8

With a heap of discarded clothes at her feet, Marion flirted with her image in the mirror. She had slipped gray silk stockings on her toned legs and wiggled into a form-fitting suit the color of eggplant. She wanted to look businesslike. But she had chose a blouse with a low neckline that offered a glimpse of her décolletage.

“Just a little bit daring,” she said to herself. “It might help.”

Yesterday she had decided against going to Alain Ozenberg’s gallery. After her meeting with Gaudin, she had only enough strength to stop at the office to check on her calls and emails and make an appointment or two. This morning, however, she was taking action. The message was clear: Duverger was capable of putting his money where his mouth was. Poker game or not, Marion would have to deal with him. As for Gaudin, he was still an enigma, more prepared to act defensively than offensively. Or was it the reverse?

Marion stepped back from the mirror and re-evaluated her image. She hadn’t felt this sexy in a long time—not since Peter. She dug through her jewelry, clasped a cameo necklace at the back of her neck, and pulled her most expensive pumps out of the closet. Was it overkill? She sat down on her bed.

“Come on, no second-guessing,” she told herself. She got up and left the apartment.

She got of the metro at the Miromesnil stop and headed south, not noticing the few galleries on Avenue Matignon. She turned left on the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Nearing the address, she stopped at a storefront window to readjust her skirt. It was too short. That color on her lips: too dark. And how she’d like a pair of those Christian Louboutin shoes that were staring back at her. What was happening to her?

Reaching Ozenberg’s gallery, she took a deep breath, raised her chin, put all doubts out of her mind, and opened the door.

She saw no one inside, just a few cameras pointed toward the sculptures, rendered more human-like by the honey-colored lighting. The room wasn’t big, but the mirrored walls created an illusion of space.

“He’s watching me from upstairs,” she told herself after spotting a spiral staircase. Marion did her best to focus on a terra-cotta with stumpy arms and legs in the middle of the room. The figure, brandishing a dog-headed stick, looked ready to pounce on the enemy at any moment.

“What do you think?”

She turned around, surprised not by the sound of his voice, which was oddly soft and deep at the same time, but by the question itself. Most art and antiques dealers in this district wore a cloak of arrogance. They bragged about their pieces rather than eliciting comments. Nonchalantly leaning against the staircase railing, Alain Ozenberg was looking at her thoughtfully.

“It seems both petrified and aggressive at the same time. I certainly wouldn’t want him for an opponent.” Marion had practiced her approach. She intended to present herself as a broker, and this would require choosing her words with care.

“I’m familiar with the effect this figure has on people. I’ve felt it myself,” he said, descending the stairs and walking over to her with a welcoming smile. “Of all the terra-cotta figures I’ve ever owned, this is one of the most difficult ones to understand. It certainly has a uniqueness, along with a powerful energy.” Marion felt his eyes on her.

“You can only imagine what this man went through to carry so much fear into the afterlife,” Marion said, still staring at the sculpture.

“Death in those days was often very cruel.”

“I admit I’d prefer a peaceful death,” she said, surprised by the course the conversation was taking.

“I guess living a well-ordered life is conducive to that kind of end.”

“No, I just prefer to confront issues in a civil and rational way.”

“Hmm, that sounds like it’s coming from someone who’s trying to avoid pain at all costs.”

She wanted to change the conversation and steer it in a direction that wasn’t so personal. But she couldn’t resist responding.

“What makes you think we’re obligated to endure pain?”

“We’re human, aren’t we? Pain is inevitable, especially once your soul is on the line.”

“I’m more the measured type.”

The art dealer fixed his gray eyes on hers. “Something makes me wonder about that.”

The silence lingered as they stared at each other. Marion couldn’t get a make on him. His questions and opinions were probing, and she should have felt uncomfortable. But she didn’t. He was listening to her. She almost felt like she was back in school, debating a fellow student. This could be fun, she thought.

The telephone rang.

“My business associate. She always checks in about now. Please excuse me.”

Marion wanted to focus, but she couldn’t. Feeling awkward in her heels, she wandered from one sculpture to the next while stealthily eyeing Ozenberg, who was standing at a writing desk nestled beneath the stairs. His back was turned to her. She figured he was around forty-five. He wasn’t especially good-looking. Well, at least not as good-looking as Chris had led her to believe. But he gave the impression of being kind and strong. Poised. Seductive.

“Yes, yes. Wildly attractive.”

Ozenberg turned toward her, making eye contact. Marion immediately looked away.

