3

“Ninety thousand… Ninety-five… One hundred… One hundred twenty… Who can top that?” The auctioneer, in a formal black gown, waved her gavel at the crowd. The bidding room with red walls was filled to capacity and dead quiet. “I see a bid at the back of the room. A hundred thirty thousand euros… Do I have one hundred forty?”

The crowd’s attention was focused on two people. Who would win the coveted prize? Who would opt out? In this shadow play, the participants masked their intentions and motives.

In the front row, Laurent Duverger, wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket that accentuated his broad shoulders and overall air of power, was coolly annotating his catalog.

The slightest misstep could work against him. Buyers and brokers were observing him, and that was certainly what he wanted. He’d made an unenthusiastic bid, let it bounce around, and then watched it get snatched up by the others. Clearly, he was a pro and enjoyed messing with his contenders and playing off their nerves. They may have been in the oldest public auction house in the world—Hôtel Drouot was founded in 1852—but the room was full of the usual pretenders, more aware of their weaknesses than their expertise. They’d want his official seal of approval. When Laurent Duverger nodded, ten others followed suit. Like sheep.

“One hundred thirty thousand euros. Sold!”

The gavel thudded against the wood.

At that moment, Laurent Duverger nudged his briefcase with his foot. It smacked the floor, causing a bit of confusion and throat-clearing. The auctioneer brought the focus back to herself as she announced the next item: a serpentine green and brown mask from the fourth century. A rare beauty.

“For this exceptional piece from Veracruz, we’ll start the bidding at a hundred twenty thousand euros. Who bids higher? A hundred forty thousand on the phone… A hundred fifty on my left. One hundred sixty on the phone. One hundred seventy from the first row.”

The tension was rising in the room.

“I still have one hundred seventy thousand from the man in the front row. The phone bidder is out,” the auctioneer continued.

Laurent Duverger stood and swiftly scooped up his belongings, his face expressionless. Then he walked to the back of the room. Whispers rose as he passed. The other buyers were fidgeting in their chairs. A man off to the left with a sweaty brow was twitching—perhaps he was the collector who hired Duverger.

“One hundred seventy thousand… Going once, going twice…” The auctioneer raised her gavel. “This is a rare piece. Don’t let it slip away. Come on! A hundred seventy thousand, I’m practically giving it away.”

No one bit. Duverger had worried the amateurs by making them think he was unwilling to go any higher. Maybe there was something wrong with the piece—perhaps restorations that no one else had noticed. The other bidders were paralyzed, and before they could pull themselves together, the gavel dropped.

The room was buzzing now. The auctioneer carried the precious mask to the back of the room. The appraiser, his arms crossed, was leaning against the wall. He towered over everyone around him. With a subtle nod, he accepted the piece.

“Congratulations. That was an impressive win.” Marion held out her hand and introduced herself.

She had been sitting not too far from him the whole time and watching him work his magic. The night before, she had started to pick up the phone several times before finally making the call. His file was missing the receipt and certificate of authenticity for the stolen shaman, so she had a valid reason to meet with him. Without even asking why she was calling, he proposed that they meet at the auction house. He gave her a detailed description of himself so she would be able to observe him. “It should be very suspenseful,” he had told her.

The appraiser had gray eyes flecked with green. He looked her over for a moment, as if he needed time to place who she was, and then he leaned in and whispered, “Did you see that? So easy, right? You just slip a bit of doubt into the minds of your opponents, and they forfeit the game.”

“Sure, but play that trick one too many times, and everyone will be wise to you,” Marion answered. “I’m curious. Why did you reveal yourself? You could have done your bidding anonymously.”

“It’s Marion, right? Look at them…” Duverger directed her attention to the new round of bidding. “I could play them a hundred times, and they’d waver every time. Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

Indifferent to the many eyes on him, he took Marion’s elbow and led her out of the room, down two flights of stairs, through a crowd of walk-ins, curiosity seekers and potential bidders, and out of the building. A Bentley, its engine running, was waiting on the Rue de Drouot. Duverger opened the back door.

“Where are we going?” Marion asked, stopping cold.

“My office.”

She hesitated, looked around the busy street, jumped at a car honking, and slipped into the backseat.

Sitting next to her, Duverger propped his elbow on the armrest. His eyes were fixed on the back of the chauffeur’s head. Marion thought he looked tense and distracted. The man also looked tired. He had a five o’clock shadow.

She watched as Duverger took out a sterling silver cigarette case with emerald cabochons. A leather jacket, gems, jeans, an expensive limo… He clearly stood out in the prissy and uptight world of art collectors and appraisers.

He lit a cigarette without asking if it bothered her. She searched the back of the limo for something to focus on. Her eyes landed on the mask. The piece that Duverger had just paid nearly two hundred thousand euros for was lying next to his foot. One careless move, and it would be as worthless as a kid’s party mask. She couldn’t believe his indifference. He stretched out his legs and turned toward her with feline flexibility.

