Page 41 of The Art of Vanishing

Jean

I would call what happened the following day mediated chaos.

Night had crashed into morning, leaving little time for reflection before we heard the front doors unlock, swinging open into the summer air.

The associates who usually floated through the gallery on their way to answer a patron’s questions were replaced with two austere guards, who stood on either side of the doorway into our room.

The first few patrons appeared, giddy and trepidatious to enter.

Looking at the guards for permission and receiving nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgment, they scurried into the room and right up to the pedestal.

One man extracted a small pole from his coat pocket, extending it to a length of a few feet.

He clipped his cellphone to one end and held on to it like it was an extension of his arm.

He leaned forward and pressed something on the phone’s screen.

Instantaneously, his face brightened from concentrated to animated.

“Hi!” The sound of his voice burst like a balloon across the silent gallery.

“As promised, I’m coming to you live from gallery nineteen, right in front of the plinth we know held the lost journal until mere hours ago.

” The lost journal, I thought—it already had an epithet.

“Apart from a few other curious folks”—he seesawed his body left and right, presumably showing the other patrons who had cautiously backed away from the gaze of his front-facing camera—“I’m pretty sure I’m the first one in here this morning.

Wow, what a momentous occasion.” He closed his eyes and took a performative breath of air.

One of the guards, watching with disbelief, muttered into the headpiece that connected to a radio strapped to his belt.

“So, what do we know? Well, I can’t say I’ve learned much more than what I had for you all late last night—sometime around ten p.m. on Thursday, July 30, the lost journal was taken by two thieves who escaped into the night.

The identity of the thieves is unknown, and the FBI has no leads as to their location.

I’ll be around all day, bringing you the news as soon as I know it.

That’s my solemn vow. In the meantime, I want you all to pop off in the comments!

Tell me who you think did it. Drop all your theories in the chat, I don’t care how wild they are!

I—” He was cut off mid-breath by Jamie, looming right before him.

“I apologize for the interruption.” Jamie’s voice was layered with sweetness, a stark contrast to the intimidating nature of her presence. “You cannot do that here.”

“Okey dokey,” the broadcaster said into the camera, breaking eye contact with Jamie.

“I’m getting the”—he drew a line across his neck as if he was slicing his own head off—“from the museum staff, so I guess you’ll have to carry on without me for a bit!

Talk to you all later and remember, I am nothing without you and your solitary sleuth ways!

” As soon as the camera was off, so was he.

“Seriously, dude?” he said. “You can’t just let art be art? ”

I saw the words You think what you’re doing is art? flicker across Jamie’s face before she decided not to engage further. “We have a strict no-livestreaming policy,” she said.

“I know that’s not true; I checked the website before I came and it didn’t say anything about recording in the museum.”

“Well, we reserve the right to make such decisions contingent on the circumstances, as I’m sure you understand,” Jamie said with finality, her patience tested by this encounter. The sense of decorum she’d impressed upon Mark last night was slipping away.

“Mm-hmm,” the broadcaster hummed. He looked around aimlessly. “Well, what do I do now?”

“Well,” Jamie parroted, “you could patronize the museum.” The broadcaster slunk away to a different corner of the room and reluctantly looked up at a painting, clearly not intending to engage with it at all.

Jamie left, but not before stopping by the guards stationed at the opposite doorway and muttering something to them.

The next hour passed without incident, until another ambitious patron attempted to climb across the guardrail that encased the empty plinth.

Of course the alarm began to blare, startling everyone in the room, including the unfortunate guest who was now on the other side of the bar.

Security descended instantaneously, and the patron was whisked away.

We could hear them crying over the sound of the alarm, “I wasn’t trying to take anything, I swear. I was looking for it!”

Mark reappeared around lunchtime, having traded in his FBI outerwear for a more innocuous suit. He looked fancier than your average modern museumgoer, but not an obvious figure of authority. To be quite honest, he looked a bit like me—his style was anachronistic for the times.

He entered alone and said nothing. The amateur sleuth from earlier haunted the galleries all day, wandering out of sight only for a few moments before he reappeared, afraid he’d missed something. When the patron set off the alarm, I would have sworn the sleuth was filming it on his cellphone.

Mark’s lurking was different, more confident. He leaned against one of the benches, silently observing. He checked neither his phone nor his watch.

“Oh my god!” Jamie exclaimed as she hustled into the gallery, out of breath. “There you are. Someone just thought to tell me that you were back.”

Mark examined Jamie. “Have you gone home?”

Jamie hesitated before shaking her head. “No, I haven’t had the chance yet.”

“Go take a shower and a beat, Jamie. You don’t need to be the one to guard the museum.” Jamie’s eyes stated a silent If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself .

Instead, she lowered her voice and crouched down closer to Mark. “Any updates?”

Mark spoke at a normal volume. “The investigation is proceeding as planned. Nothing further to share at this time.”

