Page 72

FIFTY

T he next evening, I pack a carry-on and arrive at the eerily quiet airport at eleven.

I’m the last group to board—as the cheap seats always are—and find myself two rows from the back of the plane.

I congratulate myself on somehow managing to snag an aisle, but my pleasure fades when it becomes clear a near-constant queue waiting for the bathroom will be hovering over me for much of the flight.

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? Wyatt.

An emerging psychotic process. Ruth.

Lots of things are both outlandish and true. Jonathan.

It’s noon when I clear customs at Charles de Gaulle, and then I have to wait an hour for a taxi.

The ride to the hotel takes forever and gobbles a sizable bite of my newly acquired euros.

When I arrive, grimy and exhausted, they inform me my room won’t be available for at least another three hours.

The lobby is cramped and poorly lit, and even though I’m in Paris, the wondrous City of Light, I don’t have the energy to go anywhere else.

I sit down in a lumpy chair and immediately fall asleep.

A small woman with stunning black hair shakes me and hands me a key. I stumble up two flights of stairs, traverse a dark hallway, and manage to find my room. It’s better appointed than I expect, although certainly not luxurious. But I don’t really care, as all I want to do is climb into the bed.

When I wake it’s three in the morning, dark and quiet, and I can’t fall back asleep.

I take a shower and hang up a couple of shirts.

Then there’s nothing else to do. I can’t call Jonathan until at least seven, as he’s been here for a while and is presumably beyond jet lag.

I’m simultaneously wired and wiped out, so I lie back down and stare out the single window, which I hadn’t closed the drapes over yesterday.

Not much to see except the darkened panes of a building about fifteen feet beyond my own.

Despite knowing better, I have a deluded sense of optimism about this. “Deluded” being an apt descriptor.

My sliver of hope dissipates when I talk to Jonathan. “The Parisian office of the Claims Conference has been helpful,” he says, “but Beaumont refuses to allow us into the property.”

“Can he do that?”

“Not indefinitely, but it seems he’s going to try everything he can to drag it out.”

“More than a couple of days?”

A pause. “Could be.”

“Damn,” I say, and my voice catches. I have only two days here. Eleven until the trial.

“Look, I have a breakfast meeting with the director of a historical commission that’s been documenting looted assets forever. Worked with her before, and she’s had a lot of success at returning confiscated property.”

“Can she help you get into the house?” Meaning can she help me get into the house?

“They have a good relationship with the city authorities.”

“And the city will force him?”

“It’s possible. I’ve got to run, but how about we meet in the entry hall of the National Library at noon? It’s right around the corner from your hotel. Can’t miss it—a bunch of glass towers, considered a modern marvel. And there’s a good café.”

I BARELY HAVE any memory of arriving yesterday, and now I look around.

Despite my edginess, I’m charmed by both the hotel and the bohemian neighborhood surrounding it.

Cobblestone streets cluttered with narrow buildings pressing into one another.

Residences, hotels, boutiques, restaurants and bars, modest local groceries, and bakeries.

The hotel has a small restaurant with tables under a red awning—how French—so I sit on the sidewalk, sip an espresso, and partake in Parisian tourists’ favorite ritual: people watching.

When I finish breakfast, I head to 40 Rue de Villejust. I shouldn’t have had that second cup as my nerves are already in high gear.

I’m on my way to Berthe’s home. Where she lived and painted.

Where Aimée and Colette grew up and then created their own households.

Three generations of Morisot women, my grandmothers times four, three, and two. How extraordinary. My spirits rise.

Following my GPS, I spend almost two hours making my way through the avenues of Paris.

Finally, I turn a corner, and there it is, right across the street from me.

I gape, press my back against the fence encircling a small park.

It’s hard to breathe. The house looks just like the one in my dream.

I stare, try to reclaim my equilibrium. Limestone-clad.

Friezes under the mansard roof. Multiple sets of French doors opening onto wrought-iron balconies that stretch across three floors, large and small, all ornate.

I’m gripped by a sense of being lifted above the scene—the house, me standing before it. Impossible. Impossibly so.

