A Nearly Perfect Copy (27 page)

“Hmmm,” she said, noncommittally. “The others?”

“Another Canaletto,” he said. It was from the same papermaker, which made sense. It showed a bit of water, a rare Canaletto subject, a gondola in the distant background, rowed by just the suggestion of a gondolier.

He stood by her, a respectful distance, his hands clasped in front of him, rocking on his toes. He looked at the ground so as not to make her nervous. He did everything a dealer was supposed to do.

When he showed her the Piranesi, the word
no
rose up in her like a belch. She managed to quell it before it escaped her lips. An odd reaction to what was by all accounts a beautiful drawing.

What, she asked herself, was that voice responding to? She realized it was responding to her assumption that this drawing was by Piranesi. Her reptilian brain was telling her that her first impression had been not quite right. It was this inner voice, this eye, that made Elm a superior attributer. Unfortunately, attribution was only half of a department head’s job. She forced herself to focus. The paper and materials were period-appropriate, no mass-produced postindustrial concoctions. The intricacy of the drawing suggested that it was a finished work, as opposed to a sketch for a copperplate engraving. However, the scene was one she recognized from
View of the Arch of Constantine
which meant it would most likely have been rendered as a practice for a definitive later work. But Piranesi was famous for etching straight onto the plate, drawing on his draftsman skills and prodigious memory for the details. It was not inconceivable that he would sketch out his plans for an etching beforehand, but all the extant studies attributed to Piranesi were crude outlines, lacking the inspiration and aestheticism of the finished product.

Similarly, its unity of style disturbed her. Piranesi’s theories on the development of human civilization and pastiche’s important role in that development, especially in the artistic realm, were well publicized. He liked to mash up various line strengths, tones, improvisations, and impressions. This drawing adhered to a rather rigorous Baroque temperament. She would have to examine it further against a previously authenticated Piranesi, or against a facsimile of
View of the Arch of Constantine,
but if she had to decide right now, she would say it belonged to one of Piranesi’s followers, his École, or an acolyte. This uncertainty would not stop her from placing the piece in the auction, but it would be reflected in how the drawing was listed in the catalog and in its final price. This should not be listed as Giovanni Battista Piranesi.

“And now for the Hiverains.”

She hovered over the first drawing, let a holistic impression fill her before focusing on any detail. It was a Connois, undoubtedly. A sketch, unsigned. Sketches came in four versions, Elm always thought. Important artist, important sketch, like, say, a study for a Rembrandt self-portrait; important artist, uninteresting sketch, like Tintoretto’s doodles, or ten incomplete versions of a hand by Rembrandt; fascinating sketches by arguably more minor artists, or artists in the atelier; and dogs’ heads by no one you’ve ever heard of. Interestingly, the first and third sold best at auction. No one wanted an anatomy lesson to hang on their living room wall, even if it was by Fra Lippo Lippi.

She picked up the paper carefully and held it up to the wan light. It had the right texture for nineteenth-century paper, pulpy and uneven, meaty. This first sketch impressed her. Connois was an artist’s artist, but this was beautiful, a work of art that stood among the best examples of Les Hiverains. It was a close study of a woman’s face. Elm examined the lines, following the artist’s hand in the process of laying the ink on the page. The lines were fluid, graceful. Even the thatching in the background was smooth and consistent. The woman’s face was complicated: one of her eyes was smaller; in the other one, a cataract was just beginning to form. Her nose had a broken bump, while her hair peeked out from her scarf. The lines radiating from the corners of her eyes betrayed a lifetime spent outdoors.

Perhaps it was the years of practice she’d had in searching out every face for the familiar features of Ronan. Perhaps she was simply well trained in her profession. She thought she recognized the woman in the drawing. It was the same woman who appeared in Indira’s Connois with the uneven eyes; most artists would correct a defect like that when drawing, either consciously or for aesthetics’ sake. But Connois had not. How strange, that this woman would appear suddenly in two previously unknown pieces of art. It was possibly simply a coincidence; Elm could think of explanations, but the fact that she had to make excuses for the art set off warning bells.

Attempting to maintain her poker face, she looked at the other two drawings. Now she was certain; they were too perfect. The watermarks were all different, which would be surprising considering that artists usually found a paper they liked and stuck with it. Also, they were all “typical” Connois scenes, the dry landscapes, the marketplaces, the wild dogs and peasants. Too typical. Connois drew these every day. It was hard to imagine that he would need to sketch them out in such detail at this point in his career. Composition, yes; new elements, yes; but a barking dog would have been second nature.

The artist, whoever he or she was, must have seen Indira’s
Mercat
when the auction was announced. The image appeared widely in all the art blogs. He must have taken that as inspiration. By the time she came to the little girl with a dog she’d seen in PDF form, her suspicions were impossible to dismiss. These were most likely forgeries. The question was, did Klinman know, or was he being duped? Did he draw these himself, or was there a separate artist in on the scam?

She tried to maintain her composure. “What are the provenances like?” she asked.

“These were in the families of German Jews with trading and import concerns,” he said. “Never sold. They were stolen during the war. The descendants finally got them back when the court case was settled in England last year. Now there are too many descendants to split them up, so they are taking them to market.”

Elm turned the first drawing over. There was no mark indicating it had ever been sold at auction, but there was a faint pencil inscription, “Exhibit C,” in the lower-right-hand corner.

“I could verify this?”

“Of course, Madame,” he said. “They were among items recovered from a cave outside Berlin. The suit was brought by many families. I don’t believe the results were made public. The German government likes to keep these things quiet—they make a big fanfare about reparations, but they don’t disclose the details.”

