Chapter 12. The Rendezvous Point

“They? Who hasn’t paid? Paid what?”

“This money is mine. Own personal. From the house safe.

Stopped in Antwerp to get it. Nicer this way—nicer for you to open, no? Christmas morning? Ho Ho Ho? But you have a lot more coming.”

I turned the stack of money over and looked at it: forward and back. Banded, straight from Citibank.

“ ‘Thank you Boris.’ ‘Oh, no problem,’ ” he answered, ironical y, in his own voice. “Glad to do it.’ ”

Money in stacks. Outside the event. Crisp in the hand. There was some kind of obvious content or emotion to the whole thing I wasn’t getting.

“As I say—fraction of. Two mil ion euro. In dol ars much much more. So—merry Christmas! My gift to you! I can open you an account in Switzerland for the rest of it and give you a bank book

and that way—what?” he said, recoiling almost, when I put the stack of bil s in the bag, snapped it shut, and shoved it back at him. “No!

It’s yours!”

“I don’t want it.”

“I don’t think you understand! Let me explain, please.”

“I said I don’t want it.”

“Potter—” folding his arms and looking at me coldly, the same look he’d given me in the Polack bar—“a different man would walk out laughing now and never come back.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I—” looking around the room, as if at a loss for a reason why—“I wil tel you why not! For old times’ sake. Even though you treat me like a criminal. And because I want to make things up to you—”

“Make what up?”

“Sorry?”

“What, exactly? Wil you explain it to me? Where the hel did this money come from? How does this fix a fucking thing?”

“Wel , actual y, you should not be so quick to jump to—”

“I don’t care about the money!” I was half-screaming. “I care about the painting! Where’s the painting?”

“If you would just wait a second and not fly off the—”

“What’s this money for? Where’s it from? From what source, exactly? Bil Gates? Santa Claus? The Tooth Fairy?”

“Please. You are like your dad with the drama.”

“Where is it? What’d you do with it? It’s gone, isn’t it? Traded?

Sold?”

“No, of course I—hey—” scraping his chair back hastily—“Jesus, Potter, calm down. Of course I didn’t sel it. Why would I do any such?”

“I don’t know! How should I know? What was al this for? What was the point of any of this? Why did I even come here with you?

Why’d you have to drag me into it? You thought you’d bring me over here to help you kil people? Is that it?”

“I’ve never kil ed anybody in my life,” said Boris haughtily.

“Oh, God. Did you just say that? Am I supposed to laugh? Did I real y just hear you say you never—”

“That was self defense. You know it. I do not go around hurting people for the fun of it but I wil protect myself if I have to. And you,”

he said, talking imperiously over me, “with Martin, apart from the fact I would not be here now and most likely you neither—”

“Wil you do me a favor? If you won’t shut up? Wil you maybe go over there and stand for a minute? Because I real y don’t want to see you or look at you now.”

“—with Martin the police, if they knew, they would give you a medal and so would many others, innocent, not now living, thanks to him. Martin was—”

“Or, actual y, you could leave. That’s probably better.”

“Martin was a devil. Not al human. Not al his fault. He was born that way. No feelings, you know? I have known Martin to do much worse things to people than shooting them. Not to us, ” he said, hastily, waving his hand, as if this were the point of al misunderstanding. “Us, he would have shot out of courtesy, and none of his other badness and evil. But—was Martin a good man? A proper human being? No. He was not. Frits was no flower, either. So

—this remorse and pain of yours—you must view it in a different light. You must view it as heroism in service of higher good. You cannot always take such a dark perspective of life al the time, you know, it is very bad for you.”

“Can I ask you just one thing?”

“Anything.”

“Where’s the painting?”

“Look—” Boris sighed, and looked away. “This was the best I could do. I know how much you wanted it. I did not think you would be quite so upset not to have it.”

“Can you just tel me where it is?”

“Potter—” hand on heart—“I’m sorry you are so angry. I was not expecting this. But you said you weren’t going to keep it anyway. You were going to give it back. Isn’t that what you said?” he added when I kept on staring at him.

“How the hel is this the right thing?”

“Wel , I’l tel you! If you would shut up and let me talk! Instead of ranting back and forth and frothing at mouth and spoiling our Christmas!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Idiot.” Rapping his temple with his knuckles. “Where do you think this money came from?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“This is the reward money!”

“Reward?”

“Yes! For safe return of!”

It took a moment. I was standing. I had to sit down.

“Are you angry?” said Boris careful y.

Voices in the hal way. Dul winter light glinting off the brass lampshade.

“I thought you would be pleased. No?”

But I had not recovered sufficiently to speak. Al I could do was stare, in dumbfoundment.

