Twelve

My mom and dad were waiting on the curb outside the Costes, obviously stoked to be zooming around Paris. My mom had on a funky little chapeau and scarf set and my dad was humming a French song titled “La Mer” and snapping his fingers like a possessed lounge singer. Fortunately, the risk of running into anyone from my school was microscopically tiny.

“So, the Centre Pompidou has the George restaurant, which happens to have the most spectacular views of the city to go along with fabulous dining,” my mom bubbled, guidebook in hand.

“And a wonderful collection of surrealist art, things you’ll never see at the Louvre or the D’Orsay,” said my dad.

Dizzy dropped us off near the museum. “And don’t forget the Stravinsky Fountain, just beyond the square. A must-see!”

“Wow, it looks like they forgot to put the walls on the building,” said my dad.

“That’s modern architecture for you,” said Dizzy.

“It reminds me of Bright Child,” said my mom. “Remember, honey, when I took you to that baby gym and we’d slide down those big tubes together?”

I could see what she meant, and weirdly, it didn’t seem like that long ago. Is that what happens when you’re with your parents? Regression to childhood just a memory away? My mom took the escalator to the top floor and the breathtaking view while my dad and I went straight for the work of the surrealists like Miro, Dali, and Marcel Duchamp. Now, Marcel is a guy who submitted a toilet to an art exhibit and was surprised when he got turned down! You have to admire the nerve. He also did a version of the Mona Lisa with a moustache and a goatee. I wonder if her recent renovator was inspired by Marcel. My dad opted for the audio tour, which meant that he did a lot of unnecessary shouting, but at least I didn’t have to worry about a repeat performance of “La Mer” at the museum. With parents, you never know what to expect.

It was here I fell in love with Magritte — René that is. The wacky Belgian with the raining men, the floating rock, and the guy in the raincoat and bowler hat with the apple in front of his face. Apple man kind of resembled the Magritte I knew. Wow! I could see where the inspector’s personal style came from. My immediate favourite painting was called The Red Model and it was bizarre and delightful. A pair of shoes turned into a pair of bare feet and I just kept looking at it, wondering why I was so fascinated, when my dad approached and pulled off one headphone.

“So, you like Magritte?”

“I love him, especially this one.” Then I realized where part of the fascination lay. The shoes, I mean the feet, were two left feet. When I pointed this out to my dad, he pulled off his other headphone and stared at the painting for a long time.

“What?” I said.

“Well,” he said hesitantly, “unless my memory has completely left the planet, this is wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Very wrong. Magritte’s painting is identical to this one, but has one left foot and one right.”

We looked at each other with what I’m sure was the same thought. Without saying anything, we raced down the hall to the book and gift shop and hastily looked up the painting. There it was — The Red Model — two boots turning into two feet, one left and one right. We looked at each other in silence and then rushed back to the painting, where visitors were taking it in with the rest of the surrealist art as if nothing was amiss.

An hour later, the other Magritte, the living, breathing one, was doing that little steeple thing with his fingers, pursing his lips and nodding silently, while all around him people waited impatiently. The museum’s visitors had all been escorted from the crime scene. The Red Model still had two left feet, and everyone in the small gathering of employees and security personnel wondered, in whispers, how long it had been that way and why no one had noticed. It wasn’t long before our favourite reporter, sixties hair in place, swept down upon the scene, filled with breathless concern. She thrust a microphone in front of the inspector.

“Inspector Magritte, is this meant as a personal message to you, and by association the authorities, this newest art attack on the work of René Magritte?”

In a windowless underground apartment in the south of France, in the picturesque walled town of Saint-Paul de Vence, an immaculately dressed, grey-haired man took special pleasure in this moment.

Magritte paused, uncharacteristically, perhaps flustered. “Louise, I appreciate your concern, and of course that of your many viewers, as well as your deep interest in the artistic lifeblood of Paris.” Louise seemed to be following Magritte so far. “But just as the great surrealist, no relation, would explore the realm of the subconscious, asking such questions as ‘Where does the pillow end and the dream begin,’ we can never know, with certainty, the true intention of any act, can we?”

Louise was not going to be diverted so easily today and dramatically tossed her hair back before continuing. “But don’t you think that the choice of a Magritte to deface and the image of two left feet is perhaps a critique of the competence of those charged with solving these crimes?” Louise tried to look sincerely concerned, but she had the journalistic blade out at this point.

“Why yes, it just might be,” cackled the little man, applauding the events unfolding on his TV screen, “don’t let him off the hook, Mademoiselle Louise!”

For Magritte the philosophical smokescreen came so easily. “Like the mystery at the heart of Magritte’s work, nothing is ultimately concealed.” Louise’s brow furrowed, and before she could think of a comeback, Magritte added, “I feel I must mention my gratitude to our young American friend who made this unfortunate but necessary discovery. Mademoiselle Mac?” He searched the room, spotting me before I could escape, and gently guided me in front of the camera.

“Mac, how did you know it was a forgery?” Louise asked earnestly.

“Umm, well, I didn’t really,” I said, looking toward my mom and dad, who beamed nervously. “It just seemed weird to me, I mean more weird than it’s supposed to be. The two left feet that is.”

“Are you a student of art?”

“Sort of. But is this art? Not the original, of course, but what’s been done to it.”

The smug expression on the little man, alone in his room, faded quickly and he muttered to himself, “Is it art? Who is she to ask? Is collage art? Is a toilet art?”

“I mean it’s clever, obviously done by someone with the skill of an artist.” I wasn’t sure where my confidence was coming from. “But with the mind of a child.”

“What?” shouted the forger himself to no one. “How would this teenager, from America of all places, have the slightest idea what I’m trying to say with my work?”

“It’s pretty selfish to deprive the world of great art, just to make a joke,” I said, on a roll now. “I wish whoever did this would grow a conscience and give Paris back its beautiful paintings.” The room erupted in applause, completely surprising me.

“A joke?” the little man raged. “A joke? We’ll see who laughs at my genius.” He slammed down his drink, shaking with anger and shattering the glass.

“Well, Mademoiselle Mac, thanks for putting this latest insult to art in perspective,” said Louise, relieved to wrap up.

Having received way more attention than I bargained for, needed, or felt I deserved from the staff at the Centre Pompidou, and of course my parents, I was glad to get out of the building. We had tried to check out the view that my mom raved about, but people kept wanting to take their picture with me. Dizzy had caught my act on the TV at CAFTA and was waiting for us at the Stravinsky Fountain — which is fantastic, by the way. We had an interesting family dinner at Alcazar in the sixth, revisiting the day’s events and trying to connect them with the “art attacks” that had occurred since Christmas, which felt like it was a month ago. Come to think of it, this morning’s training session with Blag felt like it had taken place in another lifetime.