“Calm down,” Marion told herself. “He’s not talking about you.” Or was he?

“She’s here… No, no, that hasn’t happened to me in a very long time,” he said to the caller.

The sound of his voice was making Marion tremble. She was deeply confused—in a way that both puzzled and excited her.

Ozenberg hung up the phone. He didn’t move for a moment and seemed lost in thought. Then he slicked his hair back and headed over to her.

“Well, it seems that we’ve covered quite a bit of ground, but I still haven’t asked why you’re here.”

Marion figured she was looking bewildered, because he took another stab.

“Perhaps you stumbled upon my gallery by accident?”

“No, I came for this sculpture…”

Marion rummaged through her bag and took out a picture.

“You acquired it at an auction. It belonged to Edmond Magni.”

“That’s correct,” he said, examining the image before giving it back to her. “It’s an outstanding piece—it has such grace. It’s rare to find female figurines from the Gran Pajatén area, but the ones you do find are usually pregnant, like this one. So you’re interested in the sculpture?”

“Yes, I’m looking for it.”

“Who are you working for?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you.”

“In that case, I’m not authorized to sell.”

“So it’s for sale?”

He grinned. “You’re quick on the uptake, aren’t you? I’m sorry for giving you the wrong idea. The person who owns that sculpture would never part with it.”

“The right proposition could change a person’s mind,” she answered.

“This object is priceless. At least that’s how the owner feels.”

“Let me try to persuade him.”

“You’ll never do that.”

“How can you be so sure?”

The businessman walked back to his desk and began going through the messages on his cell phone. Had she gone too far too fast? Had she offended him? She stepped over to him, shifted her weight from one foot to the other as she waited for a response. Her feet, squeezed into the pumps, were throbbing. He finally looked up from his phone.

“Trust me. This client clings to her past. And this sculpture is part of it. Forget about it. You’re wasting your time.”

She wasn’t going to give up. She tried another approach.

“Get that sculpture, and sell it to me,” she said in the sweetest voice she could muster.

He laughed. Marion hadn’t expected that kind of reaction.

“I like your style,” he said at last. “I don’t know if I should attribute it to inexperience or excitement. You certainly have a childlike enthusiasm. I love it.” He hesitated before whispering, as if speaking to himself, “We’ll see how much you really care about this sculpture.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“The lady won’t quit! Look, you don’t have a lot of options here. Either you give up on this, or you turn a blind eye to ethics…” He observed her for a moment. “You probably haven’t been in the business long enough to have dealt with this kind of choice. But if you stick with it, you will.” He stepped closer. She could feel his breath on her face.

Marion’s breathing quickened. Was it because of Ozenberg? Or because she was so close to her goal?

“Forget about what we just discussed. Put it out of your mind. I have another proposition. This one is much more realistic,” he said with such natural ease, he didn’t seem to doubt her response for a second. “It’s a sculpture from the same civilization. It also belonged to Magni. Another masterpiece. An emerald-encrusted warrior.”

Marion barely held back a gasp. She quickly looked down at her feet so her eyes wouldn’t give her away.

“Don’t get too excited,” the art dealer let out with friendly sarcasm after a few moments of silence.

“I was thinking,” she said, forcing a smile. “Unfortunately, I’m not the only one involved in this decision.”

“At least have a look at the piece. Call me tomorrow morning. I’ll set up a meeting. And we’ll be able to see each other again…”

~ ~ ~

Marion was out of his sight by now. Her feet were barely touching the ground. Chris would never believe she managed to stifle her interest in the warrior while staying unflustered by Ozenberg’s charm. It made her almost as giddy as the idea of getting her hands on one of Magni’s sculptures.

Marion slowed down and reviewed her final moments with Ozenberg. Something was bothering her. Didier Combes was investigating Chartier’s warrior, and another one had popped up at the exact same time. What if it was the same one? She dismissed the thought. Hadn’t she told Chris a few hours earlier that thousands of them had been made? The antiques dealer did appear questionable, offering her a not-so-orthodox deal. What had prompted him to do that? Her determination, her excitement, her gullibility? Marion stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk. What if she were deluding herself? What if the dealer knew nothing about her or the clauses in the will?

Feeling distraught, Marion looked around. She had ended up on a dark and hemmed-in side street. But at the end of the street was the Louvre, enshrouded in a luminous mist.

Marion headed toward the museum. What if she just assumed that everyone was in the know? Wouldn’t that make life a whole lot easier?