At my expression, Boris shook the hair out of his face and laughed. “You gave me the idea yourself. I don’t think you knew how great it was! Genius! I wish had thought of it myself. ‘Cal the art cops, cal the art cops.’ Wel —crazy! So I thought at the time. You’re a bit nuts on this subject to be perfectly honest. Only then—” he shrugged—“unfortunate events took course, as you only too wel know, and after we parted on the bridge I spoke to Cherry, what to do, what to do, wringing our hands a bit, and we did a little nosing around, and—” lifting his glass to me—“wel in fact, a genius idea!

Why should I doubt you? Ever? You are the brains of al this from the start! While I am in Alaska—walking five miles to petrol station to steal a Nestlé bar—wel , look at you. Mastermind! Why should I ever doubt you? Because—I look into it, and—” throwing up his arms

—“you were right. Who would have thought? Over mil ion dol ars for your picture out there in reward money! Not even picture! Information leading to recovery of picture! No questions asked! Cash, free and clear—!”

Outside, snow was flying against the window. Next door, someone was coughing hard, or laughing hard, I couldn’t tel which.

“Back and forth, back and forth, al these years. A game for suckers. Inconvenient, dangerous. And—question I am asking myself now—why did I even bother? with al this legal money straight-up for the claiming? Because—you were right—straight

business thing for them. No questions asked whatever. Al they cared about was getting the picture back.” Boris lit a cigarette and dropped the match with a hiss in his water glass. “I did not see it myself, I wish I had—did not think a good idea to stick around if you get me. German SWAT team! Vests, guns. Drop everything! Lie down! Great commotion and crowd in the street! Ah, I would have loved to see the look on Sascha’s face!”

“You phoned the cops?”

“Wel not me personal y! My boy Dima—Dima is furious at the Germans because of the shooting in his garage. Completely unnecessary, and a big headache for him. See—” restlessly, he crossed his legs, blew out a big cloud of smoke—“I had an idea where they had the picture. There’s an apartment in Frankfurt. Used to belong to an old girlfriend of Sascha’s. People keep stuff there.

But no way in hel could I get in, even with half a dozen guys. Keys, alarms, cameras, passcode. Only problem—” yawning, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand—“wel , two problems. First one is that police need probable cause to search the apartment. You can not just cal with name of thief, anonymous citizen being helpful if you know what I mean. And second problem—I could not remember the exact address of the place. Very very secretive—I have only been there once—late at night, and not in best of condition. Knew roughly the neighborhood… used to be squats, now is very nice…

had Gyuri drive me up the streets and down, up the streets and down. Took for fucking ever. Final y—? I had it pinned to a row of houses but was not one hundred percent sure which. So I got out and walked it. Scared as I was, to be on that street—afraid to be seen—I got out of the car and walked it. With my own two feet. Eyes closed halfway. Hypnotized myself a bit, you know, trying to remember number of steps? Trying to feel it in my body? Anyway—I am getting ahead of myself. Dima—?” he was picking assiduously through the breads on the tablecloth—“Dima’s cousin’s sister in law, ex-sister in law actual y, married a Dutchman, and they have a son named Anton—twenty-one maybe, twenty-two, squeaky clean, surname van den Brink—Anton is Dutch citizen and has grown up speaking Dutch so this is helpful for us too if you get me. Anton—”

nibbling on a rol : making a face, spitting a rye seed between his

teeth—“Anton works in a bar where many rich people go, off P. C.

Hooftstraat, fancy Amsterdam—Gucci Street, Cartier street. Good kid. Speaks English, Dutch, only two words maybe of Russian.

Anyway Dima had Anton phone the police and report that he had seen two Germans, one of which answers to precise description of Sascha—granny glasses, ‘Little House on the Prairie’ shirt, tribal tattoo on his hand which Anton is able to draw exactly, from photograph we supplied—anyway, Anton telephoned the art police and told them he had seen these Germans drunk as gods in his bar, arguing, and they are so angry and upset they had left behind—

what? A folder! Wel of course it is a doctored folder. We were going to do a phone, a doctored phone, but none of us were nerd enough to be sure we did it total y untraceable. So—I printed out some photos… photo I showed you, plus some others that I happened to have on my phone… finch along with relatively recent issue of newspaper to date it, you know. Two years old newspaper but—no matter. Anton just happened to find this folder, see, under a chair, with some other documents from the Miami thing, you know, to connect to prior sighting. Frankfurt address conveniently inserted, as wel as Sascha’s name. Al this is Myriam’s idea, she deserves the credit, you should buy Myriam big drink when you get back home.

