To read Part 1 click here.
Part 2
Ch. 1 The King of Keys
Pierre’s understanding of laying low was opting for a loft apartment overlooking Vondelpark. Its winding paths and deep pools could be seen from the arched windows of our sixth floor, overly conspicuous, cash-paid, Amsterdam layer. White stone walls. Exposed attic beams. Maroon Afghan rugs. Fox fur stretched around an ottoman. A dark blue, satin couch. I spent most of the past few days on the couch watching film noir, Cecile’s choice due to its apparent similarity to our new reality. The good and the evil, hiding in shadows, you don’t know which is which. It really is romantic. Or so she said. Three days was a long time to spend inside.
I was permitted to go for a run in the park, but only in the middle of the night, and always accompanied by Boris and Pierre. Cecile had taken up cartography, or so it seemed. She had Boris bring her large maps of Amsterdam, all the canals and streets laid out before her on the floor. Boris had managed to find a map from before the second world war, and Cecile spent her hours in prison trying to find the discrepancies between the new and the old. I hadn’t seen Anna Pavlov since we departed Paris by train, but Pierre spent most of his day with her working on setting and perfecting The Al Thani Collection. He would return home in the afternoon, alone and begging for some time with me out on the terrace in the sun. Normally, pained by the teasing smell of fresh air, I would reluctantly join him. Until the day he came home in the evening, not alone this time, but with company.
I heard them before they reached the top floor. Pierre’s laughter boomed up the staircase until he was outside the door where his footsteps stopped. Shorter, lighter footsteps accompanied him. A rustle of keys, then the sound of them hitting the floor. The two pairs of feet shuffled behind the door, switching places as the lock jiggled. The door gave way and in came Pierre, tumbling over a man on all fours, landing firmly onto the carpet and knocking into the table, spilling Cecile’s champagne across her newest map. She screeched. Pierre rolled over onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow as if it was all part of his plan.
“Ladies, ladies please! It is my greatest pleasure to introduce the one, the only, King of Keys!”
Our attention turned towards the man on all fours, who was beginning to stand. His oversized, plaid slacks were very merely held up by a belt with a self made hole. He dusted off his knees and the lapels of his wool blazer before reaching for his hat, a deerstalker, and placing it on a table near the door. He took a drunken bow, crossing his left foot over the right and stumbling slightly.
“Witamy w Polce!” said the King of Keys, stretching his arms out wide, his long grey beard swaying between them like a Polish Merlin.
“Sorry, he is incredibly drunk. He spent all morning tasting gin while I slaved over the jewels. Though, I must admit, I joined him around noon. I believe he just welcomed you to Poland.” Pierre sat up, gleaming up at his friend, as if he had brought home another treasure.
“Please, please. Ladies, call me Mikolaj.”
The King of Keys took a seat on the ottoman and began untying his shoes and dropped his blazer directly on the floor. Then, suddenly sitting up straight, he lifted his beard from his face, peeling it away from his skin, revealing his thin, youthful mouth. He rubbed his face with a handkerchief, buffing away his disguise and slowly becoming Mikolaj.
“And where might you have come from?” Cecile asked while frantically dabbing her map, desperately trying to save the areas she had placed markings.
“Well my sweet American flower, let me tell you. I come from a cold place, deep in the Karkonosze Mountains. Ice covers everything, and the snow gives form to the wind when it is blown away from the cliffs, much like your lovely blonde hair falls around your face, mademoiselle.”
“Okay Mickey, I think I better make us some coffee.” Pierre scurried off to the kitchen and I quickly followed, leaving Cecile and Mikolaj for a moment.
“Pierre, not to be overly cautious, but what is your friend doing here? I thought we were meant to be laying low?”
“Darling, let me worry about being cautious. He is an old friend, a very valuable one. I’ll let him tell you his stories, but I brought him to make sure we were secure. He is quite handy with locks and permitted areas, normally he is breaking into them not securing them, but what is the real difference anyhow?”
Pierre took two cups and motioned for us to leave back into the sitting room.
“Wait.” I put my hand gently on his arm, “Let me handle those so you don’t cause Cecile to have another breakdown.”
“Right you are. Do you remember that diamond heist I told you about? In Antwerp?”
“The one connected to The Jeweller?”
“Yes. Mikolaj was the only one to get away. He is a master of mystery, of disguise. You can see his value, I’m sure of it.”
I began to agree, growing more curious about the skinny Polish man in the other room, but Pierre rushed out of the kitchen and back to his friend.
Cecile was coming back into the room as well, with her hair dryer and hairspray in hand. She was beaming, yet determined, as she approached Mikolaj who was kneeling over her wet map. She handed him the hair spray first, then went to plug in the dryer. Mikolaj raised the canister a fair distance from the map, misting it gently back and forth.
“It’s like magic,” whispered Cecile, handing him the dryer.
Using the dryer on low, Mikolaj stopped the running ink in its tracks. He lightly tapped the paper with his finger tips, showing us his inkless palm like the reveal of a vanishing trick.
“It is not magic, my lady, it is me. Mikolaj.”
“Alright, King of Keys, keep it together.” I laughed and handed him his cup of coffee.
“Mickey, I was just telling Anna about the many stories that you have. Perhaps while we sober ourselves up you can tell her a bit more?”
“Mais oui, bien sûr.” He sat down on the couch, crossing his dangling legs, and took a long, audible sip of coffee before beginning.
Picture a young boy. Age six, black hair, ghostly skin. But courageous, yes. The mountains had hardened me from the day my skin met the violent wind of winter. I was out after dark, having lost track of time in the snow, and rushing across a ridge close to home. You see, from an early age I was told of the dangers of the mountains through stories from my father. Aside from the chills, the avalanches, the black ice; there were bears, wolves, lynxes, and even the bison could cause a devastating blow. As I am winding down the ridge I spot two dark figures. Four legs, thick coat. Whether a bear or wolf it was all the same to me. They were directly between me and the smoking chimney of home. I stop, getting low down to the ground trying to find cover but their heads turn my direction. They were on my scent. I knew my father had built a brick shed some meters to the right of the clearing where the beasts stood. I arched my descent, running as quickly and quietly as I could in breaking snow. I tried to keep an eye on the animals, but as I turned around for a third time I lost them in the white. I could see the brick structure, on its door a padlock. I quickened my pace. In my coat pocket I had a small box my grandfather had given me, a box full of tricks he had taught me out of fun. When I reached the door my feet stopped, but the cracking of snow continued. I could hear careful, calculated steps in the earth behind the trees. I knew I was being watched—no, not watched. Hunted. My heart raced as I opened the box and retrieved a lock pick from within. Having only used it once before, on the lock of my sister's diary, my confidence was low. But adrenaline prevailed. As the pounding of paws against the snow grew louder, sweat began to pour down my cheeks, maybe it was tears, of this I cannot be sure. But suddenly there was a click, then a pop, and the lock gave way. I pushed myself inside. It took all my strength to close the door and slide the interior wooden block lock into place. I could hear the noses of the beasts sniffing around the perimeter. And it was there, inside a small brick box, that The King of Keys was born. My talent, my gift, was all in the name of necessity. I laid there all night, waiting until the first sun to make my escape.
