Page 32 of The Art of Vanishing

Jean

Our world burst to life the next day with the sound of a drill as two men in unremarkable uniforms assembled a wood plinth.

The wood was a warm brown color, almost an exact match to the dresser they’d moved into the elevator earlier that morning.

The new plinth was now standing in three dimensions and had inspired an argument among the four decision-makers of yesterday, who had returned alongside the construction crew.

“Do you think it would be better centered in this room, so viewers could walk all the way around it?” Lisa asked.

“Absolutely not, it would be far less protected that way,” Henry said.

“Not if we encased it in glass,” Lisa countered.

“Wait,” Christie piped up. “We weren’t planning to encase it in glass? How on earth will we keep it secure?”

“Hardly anything in this museum is in glass,” Henry argued. “Only the objects in those little curio cabinets. Glass would go against the entire aesthetic.”

“But most everything of value in here is glued to the walls, it’s not going anywhere. The things in those cabinets and out on the shelves, those are just glorified knickknacks compared to the rest of the collection.”

“Is glass how the collector would have wanted it displayed?” Christie asked.

“This is the only thing we’ve ever added to the collection that the collector didn’t bring in here himself,” Henry said.

“I can’t believe we’re even considering no glass.” Christie shook her head at their collective na?veté. “What if someone trips and spills coffee on it!”

“No food or drink will be allowed in the museum, because of the…” Henry gestured to the covering on his face. “We won’t even have the concessions stand open.”

“What if people try to turn the pages?” Lisa asked. “Maybe we can find a cabinet for it that matches the aesthetic of the others.”

“If we put it against the wall, we’ll be able to put a low bar with an alarm sensor in it around the perimeter.

It will let out a warning sound to alert both the patron and the nearby associate that someone has gotten too close.

And if the journal was ever lifted, the museum would go into full lockdown mode, same as any other security alert. ”

“Okay,” Christie said. “I believe you that you’ve thought about this every way you can imagine, but why? Why take this kind of risk with something so newly discovered that we don’t even know what the value of it is?”

“Because these are the donor’s demands,” Jamie answered, breaking her silence.

“They required that it be placed in a location that is accessible to all guests, that it must be unobscured by glass or covering, and that one page must be turned each day. If we can’t meet all these requirements, we will not get to display it. Maybe no one ever will.”

“But you’ll at least put it in a secure location each day after closing, of course,” Christie said.

“No.” Jamie shook her head. “The donor was very clear—this is for the people who work the night shift too.”

Christie let out a low whistle. “You must really trust the janitorial staff.”

“Don’t”—her voice grew unexpectedly sharp—“insult the janitorial staff. They are trustworthy.”

Certain this was a bad idea but positive her concerns would be considered no further, Christie apologized and stood to the side as the two men in uniform secured the wood plinth to the floor.

There was another round of discussion about how far from the stand the low-lying bar on the floor should be placed.

The consensus was just out of fingertip reach, but close enough for those with good eyesight, natural or corrected, to read.

The four members of the group took turns standing at different angles and reaching out their arms, backing up inch by inch until they could no longer reach the platform.

Linda arrived soon after, and the group directed her to their new piece of construction.

Still there was no sign of Claire. Linda swept up the sawdust. She wiped down the surface, cleaning it thoughtfully of any debris.

The group thanked her profusely, and she dropped to the back of their cluster.

I could see from the way she checked over each shoulder that she was hopeful no one would complain if she stuck around.

She took a seat on the bench nearest to me, tucking herself out of the way of the immediate action, but granting herself a ringside view for whatever was about to unfold.

A large black storage chest was rolled in from the elevator and wheeled right up to the display stand.

Jamie stepped forward and lifted the two large metal buckles on its exterior.

From within the case, she pulled out a smaller suitcase that looked like something I might have carried in my previous life—vintage, I’m sure they’d call it now.

Jamie lowered the suitcase, resting it on the lid of the black trunk.

The gallery was silent; every pair of eyes, even those on the walls, was focused on the suitcase.

Linda and I simultaneously shifted forward in our seats, surreptitiously angling to get a better view.

Jamie was charged with this concentrated energy, the knowledge that all eyes were on her, her understanding of the weight of the moment.