FedExed some things from America—very very convincing. It has Sascha’s name, it has—”

“Sascha’s in jail?”

“Indeed he is.” Boris cackled. “We get the ransom, museum gets the painting, cops get to close the case, insurance company gets its money back, public is edified, everyone wins.”

“Ransom?”

“Wel , reward, ransom, whatever you want to cal it.”

“Who paid this money out?”

“I don’t know.” Boris made an irritated gesture. “Museum, government, private citizen. Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.”

“Wel it shouldn’t. You should shut up and be grateful. Because,”

he said, lifting his chin, speaking over me, “you know what, Theo?

Know what? Guess! Guess how lucky we were! Not only do they

have your bird in there, but—who would have guessed it? Many other stolen pictures!”

“What?”

“Two dozens, or more! Missing for many years, some of them!

And—not al of them are as lovely or beautiful as yours, in fact most of them are not. This is my own personal opinion. But there are big rewards out on four or five of them al the same—bigger than for yours. And even some of the not-so-famous ones—dead duck, boring picture of fat-faced man you don’t know—even these have smal er rewards—fifty thousand, hundred thousand here and there.

Who would think? ‘Information leading to recovery of.’ It adds up.

And I hope,” he said, with some austerity, “that maybe you can forgive me for that?”

“What?”

“Because—they are saying, ‘one of great art recoveries of history.’ And this is the part I hoped would please you—maybe not, who knows, but I hoped. Museum masterworks, returned to public ownership! Stewardship of cultural treasure! Great joy! Al the angels are singing! But it would never have happened, if not for you.”

I sat in silent amazement.

“Of course,” Boris added, nodding at the bag open on the bed,

“this is not al of it. Nice Christmas present in it for Myriam and Cherry and Gyuri. And I gave Anton and Dima a thirty per cent cut right off the top. Fifteen per cent each. Anton did al the work real y, so in my opinion he should have got twenty and Dima ten. But this is a lot of money for Anton so he is happy.”

“Other paintings they recovered. Not just mine.”

“Yes, did you not just hear me say—?”

“What other paintings?”

“Oh, some very celebrated and famous ones! Missing for years!”

“Such as—?”

Boris made an irritated sound. “Oh, I do not know the names, you know not to ask me that. Few modern things—very important and expensive, everyone very excited although I wil be frank, I do not understand why the big deal on some of them. Why does it cost so much, a thing like from kindergarten class? ‘Ugly Blob.’ ‘Black Stick

with Tangles.’ But then too—multiple works of historic greatness.

One was a Rembrandt.”

“Not a seascape?”

“No—people in a dark room. Little bit boring. Nice van Gogh, though, of a sea shore. And then… oh, I don’t know… usual thing, Mary, Jesus, many angels. Some sculptures even. And Asian artworks too. They looked to me worth nothing but I guess they were a lot.” Boris stabbed out his cigarette vigorously. “Which reminds me.

He got away.”

“Who?”

“Sascha’s China boy.” He had gone to the minibar, returned with corkscrew and two glasses. “He was not at apartment when the cops came, lucky for him. And—if he is smart, which he is—he wil not be coming back.” Holding up crossed fingers. “He wil find some other rich man to live off of. That is what he does. Good work if you can get it. Anyway—” biting his lip as he pul ed out the cork, pop!—“I wish I had thought of it myself, years ago! One big easy check! Legal Tender! Instead of this Fol ow the Bouncing Bal , so many years.

Back and forth—” wagging the corkscrew, tick, tock—“back and forth. Nervewracking! Al this time, al this headache, and al this easy, government money right under my nose! I wil tel you—”

crossing over, pouring me out a noisy glug of red—“in some ways, Horst is probably just as glad it fel out like this as you. He likes to make a dol ar same as anyone but he also has guilt, same ideas of public good, cultural patrimony, blah blah blah.”

“I don’t understand how Horst fits into this.”

“No, nor do I, and we wil never know,” said Boris firmly. “It’s al very careful and polite. And, yes yes—” impatiently, taking a quick sneaky gulp of his wine—“and yes, I am angry at Horst, a bit, maybe I don’t trust him so much as formerly, maybe in fact I don’t trust him so much at al . But—Horst is saying he wouldn’t have sent Martin if he knew it was us. And maybe he’s tel ing the truth. ‘Never, Boris—I would never.’ Who can know? To be quite honest—just between us

—I think he may be saying it only to save face. Because once it fel to pieces with Martin and Frits, what else could he do? Except graceful y back away? Claim no knowledge? I do not know this for a

fact, mind you,” he said. “This is just my theory. Horst has his own story.”

“Which is—?”