“So, you wanted to speak with me?”

“You’re the one who contacted us.”

“I’m all ears,” he replied, amused. “What would you like to know?”

“There’s no certificate of authenticity in the file you gave us.”

“You didn’t ask for it.”

“Do you have it?”

“I bought that shaman sculpture for an American collector. At two hundred thirty thousand euros you’re allowed to call the shots.”

“There’s no receipt in your file either.”

“That’s not surprising. I don’t have one. It was an off-the-books transaction.”

She thought for a moment.

“Is that a problem?” he asked.

“With the receipt? No. But I’m a little confused.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve seen a piece that’s pretty similar to this one…” She hesitated before going for it. She didn’t know where it would lead, but she couldn’t think of a better way. “I saw it at Edmond Magni’s estate.”

“At Edmond Magni’s estate,” the appraiser repeated. He observed her for a few seconds.

He could have expressed his surprise and said something about the strange coincidence. But instead he responded, “You’re lucky you got to visit his home. Very few have been invited into his pantheon. I only got as far as his parlor and didn’t get to see any of his sculptures. How did you—”

“But you’re familiar with some of them,” she interrupted to avoid further explanation. “He was one of your clients.”

“Yes… Until about four years ago, when he cut all ties. It was right after a dinner party at his place. Probably the only one he hosted in his life. A hard thing to forget! I never saw him after that.”

That meant Duverger couldn’t have sold the pieces to her father, and there was no Studio 6 connection. So what about the stolen shaman? Maybe the case wasn’t a ruse. And yet something bothered her. This appraiser wasn’t someone who would waste his time with a lowly employee of an outfit like SearchArt. He could have dealt with her and the missing documents back at the auction house. What did he want?

“We’re here. Are you coming?” he asked, opening the door of the limo.

The car ride had lasted only a few minutes. They were just a few blocks from Hôtel Drouot, in front of a decrepit building with a chipped wrought-iron door and a façade streaked with pigeon droppings. What a cliché. Marion knew many appraisers and collectors who had offices in worse-for-the-wear buildings, as if the contrast highlighted the prestige of the professions.

Marion followed Duverger past the out-of-commission elevator and up an old staircase with a wobbly railing. Arriving on the right floor, Duverger ushered her to a heavy door that led to another heavy door, neither of which had a working security pad. The second door opened to a pathetic room that appeared to serve as a reception area. There was a melamine table with two chairs, and on it were auction catalogs. They were chained to the wall. Look but don’t touch. Cheapskates.

“This way,” Duverger said, directing her toward a larger room. “Let’s have a drink here. It’s nice and quiet. No one comes in on Saturday. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Marion didn’t know if she should be relieved or worried by his informality. She sat down on a bar stool that he had pulled from under a large oak workbench, which was strewn with optical instruments.

This strange space was a cross between an artist’s studio and an Arab market. She was surrounded by rolled-up carpets, ewers, bronze statues, warrior vases, and terra-cotta religious figures. Most of them were lying on the floor—priceless pieces treated like so much junk. Only a buyer could commit such sacrilege.

Against the walls, large display cabinets stretched from the floor to the ceiling. They were filled with precious objects. She noted Fabergé eggs, quartz axes, jade bowls, and emerald necklaces, none of which she would have expected from an expert in pre-Columbian art.

Just as she was about to get up and examine the treasures, Marion heard a loud clatter. She looked toward the noise and saw Duverger shutting the blinds. The room turned pitch-black. Not a single trace of light was able to seep through.

Startled, Marion was trying to get her bearings when she heard the appraiser walking toward her. She froze, not daring to turn around. He slowly brushed her back, then moved away. Was he holding something? Scissors, a knife, keys? The room was so silent, she could hear the ringing in her ears. Then she heard a click, and Duverger’s face was lit in the beam of an anglepoise lamp, which made his five o’clock shadow look criminal-like and his eyes beady. He adjusted the angle of the lamp.

“Vodka, bourbon?”

Marion didn’t respond. Her nerves were as taut as violin strings. Why had he closed the blinds in the middle of the day?

“I also have sparkling water and cola, if you prefer,” he pressed.

“Sparkling water please…”

Her voice drifted off. She watched the appraiser’s shadow on the ceiling lengthen as he walked toward a small refrigerator. He took out two bottles and started back, his shadow shortening to human size the closer he got. Finally, he sat down across from her, reached down and pulled up his newly acquired mask. He set it atop the workbench, directly under the lamp.