“Well, what happened? Were they bears or wolves?” asked Cecile. She sat criss-crossed in front of the storyteller, her eyes wide with wonder.
“Bears, wolves, bleh! I am here, that is the story. I made it.”
Mikolaj took another long sip of coffee.
“And, now that I am here, I can share my gifts with you. You see, I have many people in my life close to me, many that I have the pleasure to call friends, but most know me as a poor writer trying to live like Dostoevsky, or a pregnant woman that seems to keep losing her baby, or my most exciting: an old man with magic fingers.”
“Are you saying that people actually believe the old man charade?” I gawked.
“Are you saying it didn’t work on you? Why! It worked on Pierre without any difficulty for almost six months! Though, I cannot give him all the credit. I fear that I liked him too much and became rather casual in my application.”
All of our attention was on Mikolaj when Boris walked in. He cleared his throat with a loud boom, asking Pierre if he could talk to him out on the terrace. They both left outside. Mikolaj reached into his bag of disguises and pulled out a pair of old specs and began to clean them incessantly.
“So,” Cecile rubbed the palm of her hands together, “When will we be fitted for our new disguises? I’m thinking I could curl my hair, Marilyn Monroe style. Hide in plain sight if you will.”
“No, no this is no good.” Mikolaj didn’t lift his gaze from his lap as he spoke, “This is not hiding in plain sight as you say, this is simply playing dress up. What you need to do is create a character, create something that could both exist and not exist without anyone noticing. Plain sight is the market, it is the bookstore on the corner, it is the girl collecting flowers in her bike basket on the way to Sunday brunch. This! This is the art of disguise.”
He huffed matter-of-factly.
“Oh. I see. So I shall not be Marilyn. Well then, I would very much like to be the girl collecting flowers! That sounds magnificent!”
“And you, Anna. What will you be?”
I sat for a moment, knowing I had no answer that would satisfy the mind of a magician, until thankfully the phone rang. There was only one person who knew the number to our lone phone. I rushed to grab it from the table.
“Hello?”
“Anna, Darling! So happy it was you who answered and not Pierre. How have you been fending? Feeling a bit cooped up I’m sure.”
My mother’s voice sounded like smooth Russian velvet over the crackle of a landline.
“Yes, I’m happy to hear from you. Pierre is outside, I’ll go tell him you’ve called—”
“Wait! I don’t need to talk to him. In fact, I think it would be best if he didn’t know I called at all. I was thinking you could join me tomorrow morning, avec Cecile ou seul, comme tu veux. You can leave just after Pierre, he won’t suspect a thing. You will be safe, of course, I promise that. Meet me on the bridge just in front of the Rijksmuseum, I’ll be in the water.”
Anna Pavlov hung up abruptly.
“Was that your mother? What did she say!”
Before I could answer, Cecile turned to Mikolaj.
“Anna has the most exquisite mother. Really something out of a fairy tale.”
He just nodded and continued polishing his lenses.
“Mikolaj,” I inquired, “How quickly could you get Cecile and I our disguises?”
“Oh, if I make a phone call or two I should have them ready by morning. But, Pierre said we won’t be needing them for a couple more—”
“Never mind Pierre. Can you get them to us first thing in the morning? Before Pierre goes to the warehouse?”
“Sure. I can do all things,” said The King of Keys, as a crooked upwards smile grew on his lips.
Two palms landed on my shoulders and I looked up to see Pierre towering over me. His hair, wind blown. His cheeks rosy from gin. His eyes, a deep pool of green, heavy like one of his precious emeralds. I had to admit, he was growing on me. He returned my smile, then looked up at the rest of the room.
“Boris has just informed me that we finally have a timeline to look forward to.”
“What a relief! Does this mean we can finally go shopping?” Cecile was holding onto one of Boris’s biceps. Mikolaj watched intently.
“Let’s hold off on the shopping for now. I need just a day or two more with the collection. But, this weekend there is an underground auction taking place in the red light district. I had Boris inform the host that the complete missing Al Thani Collection can be made readily available for bidding.”
“An underground auction, as in black market?” I interjected.
“Yes, I realize it sounds like more danger. But Anna Pavlov wants to be done with it, and while it is hard to part from, it has only grown more dangerous to hold on to. Now, we must assume once this information finds its way to the right people we will become targets once again, and that is where Mickey comes in.”
The next morning when Pierre got up to his alarm, so did I. He said nothing, but gave me an inquiring look which I shrugged off by kissing him softly on the forehead. I slipped out of my silk pyjamas, and felt his eyes follow my naked body into the bathroom where I turned on the shower. Pierre took two towels from the cabinet and placed them on the heated rack.
“Are you joining me then?”
“Oh but Darling, isn’t it you who is really joining me? You’ve decided to have an early start to the day have you?”
I sighed timidly, laying my head against his warm chest. The water fell from around his jaw, trickling down the back of my neck. Pierre ran his fingers gently up and down my spine.
“I know you’re worried about our next adventure, but I promise you Mickey knows what he’s doing. I’ve seen him change character three times in one night and approach the same people without the slightest suspicion. If there is danger following us, if there is danger at the auction, I can certainly say none of us will be acted against specifically. It will be hard for us to even recognize each other, let alone a stranger attempting to make that call.”
“It isn’t Mikolaj I worry about, Pierre. What happens next? After the collection is gone, what purpose will you have with me?”
“What purpose will I have?” Pierre lifted my chin, kissing me lightly with his wet mouth, “This is not a question you can ask me while standing in front of me naked. How am I able to give you an answer you will believe? Any answer is tainted by your soft skin.”
He kissed me again and I realized I didn’t need an answer. If this was what I had to look forward to after the auction—uninterrupted shower time with a criminal—then what honorable objections could I make?
We got out of the shower and shared an espresso or two on the terrace in our robes. Cecile and Boris joined, and eventually the boys set off towards the warehouse for another day of tedious work. When I returned to the bedroom there were two briefcases placed by the door, one addressed Anna, the other Marilyn. I called out to Cecile and popped them both open on the bed.
“Look at this skirt!” Cecile held up a black and white polka dotted poodle skirt, fitted with a light pink belt. She placed it against her waist and twirled in a circle. “It’s like a dream!”
“Sure, a dream. Go put it on before we are late!” I ushered her into the bathroom and shut the door.
I picked up my clothes. A tailored pair of beige pants with a matching blazer. A sandy blouse and white, pointed toe heels. Beneath it all was a black wig, long thick hair, and a wide brimmed, maroon fedora. I put the clothes on and stood in front of the mirror. Boring. It’s like Mikolaj was trying to rid any life my pale skin had left to offer. I added the black wig and watched me wash away entirely. My reflection reminded me of someone, but I could quite place it.
“No!” I heard Cecile yell behind the door. “There is no possible way he expects me to go out in public like this!”
“What do you mean? Come out here, let me see!”
The door to the bathroom slowly opened and out stepped Cecile’s new identity. Black, open toed heels exposing her painted toes. The skirt hung at her mid calf, a black lace blouse sat on top. Her wig was a perfectly bright Monroe replica. And on her head, which was pointed down towards the floor, sat a felt cloche hat, pink like the belt around the skirt.