“Horst is saying—” Boris sighed—“Horst says he didn’t know that Sascha took the picture, not until we snatched it ourselves and Sascha phoned from clear blue sky asking Horst’s help to get it back. Pure coincidence that Martin was in town—here from LA for the holidays. For druggies, Amsterdam is fairly popular Christmas spot. And yes, that part—” he rubbed his eye—“wel , I am pretty sure Horst is tel ing the truth. That cal from Sascha was a surprise.

Throwing himself on Horst’s mercy. No time to talk. Had to act quick.

How was Horst to know it was us? Sascha wasn’t even in Amsterdam—he was hearing it al at second hand, from Chinky, whose German is not that great—Horst was hearing it at third. It al lines up if you look at it the right way. That said—” he shrugged.

“What?”

“Wel —Horst definitely didn’t know the painting was in Amsterdam, nor that Sascha was trying to get a loan on it, not until Sascha panicked and cal ed him when we took it. Of that? I am confident. But: did Horst and Sascha col ude to make painting vanish in the first place, to Frankfurt, with bad Miami deal? Possibly. Horst liked that picture very very much. Very much. Did I tel you—he knew what it was, first time he saw it? Like, off the top of his head? Name of painter and everything?”

“It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world.”

“Wel —” Boris shrugged—“like I said, he is educated. He grew up around beauty. That said, Horst does not know that it was me cooked up the folder. He might not be so happy. And yet—” he laughed aloud—“would it ever occur to Horst? I wonder. Al the time, al this reward sitting there? Free and legal! Shining in plain sight, like the sun! I know I never thought of it—not until now. Worldwide happiness and joy! Lost masterworks recovered! Anton the big hero

—posing for photos, talking on Sky News! Standing ovation at the press conference last night! Everyone loves him—like that man who landed the plane in the river a few years back and saved everyone, remember him? But, in my mind, is not Anton the people are clapping for—real y is you.”

There were so many things to say to Boris, I could say none of them. And yet I could only feel the most abstract gratitude. Maybe, I thought—reaching in the bag, taking out a stack of money and looking it over—maybe good luck was like bad luck in that it took a while to sink in. You didn’t feel anything at first. The feeling came later on.

“Pretty nice, no?” said Boris, clearly relieved I’d come round. “You are happy?”

“Boris, you need to take half this.”

“Believe me, I took care of myself. I have enough now that I can not do anything I don’t feel like for a while. Who knows—maybe go into bar business even, in Stockholm. Or—maybe not. Little bit boring. But you—that’s al yours! And more to come. Remember that time your dad gave us the five hundred each? Flying like feathers!

Very noble and grand! Wel —to me then? Hungry half the time? Sad and lonely? Nothing to my name? That was a fortune! More money than I had ever seen! And you—” his nose had grown pink; I thought he was about to sneeze—“always decent and good, shared with me everything you had, and—what did I do?”

“Oh, Boris, come on,” I said uneasily.

“I stole from you—that’s what I did.” Alcoholic glitter in his eyes.

“Took your dearest possession. And how could I treat you so badly, when I wished you only wel ?”

“Stop it. No—real y, stop,” I said, when I saw he was crying.

“What can I say? You asked me why I took it? and what can I reply? Only that—it’s never the way it seems—al good, al bad. So much easier if it was. Even your dad… feeding me, talking with me, spending time, sheltering me in his roof, giving me clothes off his back… you hated your dad so much but in some ways he was good man.”

“I wouldn’t say good.”

“Wel I would.”

“Wel , you would be the only one. You would be wrong.”

“Look. I am more tolerance than you,” said Boris, invigorated by the prospect of a disagreement and sniffing up his tears in a gulp.

“Xandra—your dad—always you wanted to make them so evil and bad. And yes… your dad was destructive… irresponsible… a child.

His spirit was huge. It pained him terribly! But he hurt himself worse than he ever hurt anyone else. And yes—” he said theatrical y, over my objection—“yes, he stole from you, or tried to, I know it, but do you know what? I stole from you too and got away with it. Which is worse? Because I’m tel ing you—” prodding the bag with his toe

—“the world is much stranger than we know or can say. And I know how you think, or how you like to think, but maybe this is one instance where you can’t boil down to pure ‘good’ or pure ‘bad’ like you always want to do—? Like, your two different piles? Bad over here, good over here? Maybe not quite so simple. Because—al the way driving here, driving al night, Christmas lights on the motorway and I’m not ashamed to tel you, I got choked up—because I was thinking, couldn’t help it, about the Bible story—? you know, where the steward steals the widow’s mite, but then the steward flees to far country and invests the mite wisely and brings back thousandfold cash to widow he stole from? And with joy she forgave him, and they kil ed the fatted calf, and made merry?”

