Page 59

THIRTY-NINE

I look from my phone to Party and back to the screen.

The signature on the painting still says “Berthe Morisot,” and the one in the photograph still says “édouard Manet.” I stare at the ceiling, try to take deep breaths and slow my racing heart.

Visual and auditory and olfactory hallucinations?

Transmuting paintings and dead people talking to me?

How can this be? I stretch to grasp this new version of myself.

But I can’t reach it. It makes no sense.

How can I hold a job and live on my own if I’m demonstrably psychotic?

I text Wyatt to ask if he’s home and if it’s okay if I stop by. He says he is, and that I’m welcome anytime.

When I step into the foyer, he says, “You look like you need a hug.” Then he wraps me in a welcoming embrace and rests his chin on my head. “Sorry I stormed out yesterday. Miss me last night?”

I nod into his chest, and the tears I’ve been holding off all afternoon break through. I never cry. I’m crying.

“Hey, hey.” He pulls back, looks at my streaming face, and tenderly rewraps me. “I realize it’s tough to be away from me, but this seems a bit excessive.”

I start to laugh, which stops the tears, but then the laugh takes off in a slightly hysterical direction.

“Let’s go sit. You can tell me what this is about.” He leads me to the couch, and my pseudohilarity ebbs. He takes both my hands in his. “Are you okay, Tam? Did you get bad news? You haven’t been to the doctor or anything, have you?”

I swipe at my eyes with my sleeve. “No, no. Nothing like that. Nothing serious like that.”

“Then serious like what?”

I sigh. “I’ve, I’ve just been a little off lately. Not my usual self. I’m sure it’s just stress from work, the appeal, the lawsuit… But I’m, I don’t know, I’m feeling kind of lopsided, for lack of a better word. But not physically, more mentally.”

“What does that mean?”

“I haven’t been sleeping well, so that’s probably the reason.”

“The reason for what?”

“This, this…” I raise my arm, then drop it to my lap. “This discombobulation.”

He brushes hair off my forehead. “You’ve got to be more specific.”

“Well, the nightmares, for one.”

He drops my hands. “ Party on the Seine ?”

“No. Not really, but there is something about the painting I wanted to talk to you about. While I’ve been researching, well, I’m starting to wonder if Manet actually painted it.”

“There’s never been any doubt he painted it, right? Are these the kinds of thoughts that are making you feel whatever you’re feeling? Lopsided?”

I get up and stand at the front window, my face hidden from him. I’m backing myself into a dangerous corner here. Then I have a thought that might extricate me, and I turn around. “But if he didn’t, then Damian would have no claim to her—to it.”

Wyatt’s expression is both bewildered and exasperated. “Obviously, there’d be no lawsuit if he didn’t paint it. But the Claims Conference, the official listing of Manet’s works that Damien’s foundation keeps, that museum in Philadelphia, they all believe it’s his.”

It’s tough to argue with a lawyer, especially when your case is weak.

“You told me it was on display from the late 1800s until it was stolen before the war,” he continues. “So if it wasn’t his, wouldn’t someone have figured that out by now?”

I grasp for those straws. “It wasn’t shown all that much, a lot less than most of his others. And, and because it stayed in the family, no one probably ever checked. But, either way, couldn’t we try to use it against Damien? It’s not as if he’s been perfectly honest with us.”

“That would only work if it were true.”

“Maybe I should look into it more thoroughly.”

His eyes narrow. “If édouard Manet didn’t paint it, who do you think did?”

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “Lots of people, I suppose. It does look like a lot of Renoir’s work. Or it could even be an outright forgery.”

“You’re thinking it was Berthe, aren’t you?”

“No, no, it—”

“Did you get this idea from one of your dreams? Did she tell you it was hers?”

I sit down next to him, clasp my hands on my lap, and look at the carpet. “That’s a low blow.” But the real blow is that his incredulity—and how outlandish what he’s asking sounds even to my ears—is yet another indication I’m losing my mind.