“This is how Magni said an object should be assessed once the love-at-first-sight feeling passed,” he said, gazing at the mask. “I haven’t found a better system. He’d make the room pitch black, with the exception of a single spotlight, to eliminate all distractions. If the piece was able to captivate him for several hours, his decision was made. It would stay by his side, his sole selection, while he waited for something better. But if it failed to sustain his interest, it would go in the closet. In his cellar, I’m assuming. I don’t know where he hid his collection. And yet I really thought,” he continued pensively, “that he was planning to show us. I seriously believed that was why he organized the dinner.”

Twice now Duverger had brought up the dinner, as if he was expecting Marion to pursue the subject. She decided to follow his lead.

“Which dinner?”

“Do you have time to hear the whole story? Because once I get started…” He was still staring at the mask.

She nodded, even though she had the distinct feeling that she was being steered out to sea by a crazed captain. Even more ludicrous, Duverger appeared to be talking to the mask, not her. His mimicking of Magni’s methodology bordered on absurd.

“There were fifteen of us,” Duverger said. “Magni had brought together the biggest names in the art world: historians, auctioneers, and antiques dealers. All of us shared an interest in pre-Columbian art, and we knew one another, by name at least…”

Duverger continued to observe the mask as he went on. “Think about it. One of the world’s most famous art collectors had invited us to his private mansion. A privilege that, up until this night, hadn’t been granted to anyone else. Everyone was dressed to the nines. But guess how he greeted us. Like Hugh Hefner. In a dressing gown. But this was no ordinary dressing gown. It was Persian silk. And on his feet were oriental slippers. What an impression he made. He was wearing a heavy vetiver fragrance. His hair was slicked back. And even I noticed his eyes. They were a true green with thick black lashes. He cut quite a figure. He was a Persian prince straight out of Scheherazade. All that was missing were the eunuchs. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Just imagine the expressions on the faces of the stuck-up guests squeezed into their tuxes and sequin dresses.”

Marion had no problem picturing the scene.

“They were all trying desperately to keep their cool and act as though nothing was strange. I’m sure they wanted their host to believe that nothing could shock them. After all, Magni did have a reputation of being a bit of a kook. I wondered what he had in store for us. The parlor décor was overstated, to say the least. Venetian mirrors hung all over the walls. Some of them were opposite each other, so it was easy to lose perspective. Dozens of candelabras accentuated the other-worldly feel. A table in the middle of the room was loaded with silver and orange peonies. In the corners there were Greco-Roman statues made of pink-veined marble and life-sized lions with gaping mouths. The ambiance was very strange. Very eccentric.”

Marion shifted and rubbed her hands together.

“We settled down little by little, and the conversation picked up a rhythm. Eventually we started talking about pre-Columbian art. I can still hear Joseph Chartier, the socialite and historian. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Marion couldn’t believe how a piece of art could hold anyone’s attention this long. Her mother was capable of staring at a painting for a long time, but it was nothing compared with this. Sooner or later, Duverger had to look away from the mask.

“Anyway, Chartier was all about pre-Columbian art that night—I’d say even more than the rest of us. Mind you, one-on-one, he was a sharp and insightful guy. He could tell terrific stories. But on this night, he was full of clichés and had nothing but derision for so-called art experts who never gave these Latin American pieces their due. He was prattling on and on. And he was going at it with that parvenu Alain Ozenberg, a Parisian dealer—one of the biggest in pre-Columbian art. Nobody likes Ozenberg—he’s too good-looking and too successful.”

Duverger tilted his head slightly to get a new perspective on the mask.

“Anyway, that’s when Magni stood up. ‘The greatest art, the only art, is fucking!’ he declared, raising his glass of 1929 Romanée-Conti. There he was, the renowned art collector, standing at the head of the table with his dressing gown open, giving everyone a full view of his pecs, which were actually well defined, now that I look back on it. I can tell you, the silence at that table was heavy. None of us knew how to react. You can imagine the look of fear on some of the faces.”

Duverger paused for a minute—a very long minute for Marion.

“‘Fucking calls on every sense, every emotion,’ Magni continued, looking each of us in the eye. ‘The smells, the sounds, the touch, the taste, the sight, the lust, the creativity. What other art form is more complete? Hell, after one good fuck you can’t wait to get your mojo back to go at it again. When was the last time you felt that way about a statue or a painting?’

“The woman next to me almost choked on her magret de canard. You’ll never guess who it was: Françoise Vigan.”

La Medici? What was she doing there? Sure, her boss was a great schmoozer, but Marion had a hard time imagining Magni putting her on par with all those major players and granting her a spot at his dinner table.

“As always, she was wearing black—a lace dress. It looked great on her, by the way. That’s one woman who doesn’t get thrown off easily. Am I right? But she was as white as a sheet and sweating.”

Marion was getting annoyed. Duverger was trying to mess with her. And he still hadn’t taken his eyes off the mask.

“I wanted to applaud him. Yes, he was considered an eccentric, but Magni was also shrewd, cold, relentless, and cruel. He stared at us with a victorious look on his face, while we glared back with suspicion. You see, we were prisoners of convention. A glimmer of compassion flashed in his eyes before he snapped his fingers and introduced the second act of his little farce.”