“I don’t see the problem. It all looks exactly how I would expect you to want it.”
But then Cecile looked up. Beneath the dainty fold of her hat, between her perfect icy blonde curls, was the largest prosthetic nose I had ever seen.
“Holy shit,” I managed before breaking into hysterics.
“Holy shit? This is a bit more than holy shit! He can’t be serious!” She was running her finger along the large dorsal hump of the nose. “I look like a witch.”
“You have to admit, no one would be able to recognize you.” I said, trying to keep a straight face. I could see her starting to cry and was worried the nose might fall off amongst the tears.
“I guess so,” she replied, falling to the floor defeatedly.
“Come on, no time to think about it now.” I took her by the hand and forced her out the door, without letting her stop to look in any mirrors. We had no time to waste if we were going to spend the day with my mother.
Ch 2. The House
The Rijksmuseum was opposite our loft in the Museumkwartier. As we made our way through its gardens people flooded the small maze of arbes. Cecile seemed to be reborn in the presence of the crowd of strangers, while I couldn’t help but develop a small tightening in my throat with each set of eyes we passed. Just beyond the gardens we were able to see the water and as we approached the bridge I scanned the docked boats for my mother, but they were all empty.
“I wish I could smell the fresh air through this stupid, phallic appendage I have on my nose.” Cecile said, pulling at her hat in a desperate attempt to hide her new nose.
The mist of the morning was starting to burn off and a warm blue took its place. We sat on the ledge of the bridge, watching as the dark water reflected the narrow canal houses, their many colors rippling in and out of the current. A few boats passed beneath our feet: an old man and young boy in a metal two-seater, dressed for a day of fishing outside the city center, a couple of longer canal boats full of tourists heading towards the house of Anne Frank. Then a boat, quieter than the rest, cruised towards us. Its open top had a pop up canopy, my mother reached out and waved from beneath as the boat slowed to the side of the canal. Cecile and I ran to jump aboard.
Teak decking, with mahogany finishes. A marble bar top and tan leather bench seats. In the back under the canopy was a muted pink daybed full of pillows. Anna Pavlov sat just beside a rounded table, dressed entirely in lilac, from her blouse to her shoes. Accompanying her, and helping us onboard, was a swankily fitted captain and a small statured bartender. The latter handed us each a coupe glass filled with a pink-orange colored cocktail, garnished with a small paper plane on a toothpick. My mother thanked him as she patted the seat next to her.
“So girls, are we ready for a bit of freedom?” She held her own cocktail to ours and we cheersed as the captain sailed towards the city center.
Cecile began to dig through the fruit and cheese spread on the table. At its center was a large four-hose hookah that seemed to be fastened to the table. It was embedded with emeralds and red diamonds, the mouthpieces were heavy and as I lifted one my mother took it in her hand.
“Solid gold,” she said, twirling it around in her fingers. “Your grandfather gave it to me on my twentieth birthday. It’s specifically designed to smoke poppies instead of tobacco. Here, have a puff.”
I took the golden mouthpiece in my hand and inhaled, the sweet aroma of poppies filled my lungs. As I blew the smoke upwards, passing the hose back to my mother, the blue of the sky turned a bright lavender. I heard her exhale in relief, placing her hand on mine. She squeezed my fingers tight.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?”
Anna Pavlov took a puff herself, motioning for Cecile to join.
“The taste, the scent, is unlike anything you can find in a garden, yet it feels like that’s where it belongs. My father, your grandfather, gave me my first experience when I was sixteen. We had a country home, in the south of France, just between Monaco and Nice. There’s a botanical garden there, in Eze, set upon a cliff, overlooking the French Riviera. He walked me through a trail of flowers that led to a small greenhouse, chained and padlocked until we entered inside. This is where he grew a small collection of poppies, for his pleasure. There were Oriental Poppies, bright orange with large petals. Ice Poppies, yellow as the sun. Icelandic Poppies, a perfect combination of the two. And hanging from the ceiling, the most ideal vantage point, were the Opium Poppies. They ranged in color from deep violets to unassuming lavenders, each seemed to radiate light from within. My father reached out and plucked one, crushing it in his hand. ‘It isn’t the petals or the flower which is important,’ he said, ‘but from where they derive.’ In the beginning stages, the pod of a poppy, its seed, can be cut or crushed to expose the latex within, a milky secretion—that is the opium. The juice of the plant. My father opened both his palms, in one the crushed petals of a poppy, in the other a tightly rolled, black cigarette. I took the cigarette in my hands and he led me outside to a bench. From the breast pocket of his coat he pulled out a box of matches, placing them softly on my lap. Then, before leaving me in the garden alone, he lifted my chin so that my eyes met the sun and he said these words: There are two ways to experience the world, from outside and from within. But to appreciate the outside we must first be centered within. To be centered we must understand our place. He closed my eyes with the tips of his fingers and told me if ever the outside is too much, to only shut my eyes and see.”
“And what was it like when you took your first puff?” I asked, overwhelmed by the melodic rhythm of my mother’s voice.
“Oh, I’ve forgotten so much over time. But, I do remember this. The feeling of being with and without in unison, that is to say that I was both looking out of my eyes but also seeing myself. That my body was only a vessel of which to experience, but it wasn’t me at all. I was everywhere. I could follow the breeze of the ocean up the cliff, through the trees, collecting the scent of flowers, passing them through my breath and out back towards the sea. All as One.”
“All as One,” I repeated. “Why is it, then, that I cannot keep my memories from the poppies? That I feel jumbled and confused until I smoke another?”
“Because you are broken!” Cecile was laid out across the daybed with her third Paper Plane cocktail in her right hand, twirling her rubber nose in the other, which she had apparently peeled from her face during my mother’s story.
Anna Pavlov laughed.
“In a way she is quite right. Sometimes our mind shields us, keeping some memories in the dark so that they don’t completely engross our thoughts. Poppies accelerate your thoughts, your mind opens up completely. Perhaps this is a new skill for you, and when the poppies retract you can’t replicate what they allow. It will get better, with time.”
We floated beneath one of the many stone bridges that cradle the canals, though this one smaller than the rest, a footbridge. The captain took a slight left and suddenly our boat was alone, threading carefully between the walls of canal houses on either side. The blue of the sky shrunk above our heads, eaten up by rusted red bricks and black metal railings. The boat cut through the silence as we moved deeper down the water alley. We came to a rest at a house numbered six in navy blue tiles. By its side, a clean white door.
We climbed a small staircase that was partially engulfed by the water. Moss had taken hold of the steps during the vacancy of their owner. My mother took a lone key from her pocket and unlocked the door, pushed it forcefully inside with both hands, then disappeared into the darkness. The arched doorway let in just a crescent of light, not that there was much to capture from the canal anyhow. I stepped into the home, my heels clicked against the floor.
Tiny, dark green mosaic tiles. Cream, hand-painted walls, black furniture. There was a spiral staircase directly to the right with a maroon runner up the first two flights. The stairs continued for at least two more floors. My mother’s shoes were neatly left against the wall, so I lifted my heels and kicked them aside. A light flicked on down the hallway, I saw Cecile disappear around a corner. Somewhere a piano began to play, harsh against the silence of the house. I walked towards the music on the tips of my toes, cold against the shiny floors.