THE NEXT DAY, I call Jonathan, but I’m better prepared for this conversation. “Did the Conference ever authenticate Party ?” I ask, as if it were just a passing thought.

“Not that I know of, but I doubt it. Like I told you before, our investigations focus on the artworks after the Nazis stole them. It’s not our role to authenticate anything, just to find out who a particular piece was stolen from and get it back to the family.

Whether it’s a great work of art or a piece of junk doesn’t matter. ”

“Do you have any idea if anyone else might have authenticated it?”

“Why are you asking?”

“It’s nuts, I know, but I’ve started thinking that maybe Manet didn’t paint it.”

“For real, or as a way to get Damien off your back?”

I’m embarrassed he saw this connection right away, while I didn’t make it for a full day. But as this is the excuse I’d planned to explain my inquisitiveness, it works. “Yeah, then he’d have no case.”

“Only if it were true.” Just what Wyatt said. Damn lawyers.

“So how would I find out whether it’s ever been authenticated?”

“You’re not going to like this, but the Manet Foundation is the place that would have the most thorough and up-to-date info. They’re the ones who have all the detailed provenance records. His catalogue raisonné.”

“There has to be some other way.”

“Well, a lot of these catalogues are public, or at least parts of them. I’d check online.

Often there are physical books. Usually very fancy and expensive ones, but a larger library might have copies—Copley Square or maybe Harvard.

But you’ve got to hope Manet’s isn’t private, which isn’t unusual. Depends on the artist or their estate.”

“Why do I have the feeling Damien would keep it private?” I say, and I can hear the bitterness in my voice. “Or at least any part I might be interested in.”

A long pause. “Are you serious about this?”

“No, not really. Maybe.”

“What makes you think it’s not Manet’s work?”

“Just, uh, just from some of the research I’ve been doing. You know, to find out how Colette ended up with it.”

“For example?”

“Oh, I guess the less defined strokes, the soft edges, things like that. And Berthe looks very different in Party than she does in édouard’s other paintings of her.

Even you said it was a break from his usual style, less traditional than most of his compositions… I don’t know, the way the light falls?”

Another long pause. “Look, this isn’t any of my business, but I feel we’ve known each other long enough that I’d like to be honest with you. Do you want to hear my thoughts?”

I don’t particularly want to hear his thoughts, but I did call him for his thoughts. “Hit me.”

“Frankly, proving that édouard Manet didn’t paint one of his most highly acclaimed masterpieces is more than likely a losing venture.

If I were giving you odds, it’d have to be one in a thousand.

Maybe one hundred thousand. I’m sorry, but unless you’ve got some definitive evidence, I just don’t see how this can go anywhere but nowhere. ”

“That’s what I want to look for. Evidence.”

“Is there something you’re leaving out here?”

“No,” I say after a moment’s hesitation.

His sigh is deep and long. “I’ve always figured you as a rational person—if a bit cynical—except when it comes to Party . Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“Berthe told me she painted it.”

Jonathan bursts out laughing. “Well, that’s a relief. And here I thought you might be going crazy.”

I GO TO a different psychologist, a Dr. Zafón.

He sits me down in a sterile office, nothing like Ruth’s cozy one, and explains that he’s going to administer two different tests, the MMPI and the Rorschach.

But he doesn’t tell me what the results are going to show.

I figured this would be the case, so I checked out the most common psychological tests before I came.

The MMPI is used to determine whether you have any of a bunch of different mental illnesses, while the Rorschach assesses if your thought processes are logical and you see the world as it truly is.

This last test, obviously, makes me nervous.

Actually, they both make me nervous. The MMPI has over five hundred statements that require a yes-or-no response, and, as everyone knows, the Rorschach is based on the interpretation of inkblots.

This sounds like a bunch of gibberish to me.

But I’m here, and I’m looking for answers, so I pick up the pencil and start on the MMPI.