“I think that’s maybe not al the same story.”

“Wel —Bible school, Poland, it was a long time ago. Stil .

Because, what I am trying to say—what I was thinking in the car from Antwerp last night—good doesn’t always fol ow from good deeds, nor bad deeds result from bad, does it? Even the wise and good cannot see the end of al actions. Scary idea! Remember Prince Myshkin in The Idiot?”

“I’m not real y up for an intel ectual talk right now.”

“I know, I know, but hear me out. You read The Idiot, right? Right.

Wel , ‘Idiot’ was very disturbing book to me. In fact it was so disturbing I have never real y read very many fictions after, apart from Dragon Tattoo kind of thing. Because”—I was trying to interject

—“wel , maybe you can tel me about that later, what you thought, but let me tel you why I found it disturbing. Because al Myshkin ever did was good… unselfish… he treated al persons with understanding and compassion and what resulted from this goodness? Murder! Disaster! I used to worry about this a lot. Lie awake at night and worry! Because—why? How could this be? I read that book like three times, thinking I wasn’t understanding right.

Myshkin was kind, loved everyone, he was tender, always forgave,

he never did a wrong thing—but he trusted al the wrong people, made al bad decisions, hurt everyone around him. Very dark message to this book. ‘Why be good.’ But—this is what took hold on me last night, riding here in the car. What if—is more complicated than that? What if maybe opposite is true as wel ? Because, if bad can sometimes come from good actions—? where does it ever say, anywhere, that only bad can come from bad actions? Maybe sometimes—the wrong way is the right way? You can take the wrong path and it stil comes out where you want to be? Or, spin it another way, sometimes you can do everything wrong and it stil turns out to be right?”

“I’m not sure I see your point.”

“Wel —I have to say I personal y have never drawn such a sharp line between ‘good’ and ‘bad’ as you. For me: that line is often false.

The two are never disconnected. One can’t exist without the other.

As long as I am acting out of love, I feel I am doing best I know how.

But you—wrapped up in judgment, always regretting the past, cursing yourself, blaming yourself, asking ‘what if,’ ‘what if.’ ‘Life is cruel.’ ‘I wish I had died instead of.’ Wel —think about this. What if al your actions and choices, good or bad, make no difference to God?

What if the pattern is pre-set? No no—hang on—this is a question worth struggling with. What if our badness and mistakes are the very thing that set our fate and bring us round to good? What if, for some of us, we can’t get there any other way?”

“Get where?”

“Understand, by saying ‘God,’ I am merely using ‘God’ as reference to long-term pattern we can’t decipher. Huge, slow-moving weather system rol ing in on us from afar, blowing us randomly like

—” eloquently, he batted at the air as if at a blown leaf. “But—maybe not so random and impersonal as al that, if you get me.”

“Sorry but I’m not real y appreciating your point here.”

“You don’t need a point. The point is maybe that the point is too big to see or work round to on our own. Because—” up went the batwing eyebrow—“wel , if you didn’t take picture from museum, and Sascha didn’t steal it back, and I didn’t think of claiming reward—

wel , wouldn’t al those dozens of other paintings remain missing too? Forever maybe? Wrapped in brown paper? Stil shut in that

apartment? No one to look at them? Lonely and lost to the world?

Maybe the one had to be lost for the others to be found?”

“I think this goes more to the idea of ‘relentless irony’ than ‘divine providence.’ ”

“Yes—but why give it a name? Can’t they both be the same thing?”

We looked at each other. And it occurred to me that despite his faults, which were numerous and spectacular, the reason I’d liked Boris and felt happy around him from almost the moment I’d met him was that he was never afraid. You didn’t meet many people who moved freely through the world with such a vigorous contempt for it and at the same time such oddbal and unthwartable faith in what, in childhood, he had liked to cal “the Planet of Earth.”

“ So—” Boris downed the rest of his wine, and poured himself some more—“what are your so-big plans?”

“As regards what?”

“A moment ago, you were tearing off. Why not stay here a while?”

“Here?”

“No—I didn’t mean here here—not in Amsterdam—I wil agree with you that it is a very good idea for us probably to get out of town, and as for myself I wil not care to be coming back for a while. What I meant was, why not relax a bit and hang out before flying back?

Come to Antwerp with me. See my place! Meet my friends! Get away from your girl problems for a bit.”

“No, I’m going home.”

“When?”

“Today, if I can.”

“So soon? No! Come to Antwerp! There is this fantastic service—

not like red light—two girls, two thousand euro and you have to cal two days in advance. Everything is two. Gyuri can drive us—I’l sit up front, you can stretch out and sleep in the back. What do you say?”