Anna Pavlov was sitting on a small bench in front of a Cristofori piano. Her long, skinny fingers danced wildly over the keys. Her shoulders bounced and curved. Her eyes were closed.
Cecile was spread across the floor, her head supported by a 19th century Victorian sofa. Somehow, she had already managed to find another drink, it dangled in her right hand. She too had her eyes closed. I stood over them both, unmotivated to move, captivated by my mother. I watched her until her fingers played the final chord.
“I recognize it.” I said as she lowered the fallboard over the keys.
“I thought you might. Liebestraum, by Franz Liszt. I played it for years after I lost your father.”
“Liebestraum,” repeated Cecile in a perfect German accent. “It means love dream, or to dream of love.”
“Exactement Cecile. To dream of love. It was inspired by a poem by a German writer.”
“It sounds much more like heartbreak than love,” I said quietly.
“Yes, it does seem to express pain, the pain of loss I suppose. Grief. In the poem, the writer says, ‘O lieb', solang du lieben magst! Die Stunde kommt, die Stunde kommt, Wo du an Gräbern stehst und klagst!’”
Cecile sighed, then carefully repeated my mother in English.
“Love as long as you may, the time will come when you will stand at the grave and mourn.”
“I never did get to stand at a grave, but everyday I mourn, still I mourn. He was an extraordinary light in my life, as he would have been for you too.”
“My father, what was he like? I know we spoke about him briefly before, but I find it hard to believe after all this time you never found out what really happened to him.”
“Yes, bien sur, I tried to find him. But, my love, you were just an infant when it happened and by the time I was free enough to do some digging myself, it had been years. Even now, with all of my reach, I cannot seem to find anyone to talk to that knew him during that time in Italy. Even the shopkeepers remain tight-lipped on the matter. Alexander was a good man, a righteous man, a man that I would have thought would have left a trail of witnesses begging to clear his name. To bring peace.”
I sat down next to Cecile on the floor as my mother stood and moved to the sofa.
“I see so much of him in you,” she reached out to brush the hair from my face. “Your intelligence, always getting the best of you, keeping you grounded, out of the dream. It is for this that the poppies have a hard time taking hold. You fight anything that doesn’t fit within reality. It is a great quality when shared with others, but suffocating to live with alone.”
“Anna—Mother, why are we here? What is this house?”
“This house, Anna, was your first home. You were born here, in the bedroom upstairs. We didn’t leave the bed for your first five days on this earth. You were so little, so attached, I was worried I might roll over you in my sleep.”
I looked around at the vaulted ceilings, imagining how small I must have been beneath them.
“As for why we are here, well I have a proposal for you. There is something that has come up that you must make a decision on. I promised myself I would never stand between you and happiness, that I would only aid and escort you along your path. But it seems our paths have become tangled and my hands are a bit tied.”
“What is it? What else could I possibly not know?”
“Oh this isn’t something you don’t know, well not entirely. This is more about something you must choose to realize.”
Cecile laughed, “What is this, a riddle?”
“The poem we were speaking of before, it continues. It reads: Be sure that your heart burns, and holds and keeps love. As long as another heart beats warmly with its love for you. And if someone bears his soul to you, love him back as best you can. Give his every hour of joy, let him pass none in sorrow.”
“You wish to speak of Pierre.” I shuddered.
“I would, yes. If you’ll let me.”
I nodded for her to continue.
“As you know I am looking to move away from the Italians. They have handled distribution for the company since your father passed it along, but since the completion of the Al Thani Collection, I cannot continue to employ them with Pierre by my side. He has made quite the enemy of them. You can understand that before I formally excuse them from my company I need to be sure I have a suitable fall back plan. You see, Anna, the smoothest transition is to put distribution into the hands of Pierre.”
“That is hardly his skill set,” I spat. “He is an artist. A con man yes, maybe, but an artist first.”
“Of course he is an artist, one never stops being an artist. He has been acquainted with my network since he was a boy, a familiar face for my clients, and furthermore he is interested.”
“You’ve already spoken to Pierre about this?”
“Yes, we discussed it yesterday morning. I thought he might have already told you.”
“Classic Pierre,” barked Cecile. She tipped her head back and shook the flute in her hand for the last drop of champagne, “Always hiding something. His timing with secrets is really terrible.”
“Oh Cecile, right you are! That is precisely what needs to be discussed. You see, this business isn’t for the faint hearted. And I know you haven’t been around the business long, but it is in your blood dear. No matter how far you run, if you choose to, you are connected to me and to this empire. Now I cannot tell you whether that is fortunate or not, but I can say that if you choose to embrace your connection you will have more support and love than if you don’t. But there will be sacrifices and those sorts of things need to be communicated properly. If I move forward with Pierre, which to be frank with you is what I intend to do, then you must decide if you can trust him.”
“How can you intend to hire someone while also questioning if that man can be trusted?”
“You misinterpret what I am saying. I trust him, but my relationship with him is business. He is an excellent business man. But when trust is a matter of love, a matter for the heart to decide, it is much more grave. Speaking from my own experience it is better to be blinded by the light than left in the dark, and communication and trust are the only tools you have to achieve this.”
“But what if the dark suits me?”
“It doesn’t. It suits no one in love. You must give all, and you can, when someone loves you as Pierre does.”
“Pierre loves his jewels, the collection. He has no room to love me.”
“Oh my sweet child, it was never about the collection. Pierre has been searching all his life for much more than sapphires and rubies. The only reason he fought so hard for the collection is because he knew it would eventually bring him to you. He is a silly boy when in love, normally he is very cautious and looks from all angles, but the past two years I simply had to find you to find him. He’s let his guard down.”
“I see now. This is actually your way of prompting me to influence Pierre into returning to his cautious self. If I am with him he won’t have to look for me, he won’t have to let his guard down. Is that it? This is all about the survival of your business.”
“No, Anna, this is about love. Business has no place in it, but I do admit it is a bit of a win for us all. The right decisions normally are.”
I fell silent. A muffled snore came from Cecile’s limp body. I have always wanted this: for someone to whisk me away from my poor, dreary, monotonous life and, in my mother’s words, show me the light. The difficulty is not in knowing what I want, I know what that is instinctually. But to act, to concede to what I want, when a month prior none of these options were remotely feasible, feels asinine. I know Pierre as well as I know French, and that language is nothing but music to me. And my mother, how can I be sure that she too isn’t just back to take advantage? If we all are formed by our past actions, bound to repeat and recycle, then won’t she eventually abandon me again?
My mother put her hand on mine, motioning me to stand up.
“Come, I want to show you something.”
We left Cecile alone to sleep and climbed the spiral staircase to the second floor. The hallway was identical to the one below, closed doors lined it on all sides. I followed my mother to the final door on the left, which she unlocked and entered. The room was dark. She went to the far wall and pulled the curtains from the window, they were heavy and pink. The sun crept in, shining directly on a cradle in the center of the room. Dust hung and shimmered in the light. Old white iron. Sheer canopy curtains hung from the ceiling around it. I approached the cradle, a small stuffed elephant was laid inside. I reached in to hold it and as my fingers touched it I knew it wasn’t for the first time.
