirled his drink and inhaled the fumes. “Maybe it’s a documentary, I don’t know.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Nah. Too soon. I’m still trying to get a handle on it.”

“Of course. No problem. But when you
are
ready, Max, I’m eager to have a look. As always.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” A short silence ensued while Max relit his cigar. Then, when a cloud of blue smoke again billowed around him, he added, “One thing, though.”

“Yes?”

“I’m shooting in natural light only—outdoors, beside windows, wherever I can get an image. Maybe I’ll include ambient electric too. I’m not sure yet. But the point is, no staged lighting, nothing cosmetic.”

Eddie nodded. “More reality.”

“There’s a look to it, yes. I start there.” At the thought of reality, Max grew abruptly restless. Getting to his feet, he strode across the room to the french windows, which opened onto a small masonwork balcony. In the street below, two Hasids were arguing in Yiddish. He watched as they lunged forward, knocking each other’s hats off, yanking each other’s temple locks.

He returned to his seat, his impatience only exacerbated by what he’d seen. “By the way, Eddie, did I tell you that there was a screening of
Fireflies
at Studio des Ursulines? Part of their first-film series.”

“But this is good, Max, very good. They run an exceptional program. Useful people pay attention. Everything went well, I assume?”

“People seemed to like it,” Max told him. “Anyway, I met a girl there, a film student. She said she had seen another version of
Fireflies
, one with a different ending. She said it was in rental distribution on video.” He stubbed out his cigar. “That’s not possible, is it?”

Eddie seemed genuinely shocked. “How could it be? It’s out of the question. You didn’t shoot a different ending, did you?”

“No, but these days, with digital this and that …”

“I’ll call the distributors first thing tomorrow morning,” Eddie assured him. “I promise you, it’s nothing.”

“Thanks, Eddie. I know I’m being stupid, but I can’t get it out of my mind.”

“Forget about it. Besides, you must realize it’s a kind of compliment when rumors like that start circulating. People are impatient for more of your work, Max. In the absence of product, they fantasize.”

“Don’t we all,” Max replied.

They had a laugh together.

After taking his leave, Max walked three blocks south to the Place des Vosges, found a bench, and sat for awhile in the dying amber light. Some young black men—Malian, by accent—were playing pickup soccer beside the equestrian statue of Louis XIII, his famous smirk frozen forever in stone. Two elderly ladies sat together knitting. Toddlers, pursued by their mothers, ran stubby legged across the lawn. And, cruising right by Max, three skinny white boys in their teens recited rap lyrics in unison:
Anutha day, anutha niggaz name in da newz
.

When it occurred to Max that he was putting off going home, he consulted his watch. Odile was due back on the eight-o’clock train from Nantes. Suddenly he longed for her company, wanted her to be at the apartment when he arrived. After a moment’s thought, he abandoned his bench and the little park and headed east to the métro stop at Bastille. The music-and-electronics megastore on the Champs-Élysées stayed open till midnight, he recalled, and, at least in principle, carried cassettes or DVDs of all his films.

GABRIELLA SAT in Turner’s office with an advance copy of next month’s
ARTnews
in her lap. On the cover was a detail of one of the May Day flags, reproduced in a super-saturated red, with the appliquéd images of Marx, Lenin, and Andropov gazing stolidly heavenward. Yellow display type running across the lower right quadrant read:
The Return of the Unique Object? 20 Artists and Critics Respond
.

“Incredible!” Gabriella said. “How did you do it?”

“I didn’t,” Turner told her. “That’s the beauty of the art world, so responsive when money’s involved. And it almost always is.”

She flipped through the magazine, chose an article at random, and began to read aloud. “‘After almost two decades in which contemporary art has been dominated by video, photography, film, computer code, and other infinitely reproducible mediums, the unique art object has been given a much-needed boost from a most unlikely quarter.’”

“Not at all bad,” Turner observed, settling back in his chair. “Very old school and respectful, don’t you agree? Now read the next one.”

Gabriella ran her finger down the page. “‘Call it a neo-Duchampian coup or just another episode of cynical showmanship, but the exhibition ‘Ten Untitled Objects,’ currently on view at the Balakian Gallery in Chelsea, is anything but what it appears to be.’” She frowned and skipped ahead. “‘Indeed,’” she went on, “‘the secret was out almost before the show opened. These large fabric works, meant to resemble antique flags of the Soviet Union, are widely thought to be the collaborative effort of two of
the gallery’s star artists, who, for reasons best known to themselves, have chosen not to lend their names to the exhibition.’” Gabriella looked up in annoyance. “But this is caca, no?”

“Maybe Ron’s working a sideline,” Turner conceded. “I’m not sure. But I do like it. And the other texts are all just as good. Major writers, blue-chip artists, the works.”

“So what will happen next?”

“We’ll see. I need to think about the larger scheme of things.” He looked at his watch. “In the meantime, shall I take you to lunch?”

“Ah, no, I cannot. I have to meet this person.” Gabriella rolled her eyes to suggest entanglements too exasperating for comment. “Tomorrow, though”—she brightened—“you may take me to that new place on La Boétie.”

Turner spent the next hour returning phone calls. An inconveniently large part of his job involved currying favor with elderly men and women who owned desirable objects but for one reason or another lacked suitable heirs. Such people tended to be solitary, whether by design or circumstance, and they enjoyed pretending that Turner’s attention was social, even personal, in nature. Their pride could be easily hurt if they felt they were being neglected, and they competed unabashedly for his time, yet it was always understood that in some fundamental sense he was their fool. Such were the rules of the game.