“Actual y, I think maybe you should drop me at the airport.”

“Actual y—I think I should better not. If I was sel ing the tickets? I would not even let you on a plane. You look like you have bird flu or SARS.” He was unlacing his waterlogged shoes, trying to jam his feet into them. “Ugh! Wil you answer me this question? Why—”

holding up the ruined shoe—“tel me why do I buy these so-fancy

Italian leathers when I wreck them in one week? When—my old desert boots—you remember? Good for running away fast! Jumping out of windows! Lasted me years! I don’t care if they look crap with my suits. I wil find me some more boots like that, and then I wil wear them for rest of my life. Where,” he said, frowning at his watch,

“where did Gyuri get to? He should not be having so much problems parking on Christmas Day?”

“Did you cal him?”

Boris slapped his head. “No, I forgot. Shit! He probably ate breakfast already. Or else he is in the car, freezing to death.”

Draining the rest of his wine, pocketing the mini-bottles of vodka.

“Are you packed? Yes? Fantastic. We can go then.” He was, I noticed, wrapping up leftover bread and cheese in a cloth napkin.

“Go down and pay up. Although—” he looked disapprovingly at the stained coat thrown over the bed—“you real y need to get rid of that thing.”

“How?”

He nodded at the murky canal outside the window.

“Real y—?”

“Why not? No law against throwing a coat in the canal, is there?”

“I would have thought so, yes.”

“Wel —who knows. Not very widely enforced law, if you ask me.

You should see some of the shit I saw floating in that thing during the garbage strike. Drunk Americans puking in, you name it. Although—”

glancing out the window—“I am with you, rather not do it in broad daylight. We can take it back to Antwerp in the trunk of the car and throw it down the incinerator. You’l like my flat a lot.” Fishing for his phone; dialing the number. “Artist’s loft, without the art! And we’l walk out and buy you a new overcoat when the shops are open.”

vi.

I FLEW HOME ON the red-eye two nights later (after a Boxing Day in Antwerp involving neither party nor escort service, but canned soup,

a penicil in injection, and some old movies on Boris’s couch) and got back to Hobie’s about eight in the morning, breath coming out in white clouds, letting myself in through the balsam-decked front door, through the parlor with its darkened Christmas tree mostly empty of presents, al the way to the back of the house where I found a swol en-faced and sleepy-eyed Hobie, in bathrobe and slippers, standing on a kitchen ladder to put away the soup tureen and punch bowl he’d used for his Christmas lunch. “Hi,” I said, dropping my suitcase—occupied with Popchik who was pacing round my feet in staunch geriatric figure eights of greeting—and only when I glanced up at him climbing down from the ladder did I notice how resolute he looked: troubled, but with a firm, defensive smile fixed on his face.

“And you?” I said, straightening up from the dog, unshouldering my new overcoat and draping it over a kitchen chair. “ Anything going on?”

“Not much.” Not looking at me.

“Merry Christmas! Wel —a little late. How was Christmas?”

“Fine. Yours?” he inquired stiffly a few moments later.

“Actual y, not so bad. I was in Amsterdam, “ I added, when he didn’t say anything.

“Oh real y? That must have been nice.” Distracted, unfocused.

“How’d your lunch go?” I asked after a cautious pause.

“Oh, very wel . We had a bit of sleet but otherwise it was a good gathering.” He was trying to col apse the kitchen ladder and having a bit of a problem with it. “Few presents for you stil under the tree in there, if you feel like opening them.”

“Thanks. I’l open them tonight. I’m pretty beat. Can I help you with that?” I said, stepping forward.

“No, no. No thanks.” Whatever was wrong was in his voice. “I’ve got it.”

“Okay,” I said, wondering why he hadn’t mentioned his gift: a child’s needlework sampler, vine-curled alphabet and numerals, stylized farm animals worked in crewel, Marry Sturtevant Her Sample-r Aged 11 1779. Hadn’t he opened it? I’d unearthed it in a box of polyester granny pants at the flea market—not cheap for the flea market, four hundred bucks, but I’d seen comparable pieces sel at Americana auctions for ten times as much. In silence I watched

him pottering around the kitchen on autopilot—wandering in circles a bit, opening the refrigerator door, closing it without getting anything out, fil ing the kettle for tea, and al the time wrapped in his cocoon and refusing to look at me.

“Hobie, what’s going on?” I said at last.

“Nothing.” He was looking for a spoon but he’d opened the wrong drawer.

“What, you don’t want to tel me?”

