“When did he let you out?” I gasp.
“I was inside for the rest of the day and overnight,” Matthew says, his voice hardening. “I thought I was going to die. I was starving, dehydrated. When he came to get me, he didn’t scold me at all. Merely opened the door, nodded at me to ensure that I knew I had broken the rules, and walked three steps ahead of me all the way back to the house. We never spoke of it again.”
“That’s terrible.”
“One of many terrible things my father has done.”
“Have you ever told anyone?”
“Stella. She promised to speak to my mother about it, but I don’t know if anything came of it. We didn’t come back here much except for this annual party, and my father and I never visited alone again. The bunker has all sorts of high-level security now, but it’s only used for deep storage, the paintings we never sell or move because they’re merely there to appreciate in value. No one has been down there in at least a decade.”
“Can you explain that to me? Why keeping it locked up makes it valuable?” It’s still hard to wrap my head around the economics of it all, the fact that a painting will get more and more expensive while hidden away.
“The less you see a painting, the more mythical it becomes. Collectors start whispering about it, speculating on its worth. And since it’s not on the market, there’s no risk of its losing value. It just sits there, untouched, while the artist’s reputation grows or the market shifts in its favor. Then, one day, if we want to sell it, it’s worth ten times more than it was. We also store the art for other owners while they accrue value for them.”
“So it’s basically a ghost investment.”
“Exactly. Invisible and untouchable.”
“And that’s legal?”
“Completely.”
But what Stella wants to expose is different. She believes the Swansons are defrauding museums with replicas of famous paintings and then reselling them on the private market in order to double dip in the tax breaks and the profits from the secret sales on the shadow market.
Stella has referred to what the Swansons are doing as the largest fraud the art world has ever seen. How much does Matthew know about how his father has donated paintings to museums and resold the originals?
His voice tapers off as we arrive at a castle. That’s the onlyway to describe the massive limestone masterpiece in front of us, with its two circular stone turrets soaring into the sky on either side of the main structure. I quickly count twenty windows across the five-story facade.
Inside, a staff member in a red velvet suit takes our coats and hands us each a glass of champagne, the crystal catching the light from the enormous chandelier overhead.
I sip and gaze upward at the vaulted ceilings. Who would have thought places like this still existed outside of fairy tales and British period dramas? I can’t help but be enchanted by the grandeur. Some things are excessive and beautiful at the same time.
“We have our own vineyard along the banks of the Marne River in the Champagne region. I believe this is ours,” Matthew brags as he takes a sip of the bubbles.
“Tell me something surprising,” I retort, trying to hide how impressed I am.
Lucie visited her favorite vintage shop in the Fleas, Chez Sarah, to procure me a floor-length, late-seventies atelier gown that flares dramatically out at the hips for tonight. The waistline is crucial. I’m wearing an absolutely enormous pair of underwear with pockets sewn all around the hips.
“Grandma panties with benefits,” Lucie had called them as she sat at her sewing machine finishing her creation.
With all this careful planning, I still can’t believe we didn’t think of a less awkward method of transportation, but here we are.
I have limited time here. Matthew explained to me earlier that his father and his new wife detest overnight guests, even the Swanson children. He’s already told me that we’ll be staying at a hotel down the road. I packed a bag, but if everything goes well, I will be heading back to Paris in a few hours alone.
When Lucie first showed me this dress, I’d told her it was absolutely ridiculous. “Real people don’t wear clothes like that.” It has feathers on the bodice, actual raven feathers.
“Real people at parties like this do,” she insisted.
Everyone in this room looks like a professional gala attendee. I’ve never seen so much crepe and silk and massive jewels in a single space. Matthew easily navigates his way through the front room and toward the sounds of a piano being played as though someone’s life depends on making the music. The pounding of the keys is furious but beautiful.
“There’s my father.” Matthew nods.
We find Louis Swanson hunched over the gleaming white grand piano, his long dark curls whipping around his head as he lets his entire body move along with the sonata.
“Now, that is surprising. He’s very good.” I finish my glass of champagne.
“My father is the ultimate Renaissance man. He is good at absolutely everything. It’s maddening.”