He was considering closing up for the afternoon when Odile appeared in the doorway, a little out of breath. She wore dark sunglasses and an orange-and-gray floral-patterned dress cut close at the hips.

“Hello,” she said. “Am I interrupting?” Without waiting for an answer, she swept into the cluttered room, taking it in with a series of darting glances.

Turner rose to greet her. “What a surprise. How did you get up here?”

She shrugged. “Was someone supposed to stop me?”

A Benin bronze head that Gabriella had unpacked earlier caught her eye, and he watched as she went over to inspect it. Dark, cruel, and commanding, the African artifact had been set atop its shipping crate, polystyrene pellets strewn before it as though in offering, and Turner thought he saw Odile shudder as she contemplated this tableau.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said. “1550
AD
, give or take. Excellent condition.”

“So it’s real, then?” She removed her sunglasses and turned to look at him.

“Very.” He whisked the copy of
ARTnews
from the chair Gabriella had vacated. “Please, have a seat.”

Instead she went to the window, parted the curtains, and peered down at the courtyard. “I thought we had an understanding.”

“So we did. And I’m happy to report that your problem has been taken care of.”

“Really? You think so?” She wandered over to the lightbox and switched it on. Turner had been sorting through color transparencies of the unsold flags, and their glow now gave Odile’s features a ruddy cast. “Then you overestimate your influence.”

“Oh, I’d hate to think that. Was there an incident?”

“Last Friday night someone threw a Molotov cocktail at me and my friends. It was dramatic and quite intimidating. The police came.”

“I see. And what did you tell them?”

“Nothing.” She sat down on a Shaker bench, next to a pile of old auction catalogs. “But this cannot continue. These people are crazy. I want my life back.”

Resting his chin on his fist, he contemplated his visitor. She was agreeable to look at, more so than he’d thought, full at the hips but slim overall, with upturned breasts, a wide-set mouth, and large, cognac-colored eyes. She carried herself well. She projected sullen confidence and a willingness to engage. Yet it seemed to him that there was also something ascetic about her, an unplumbed capacity to do without, to withdraw, to reduce and simplify, to exist among essences or endure their absence. It was like a glimpse of another woman, one quite capable of indifference, even cruelty, and Turner quickened at the recognition.

“Maybe now would be a good time to tell me what these Russians really want from you,” he said.

“They want to know where they can find Thierry Colin.”

“Thank you. And do you have any idea where he is?”

“No.” She folded her arms across her chest.

“No but what?”

“I saw him last at the station in Brest. We’d split up for customs—his suggestion. I took the bags through—my choice. Then he disappeared.” She made a face. “He was very hungover.”

“So as far as you know he never crossed into Poland.”

She assented European style, with a quick intake of breath.

“What could have happened to him, then?” said Turner.

“I don’t know. There was some kind of trouble at the station, a big crowd of people trying to get out, military police. Also, he had his wallet stolen right before we left Moscow, so I don’t think he had much money.”

“Passport?”

“He still had his passport, yes, I’m certain.”

“Anything else you want to tell me?”

“No. Well, yes. He’d been talking on the train about whether it’s possible to start a new life. He seemed to be speaking theoretically, but also with a kind of irony that I found very annoying. I was meant to find it annoying. He wanted to throw me off track.”

Turner nodded sympathetically. “So he maneuvered you into taking charge of the flags and went his own way, probably with something that didn’t belong to him. It’s not unknown.”

“Those guys want him very badly,” she said.

“But here’s what I wonder, Odile. Why haven’t you told the Russians what you just told me? If that’s all they want?”

She appeared genuinely taken aback by the question. Turner watched her swallow, open her mouth to speak, then abruptly shut it again. Following her gaze, he saw Gabriella standing in the doorway.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were busy.”

“No, it’s okay,” Turner answered. “Odile, this is my assistant, Gabriella Gabriella, Odile.”

As the two women considered each other, an idea came to him. He supposed it was the opportunity for which he’d been waiting. “I’ll tell you what, Gabriella. Why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off? We can deal with the bronze tomorrow.”

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“All right, if you say so.” She looked at him dubiously. “See you in the morning.” She said goodbye to Odile and left.

“Look,” Turner said, “I understand about the Russians. Guys like that, you don’t want to give them anything. All I’m suggesting, Odile, is that next time, in the interest of your peace of mind …”

She nodded.

“Besides, as I mentioned, I think you’ll find that you’ve seen the last of them. Sometimes it takes a little while for word to filter down, but the person I talked to is highly regarded. People don’t often cross him.”

“Thank you,” Odile managed to say. She didn’t look at all convinced.

“My pleasure.” He glanced at his watch. “Now. When was the last time you had your portrait painted?”

“My portrait?”

“Yes. An artist friend is painting my portrait, and I’m due at her studio for a sitting. She’s an exceptional woman—in her seventies, but she sees
everything—and I’d very much like you to meet her. In fact, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

“Oh, but this would be difficult. I …”

She would object, pleading prior commitments, making excuses, stalling, but Turner knew she would come along to Céleste’s apartment. Such moments had their own logic, a kind of internal necessity. It was as if, he thought, they were meant to be.

UPSTAIRS AT HIS STUDIO
, in the screening room, Max was watching
Fireflies
for the fifth time that afternoon. He had bought all seven copies that the megastore had had in stock, two on videocassette, five on DVD, and was playing them at six times the normal speed, one after another, watching for anomalies. It was oppressive and fruitless work that left him feeling distinctly humiliated.