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ONE

Traffic

Vivianne

I suffer through the oppressiveness of New York City, reaffirming my desire to never live in the city of cities. The driver who picked Dr. Phillips and me up from the airport maneuvers the car through the crush of congested traffic.

We crawl the nine miles from LaGuardia toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the hubbub of a city packed with millions has me leaning away from the dirty window.

Dr. Phillips sighs, places his briefcase on his lap, and opens it with a snick of the latches. The cheap leather of the rear seat creaks as my mentor shifts beside me.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Could it be the real thing?”

What do I think of the newly discovered Van Gogh? Well, it’s a load of crap, but I can’t say that without him asking questions I can’t answer.

Harried pedestrians shuffle past on the sidewalks, chins tucked against the chill winds funneling through the skyscrapers. People pinch their eyes and focus forward, avoiding contact with anyone in their path.

I pick at the immaculate hem of my skirt, happy to not be a part of the morning press of humanity.

A new acquisition, my outfit debuted at New York’s Fashion Week less than a month ago and was delivered to my doorstep a day before this trip. An assertive color for women, the deep ruby red contrasts nicely against the fairness of my skin and the gentle waves of my long blonde hair.

I need to feel, if not powerful, at least confident. Nothing imbues me with more self-assurance than being decked out in the most desired haute couture.

“We need to see The Lovers ,” I caution, “before you put your reputation on the line.” Or mine, young and fragile as it is.

As I’m jet-lagged from a red-eye flight, every blare of a horn traumatizes my delicate hearing and sets my jangled nerves to buzzing. A pinch of pain settles behind my eyes; the beginning of a headache. I don’t have time for the distraction, not when I need to focus on securing an uncertain future.

Late middle-aged, Dr. Phillips’s hand shakes as he holds out the summary of the technical analysis. He sits, stiff and uncomfortable, in his tweed blazer and dark pants. Crow’s feet crinkle at the corners of his eyes, and deep bags sit beneath them.

With a glance out the window, he combs through his long surfer-styled hair; the blond of his youth has grayed with age. All one length, it hangs inches below his collar. Sometimes, he ties his hair back, making him look very much like the hipster professor, but today, it flows free and unconstrained. He looks as frazzled as I feel.

In the seven years I’ve studied under him, I’ve rarely seen him in anything other than jeans and a T-shirt. He always says dressing up is a pretentious waste of time, but when the Metropolitan Board of Trustees asked for a consultation, even he bowed to tradition and wedged himself into tweed and wool. The blazer and slacks are the closest thing he has to a real suit.

His briefcase balances on his knees, the lid propped open and papers sprawl over his lap. Dr. Phillips shuffles through the stack, pulls out the X-ray report, and scans the contents with meticulous care.

I don’t spare a glance at the paper; I’ve pored over the reports during the flight and read them countless times in the previous weeks.

Wriggling my toes in my Louboutins, I take a moment to enjoy the respite of sitting rather than the pinch of my shoes, which will come upon standing. I envision a long day ahead and don’t look forward to being on my feet for hours on end. Thousands of dollars, and there isn’t a single shoe designer out there capable of making a comfortable pair of stilettos?

Dr. Phillips flutters his fingers in the air, a gesture he makes when he’s going to ignore the truth. Surely, he knows the pieces aren’t adding up, but his eagerness with this discovery blinds him.

“Well, it’ll come down to a stylistic examination, of course.”

Yes, that’s part of the routine. Technical, followed by expert examination. That’s where I come in.

“Your impeccable eye will help.” He stabs a finger toward the roof, emphasizing his point. “But we have to give the reports the weight they deserve.”

He leans back. His long legs are bent and look cramped in the back of the car.

Evidence? Proof of authenticity is too easily faked. But his eagerness to verify a newly discovered Van Gogh makes him careless. A peace-loving, free-willed, pot-smoking poster child of the turbulent sixties and seventies, Dr. Phillips is uninhibited and unbridled by convention.

He takes risks I would never consider. I live trapped by my family’s wealth. Uncertainty fills every decision. While I struggle for perfection and try to please everybody, I fail more often than not.

Dr. Phillips releases an excited exhale and leans forward to track our progress through the flow of traffic.

“If authentic,” he says, “it’ll be the discovery of the century, and this…This will cement your reputation.”

I hope so, but not in the way he envisions. Vincent van Gogh’s masterpiece The Lovers: The Poet’s Garden IV tops the world’s top ten list of priceless stolen art. Dr. Phillips has received an invitation to aid with the authentication of the lost treasure, and he’s brought me to help his efforts—precisely because of my impeccable eye.

A few years shy of thirty, I’m young to be considered an emerging authority in the lucrative art world. Nevertheless, I’ve made a name for myself in the billion-dollar industry with what some consider an uncanny ability to spot forgeries.

Mostly, I cheat, but I’m desperate to cement my place within the elitist group of art historians before my thirtieth birthday; which brings the burden of familial obligations, forcing me into a future I don’t control.

Van Gogh’s lost work, missing since the Nazi-era art thefts that occurred before and during World War II, has resurfaced, bequeathed after the death of an anonymous donor, less than a month ago. Determining provenance will be difficult.

With what I know, it’s an impossibility.

Someone is trying to make a statement, and it places my family in a very dangerous position because there’s only one reason I know this copy of The Lovers to be a fake.

Dr. Phillips’s eagerness is worrisome. Certifying an original comes at great risk to the authenticating party. We are of different minds on the origin of The Lovers . My studies, my entire life, have been focused on famous art lost during World War II and the forensic science behind fakes and forgeries.

I don’t need a degree in art history or a master’s in art crime to know the painting is a fake. I pray I’ll discover a stylistic flaw because, so far, the technical analysis has proclaimed the piece as a genuine work of the great master.

Every brushstroke, imperfection, and speck of damage inflicted since the Nazis stole The Lovers are intimately known to me. But how I’ve garnered that knowledge will never see the light of day, which leaves me relying on my education and purported skill.

I huff out a tired sigh, drained by the constant noise blaring beyond the window. Each honk, every obscenity screamed by our driver, shreds my nerves.

“How long does it take to drive nine miles?” I complain.

I, too, lean forward and peer out at the gridlock of cars, cabs, and buses. Bundled pedestrians brave the chilly March weather of New York City and rush past the cab. I turn my attention to the path of our little blue dot on the map.

Two more miles.

We could move faster on foot. If I hadn’t worn heels and a tight-fitting skirt, I’d consider getting out. A brisk walk would be refreshing because the longer we sit in the car, the more violent the butterflies in my belly dance.