“Before today I used to return to this house only when I felt far from you. For twenty years this room has been untouched, since the last time you were in it.”
I placed the elephant back into the crib and looked up at Anna Pavlov, tears welling above her smile. I took her hand in mine.
“I know it must be hard for you to overcome the pain caused by my absence, to understand that it was for you that this was all done. Your safety has often come before your happiness, but now you have the chance to combine the two. If you cannot trust me, not yet anyhow, I ask you to at least try to understand where I come from. I am a mother and have remained a mother even without my child. I would never make a decision that would put you in harm's way.”
“After the auction, when all this business with the collection is done, will you disappear again?”
“I will not disappear, not from you. From this day on we will always be in communication, and even when you do not know where I am, I will never be far. I promise you nothing can take you away from me again.”
Ch 3. Business and Pleasure
I woke Cecile by simply wafting a bottle of gin beneath her nose. She mumbled something about John Travoltra as she came to, and I helped her back out onto the boat. I could tell she was disappointed that she didn’t get the chance to look around, but once she saw the paleness of my skin she was more attentive. I handed her her nose, which she stuck back onto her face, and off we went back down the canal, directed towards the loft.
This time, I was the one laying down in the shaded daybed as my mother and Cecile sat around the table, smoking poppies. I was sweating, even though the wind was beginning to chill my skin. When I closed my eyes I could feel my pulse pushing against my skin. I began to count the bridges, unfortunately I knew just how many we would pass under before arriving home.
As the third bridge came and went, I noticed a man jogging alongside our boat. On his head was a gambler's hat. His black wool coat lifted behind him like a cape as he gained speed. We were approaching the fourth bridge, which came just before a turn, merging us onto another canal. No one else in the boat seemed to see this man, his boots clicking louder against the stone roads. I sat up as we approached the bridge, the man slowed his run and I lost sight of him. Then suddenly, like a gunshot, something crashed onto the boat. The man, rolling into the bartender and knocking him down like pins, had leapt from the bridge and landed on our boat. Cecile screamed, and her nose fell to one side. I looked to my mother, calm as ever, with her right hand placed firmly in her purse. The captain continued down stream, unfazed.
“Cholera,” the man mumbled, rubbing his knees on the ground like a small child. I immediately realized I knew this person, his lanky arms and knobby knees had once before been rolling in front of me.
“In what hell, Mikolaj, did you imagine that to be a good idea?” I stood abruptly, and instead of going to help the King of Keys to his feet, I assisted the bartender.
“Not to worry! I am fine.” Mikolaj rose to his feet, bowing slowly as he did before, but this time soberly.
“I am so glad you’re alright, meanwhile I’ve practically ruined my new skirt! Look at this,” Cecile held up an empty glass of campari, “my drink is finished!”
“Well, honey, that is not quite the end of the world.” My mother took her hand from her purse and extended it to the stranger. “We haven’t seemed to have the pleasure yet.”
Mikolaj took Anna Pavlov’s hand in his, turning it so he could kiss it not once, but apparently twice.
“The pleasure is all mine, but I feel a bit silly to say this is not the first time we have met.”
“Mother, this is Pierre’s friend, Mikolaj. Or maybe you know him by his street name—”
“The King of Keys!” Mikolaj sang, spinning just once in a circle, stretching his arms out wide in a sort of magician’s tada.
My mother seemed to toss him over in her mind, her expression changing from pleasantries to confusion, then a peculiar shock. She rubbed her hand where he had kissed it, looking at me crazed.
“But you are such a young man,” she managed.
“Yes, yes he’s fooled them all. Let’s not give him too many compliments, he isn’t exactly the most humble man to begin with.” Cecile ripped the nose from the other half of her face and threw it at him in disgust.
“My beautiful American flower, what is this! What is this anger you have at me and that gorgeously made prosthetic? Come, come. Tell Mikolaj the problem.”
Mikolaj approached Cecile, kneeling in front of her like one would a queen. He put his hands gently on her crossed legs, she looked abruptly away from him.
“I can’t imagine a world in which I would look even the faintest like a flower in this hideous contraption you’ve masked me with! You must have been joking, this must have been something you found funny.”
“Well, in a way it is a joke. A joke on the world, for all who see you in this imagine you to be some sort of—of, well, monstress. But they are mistaken! Because beneath all that rubber is the most angelic creature to walk this earth.”
“My goodness, that cannot work on anyone.” I laughed.
“It was worth a shot. I am good with poetry, you know. But yes, in reality you are right. I am menacing to hide Cecile’s beauty like that. It was selfish, I couldn’t have anyone else’s attention on you.”
“It’s as if you haven’t even met Boris,” scoffed Cecile.
“Boris? Who is this Boris?”
Just then, the boat veered right and slowed along the edge of the canal. Standing above us next to a piling was Pierre and Boris. My mother tossed them the mooring line and they secured the boat. Pierre reached out his hand for mine, smiling gently. I had almost forgotten the discussion I had with my mother.
When we made it safely back to the loft, King of Kings and all, Pierre asked us to meet in the dining room. He held me back and told Boris to make some coffee.
“I was hoping I could take you out tonight. It would be just the two of us, to talk.” He brushed his thumb along my cheek as he spoke to me, kissing me softly on the forehead. “What do you say?”
“Yes, of course. You aren’t angry at me for visiting with my mother?”
“Darling, she is your mother. Besides, I go out everyday and risk being seen. I can’t stop you from doing the same—even if it does worry me. Did you have a nice time?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Will I need this pesky disguise tonight?”
“No. No, I want you to be you tonight. We won’t be in the public eye too much, I hope.”
Pierre took my hand and we joined the others in the dining room.
“Donc,” Pierre put both his hands on the table, I took a seat next to him. We faced Cecile, sandwiched between her two suitors. “The auction is tomorrow evening and for everything to go smoothly we must be on the same page. I’ll try to give you as much information as I can so that there is no confusion. To begin with, our objective: to sell the collection to the highest bidder.”
“Do we know who will be attending?” Questioned Cecile. I had to give it to her, for someone that lived a life in the light for so long she was adapting very well to the dark. I suppose she had her moments pulling me out of alleyways on the southside, or paying my tab at a bar when I fell asleep on the counter. Never could you catch her with a stain on an old t-shirt, or a frayed hem, but she certainly wasn’t scared of the dirt.
“Yes, but it is who we cannot be sure will be there that is the real issue. This is the purpose of our disguises.”
Pierre went into the other room and brought back a manilla folder. He spread its contents on the table.
Four photographs of Italian mobsters, whom I recognize now even in my dreams. One photograph of an older man. And the last, a smaller photo that looked to be taken from a private collection of Elizabeth. I shuddered at the sight of her smile, her eyes beaming—not at the camera, but at whomever was behind it.
“You think Elizabeth will be there?” I managed, swallowing my jealousy.
“Her passport was flagged entering The Netherlands in Eindhoven. I can only assume we are her reason for being here.”