Then a wave of pleasure flows through me. After growing up with no extended family or heritage, here it is: my roots. If only Party were with me now so I could tell Berthe where I am, let her know that, despite the uncanny circumstances, I feel as if I’ve come home.

An elderly woman clutching an oversized purse steps from the massive, rounded main door. I swiftly cross the street, hoping to slip in before it closes or at least catch a glimpse into the entryway. But the heavy door swings back into place, and the lock clicks before I reach the sidewalk.

I move back and look up at the towering facade.

Jonathan said the building had been cut up into eight apartments, some of which must have stunning classical details, although I get the sense from the peeling paint and the chips on the front stoop that most will be tired.

My heart pounds. Is it possible this house could be mine? That Berthe led me to it?

One of the photographs online showed a large garden in the back.

Because it’s a town house with outside walls flush with its neighbors’, the garden isn’t visible from where I’m standing.

I head around the block and find an alleyway, running between the houses on Rue de Villejust and those on the street behind it.

No one is about, and I nonchalantly saunter through it, my breathing growing easier.

I stop at the rear of 40. There’s a tall fence of green latticework hiding the house, but a few slats are broken and I peer through.

The garden remains, ill tended and overgrown, but the brick walkways and raised flower beds are still as they must have been when Berthe lived here.

There’s a wall of windows overlooking it, and I have no difficulty picturing her standing inside in front of her easel, palette and brush in hand.

An angry dog barks behind me. I back away from the lattice as a man struggles to keep his German shepherd from lunging at me.

He frowns as his eyes sweep suspiciously over my jeans, T-shirt, and running shoes, an outfit that screams “Tourist.” Nosy tourist, at that.

I smile and nod as pleasantly as I can, then walk quickly in the opposite direction. The dog growls. I move faster.

Everything tells me this is a fool’s mission, that I’ll soon be staggering home, empty-handed, humiliated and even more broke than I was before. Sitting in Ruth Hawthorn’s office while she tries to figure out which particular type of psychosis I suffer from. The appropriate treatment options.

I TAKE A bus to the library, which as Jonathan promised, is easy to find.

Four steel-and-glass towers rise above the district, sleek and translucent.

I cross a wide plaza and into the entrance hall that forms the base of all the towers.

It’s full of light with soaring ceilings and a jumble of activity, yet another Parisian wonder.

I’m early, and I try to calm myself by wandering.

Each of the four buildings has its own atrium, with even more sun cascading through floors of bookshelves and glass-fronted reading rooms. I discover elevated walkways connecting different parts of the towers and marvel at the views into the interior spaces and outward to the city and river. Still, it all weighs heavy.

At noon, I meet Jonathan back in the entry. I throw my arms around him in a tight hug, holding on for too long, trying to blink back my inexplicable tears before he can see them. I want to clutch onto his solid self, an anchor in the buffeting sea of my raging emotions.

He holds me until I let go. “You okay?” He scans my face.

“Fine,” I manage. “Just jet-lagged, I guess.”

He touches my back as we’re led to a table, guiding me as you might an unsteady child. When we sit, he says breezily, “Told you this was an incredible place, didn’t I?” But the concern etching his mouth belies his cheerful small talk.

“Got a chance to walk around for a bit. Amazing.” I focus on placing the napkin on my lap. “How did your meeting go?”

He hesitates. “Overall, it went well.”

I look up. “Overall?”

“Sophie’s group is more involved with art and cultural artifacts than with real estate.”

“She won’t be able to help?”

“Not specifically, but she set up an appointment for me with a guy who handles restitution for commercial and residential properties. It’s later this afternoon, so hopefully we can get moving soon.”

We’re interrupted by the waiter. Jonathan orders a baguette with tuna, anchovies, olives, and a hard-boiled egg—which sounds awful to me—and I opt for a salad that I don’t really want, as I have no stomach for food. The server leaves, and I say, “I went to the house.”

He leans back in his chair. “Did it look like it did in your dream?”

I nod but don’t meet his eye.

“And?”

I try to sort through my reactions. “I, I couldn’t believe it.

How could I have dreamed it before I ever saw it?

