Page 67

FORTY-SIX

O ver jambalaya, which I struggle to eat because my stomach feels as if it’s the size of a pea, I recount the sad Calliope saga: the fake whistleblower post, the hacked website, the firing, Damien’s lawyer calling the next day to reiterate the offer.

“My dear cousin is a real sneaky son of a bitch.”

“Growing sneakier every day.” Jonathan rips a piece of bread from the loaf. “Sometimes I’m almost sorry I contacted you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I know how much you love Party , but it seems like ever since you found out about it, there’s been a kind of reign of terror. The lawsuit, the threats, the Louvre, the leaked info, this.”

I nod, afraid if I look at him I might lose my tenuous grip and start to cry. “Damien’s reign of terror.”

“I’m sorry it’s been so tough on you.”

“Not like it’s your fault,” I say, swirling the wine in my glass, still avoiding his eyes.

I’m moved by his concern, his obvious empathy.

I suppose both are necessary for his job, but it also appears to be who Jonathan is.

How would he react if told him about Berthe, about what’s been happening with Party ?

“I know it’s not,” he says. “I just wish I could do more to help you with the fallout.”

I glance into the living room, hoping for a hint.

Party is still. What a relief it would be to unburden myself.

But if Dr. Zafón’s tests indicate a mental illness, this confession would be horribly embarrassing.

And yet if it’s all in my head, why is it only Party that makes me hallucinate?

Wouldn’t I hear and see and smell imaginary things in other circumstances?

This back-and-forth is crazy-making, probably both in the figurative and the literal sense.

I need to get it off my chest. Hash it out.

Jonathan is a thoughtful man, not one to race to fast conclusions.

“There’s, there’s something else, but I, I don’t know…”

“Don’t know what?”

I begin with Berthe’s first wink, the dreams, the changes in the painting, the voice in my head, the violet perfume, the alternating signatures.

He doesn’t interrupt me, but there’s a skeptical look on his face.

“I know I’m probably seeing things that aren’t there,” I add, sidestepping.

“Saying it out loud makes me realize how outlandish the whole idea is.”

“Got to agree it’s outlandish, but lots of things are both outlandish and true.”

“Really?” I’m incredulous that he might take this seriously—relieved and horrified in equal measure. “You think this could be one of them?”

“I don’t know. Do you?”

“No, no, it can’t be. No.” I shake my head vigorously. “But it, it feels real—and in its own weird way, almost deliberate.”

“Deliberate how?”

I inspect my hands. “It’s almost like Berthe is trying to tell me something. Has been from the start.”

“Do you have any idea what that might be?”

“I think she painted Party ,” I blurt. “And, and she wants me to find proof of it. To tell the world.”

“Which would make you the rightful owner.”

“I don’t think that’s the point.” I take a deep breath. “It’s more about her rightful place in the art world. Or, or, I don’t know what I’m saying, but what if she’s actually haunting the painting?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he says quickly.

“It’s a pretty big leap of faith—especially when your vision isn’t that good.

But I think I told you before that my mother’s side of the family is from Haiti.

And lots of people on the island believe there’s a strong link between the living and the dead.

Sort of like ghosts, but more like the spirits of ancestors. ”

“Aren’t those ghosts?”

“Not exactly.” He gazes out the window. “They’re not evil, not trying to scare you or get you to do anything. More like souls who are there to protect you. I guess.”

“Berthe is my ancestor.”

Jonathan holds up his hands. “My parents aren’t into any of that stuff. Mom really hates it all and converted to Judaism as soon as they got engaged—so my knowledge is pretty sketchy. Just visits to my grandmother every few years when I was growing up.”

“Do you believe any of it?”

“No, but I suppose I’m more open to the possibility than a lot of other Westerners might be.”

I pour us more wine, play with the stem of my glass. “The other night, I had a dream I was in an old house, frantically searching for something—for a little girl.”

“And?”

“Again, it also sounds outlandish, but this was before I found out about Berthe and 40 Rue de Villejust. Before I saw pictures of it…”

“And?”

“The house in my dream looked a lot like the photograph I found on the internet.”

THE NEXT MORNING, there’s an email from Ruth.

She received the test results from Dr. Zafón and wants to Zoom with me at noon.

Even though I’ve been waiting for this for what feels like forever, now that the moment’s here, I don’t know if I can take any more bad news.

I want to tell her I’m busy—and will be for the foreseeable future. But I don’t.

“As I’m sure you discussed with Dr. Zafón, neither the MMPI nor the Rorschach diagnose a particular disease,” she says when we connect. “They’re used as backup, providing additional evidence to help a clinician do that.”

I nod.

“Let’s begin with the MMPI. Your profile is largely within normal limits, and that, along with the overall life history you reported, points to generally good psychological adjustment.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” I say, although I don’t like the qualifying words: “largely,” “generally.”

“Yes. There was one somewhat elevated score that reflects unusual psychological occurrences. In your case, this might be the hallucinations you reported.”

“Are you saying I’m psychotic?”

“What I’m saying is that your score on that particular scale—which, remember, is only a single marker—could raise the question of an emerging psychotic process.