He turned to look at me, flash of uncertainty in his eyes, before he turned to the stove again and blurted: “It was real y inappropriate for you to give Pippa that necklace.”

“What?” I said, taken aback. “Was she upset?”

“I—” Staring at the floor, he shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on with you,” he said. “I don’t know what to think any more.

Look, I don’t want to be censorious,” he said, when I sat motionless.

“Real y I don’t. In fact I’d rather not talk about it at al . But—” He seemed to search for words. “Do you not see that it’s distressing and unsuitable? To give Pippa a thirty thousand dol ar necklace? On the night of your engagement party? Just leave it in her shoe? Outside her door?”

“I didn’t pay thirty thousand for it.”

“No, I dare say you would have paid seventy-five if you’d bought it at retail. And also, for another thing—” Very suddenly he pul ed out a chair and sat down. “Oh, I don’t know what to do,” he said miserably.

“I’ve no idea how to begin.”

“Sorry?”

“Please tel me al this other business has nothing to do with you.”

“Business?” I said cautiously.

“Wel .” Morning classical on the kitchen transistor, meditative piano sonata. “Two days before Christmas, I had a fairly extraordinary visit from your friend Lucius Reeve.”

The sense of fal was immediate, the swiftness and depth of it.

“Who had some fairly startling accusations to make. Above and beyond the expected.” Hobie pinched his eyes shut between thumb and forefinger, and sat for a moment. “Let’s leave aside the other matter for a moment. No, no,” he said, waving my words away when I tried to speak. “First things first. About the furniture.”

There rol ed between us an unbearable silence.

“I understand that I haven’t made it exactly easy for you to come to me. And I understand too, that I’m the very one who put you in this position. But—” he looked around—“two mil ion dol ars, Theo!”

“Listen, let me say something—”

“I should have made notes—he had photocopies, bil s of shipping, pieces we never sold and never had to sel , pieces at the Important Americana level, nonexistent, I couldn’t add it al in my head, at some point I just stopped counting. Dozens! I had no idea the extent of it. And you lied to me about the planting. That’s not what he wants at al .”

“Hobie? Hobie, listen.” He was looking at me without quite looking at me. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, I was hoping I could straighten it up first but—it’s taken care of, okay? I can buy it al back now, every stick.”

But instead of seeming relieved, he only shook his head. “This is terrible, Theo. How could I let this happen?”

If I’d been a little less shaken, I would have pointed out that he’d committed only the sin of trusting me and believing what I told him, but he seemed so genuinely bewildered that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything at al .

“How did it go so far? How can I not have known? He had—”

Hobie looked away, shook his head again quickly in disbelief—“Your handwriting, Theo. Your signature. Duncan Phyfe table… Sheraton dining chairs… Sheraton sofa out to California… I made that very sofa, Theo, with my own two hands, you saw me make it, it’s no more Sheraton than that shopping bag from Gristede’s over there.

Al new frame. Even the arm supports are new. Only two of the legs are original, you stood there and watched me reeding the new ones

—”

“I’m sorry Hobie—the IRS was phoning every day—I didn’t know what to do—”

“I know you didn’t,” he said, though there seemed to be a question in his eyes even as he said this. “It was the Children’s Crusade down there. Only—” he pushed back in his chair, rol ed his eyes at the ceiling—“why didn’t you stop? Why’d you keep on with it? We’ve been spending money we don’t have! You’ve dug us

halfway to China! It’s been going on for years! Even if we could cover it al , which we absolutely can’t and you know it—”

“Hobie, first of al , I can cover it and second—” I needed coffee, I wasn’t awake, but there wasn’t any on the stove and it real y wasn’t the moment to get up and make it—“second, wel , I don’t want to say it’s okay, because, absolutely it’s not, I was only trying to tide us over and get some debts settled, I don’t know how I let it get so far out of hand. But—no, no, listen,” I said urgently; I could see him drifting away, fogging over, as my mother had been apt to do when being forced to sit stil and suffer through some complicated and improbable lie of my dad’s. “Whatever he said to you, and I don’t know, I’ve got the money now. It’s al fine. Okay?”

“I suppose I don’t dare ask where you got it.” Then, sadly, leaning back in his chair: “Where were you real y? If you don’t mind my asking?”

I crossed and re-crossed my legs, smeared my hands over my face. “Amsterdam.”

“Why Amsterdam?” Then, as I fumbled over my answer: “I didn’t think you were coming back.”