“Okay,” Jamie said, unconvinced. “Well, you’ll let me know if that changes, of course.”

Mark nodded. “Of course,” he reassured her. Jamie was clearly wary of the agent’s choice to spend the afternoon lingering in the gallery; no doubt she imagined his job would involve actively chasing down leads. Mark was apparently content to wait it out.

Mark worked tirelessly to settle every curiosity, sniffing in corners, pouring water on the ground to test the slipperiness, bouncing in and out of the alarm zones. He was testing their accuracy, experimenting with the camera angles, searching for what the cameras could not see.

I liked watching him work. He was much more physical than I’d expected someone in his position would be.

He preferred to be up on his feet, to try things himself.

I would have guessed that an investigative job involved more paperwork, more bureaucracy, and maybe it did, but this was Mark in his element.

He frequently referred back to a technological tablet he carried with him; it was similar to the cellphones all the patrons carried but significantly larger, more like the size of a periodical.

I could tell he was trying to piece something together.

He was wandering into the various corners of the room and looking back at the screen.

I thought he might be somehow watching himself through the security cameras, testing how possible it would have been for Claire to hide as she claimed she did.

Mark had a second setting: quiet contemplation.

When the patrons began to overwhelm the space, he would sit silently on one of the two benches, moving very little as the crowd of the gallery ebbed and flowed around him.

Even when someone got too close to the stand that hitherto held the journal, and a guard would have to walk them backward, Mark was unperturbed, remaining seated, a silent sentry at his assigned post.

When Jamie returned around the end of the day, the gears in Mark’s brain were spinning in full force. Jamie delivered a paper cup, presumably full of coffee, and Mark gratefully accepted. Jamie could tell Mark was in a good mood.

“Do you think you’ve learned something?” Jamie asked; she couldn’t help herself.

“Maybe, maybe,” Mark equivocated, unwilling to expose what might be an incorrect theory. “I don’t have enough data to know yet, but I’m getting there. The strings are starting to unravel.”

Jamie’s skepticism was easy to read on her face. “Anything you need from me?”

“Yes, yes, actually. I need to speak with the staff members who were here last night—are they on tonight and could that be arranged?”

Jamie nodded. “Claire and Linda are on each night that we’re open, Wednesday to Sunday, barring illness of course. And I’ll have to check on the security staff, but I don’t think it will be a problem. Do you want me to call them in now? I can see if they’re available.”

“Not necessary, I don’t want to worry them,” Mark said, though I guessed there was an ulterior motive to this choice, his not wanting to give anyone time to prepare. “If you could just let me know when they arrive, I’ll be around.”

“Should I send them up here?” Jamie asked.

“No, I’ll come and find them when I’m ready. I have a few things to look up first.”

“Okay,” Jamie said. She appeared to weigh whether or not to say what was on her mind before asking, “Do you think one of them is involved?” She looked positively ill at the thought of it. I knew how she felt.

“It’s hard to say. Of course, once I have any more certainty, I’ll let you know.”

“Right, because we wouldn’t want someone to continue to work here if they might be…” Jamie didn’t know how to finish her sentence.

“We’ll get there,” Mark said. Jamie reluctantly went on her way.

The sun slid down and Mark was still there, having now experienced the day in its full cycle.

A bell chimed to alert patrons that the museum would be closing in ten minutes, and the last crowds of the day dispersed.

A guard escorted out those who lingered past their welcome.

“You can come back tomorrow,” the guard said jovially. “We’ll still be here.” The stragglers rolled their eyes at his kindness, impatient that they were being asked to follow the rules. The guard tipped his hat at Mark on his way out.

Mark stretched out on the bench, allowing himself an unusual moment of repose.

His back lay flat against the bench’s expanse.

Even from many meters away, I could see the tension in his posture keeping him from being able to truly relax.

I wondered if there were rules around how much he worked or if he was in charge of his own destiny.

He seemed like the kind of person who wouldn’t allow himself to rest until it was done.

But would it ever be done? I’d been in this world long enough to know that the most famous thefts were those that were never solved.

Art was tangible, movable, and therefore takable.

For as long as there had been art, I imagined there must have been theft, some explicit, alarm-bell-ringing theft, and some more discreet—a changing of regimes, the so-called spoils of war, a theft nonetheless.

I’d imagine more art crimes went unsolved than solved.

Mark’s cellphone rang, and he fished it out of the pocket of his pants.

“Jamie, hi,” he said. I could hear the muffled sound of Jamie’s voice, but it was too quiet to make out any of her words.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary. They can get started as usual.

In fact, I have something to show you first. Meet me in the security office?

” Another pause before Mark said, “Great, see you there in five.” He hung up and rushed out of the room.

I had no expectations for what this night would bring. Would Claire be allowed to return? Would she even want to see me again? Would she get to if she did? Would Mark intercept her on her way upstairs?