But—and this is important to understand—it can also be interpreted as a reaction to stress.

And from what you told me, you’ve been under a lot of that lately. ”

“So the results don’t really tell you anything?”

Ruth laughs. “I wouldn’t say that, because the scores suggest we can rule out a variety of psychological disorders. But you’ll want to continue to track, in therapy, any additional experiences you might have.”

“What about the Rorschach?”

“Again, like the MMPI, the results aren’t definitive, but in my opinion, the interpretations need further consideration. First off, your cognitive functioning is very high, but some of your responses might be considered idiosyncratic and indicative of possible perceptual distortions.”

“Which signifies what?”

“Again, it doesn’t signify anything. It, along with the MMPI scores, point out possible avenues to explore in order to understand what’s going on and how to manage it.

For example, treatment options will differ depending on whether your experience appears to reflect a break from reality or is a reaction to stress. ”

Which basically means I’m no closer to knowing if I have a mental illness or a haunted painting.

AS JONATHAN PREDICTED, étienne Beaumont refuses to consider selling the building.

Despite discussions with the federal government, the Parisian authorities, and the German office of the Claims Conference, the man will not budge.

Hence, Jonathan is scheduled to leave for Paris in a few days to try to change Beaumont’s mind.

I ask if I can tag along, and I can hear the frown in his voice when he says, “I can’t tell you not to, but I can tell you I believe the chances of finding anything in the house are close to nil.”

There’s not much to argue with here. “It’s the ‘close to’ part I’m counting on,” I offer weakly.

“It’s not just the ghost piece that’s weak—to say the least—but no one in your family has lived there in almost a century, and countless others have.

And then there are all the renovations the house has gone through.

Again, it’s your choice, but, the paranormal notwithstanding, the reality is that it’s highly unlikely anything that belonged to them is still there. ”

Of course they haven’t lived there for generations.

Of course the fact I dreamed about a house that looks somewhat like Berthe’s house means nothing.

Of course the whole idea is madness. I try to talk myself out of it but fail, and I make a reservation for a nonrefundable flight to Paris, economy with no extras.

It leaves in the middle of the night, with a stopover in Iceland, and takes over ten hours.

But it still costs a small fortune, as does the bare-bones hotel I choose in the 13th arrondissement.

Jonathan warns me that everything in the city, especially food, is expensive, yet, once again, I tell myself that this is an investment in my future.

Still, the doubts are there. And I’m afraid, even as I’m not sure whether I’m afraid of finding nothing or finding something. Bottom line: I’m a wreck.

“THIS IS PURE insanity,” Wyatt says over dinner the night before I’m due to leave. That word—or variations of it—keeps popping up. And I don’t like this at all.

“I know you think it’s a bad idea,” I say, as evenly as I can.

“And maybe you’re right, but I want to give it a try.

” I’d played with concocting a story about a visit to a college roommate somewhere out west, but I couldn’t pull it off.

So I told him the truth, but said nothing about meeting Jonathan over there.

“Waste of money,” he mutters. “Waste of time.”

“Seems I’ve got plenty of the latter these days.” I’m immediately sorry I said this, because now he’s going to tell me I may have the time but I don’t have the money.

“You know I’m going to have to charge you at my regular rate when I’m in New York for the trial,” he says.

“So far I’ve been fudging my hours to charge you less, but the firm’s rules about travel are unbendable.

Full-time for at least two days, plus expenses, billed to your account. It’s going to be costly.”

“I’ll pay whatever I owe,” I say. Although I have no idea how I’m going to be able to do this.

“When you were bringing in a salary, you were always complaining about your student loans pulling you down. Credit cards.”

I place my fork on the table. “Can we drop this, please?”

“I’m pretty sure we’ve got what we need to win,” he says. “So it’s not necessary.”

“The trial is in less than two weeks. Is ‘pretty sure’ good enough? You’re the one who’s always urging me to investigate, to come up with more information. If I don’t find anything, we’re no worse off than we are now. But how huge would it be if I did?”

“Can you honestly tell me you believe you’re going to discover something from the nineteenth century in some random old house? And that something is going to help our current case? What are you basing this on?”

“My research, books about Berthe living at 40 Rue de Villejust. About her daughter Aimée living there even after Berthe died, raising her daughter where she grew up. About that daughter, Colette Bernheim, doing the same until the Nazis stole it from her. Maybe there are clues there.” As I’m speaking, I can see all the holes he’s going to shoot into this.

“Clues? What kind of clues?”

“What if Berthe did paint Party ? And what if I can find proof of it there? Then Damien’s suit evaporates.”

He blinks, stares at me. “It’s like you’re bewitched.”

“Just because you don’t believe there are other ways to get at the truth, that doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“What other ways?”

“Like the photograph of the house. That it was Berthe’s, Colette’s too—and it could be mine.”

“Whether the house belongs to you or not doesn’t have anything to do with proving Berthe painted Party . Or with getting more evidence for the trial.”

“I’ve just got a gut feeling about it,” I say.

I’m beyond losing it. I’m lost.