Over the next two hours, we ate until we were stuffed, drank four-thousand-dollar champagne, and talked about art before Sasha asked if we’d like to see his private collection.
Of course, we said yes.
Sasha’s private gallery rivaled some of the world’s best museums. Masterwork paintings and old-world tapestries adorned every wall while sculptures and installations were placed strategically throughout the space. The monetary value of the collection was rivalled only by its historical significance. Clearly, Sasha’s growing criminal enterprise was lucrative enough for him to indulge in his passion. I wondered how he was going to fare in an eight by nine-foot cell with only blank grey walls to stare at.
“What do you think of my humble little collection?” Sasha asked.
“I’ve never seen one that compares to it,” I said, being completely honest for the first time all night. “It’s truly magnificent.”
“You should recognize a few of the pieces,” Sasha said. “Your betrothed sold them to me.”
I tipped my champagne flute to him. “And we’ll be thinking of you while flying private on our honeymoon.”
“She’s a miracle worker, our Eleanor,” Sasha said.
“Stop it, both of you,” Tess protested. “I can’t stand compliments and you both know it. I’m just happy these aren’t in some high traffic, corporate, tourist trap, board of trustees run, museum in Cleveland or something. This artwork belongs here where it can truly be appreciated by the few who have the privilege to see it.”
“Access to pieces such as these is the greatest benefit in my line of work.”
“Thank you for sharing it with us,” I said, raising my glass once again to our host.
It was then I noticed something inside the room that made my blood run cold. It was on the floor, out of the way, up against a wall, plugged into a nearby socket. It was a power supply to a very specific piece of gear. It was easy to miss, and I did my best to pretend I hadn’t spotted it.
“This one is magnificent,” I said, drawing Sasha’s attention to a Seurat piece hanging on the opposite wall. “I never thought I’d get to see Ruines à Grandcamp up close and in person.”
“That was my all-time favorite,” he replied. “Until of course, La Servante arrived.” Sasha pointed to his newly acquired masterpiece. “I told Eleanor that I wanted a Matisse in my collection that would rival any other. I still can’t believe she was able to acquire it.”
“Like you said,” I replied, my palms beginning to sweat. “Eleanor’s a little miracle worker.”
I pulled Tess close to me, quickly whispering in her ear, “We’re in trouble, follow my lead.”
Sasha laughed. A dead, dry, humorless laugh that made the hair on the back of my neck stand at full attention.
“Miracles or machinery,” he said. “You know, throughout the history of mankind, even up until today, most cultures have a difficult time distinguishing between the two.”
“I suppose that’s so,” I replied.
“Oh, it’s most certainly true. For instance, the paintings that surround us all started out as blankcanvases and paint on a palettes. Then, miraculously, artists transformed these materials into masterpieces. Each one its own little miracle.”
“That’s a beautiful way of looking at art,” I replied.
“Of course, if one were to take a photograph of Starry Night back in time to Provence, France, 1889 and show it to an orderly at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole lunatic asylum, they’d believe Van Gogh had created two identical paintings in his room. Without the knowledge of photography or printmaking, a person of that time would view an exact duplicate of such a thing as a miracle, whereas you and I both know technology was responsible for the creation of what one could call a forgery.”
That was the moment I knew there was a very good chance I was going to die in St. Petersburg, Russia.
Tess
“FORGERY IS AN interesting topic, Sasha,” Wallace said, and my heartbeat sped up a few tics.
“It’s become a recent obsession of mine,” Sasha replied. “And very much one of the reasons I’ve invited you both into my home tonight.”
Sasha knew.
He knew the Matisse was a fake. I don’t know how he knew but he did. And I had no idea how Wallace or I was going to convince Sasha it was genuine.
“Oh?” Wallace replied, cool as a cucumber.
“Yes, in fact, one of the paintings hanging in this very gallery is a forgery. Isn’t that interesting?”