I looked at the photo, her long black hair draping beyond her shoulders in perfection. I touched the wig I was still wearing, its silky strands of hair glimmering just like hers. When I realized who I was disguised as, I ripped the wig from my head and threw it at Mikolaj.
“Oi! For what reason!” He shouted, spitting the hairs from his lips.
“Darling, I’m sorry to say, but that was my idea. It will be easy to distract her, and others, if she has a twin walking around causing a ruckus. The old man in the other photo is her father. His passport was also flagged on a ferry from London to Lille.”
“This is Elizabeth?” Cecile took the photo in her hand and held it out in front of her. “You know Pierre, she looks a lot like you. You must have enjoyed making love to yourself in a wig.”
“Cecile!” I bursted, thanking her briefly with a smile.
“Yes, sorry. Carry on! Our disguises..”
“Our disguises will be as follows: Anna will be Elizabeth, a somewhat intoxicated and disruptive version but Elizabeth nonetheless. I will be dressed as a ringman, help to the auctioneer. Mickey, as you already know, will take the role of an elderly rich buyer and Cecile, his young wife. Boris will be driving around the area, keeping a lookout on the exterior of the auction house as well as making himself available for a quick escape.”
“And why can’t Boris be the rich old man?” Cecile humpfed.
“Because he is much too noticeable, look at the size of him! Big oaf.” Mikolaj was making an exaggerated gesture around the frame of Boris who began to stand, towering over le petit Mickey. “But sturdy, yes! Reliable like an oak, I’m sure!” He chuckled nervously as Boris sat back down.
“Can we remain focused please?” Pierre continued, “Each of us will need to be on high alert for these characters, our enemies. We must distract them, without causing a disturbance during the auction. The Italians could be after us, but I genuinely believe they are just there for the collection. Although I don’t think they have the intention of buying it outright, but rather to steal it before it can be given to the highest bidder. As for Elizabeth and her father, there can be no other reason for their attendance than to disrupt our sale. Now, let me tell you how we are going to make sure that will not happen….”
Pierre was waiting outside while I changed out of Elizabeth and into Anna. I put on a dress I bought shopping with Cecile in Paris, a dress I bought with the spending money from Pierre. It was her idea. You wouldn’t dare wear anything but the Ludovic, would you? The black one? I guess I wouldn’t, because when I put it on I finally saw what she saw. Class. A high neck. Sheer fabric draped softly across my skin. Shoulders, exposed. A low swooping back. My long red hair pulled back and fastened just above the nape on my neck. The dress lightly kissed the floor as I walked. I applied a dark red lipstick: Rouge Minuit, and escaped down the staircase to meet Pierre.
Pierre, a deep blue suit. White button up, buttoned down. Gold pinky ring on his reaching hand. Behind him, sitting driverless on the curb, was an Audi R8, as black as the night itself. He helped me inside onto a red leather seat before getting in himself. Not a word was spoken between the two of us as we passed down small pedestrian streets, the engine waking up the sleeping streets of Amsterdam. I stole a glance at Pierre, a smile growing as we entered Dam Square. He pulled over and put the car in park. Ready? Oui.
We climbed a few corner steps and a door was opened for us at the top. We entered a restaurant, Bougain Ville to be precise. Pierre walked past the host who put his eyes to the floor, I followed closely behind. We walked directly through the middle of the room. Round, white clothed tables. Crescent booths wrapped in gold, floral printed velvet. Floating candles lined our path through a door at the very back wall. If there were people in the restaurant, I wouldn’t have the slightest memory, I was too fixated on the man who hadn’t uttered a word.
Behind the door was a curtain, and behind that a staircase. We climbed two flights and found ourselves in an empty bar. A table had been set for two, a single candle and two glasses of wine. The bottle was left on the table along with another of the same label. Pierre again helped me into my seat before taking his. He took the wine glass in his hand and held it to mine.
“May we live as long as we like, and have what we like as long as we live.”
I took a long sip of my wine.
“For years I thought about what I might say to you in a moment like this, on a night like this. But now that we are here, all my words seem to have escaped me.”
He got up from his seat and disappeared behind the bar. A moment later there was a crackle of a record player followed by the soft keys of a piano. I was beginning to hate that instrument all together.
“Ah, much better. Now this room doesn’t feel so daunting.”
He took a seat on a sofa on the other side of the room. I finished my glass then refilled it, leaning back in my chair.
“My mother told me about the position she offered you.”
Pierre shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“I don’t think I would classify it as an offer.”
“Oh?”
“I mean that she didn’t give me much of a choice. She wasn’t supposed to be at the warehouse yesterday but showed up as I did in the morning. She told me ‘it’s the only option, the safest option.’ Which, of course, made me think that it is only the safest option for her…and I suppose for me as well if there wasn’t another factor involved…I confess that is the reason for my big day of drinking with Mickey. Not that I wasn’t happy to see him, I was elated when he arrived. But my heart, Anna, has been so heavy since your mother’s instructions.”
“Did you just refer to me as a factor?”
“In the most complimentary form of the word.”
“My mother can be very persuasive, so I’ve found.” I reminded myself of the sun sneaking into the canal house, her fingers violently playing the music of my childhood.
“Anna, your mother’s reach touches everything in our lives if I fill that role. But it doesn’t have to. You don’t have to be involved with the poppies, with the company, with me. You have an out and I can provide it for you, if that is what you want.”
His words grew more quiet as he spoke. He was tapping his knee rapidly with his left hand, the other massaging his forehead. He was beginning to sweat. I left my seat at the table and joined him on the sofa. I pulled his jacket away from his shoulders and draped it behind us. For once, it seemed, I had all the control.
“And what would an out like this entail?”
“I could get you and Cecile passports. There is a small airport in Den Haag, I know the air traffic control there and could make sure everything was off books. You won’t have to tell me where you go, you can fly wherever you want. I would handle your mother, make sure she had no inkling until you were securely in the air.”
“You’ve given this some thought.” I ran my fingers up and down the opening of his shirt. Goosebumps formed on the skin around his chest.
“I want you to have options. I don’t want you to feel stuck, or forced. For once I am doing my best not to control the situation. To leave the decision up to you, it is yours to make alone.”
“Isn’t it funny that, for once, I wish you wouldn’t give me an option.” I traced my fingers around the sharp edges of his jaw, kissing him just once on his neck. His skin was warm so I stayed there, feeling him catch his breath against my cheek.
“I know these ideas are all new to you, but I can only think about your safety. Once I am placed in control of distribution my enemies will nearly double, and those are just the ones I can assume. You are, and will remain, my area of weakness. To get to me they will come for you.”
Pierre pulled away from me and stood, beginning to pace.
“And won’t that be the same if I leave? Only I won’t have you there with me. I will be running from something that I never got the chance to enjoy in the first place. If I am going to be punished for love, I might as well get all of it that I can.”
He stopped his pacing and faced me.
“Amour. You can’t be sure.”
“You’re right, I can’t. But if there is anything I am sure about it is that I will never be sure about anything at all. Please just sit down Pierre, you cannot imagine how nervous your pacing makes me.”
“You are going to be miserable.” He said as he sat back down.
I lifted my dress from where it hung around my ankles and uncrossed my legs. Slipping my pumps off one after the other, I slid my left leg over his and climbed on top of him.
