Contents (109)
- Contents
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- The South of France
- Author’s Note
- Reading Group Guide
- A Conversation with the Author
- Acknowledgments
- About the Author
I wrapped the painting with cloth and tied it with twine. I turned the story over in my mind. I would say I had returned a forgery to the Louvre. Which I had! That I had hidden the original for after my release from prison. And now I wanted to sell it.
It sounded plausible. Possibly even true. A plan I knew I could carry out. I had followed couriers from Chaudron’s studio to art collectors and dealers. I would go to these buyers now. Tell them the paintings they had purchased were forgeries. That the one I had was real. Perhaps I would not be lying. I had already accomplished the impossible task of stealing the world’s most famous painting. From the world’s most famous museum. Selling it would be easy.
I undressed. Found clothes in the bedroom closet that fit me well enough. I looked for my journal. Then remembered Valfiero and Chaudron had taken it.
I burned my bloodstained clothes. Spread the ashes. Prepared to leave. But Chaudron’s forgeries flashed in my mind. Poisoned my gut. I wanted to rid the world of these fakes. These abominations. These counterfeit beauties!
I grabbed the half-finished Mona Lisa off the easel and put my foot through it! Gripped the Dutch still life and did the same. Tugged the English landscape off its nail. Studied the forger’s masterful hand for a moment before using a palette knife to slit the canvas until it hung from the stretcher in shards. I threw the Madonna and child to the floor and stomped on it. Wood splintered beneath my feet. Then I stood back to survey the damage. I dug the tin of La Paz from my pocket. Rolled a cigarette. Lit it. Waved the match out. Dropped it to the floor. And turned to go.
It was then I noticed the small flicker of red. My match. Still alive. On a tangle of oily rags. I stomped on it with my heavy boots. But the sparks spit and scattered. The flames curled in the direction of Chaudron’s palette table. Toward bottles of oil. An open tin of turpentine. I tried to crush the flames with my hands. Singed my palms. Stumbled back. I watched the flames undulate and twirl. Hypnotized. How easy it would be to lie down and let them take me. To join Simone. I inhaled the smoke into my lungs. Felt it begin to constrict my breath.
Then an image of you Simon my newborn son flared in my mind brighter than any fire. I knew I had to live. I tore from the studio. Out the front door. Swallowed deep gulps of cold night air.
I had the cash I had taken off Fournier in my pocket. I put the painting in the back seat of the bank president’s Berliet. And I was ready.
My hands were shaking but I started the motorcar. I had driven little in my life but had a feel for engines and driving came naturally. I maneuvered the Berliet onto the main road. The car’s mirror reflected writhing flames of red. The crackling sound of burning wood competed with the sound of the motorcar’s rumbling engine. But I did not look back.