Trophies of War Page 23
“I am going to hang it up,” Florette said. “I’d like to look at it for however much time I have left.”
“Maman … you’re going to be around for a long time, don’t talk like that,” Lyon said.
“Maybe,” she replied. “But after—this painting will be yours. And then I want you to hang it up. But not to remind you of me. No. When you look at it, it will be to think of Megan.”
Epilogue
Essex, Connecticut
Turning off Route 9 on his drive back from the airport, Lyon’s phone rang.
The screen read ‘Beth Krasner.’ He tapped it and brought the phone to his ear.
“Hey.”
“Hey there,” Beth said. “How did it go?”
“Great,” he replied. “I shouldn’t have been so worried. I could tell she remembered everything—she recognized it right away.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to hear that,” she said. “Listen, I’ve lined up someone who can authenticate the painting. I told her the whole story and said it might actually be an unknown Manet. She said she would get on a plane on her dime and go see it at your mother’s place. She was that excited about it.”
“Yeah … thanks for doing that, but I’d rather leave it alone.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. “Don’t you want to know for sure if it’s real?”
“Not really, no.”
“Why not?”
“I’ll be honest with you—when I started this whole thing, it wasn’t about returning the painting. It wasn’t about finding this object of sentimental value and bringing it back to my mother.”
“I know,” Beth replied. “You told me that in St. Petersburg. You said it was about the money and I told you I didn’t believe it.”
“Right,” he replied. “At first, it was about the money. I knew that if I found a missing Manet it would be worth tens of millions. Then it became about the hunt itself. I had nothing else going on in my life, and I guess I used it as an excuse—something to do. Frankly, I didn’t think we were going to find it, but I kept going as long as there was another lead or another trail to follow.”
Beth was quiet on the other end.
“You still there?” he asked, making a left onto to Main St. A line of pickup trucks was trailering boats to the river.
“Yes,” she answered. “I’m trying to reconcile what you’ve said with what I saw in Karin’s father’s studio. I saw on your face that it wasn’t about money or about the thrill of the chase.”
“Right. Once I saw those orchids and that lemon, it changed for me. It was like I could put myself in my great-grandfather’s place, wanting to give that painting to his new granddaughter, and I could feel what my grandfather felt when he called my mother Little Lemon after she disobeyed him or something. I don’t know how else to describe it other than to say that I realized it was more than a painting—it was a thread that ran through my family, from my great-grandfather down to me and to my daughter. Add to that everything Karin said about vanitas and all that meaning-of-life stuff her father talked about—I knew that it didn’t matter what the painting was worth or whether it was real or a fake. All that mattered is that it was back where it belonged.”
“Wow,” Beth replied. “Okay. It’s hard to argue with that. All I’ll say is that you should think about the art world and how much it would mean if there was an unknown, previously lost Manet that had been found. It would be a huge deal.”
“I understand. Maybe someday, but right now I’m content to leave it hanging on my mother’s wall with no one but us knowing about it.”
“Alright, but let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will. So, what are you up to?”
“I’m finishing that piece I’ve been working on about trophy art still in Russian hands. Needless to say, I have a lot more material now. I’m still not sure about including the government-mafia connection. It may be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Toughen up,” Lyon said with a chuckle.
“That’s easy for you to say,” she replied. “Perhaps you’ve heard about all the Russian journalists ending up dead? I’m on a polonium-free diet and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Lyon made a left onto his street. A neighbor was out weeding a flower bed by the road. They waved to each other.
He pulled into his driveway and sat there for a moment before he turned the car off, looking at his house. Sarah had hung baskets of petunias along the front porch, their pink and purple flowers spilling over the sides.
“Well, let me know when it gets published,” he told her, and said goodbye.
Lyon took a deep breath and got out of the car. He walked to the front door, feeling like a visitor at his own home. He pressed the button to ring the bell.
Sarah must have seen him coming, because she opened the door right away. Lyon noticed that she was letting her auburn hair grow long and that she was wearing the blue sundress he had bought her on their trip to Aruba. They both waited for the other to speak first.
Sara stepped aside in the doorway, a silent invitation to come in.
“Hi, honey,” Lyon said, and went home.
"The property of municipalities, that of institutions dedicated to religion, charity and education, the arts and sciences, even when State property, shall be treated as private property.
All seizure of, destruction or willful damage done to institutions of this character, historic monuments, works of art and science, is forbidden, and should be made the subject of legal proceedings."
-Article 56 of the Hague Convention of 1907
"In no walk of life can man fail to find richer experience as he falls under the influence of beauty immortalized by inspired genius. Even for the roughest of soldiers there is more of ancient history to be felt and understood in a lonely, graceful column rising against the sky in a naked field than there is in all the descriptive matter that has ever been written on the subject.... They who have dwelt with death will be among the most ardent worshipers of life and beauty and of the peace in which these can thrive."
-Dwight D. Eisenhower
Also by the author:
Fifth Column
amazon.com/author/christopherremy
Links:
christopherremy.com
facebook.com/chrisremybooks
@chrisremy