Weird, scary. I was freaked, still am, but it was also kind of nice.

Like being with the family I never knew I had.

” I laugh, if a bit hollowly. “Or, more correctly, the ghosts of that family.”

He gives me a probing look, likely trying to determine whether I mean metaphorical or actual ghosts. “That all makes sense,” he finally says. “It’s such an odd situation, bizarre on so many levels.”

I lean forward. “What if there’s nothing inside?”

“You’re a tough woman, Tamara. Look what you’ve been through these last few months, what you’ve come through. If there’s nothing there, there’s nothing there. You’ll keep fighting Damien—and, hopefully, win—and now we’ve got your ownership of 40 to pursue. Most likely another win.”

“What if there is something inside?”

He laughs heartily. “See? You just proved my point. Survivors survive.”

“Thank you,” I say, and our eyes lock. “You’re a generous man.”

“And here I thought you liked me because of my stunning good looks.”

I feel a tingling that surprises me, although it probably shouldn’t. “That too.” I reposition my napkin and tell him I’m going to the Louvre after lunch to see some of Berthe’s and édouard’s paintings.

He’s suggesting other pieces I shouldn’t miss when my phone rings. Wyatt. I start to turn the ringer off, then reconsider. “Sorry, it’s my lawyer. He might have some updates, so I need to take this.” Then I remember Jonathan knows my lawyer is also my boyfriend. Awkward.

“Yes, it’s important to talk to your lawyer,” he says with a straight face.

I accept the call. “Hey, is this important, or can I get back to you? I’m in a meeting with someone from the Claims Conference.”

“Nothing urgent,” Wyatt says. “Just wondered how your trip was going and if you’d found anything yet.”

“In the process,” I assure him. “Busy afternoon. I’ll call you later.”

“Also wanted to tell you I miss you.”

“That’s good. Sure. Talk then.” As I put the phone back in my purse, heat rises into my cheeks.

Jonathan lifts an eyebrow.

I stab my fork into the salad. “No news.”

I TAKE A taxi to the Louvre, and along the way I check the museum’s website for its Morisot and Manet holdings.

There are eleven paintings by Berthe in their collection and ninety-two by édouard.

As I skim the Manet entry, I see that portraits of édouard by other artists are included on his list, but still the numerical imbalance is glaring. As it was at MoMA.

There are only three Morisots on display.

But at least thirty Manets hang on the walls, including Olympia , which caused such a stir in his day; Luncheon on the Grass , also a painting that outraged the public; The Absinthe Drinker ; and yet another version of Execution of Maximilian —this one much larger than the two I’ve seen before, but no more appealing.

With the exception of Maximilian , édouard’s paintings are truly amazing, the in-your-face satire of Olympia and Luncheon , the deep shadows of tall-hatted Drinker .

But they are all representational, created with tight strokes, and none bear more than a passing resemblance to Party .

I spend most of my time with Berthe. The Cradle is one of her most famous, a picture of her sister Edma with her newborn baby, the child covered by the partially transparent netting hanging from the top of the cradle, light streaming through it and falling on the little girl’s face.

The Harbor at Lorient is equally remarkable, and I take a number of photos of it, as the play of sun on the water resembles the rendition of the river in Party .

Young Woman in a White Dress is another example of her ability to capture the subtleties of fabric and sunlight.

Further indication, if I needed any, that Berthe is not getting her due. Even in her own hometown.

Since Party arrived, my main motivation has been to retain ownership of her, lately by proving Berthe’s artistship.

But now my desire to resurrect Berthe’s reputation as an Impressionist—equal to or better than the rest—has grown almost as pressing.

It occurs to me that if all goes well, I could be the one to establish a Berthe Morisot Foundation.

I go back to the hotel and wait to hear how Jonathan’s meeting went.

When I get there, the concierge hands me an envelope with my name on it. It’s from Damien.

I wish to reiterate that our offer still stands. The trial is fast approaching, and as we have received no notification from your attorney that you have any proof that Party on the Seine rightfully belonged to the Bernheims, I respectfully remind you that your chances of success are negligible.