She lifted the clasps one at a time, right first, then left. She cracked open the suitcase and pulled out a small notebook. It was hard to see from our vantage point, but it appeared unremarkable. It had a worn brown cover, notably distressed but not tattered.

“That’s it?” Marguerite said under her breath. Pierre and I both shushed her, but we were all thinking it. We were in a room full of masterpieces; a journal was what they had to offer in addition? All this fanfare for that?

“We’ll be attaching a protective slipcover over the jacket, so we can secure that down to the display surface,” Jamie narrated as she pulled a thick piece of plastic out of a cardboard sleeve.

She took care in adhering it to the journal, and then the journal to the stand beneath it. After a few minutes, the job was done.

“We’ll start at page one tomorrow. For each day after that when the museum is open to the public, we’ll turn one page. When we reach the end, we’ll return the object to the donor.”

“I can’t believe we get to be a part of this,” Christie said. “What a year this is.”

“It’s not just once in a lifetime,” Lisa said. “It’s once in their lifetime.” She gestured to us on the walls.

“I wonder,” Marguerite whispered, “if we can read it if we stand in that painting right above it. What makes this little journal so important?”

“It’s probably in English,” I said. “Can you even read in English?” I was mocking her, but I too was curious why this diary was special and was eager to find out for myself.

“A little bit,” she retorted. “I’m sure someone in here can.” Pierre shushed us both, not wanting to miss what was unfolding in front of us.

“I can’t believe people will finally be back in here tomorrow,” Lisa said.

“I can’t believe they haven’t been here in over four months. Is that the longest we’ve ever been closed to the public?” Henry wondered.

“I had that same question,” Christa said. “And the answer is quite interesting…” Their voices trailed off as they wound their way out of the gallery. The men who had constructed the installation packed up their tools and followed the larger group out.

That left just us and Linda, who busied herself with making sure everything in the gallery looked as spotless as it had before the day’s commotion.

I caught myself thinking the new addition was quite the eyesore, though I was unsure if I was just unused to seeing anything new in these galleries and knew it might be less “ugly” and more “unexpected.”

After she was content with the state of the room, Linda put her equipment aside and came to stand directly in front of the journal. There was an air of ceremony to the moment; she was the first to have this experience.

“I wish Linda shared Claire’s tendency to narrate all her thoughts out loud,” Marguerite said.

Pierre said, “Me too.” I silently agreed.

But that wasn’t Linda’s way. She took in whatever it was she was privy to over there, shrugged with a small hmm sound, and began to pack her things up to head out of the gallery.

As she was nearly at the exit, something struck her.

She turned and pointed her phone back at the new podium, a synthetic camera shutter sound implying that she had captured a photograph.

“Aw,” Marguerite cooed in a whisper. “Even Linda missed the art.” Linda pocketed her phone and left the room.

As soon as we were alone, Marguerite was on her feet. She was practically vibrating from the many revelations of the day, mixed with the excitement of that which was yet to come. I had expected her to race from the room, but she paused before doing so and turned to me.

“People are coming back tomorrow,” Marguerite said. I nodded; the knowledge of that had struck me as well. “I wonder if that means Claire will return?”

“It could mean that,” I responded. I felt a bubbling in my stomach, an unstable solution of excitement and anxiety.

Would Claire actually come back? Jamie had said that patrons might not even return.

Would the museum have filled the staff back up right away?

I resigned myself to the fact that it was probably best to just expect the worst.

“Hard to know,” Marguerite continued, “as everything has been so unknowable lately.”

“Right,” I said.

“I know you won’t get your hopes up, but mine are up on your behalf.” She smiled and gave me a single pat on the shoulder on her way out of the room. Pierre followed, a bounce in his step.

I pictured Claire, standing in front of my frame.

It was a Claire of old times, when she used to pass by just to say hello, before we ever knew what she was capable of.

My vision of her was so clear. I got up to stand at the edge of her world and mine.

At some point in our isolation, I’d given up this memory game; it had been too painful.

But as I extended my hand as far as it could go, I felt myself come out of emotional hibernation, my skin tingling.

For the first time in a very long time, against my better judgment, I allowed myself to hope.