“Are we sure to be alone here?”
“Now you ask me this! After you have already made yourself comfortable on my lap.” He blushed, smoothing the wrinkles of my dress around my waist. “But, yes. I made the precautions so that we wouldn’t be interrupted.”
“Because you thought what? That I would be angry? That you would have to calm me down with wine and piano music?” I reached behind my neck and undid the clasp that was holding the fabric tightly against my skin, letting the sheer black give way to my olive skin underneath. Pierre reached out and gently grabbed my neck, pressing his thumb down my throat to the middle of my chest. He held his hand there, feeling my heart race quicker by the minute.
“Because I couldn’t risk having any interruptions.” His fingers found their way to my lower back, unfastening the clasp and unzipping the back of my dress until the fabric completely loosened, and fell. He lifted it over my head, letting it lay on the floor as if I was the expensive thing, not the designer dress.
Pierre’s hands met my hips, pulling me close to him. I fell onto his lips, parting them just enough to let my tongue slip into his mouth. I pulled at the buttons on his shirt, sliding my hands in to feel his chest. The piano music continued to play as Pierre picked me up and carried me back to the table, pushing everything off and setting me on top. I unfastened his pants as he stood between my legs and nudged him towards me with my heels. He kissed his way around my collar bone and up my neck, landing on my ear where he stayed for a breath or two. This is only the beginning, he whispered. His hot skin against me, the table cold beneath me, and for the first time I let myself be completely engulfed—submerged—in pleasure.
What was it Anna Pavlov had said to me? All as One. Sure, she was talking about a drug high, but to each their own. I had my source of opium, and I wasn’t about to give him up just yet.
Ch 4. The Auction
In the basement of a Russian jewelry boutique, on the east side of Dam Square, Pierre lit an oil lamp with his heavy, gold zippo. The shop keeper (an aged Dutch man, who was bent like a cane from having worked on watches his entire life), unlocked an old wooden door and pulled it harshly on its new hinges.
Pierre stepped through the door frame, illuminating a brick tunnel with a dim yellow light. My heels echoed into the darkness. Pierre bowed his head and the door shut behind us. There was a draft coming from the other end of the tunnel. I held Pierre’s hand tightly at my side, he squeezed it twice and we began our walk beneath ground, towards the tiny red light alleys of De Wallen.
Late last night, or early this morning, I found Pierre outside on the balcony with a steaming cup of whiskey and two lemons. He had snuck out of bed (after we had snuck out of that bar, very scantily dressed). He shrugged me off, telling me he’s up early just to prepare. ‘Don’t worry ma chérie, tout va bien.’ I told him he should take his own advice. His charm died and his eyes darkened. He turned away from me and peered down to the street. Then he whispered, just loud enough for me to hear, ‘I think I found your father.’ I took his whiskey from his hands and finished it off myself.
A twenty minute walk, or for me a careful shuffle of my heels over the damp bricks, and we came to a small, square room. The light from the street above beamed through a vent casting a striped shadow on the floor of the room. As we stepped into it, Pierre looked up and closed his eyes. He was counting, 2..3..4…the metal above him rattled under an approaching car. The light disappeared, then reappeared onto Pierre’s open eyes, the menacing green in them turning into the most beautiful lagoon. A car door closed above. Slow, relaxed footsteps, a heavy grunt, and a small gold key fell between the metal cracks, bouncing on the floor between us. Pierre bent at the knee to pick it up.
‘I can’t be sure,’ he continued whispering. ‘But if it is him, and he is here, we have to assume it is no coincidence.’ He told me he had been tracking a man for the past year based on some information the Scalise brothers gave him. He wasn’t sure if he was right, until he was notified that the same man passed through immigration at the airport in Amsterdam, two days ago. ‘Does my mother know?’ If she did, it wasn’t because Pierre had told her. He hadn’t spoken to her since she proposed his takeover. I tapped my nails against the tumbler.
“We’re early. We still have five minutes before Mickey and Cecile arrive.” He took a black cigarette from his breast pocket, lit it with the same gold lighter, and passed it to me before lighting his own.
Boris drove away above our heads.
“Are you feeling nervous?”
I took a long drag and blew the smoke upwards, watching it dissipate into the night.
Pierre took a step towards me, reached out, and pulled my black wig away from my roots, just enough to see the red of my hair. My head cocked backwards, but he gently released and I relaxed my neck. I looked up at him confused—terrified that I had let him handle me so easily. He smiled and put his thumb on my bottom lip, parting my mouth just enough.
“Sorry, I only wanted to be with you for a moment before the night begins. It’s a crime to cover your hair like this, I feel so guilty about the position I’ve put you in,” said the criminal, so close to me I could smell his vetiver soap. He took a hit from the cigarette and pressed his lips to mine, exhaling the smoke into my lungs and dancing his tongue past my teeth. I opened my eyes to the effervescent shimmer from the poppies and inhaled confidently.
“I’m not nervous.”
“No, of course you aren’t. I should know better by this point. You are your mother’s daughter, anyhow.”
“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better.”
Pierre kissed my forehead and pulled my wig back into place. I wiped my mouth and reapplied some of Elizabeth's favorite cherry red lipstick. We finished our cigarettes and tossed them to the floor. Another car approached from above. We made our way to the door directly across from the tunnel and Pierre slipped in the key, turning it to the right twice before sliding the pocket door into the wall. Immediately the sounds of a crowded room seeped into the tunnel, I slid the door closed.
Only a curtain separated us from what seemed like the entire auction. Pierre pulled a fake beard and monocle out from his coat, letting it drop to the floor exposing his black and white ringman uniform.
“Remember what we discussed, but don’t let it stifle you. Stay focused, we will make it out just fine,” hummed Pierre. He put his hands on either side of my shoulders, squeezed me, and gave me a kiss, before he pulled back the left side of the curtain and took his place in the crowd of voices.
I gave myself a final look in my compact mirror.
Just two months before, all I had wanted was to be someone other than myself. Now, looking into my eyes and seeing any color other than my own feels less like irony and more like a premonition. But for one more night I will play the fool, and join in the masquerade that has become my life. Because if there is one thing I will get by the end of the evening it will be my freedom.
I exited from behind the curtain on the right. A magnificent, underground ballroom moved before me. Cream silk tablecloths. Golden chandeliers dressed with hanging emeralds. Marbled pink floors. The guests moved slowly around each other while the servers bounced in and out of the various pods of people, balancing silver drink trays above their heads. I made a direct line towards one of the servers, quickly snatched two glasses of champagne, and drank them one after the other on my way to the restroom.
Cecile was waiting for me inside with a dark blue dress in her hands. Mikolaj hadn’t been sure on what dress Elizabeth would be wearing for the evening, he had narrowed it down to three by doing some digging on her recent spending. He had obviously managed to discover and obtain the correct dress, which I was now changing into inside the rather ostentatious bathroom.
Elizabeth had great taste, fortunately.
Drinks and discussions, first on our agenda of the evening. I stepped out of the bathroom, empty now as Cecile took her place in the crowd next to Mikolaj. I scanned the mingling bodies as I lifted a champagne glass from a nearby tray. Elizabeth hadn’t arrived yet, so it was up to me to make a grand entrance: a la booze. I got my hand on another flute, finishing my first drink just in time to replace the other. Then, instead of finishing the second, I grabbed a third and parted the sea of wealth towards my first target.
