Chapter 15 #2
“Friends and family said she had never touched a drug in her life and that she was deathly afraid of needles,” Yoshi says with a flourish. “They argued there was no way she ended up on the street like that on her own.”
“So they think she was murdered?”
“They never got proof, but that family is treacherous. Crazier than an episode of Dynasty.”
“Working with them is such a bore,” Sébastien chimes in lazily from a velvet chaise in the corner, where he’s now shirtless and smoking a cigar.
“We essentially do nothing when they’re involved.
They write the catalogs that define authenticity, run the galleries that sell the works, and hold the archives scholars and museums rely on.
They have more power than anyone over both prices and reputations. ”
“I heard everyone was placing bets on who would inherit the company when Maxwell died,” Colette throws out after Yoshi blows a particularly chunky line of drugs. He whoops with glee as he raises his head.
“I fucking won that bet,” he screams, pumping his fists in the air.
“Who was your money on?” Colette asks.
“Louis always gets what Louis wants. Some people thought it was gonna go to old Stella Swanson, but I said, absolutely fucking not. A bunch of folks thought the old broad would pull it off. Would have been a coup, but Louis got it all locked up before the old man croaked.”
“My money was on Caroline. She’s a baller,” Sébastien drawls. “I thought Louis might just give it all up and cruise the world with the new wifey.”
“Where’s Stella Swanson now?” I ask, as innocently as I can. Do they know she’s dead?
“Probably counting her money in Capri.” Sébastien chuckles.
“I don’t know why she’d want anything to do with the company when she can just enjoy being rich,” Yoshi adds.
“I’d give anything to quit and diddle around on a beach all day.
I wasn’t meant for this life and all this labor,” he says dreamily, looking around Sébastien’s massive town house as if he can picture himself here on a more permanent and leisurely basis.
With that, Yoshi’s head falls to the table with a thunk. I leap up in alarm but Sébastien merely stands and carries his lover over to the sink and dunks his head under some cold water. Yoshi opens his eyes and immediately starts laughing.
“Time for this puppy to get some sleep,” Sébastien says. “You two want to stay the night? We can brunch at Buddha-Bar when we decide to wake up.”
We shake our heads, ready to get home to process our new information. We’re both kissed and hugged about a dozen times by each man before we’re placed in a stretch limousine back to the périphérique of the city.
“What an insane world they all live in,” I mutter sleepily to Colette, my head on her shoulder.
“I think I’d hate it,” she says. “No one seems happy.”
“They really don’t. I’d be happy, I think…with all that money,” I say, wondering if it’s true.
“So would I. Maybe. But at what point does the happiness give out?”
“When you let it,” I mumble. “It’s a choice. It has to be.”
“Or a curse,” Colette says, staring off into the distance as Paris begins to wake up.
“So can we sell it?” Lucie asks as we stroll over to the Fleas to have brunch and fill her in on our night. “That’s what matters. Not all this shit about the family and their succession plan.”
“That matters too,” Colette says. “They’ve got vertical control over every aspect of the art market.
Sébastien confirmed it last night. They can review a painting and authenticate it and sell it and they do that with eighty-five percent of the art that comes through Europe and America.
No one ever questions them or fights them because so much of the art world is on their payroll.
Which makes selling a Van Gogh nearly impossible without involving the Swanson family. ”
“People discover old paintings all the time in their basements and attics, especially here in France,” Lucie asserts.
I roll my eyes. “ ‘All the time’ is a bit of an exaggeration.”
“I’m saying it’s possible. We could have found it in a locked trunk from the Fleas or in Colette’s dusty basement at her family home in Arles.”
“It’s not in a single catalog of Van Gogh’s work,” Colette chimes in. “Just like Stella said, it’s never been on the market.”
“Which means it’s worth a bloody fortune,” Lucie says.
“If we can prove its provenance. If we can prove we didn’t steal it.
If we can convince a reputable auction house to even work with us,” Colette ticks off all the hurdles we have to overcome on her long, delicate fingers.
“If we can convince all the experts to declare that it is a real Van Gogh…and of course the problem with that is…”
“The House of Swanson certifies seventy percent of Van Goghs in the world. They’re the leading experts on what is real and what isn’t,” I finish for her.
We stroll through the narrow passageways of the Fleas, glancing down every so often at colorful blankets spread across the concrete selling batteries, broken watches, pirated VHSs, and toilet paper.
The real treasures are always further inside, but you never know what you’ll spot out here and we’re always keeping an eye out. All of us are drawn to broken beauty.
I sort through a bin of mismatched glass buttons, buying a peculiar yellow one because it perfectly matches the petals on the masterpiece back in our apartment.
Colette inspects a pair of salt and pepper shakers in the shape of jolly dachshunds wearing Burberry coats while Lucie pays a franc for a broken pocket watch with the inscription à Luca, que le temps soit doux avec ton visage—To Luca, may time be kind to your face.
My skin prickles and I feel a strange sensation on the back of my neck, as though someone is watching me. The comforting chaos of the market transforms into something more sinister- feeling, though I tell myself I’m just being paranoid.
We finally stumble into Chez Louisette in the belly of the market.
It’s still too early for tourists and there are plenty of tables.
At night local jazz musicians perform on the tiny stage, but in the morning they make a delicious herbed omelet oozing with Brie.
The decor is a mishmash of antiques from all over the Fleas.
The walls are covered in photos of patrons dating back to the 1920s.
I squint at them, almost expecting to see a faded photograph of a young Stella raising a glass to us.
We order coffees, eggs, a couple of croissants to soak up the butter and cheese, and sit in silence. These are often my favorite moments with Colette and Lucie, the ones where we don’t have to say or do anything, where we can just be together, alone with our own thoughts.
The unsettled feeling I’d had out in the market faded once I got my hands on some coffee, but when the little bell attached to the front door dings, it returns with a vengeance.
My heart speeds up before I even see who is walking into the restaurant.
The light is bright behind the small figure, but the purple silk turban is unmistakable.
She glides over to our table with her shoulders back and her head held high.
“Hello, ladies,” she says as she pulls out a chair and sits across from me.
I sigh because somehow I knew. I just knew.
“Bonjour, Stella.”