“A cave?” Elm asked.

“Archivally controlled of course. The Nazis were barbaric only when it came to humans. With art they were as careful as surgeons. And, of course, there was jewelry and
objets
too. The Jewish community was not poor. I myself had the opportunity to examine many of the items—I was a plaintiff in the case, though I probably shouldn’t disclose that.
These are not my drawings, rest assured. In fact, none of the valuables recovered belonged to my family, as far as we could ascertain, but the take was really quite beautiful.”

Elm wasn’t sure exactly of the appropriate response. Should she apologize? Express sympathy? She asked to examine the paperwork, and he handed her a binder, each document in a plastic protective sheath. Sworn, notarized statements from German and Austrian Jews. Narratives of discovery: a hidden safe, the opening of a vault in Switzerland, the death of an old man posing as a Gentile. A blurry photograph of a Weimar Republic family around a dinner table in front of what may or may not have been the third sketch of women digging on the beach. Certificates of authenticity from the experts at Sotheby’s in London and the curator of drawings from the Louvre, a man Elm had met over the years. Maybe not sufficient for a museum acquisition, but enough for an auction, or a private sale.

Elm looked at Klinman. He met her gaze. She tried to imagine what he might look like if he were actively deceiving her, but he was inscrutable, open, inviting her questions and smiling around the eyes hopefully, a bit desperately, as if he needed her to take these drawings off his hands, a burden that he was tired of shouldering. He was an excellent actor. She was shocked by his audacity, and too afraid to call him on it in this strange, secluded hotel room.

“Your sellers are anonymous?”

“They do not have the means with which to insure these drawings at the moment. It’s best if their names are not available.”

That made sense. Many people didn’t want others to know what kind of treasures they were keeping in their modest two-bedroom flats. The art may be worth a fortune, but it doesn’t help pay rent or put food on the table until it goes to auction.

Elm should just accept them, she thought. No one else would suspect their origins; no one else had the eye. She should be thrilled. She should be exhilarated. The next auction would go well; Greer would be happy; she’d prove she deserved her position. But something felt wrong. Why was it, she wondered, that sensations were always felt in your torso? Occasionally knees knocked and palms sweated, but everything else felt like a punch to the stomach, a knife in the belly, a tug at the heart.

“Let me make a few phone calls,” she said. “I’ll let you know soon.” She would send him an e-mail in a day or two, thanking him politely but
saying that she didn’t think they were right for the house at this time, and wishing him luck in his endeavors.

“Please do,” Klinman said. “Some of my clients are very old, and need medical help as well as closure, as you Americans say.”

The hallway was brightly lit in contrast with the darkened room, and Elm had to blink when she stepped out. Klinman shut the door behind her softly, barely allowing it to click.

The inside of the Mercedes was upholstered in white leather, which Elm found ostentatious until it melted around her body as she sat in it. The backseat contained a folder of information to thumb through while the uniformed driver twisted and curved his way out of Paris. He barely spoke to her, only asking if the temperature was all right, and if she wanted music or silence, which increased her nervousness. Then he told her to look at her feet for the cooler if she wanted water while en route. It would take them about forty-five minutes, he said. He did not ask her if it was her first time in Paris, or comment on how lucky she was with the weather.

She fidgeted. If she crossed her legs, she slid at each turn across the white leather, but her feet weren’t comfortable on the pristinely upholstered floor. She opened the folder. The literature was specific. It diagrammed how the clone would be produced (
engendered
was the word they used). There was a sheet of paper on what to expect for the mother with a list of medications to take, and an additional sheet for the father. Elm noticed that neither had any of the clinic’s contact information. She was abruptly terrified. She put one hand on top of the other to stop their shaking. When that didn’t work, she tucked both under her thighs until they were numb from lack of circulation.

She sat back and looked out the window to calm herself. She opened it a crack to get some air and the driver immediately turned the fan on so that cold air blew on her shins. They were in the suburbs now. The housing projects rose from the ground, broken windows like corn cobs missing kernels. Men sat on the benches in playgrounds, the old ones resting their hands on their canes, the younger ones performing calisthenics. The few women Elm saw were wearing dark robes and long veils that hid their faces. She knew the outskirts of Paris were mostly Muslim, but she didn’t expect to feel like she’d traveled to Yemen. She
didn’t think that the buildings would look so much like Detroit. Or, rather, if she was honest, like
Escape from New York
.

And then, just as suddenly, the projects ended and a field began. The scenery turned rural—a few stone farmhouses, an old barn. Some were obviously second homes whose manicured English lawns and in-ground pools betrayed their owners’ wealth, while others were occupied by farmers. The small gardens were staked out back, tomato plants just beginning to climb. Occasionally, they passed through a small town, the houses built right up to the road, dating from before the invention of cars. Her driver sped through these towns, and Elm bobbed with the turns, attempting to avoid an open shutter or a leaning broom she was sure they were going to hit. As they drove by curtains ruffled, and Elm got a split-second glimpse into someone’s life—a woman washing a baby in a large sink, a teenager talking on a telephone, an old man napping in a reclining chair—before they were out of the small town and back in the fields.

Elm thought the driver was deliberately trying to disorient her so that she wouldn’t be able to find her way back to the clinic. He needn’t have bothered. Elm’s sense of direction was so poor she often relied on Moira to remember where they were going. Or they could have blindfolded her and gone directly, saved everyone some time.

They circled a roundabout and headed down a long dirt road that had recently been graded. When they got to a fence, seemingly in the middle of a field, the driver leaned out the window and swiped a card. The gate swung in. Only once they were inside did she see the guard station.