The statements are inane: I have a cough most of the time.

My soul sometimes leaves my body. My family doesn’t like the work I’ve chosen.

A minister can cure disease by putting his hand on your head.

I have never been in trouble because of my sexual behavior.

At least once a week, I feel suddenly hot all over without apparent cause.

Sometimes I feel like I want to smash things.

My judgment is better than it ever was. And on and on and on. Really?

I STARE THROUGH my office window at my tiny piece of the Charles—no sailboats, just cloudy, chilly March, the water steel gray.

I did everything Dr. Zafón asked of me, but I have zero faith that he or anyone will get any inkling of my mental status from my responses.

I may not be a psychologist, but it was pretty easy to figure which MMPI answer would make you seem sane and which would not.

The same for the inkblots. And then there are the underlying algorithms used for interpretation, which, by definition, are going to be based on some faulty assumptions.

I answered everything as truthfully as I could, although some of the MMPI statements were hard to force into a simple yes or no.

Is my judgment better than it ever was? Generally, I’d say yes.

But as of late, I’m not so sure. I’ve found myself wondering if I’ve been thinking about this all wrong.

That I’m not seeing things that aren’t there.

On the contrary, I’m seeing things that are.

This is equally troubling, as accepting the possibility of the paranormal goes against everything I’ve believed about the nature of existence.

Evidence, science, and numbers are my game.

Prove it or shut up. Not particularly open-minded of me, but there it is.

I’ve never believed there were more things in heaven and earth, but apparently, for the first time in my life, I’m going to have to consider the supernatural.

Fortunately, Holly is the opposite of my practical STEM self, open to all kinds of possibilities, from reincarnation to the power of pyramids to the effects of positive—or negative—thoughts on future events.

“Mindfulness” is one of her favorite words.

We’ve never discussed ghosts, but she’s gone to some séances, so I’m thinking she knows a bit about them.

We meet for lunch, and when I ask her if she believes in ghosts, she’s incredulous. “You? You want to know about ghosts?”

“Just ghostlore. Like, you know, like what people who believe in ghosts think they are.”

Holly smiles mischievously. “Have you met one?”

I’d planned the answer for this question. “No, I’m reading Turn of the Screw , Henry James, and it got me curious.”

“Hmm.” It’s clear she’s skeptical of my motives, but she goes for it anyway. “There are lots of disagreements, but I think most people would say ghosts are people who have physically died but their souls are somehow caught in a netherworld between life and death.”

“Why would that happen?”

“According to ‘ghostlore,’ as you put it, ghosts have unresolved issues from life that keep them here. Sometimes it’s guilt over things they’ve done—say they killed someone—or revenge for something that was done to them. The upshot is they have to right the wrong before they’re set free.”

“Set free to go where?”

She pops a cherry tomato into her mouth. “To a place where they’re at peace, where they can finally rest, unperturbed by whatever was perturbing them.”

“So you’re saying they become ghosts to fix what they couldn’t when they were alive?”

“That’s one way to look at it. But it can also be a response to things that happened after they died. Something bad that they have to change.”

“But there’s no proof this is an actual thing? It’s all speculation?”

“So much in this world is based on speculation. No ‘proof’ of the Big Bang, but most people believe it’s true.” She gives me a wry smile. “Scientists, even.”

Instead of getting into this, I ask, “You mostly hear about haunted houses, but can a ghost haunt something else?”

“Sure. Forests are a big one, boats, graveyards. But it’s always a place or an object they have a deep connection to—usually linked to whatever they need to set right.”

This is simultaneously chilling and preposterous, and I flinch before I can stop myself.

Holly eyes me suspiciously. “Does this have anything to do with what you said about wanting to talk to a shrink?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I told you it’s about Turn of the Screw .”

“So you did.” She taps her fork against the side of her plate. “Just don’t confuse psychiatric issues with the paranormal.”