10

“Good morning, it’s Alain Ozenberg. Sorry to be calling so early. You have a meeting with Helen D at ten thirty this morning at the Ritz-Carlton. Room 207. I hope you’ll be able to make it. Otherwise, let me know.”

Marion sat up, startled. Was it morning already? The recorded voice was still ringing in her ears. She had forgotten to lower the volume on her machine. She struggled to get out of bed and listen to the message again. No, it wasn’t a dream.

“I was supposed to be the one to call him,” she muttered as she headed toward the kitchenette to start the coffee. How had he found her? She hadn’t given him her card. “Don’t freak out,” she told herself as she feverishly filled the coffeemaker with water.

This was surrealistic—a meeting with some code-named woman in a fancy hotel. She picked up her cell phone and entered Chris’s number. The call went straight to voicemail.

“Chris, it’s me. Call me back ASAP, would you? Really.”

Marion kept looking at her phone as she got dressed and gulped down her much-too-strong coffee. She felt sick.

“It’s the coffee,” she said. “Now, let’s go, Chris or no Chris.”

~ ~ ~

Marion walked across the octagonal Place Vendôme, a masterpiece of eighteenth-century architecture, her kind of place, one would think. But she found it a little over the top, and she didn’t care for the less-than-aesthetically pleasing Vendôme Column right smack in the center.

She pushed open the doors of the Ritz’s arched entrance, nearly slamming into the bellboy. The wall clock read ten thirty-five. She was late. Indifferent to the brass, the wall hangings, the shiny mahogany, and the polished leather, she darted toward the nearest stairwell and took the steps two at a time. When she arrived on the second floor, she leaned against the bronze banister to catch her breath and focus her thoughts: here she was, just steps away from her sculpture.

In the hallway, she caught a glimpse of herself in an Italian baroque mirror. Coco Chanel had lived in this hotel for thirty years, and the legendary designer certainly wouldn’t have approved of Marion’s getup today. She was wearing black Nikes—all that her feet could tolerate after yesterday’s adventures—and she had coordinated the rest of her ensemble with the shoes: baggy gray pants and a sky-blue leotard. She looked like a New Yorker ready for a jog in Central Park. Not very professional. Oh well, there was nothing to be done about it now. And someone who was willing to pay millions for art could wear whatever she wanted. Marion smoothed a pesky cowlick and gave herself another application of lipstick. She threw her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and headed down the hall.

Two bodyguards built like sumo wrestlers were manning the entry to room 207. The one squeezed into a blazer with a gun-shaped bulge asked for her ID, while his associate rummaged through her calf-leather bag. What was this about? How ridiculous.

Marion stopped in her tracks when she entered the room. It was practically empty. No furniture, no paintings, no bed. The walls were white. The starkness underscored the beauty of the terra-cotta figure atop a plaster column. There was nothing to detract from it.

Helen D stepped away from one of the windows to greet her. Marion extended a hand without opening her mouth. Her heart was beating too fiercely. The object her father had sent her chasing after, the object that she herself longed to have in her possession—was right there, in the middle of the room. This was the warrior she had been looking for.

Surely the broker was used to seeing prospective buyers grapple with their emotions and ignore common courtesy. She looked unoffended. Without another word, she returned to her place by the window. Her phone was resting on the sill.

The woman was a professional. Of that Marion was certain. She could tell from her stance, even though her hands, with nails painted crimson, trembled just slightly. Why did she keep picking up her phone? Marion approached the sculpture. Was this really the discovery of a lifetime, one that all art collectors dreamed of?

The figure was weeping. Under each almond-shaped eye was a single stream of emeralds. He had a thin and elegant face with a prominent nose, and the right half of his body was covered with geometric designs. He looked noble. It was hard to imagine that this sorrowful Incan was a warrior. And yet, in his right hand he held a deadly looking club.

Marion swallowed hard. She had never experienced anything like this before. The figure seemed alive. Unconsciously she assumed the same pose: head tilted a bit and arms crossed. Her connection with the artifact was so strong, she almost felt merged with it.

“My client is asking three hundred fifty thousand euros.”

How long had she been lost in her reverie? Like Sleeping Beauty awakened from her slumber, Marion looked at Helen D as though seeing her for the first time.

Three hundred fifty thousand euros. Should she haggle? She wasn’t prepared for that. On what basis, what principles? She wanted this statue. She didn’t care about anything else.

“Let me make a call,” she said plainly.

Marion pulled her cell phone out of her bag and contacted her bank. She ended the call, dropped the phone back in her bag, and looked at the woman.

“Done.”

~ ~ ~

They exchanged no more than four sentences. Marion had never engaged in such a succinct transaction, devoid as it was of all customary niceties. A desire to own that sculpture had engulfed her in a bubble that would have been impossible to penetrate. She had barely even noticed Helen D. If Marion had to describe her right there on the spot, she wouldn’t have been able to.

As she walked slowly through the hotel lobby, Marion clutched the beggar’s bag holding her treasure. She didn’t know what to do with it. Should she stash it at her place?

She glanced at the wall clock above the concierge’s head. No time. It was ten past twelve. Didier Combes would be waiting. He was annoyingly punctual. She would have to keep the sculpture with her. Marion took a deep breath and headed toward the Trocodéro Gardens.