Marion stood up and started pacing. Last week she was an ordinary woman going about her ordinary life—not the daughter of a larger-than-life... What? A larger-than-life what? A number of contradicting answers to that question ran through her head.

Duverger didn’t seem to take notice of her agitation and continued his tale.

“Two women emerged from behind a silk wall hanging at the back of the room. Their bodies were tight and muscular, and their bronze skin was sprinkled with gold dust. They wore gauzy white veils, gold hammered cuffs around their necks, nariguera nose rings, and dangling earrings. They were beautiful: almond eyes, high cheekbones, and long black hair with cinnamon highlights.

“I was mesmerized, and I wasn’t the only one. I had never seen such splendid creatures. They looked like Huastec goddesses of fertility. Or rather, given the circumstances, Inca virgins that the cacique nobles and priests offered Inti, the sun god. Because, right then and there, Magni was going to sacrifice them himself!

“He swept everything in front of him off the table. He took one of the young women by the arm and laid her out. He slowly slipped his hands up her gold-sequin cloak until he reached her breasts. I glimpsed an emerald in her navel. It looked like a cat’s eye.”

Marion took note: an emerald.

“As beautiful as the girl was, I was fascinated with the stone,” the appraiser continued. “It was gorgeous, perfectly round, like a marble. Not a single flaw. Nature’s mastery at work. It was a translucent greenish-blue. I hadn’t seen this color in a very long time.”

Marion looked up instinctively in search of the jewels she had spotted in the cabinets. But the room was too dark.

“Then Magni spread her legs and opened his robe all the way. I closed my eyes. It was more than even I could handle. One after another, we stood up and got out of there. I was the last to leave. When I reached the door, I turned and saw that he was back in his chair, an arrogant smile on his face. The two majestic women were standing behind him. I pitied him.”

“You pitied him?” Marion said. “After such a display? You should have loathed him!”

“You couldn’t,” Duverger replied coolly. “He was a genius, a man with a sharp eye and an instinct that never failed. I watched his performances at the auction houses countless times. He’d stand in the doorway for a brief moment and get a feel for the room. And without fail, he’d walk right up to the most interesting object on display. He didn’t need a catalog, a certificate of analysis, or expert advice. He just knew how to read a piece. In a glance, he could tell exactly where it came from and exactly how it was used.”

Listening to Duverger, Marion realized that Bruno had been right. Magni was such a paragon, no one—not even this well-known appraiser—questioned his brilliance. As far as she was concerned, though, there was something exaggerated and ridiculous about the way people idolized him.

“He was intuitive and inspired,” Duverger continued. “And he eschewed civility and pretense. He was trying to tell us that our gut instincts and senses are just as important—if not more important—than our degrees. His message was intended for the curators who are uninformed about what they have in their museums, the people who call themselves experts because they’ve gone to the right school, and the gallery owners who run trendy businesses just so they can socialize with the big names. The problem with Magni was that his message got lost in the delivery. And that’s what happened. The day after the dinner, the only thing people were wondering was whether he actually fucked those women. They didn’t give a shit about what he was actually saying.”

Marion didn’t know what to think. What Duverger was telling her made no sense to her.

“What good is it being a master if you don’t have followers?” she eventually asked. “Magni knew that hardly anyone would get his point.”

“I thought the same thing at first, but I was wrong. He made his own rules. He wasn’t concerned with morals or conventions. He was a free agent who found animosity easier to deal with than admiration if it was coming from people or institutions that he didn’t like. He actually took joy in inspiring scorn. That’s exactly what made him free. He had no followers, no expectations, no fear.”

Marion was baffled. The more information she took in, the more confused she became. What was she to make of this man whose cellar was full of centuries-old figures with hollow eyes and oversized genitals? A man who’d invite important people to his home and then proceed to have sex in front of them. But also an intellectual tyrant who dictated what others should believe and had absolute conviction in the correctness of his own opinions.

“You seem distracted.”

“It’s just that your description of my…”

“My?” the broker repeated.

She looked up and, after making unexpected eye contact with Duverger, felt the blood rising like a schoolgirl with a flushed face.

“My client. Magni entrusted us with a file just before he died,” she said, immediately regretting the cover-up. He’d have no trouble finding out that this was a lie if he talked to La Medici.

“Ah,” Duverger replied, sounding unconvinced by her evasive response. “That would explain why you saw my shaman at his home.”

And they had come full circle. She doubted that Duverger had brought her to his office just to tell her stories about Magni and his high jinks. Was he waiting for her to trip up and using this time to observe her?

“And what if the shaman that was stolen from me is actually at his place?” Duverger asked.

Marion didn’t know how to answer. “What would it be doing there?” she was barely able to muster.

“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me…”