Page 47 of The Art of Vanishing
Jean
Despite my feeling that it was impossible, time continued to move on. The museum filled and emptied of visitors each day. The summer heat faded to a more comfortable fall chill. Over the usual din of the gallery occupied with patrons, Susie’s distinct bellow graced our ears from the hallway.
“Now, for all my book lovers out there, I want you to keep your eyes peeled—you might notice a recurring theme in this artist’s work. There are at least five pieces currently on display in this here museum that feature some little introvert with their nose in a book.”
She strutted into the gallery, a vision in color.
Her predictably bizarre outfits were no match for today’s ensemble.
A bright yellow tunic was layered over a pair of stockings that were clearly meant to be reproductions of someone’s art, Picasso’s perhaps, but stretched as they were across human legs, were unrecognizable.
“Here is our first nerd of the day,” she said, pointing directly at me.
I could hear Marguerite and Pierre chortling with silent laughter as they struggled to keep their composure.
“I’m only joshing with you all, calling him a nerd.
That reading stuff has never been my cup of tea, but I know it works for some people.
Anyway, he’s the only one I’m going to give away.
The rest you’ll have to spot, and a postcard from the gift shop on me for anyone who can find them all. ”
The group she had this afternoon all shared something in their appearance, a family tour of some kind.
They were excited to be there, laughing loudly at Susie’s jokes, tittering among themselves in between her comments.
A few sullen teenagers dotted the edges of the group, staring at their phones, twirling their hair, only glancing up every so often to glare at Susie, as if they were insulted by her presence.
Susie gave a version of her harebrained explanation of my family before tearing off into the gallery to my left.
About two hours later, she returned with the same group.
They were not as shiny as they had been when they started.
Susie’s voice had started to grate on them; only one of them still seemed happy to be there, a young woman, seemingly in her twenties or thirties.
She excitedly twisted the diamond ring she wore on the ring finger of her left hand.
With her right hand, she clutched the hand of the man I deduced was her fiancé.
He looked like the kind of good-natured chap who “didn’t really get museums” but had said yes to this excursion because of what it meant to her.
The magic of that sacrifice had worn off, and he was now looking at the exit like he hadn’t had a breath of fresh air in days.
“Sorry,” the young woman said, “I know our time is up. I just had one more question. I was wondering if you knew anything about the journal? The one that disappeared?”
Susie’s expression never faltered. In her perpetually affable tone, she chirped, “Hundreds, thousands of priceless works of art hang on these walls and that’s what you want to talk about?” The snark of her words contradicted the smile on her face.
“Oh, I just meant, since we’re here now, I guess.
I’m obsessed with the case; I’ve been following it religiously on Twitter.
I even joined one of the ‘real people’ detective Facebook groups.
I never say anything, I just like to see the theories.
I was just wondering if you had any inside scoop.
It’s the reason I wanted to come here, why I dragged them all in on family reunion weekend. ”
“You’re planning to report back on the case? Dig something up?” Susie’s tone remained light, but I could tell she was annoyed by this line of questioning.
“Not even, ” the woman gushed. “I could never, I’m not brave enough for that. I just wanted to come here, see it for myself. I think it’s so cool that they left the empty plinth up.”
I looked over in its direction, unsure if that was an unconscious choice or if it had been left intact as part of the crime scene. I guessed the latter and also thought that they’d decided to leave it up once they’d realized it was still a focal point.
“Unfortunately for us both, there’s no news.
Not a single development in weeks and I’ll tell you, there’s certainly been a lot less investigative personnel in the museum as of late.
I think it’s possible that’s a sign that the world may never know.
” The young woman looked dejected. “This is what happens in this world. Most of the art you’ve seen in the world, the things displayed in the big museums, well, it’s all been stolen or looted.
The older the art, the higher the chance.
It’s awe-inspiring, sure enough, to see it and experience it, but the way it’s hung on the walls in these institutions obscures its true provenance.
I’m not saying you can’t enjoy it; I’m just saying don’t forget how it all got here. ”
Susie took a deep breath before she continued.
“And a journal, something so small, it could easily be passed from pocket to pocket. We may never know where that thing is. That’s the charge of the museum, after all, of all museums: to make the art as accessible to people as possible while still keeping it safe. It’s a fine line to walk.
“This is yet another story of a woman in art who will never get the recognition or resources she may have deserved. For centuries, men did their best to keep women on the sidelines of this world. Women weren’t even allowed to study the nude in real life until the end of the nineteenth century.
Did she face that same discrimination? Did she prevail?
She is now as she was before, lost to history. ”
The young woman’s fiancé stood up from the bench, easily sliding his fingers back through hers, a gesture I was sure he took for granted. “Honey, our reservation is in an hour and you promised your parents they could swing by the Airbnb first.”
“You’re right.” She squeezed his hand with gratitude. “Well,” she said to Susie, “thanks anyway. You’re a great tour guide. And I’m still holding out hope for a break in the case.”
“I’m sure you are,” Susie said through a stony grin. “I hope you have a wonderful rest of your weekend.”
The associates began their pass through the gallery, letting the other visitors know the museum would be closing infifteen minutes, ignoring Susie in their sweep.
When theroom was nearly empty, the last associate checked in with Susie, but she waved him off.
He helped a patron in a wheelchair find the elevator as he left her with a “good evening.”
Susie stood to face me, her left arm wrapped across her torso, her right elbow resting atop it so her fingers could flitter along her pursed lips.
She took me in, blowing smoke from an imaginary cigarette, before moving on to Marguerite.
Involuntarily, her fingers went to her own neck, tracing along the spot where Marguerite’s black ribbon lay.
There was something just a bit reminiscent of Claire’s early days at the museum in the way she was quietly imitating us, but we didn’t invite her in.
She turned around and walked out, leaving us alone.