“Hobie—” afire with shame; I’d always worked so hard to screen my double-dealing self from him, to show him only the improved-and-polished version, never the shameful threadbare self I was so desperate to hide, deceiver and coward, liar and cheat—

“Why did you come back?” He was speaking fast, and miserably, as if al he wanted was to get the words out of his mouth; and in his agitation he got up and began to walk around, his heel-less shoes slapping on the floor. “I thought we’d seen the last of you. Al last night—the last few nights—lying awake trying to think what to do.

Shipwreck. Catastrophe. Al over the news about these stolen paintings. Some Christmas. And you—nowhere to be found. Not answering your phone—no one knew where you were—”

“Oh, God,” I said, honestly appal ed. “I’m sorry. And listen, listen,”

I said—his mouth was thin, he was shaking his head as if he’d already detached himself from what I was saying, no point in even listening—“if it’s the furniture you’re worried about—”

“Furniture?” Placid, tolerant, conciliatory Hobie: rumbling like a boiler about to explode. “Who said anything about furniture? Reeve

said you’d bolted, made a run for it but—” he stood blinking rapidly, attempting to compose himself—“I didn’t believe it of you, I couldn’t, and I was afraid it was something much worse. Oh, you know what I mean,” he said half-angrily when I didn’t respond. “What was I to think? The way you tore off from the party… Pippa and I, you can’t imagine it, there was a bit of a huff with the hostess, ‘where is the groom,’ sniff sniff, you left so suddenly, we weren’t invited to the after-party so we legged it—and then—imagine how I felt coming home to find the house unlocked, door standing open practical y, cash drawer ransacked… never mind the necklace, that note you left Pippa was so strange, she was just as worried as I was—”

“She was?”

“Of course she was!” Flinging out an arm. He was practical y shouting. “What were we to think? And then, this terrible visit from Reeve. I was in the middle of making pie crust—should never have gone to the door, I thought it was Moira—nine a.m. and standing there gaping at him with flour al over me—Theo, why did you do it?”

he said despairingly.

Not knowing what he meant—I’d done so much—I had no choice but to shake my head and look away.

“It was so preposterous—how could I possibly believe it? As a matter of fact I didn’t believe it. Because I understand,” he said, when I didn’t respond, “look, I understand about the furniture, you did what you had to, and believe me, I’m grateful, if not for you I’d be working for hire somewhere and living in some ratty little bed-sit. But

—” digging his fists into the pocket of his bathrobe—“al this other malarkey? Obviously I can’t help wondering where you fit into al that. Especial y since you’d hared off with hardly a word, with your pal—who, I hate to say it, very charming boy but he looks like he’s seen the inside of a jail cel or two—”

“Hobie—”

“Oh, Reeve. You should have heard him.” Al the energy seemed to have left him; he looked limp and defeated. “The old serpent. And

—I want you to know, as far as that went—art theft? I took up for you in no uncertain terms. Whatever else you’d done—I was certain you hadn’t done that. And then? Not three days later? What turns up in

the news? What very painting? Along with how many others? Was he tel ing the truth?” he said, when I stil didn’t answer. “Was it you?”

“Yes. Wel , I mean, technical y no.”

“Theo.”

“I can explain.”

“Please do,” he said, grinding the heel of his hand into his eye.

“Sit down.”

“I—” Hopelessly he looked around, as if he was afraid of losing al his resolve if he sat down at the table with me.

“No, you should sit. It’s a long story. I’l make it short as I can.”

vi .

HE DIDN’T SAY A word. He didn’t even answer the telephone when it rang. I was bone-tired and aching from the plane, and though I steered clear of the two dead bodies, I gave him the best account of the rest of it that I could: short sentences, matter of fact, not trying to justify or explain. When I was finished he sat there—me shaken by his silence, no noise in the kitchen except the flatline hum of the old fridge. But, at last, he sat back and folded his arms.

“It does al swing around strangely sometimes, doesn’t it?” he said.

I was silent, not knowing what to say.

“I mean only—” rubbing his eye—“I only understand it, as I get older. How funny time is. How many tricks and surprises.”

The word trick was al I heard, or understood. Then, abruptly, he stood up—al six foot five of him, something stern and regretful in his posture or so it seemed to me, ancestral ghost of the beatwalking cop or maybe a bouncer about to toss you out of the pub.

“I’l go,” I said.

Rapidly he blinked. “What?”

“I’l write you a check for the whole amount. Just hold it until I tel you it’s okay to cash it, that’s al I ask. I never meant you any harm, I swear.”

With a ful -armed gesture of old, he swatted away my words. “No, no. Wait here. I want to show you something.”

He got up and creaked into the parlor. He was gone a while. And

—when he came back—it was with a fal ing-to-pieces photo album.

He sat down. He leafed through it for several pages. And—when he got to a certain page—he pushed it across the table to me. “There,”