“Monsieur Bernard,” I said to a stout man in my best North London accent, kissing him once on each cheek, with the grace of Elizabeth.
“Elizabeth! I almost didn’t recognize you. What are you doing here? This is no place for a young lady.” He spoke with such confidence that the sound of my pulse in my ears began to subside.
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. My father is here to keep a careful eye. Well, he will be. He seems to be running a little late and I can’t figure what to do with myself!”
“Your father! I had no idea he would be attending. You must join me for a drink, at least until he arrives.” He reached out to pat my hand, graciously.
“I must admit, I might be a touch ahead of you in the drink department.” I laughed richly and slid my arm through the bend of his elbow, heading towards the nearest tea table.
We passed just behind Cecile and Mikolaj, his arm draped around her, taking advantage of her role as his arm candy. And candy she was, curating all of the attention in the room. She flashed me a wink and over her shoulder I could see Pierre, making his way towards us with a tray of drinks. He passed briefly, giving time for Monsieur Bernard to grab two glasses of champagne.
“Shall we go find my wife? She hasn’t seen you since you started talking!”
He pulled me along towards a crowd of strangers I already knew, due to the keen preparation by Pierre.
Alice Lott (Monsieur Bernard's wife and distant friend of Elizabeth’s family), Samuel and Julia Stone (owners of a highly profitable black market art club), and Julian Pourcel (long time art collector, rumored to have several high ticket Nazi memorabilia).
“My goodness what a beauty you are! I had heard what a lady you’ve become, and of course seen the occasional photo or two sent by your mother. What a pleasant surprise!” Alice leaned in to give me a proper embrace and a small kiss on my cheek that was mostly noise.
“And where is Edward?” Samuel Stone asked. He was a tall man, apparently not one of greetings or general manners. His frown lines hung from his face like the stringy limbs of a willow.
“Edward? My father, yes. He should be arriving any moment now, can’t imagine what is taking him so long.” I looked around the room, pretending to scan for my beloved papa, but in reality I was keeping an eye out for my dress’s twin.
“Good. Well, we were just discussing some of the items that are up this year. It’s been a bit of a disappointment to be frank, in comparison to last year. What a beauty those jewels were, the ones Aymard brought from his private collection. Downsizing he said! Unbelievable! He left with practically half of the auction!”
I felt my eye twitch at the mention of Pierre’s last name. I dug my nails into the skin of my palm.
“You know the Aymards well, don’t you Elizabeth?” Alice looked at me, Elizabeth.
“Excuse me?”
"Monsieur Aymard! And his son, the ever-so-charming Pierre. He is a force, that one.”
“Oh, yes! Of course. Though, I haven’t seen either of them in some time. Not since I was last in London.”
“Well that couldn’t have been very long. Didn’t you just arrive in Amsterdam today?” Samuel Stone looked at me quizzically. I could feel beads of sweat beginning to develop on my hairline, fearful they might run and take my disguise with them.
“Me? Why, yes. Excuse me, I meant to say the last time they were in London. Silly me, sometimes I don’t even know what I’m saying, nothing in my head. Hollow brain! That’s what they call me anyway..” I desperately wished one of them would stop me from talking.
“Dear, don’t let anyone call you that, how wretched! A woman of your class and stature especially.” said Alice, I was beginning to take a liking to her. Though her compliments were meant for Elizabeth, not me.
“Nevermind this chatter, what is it your father is coming all the way here for? I haven’t seen him at an auction in, why, maybe ten years give or take.”
“Haven’t you heard?”
I baited the group. They looked at me confused, perturbed as to what I might say next.
“The Al Thani Collection. It’s here, completed.” I whispered.
“Completed!” gasped Julian Pourcel, the stoic of the group. “By a thief, c’est sur! There is no other possibility.”
“Well thief or no thief, my father seems superbly interested.”
“Well with good reason, I can’t imagine Aymard being happy with his interest!”
The strangers seemed to close in on me. Even the groups surrounding us, (who had become distracted by my utterance of the words Al Thani Collection), fell quiet in anticipation.
“Oh, that I wouldn’t know anything about. Like I said, I haven’t seen the Aymards in quite some time now.”
I reached out to a passing waiter and grabbed two more flutes of champagne, shooting them back one after another.
“Woo!” I gasped. I placed one of the flutes on another passing tray, while purposefully letting the other drop to the floor. The sound of the glass shattering stopped the chatter in the room. I heard whispers spreading around me. Elizabeth…Edward…Al Thani Collection..Completed?...Tonight! I managed to excuse myself and stumble out of the crowd, drunkenly making my way back to the restroom. I caught Cecile’s eye and she promptly followed for my second costume change of the night.
“You are a star!” She exclaimed as she burst through the restroom door.
“Shh! Let’s make sure there aren't any ears in here.” I quickly approached the stalls and checked for any locked doors. There was a woman in the sitting room attached to the bathroom, but she was there to hand out napkins and mints, not engage in underground collusion.
“What a rush!” Cecile put her hand to her chest as if she was short of breath. “You should have seen me, dealing with Mikolaj’s antics. You know, if he isn’t careful I think Boris might crush him.”
“Cecile, help me with this clasp, we have no time for fantasies involving Boris and his muscles.”
She helped me out of Elizabeth’s dress and into my own, disposing of the former and the remainder of my costume into the garbage. I motioned towards the door as I heard approaching footsteps. There was a double knock on the unlocked door. I opened it just enough to expose my face.
“Anna, darling, you were brilliant. They’re opening the doors to the auction room now, Cecile needs to meet Mikolaj so they can take a seat. I’ve informed the staff about ‘Elizabeth’s’ drunkard behavior, I think there is a chance they will stop her at the door. She has just arrived with her father.” Pierre let the door shut and went to take his place amongst the crowd once again.
I turned to Cecile as she gathered herself and exited into the ball room. I waited a minute or two and followed suit. In front of the auction room entrance there was a commotion between a large man and a woman in a blue dress with long black hair. She was turned away and escorted outside. I passed by her briefly, the scent of her perfume rushed me like anthrax.
The auction room doors sat behind another deep red curtain, its heavy fabric pulled aside by gold ropes and tassels. Two sections, 100 chairs, split down the center. The lights were dimmer than the ball room, sconces lit up the stone underground walls. The soft chirping from the crowd echoed as people were seated in their proper rows, their assigned paddle placed on their seat.
Mikolaj and Cecile were sitting comfortably in the third row on the left. Paddle #57.
Edward, Elizabeth’s father, was four rows back from them, an empty seat next to him. Paddle #28.
The final tail of guests slithered into their seats and the auctioneer began his sermon.
The first two items came and went, unheard by me and mostly unappreciated by the crowd. Mikolaj casually raised his paddle twice for a tea cup that was rumored to be touched and utilized by the highest ranking members of the Third Reich. Cecilie must have kept him focused, because he retired his paddle after a small back and forth with an Argentinian man in the sixth row.
The collection was last on the docket. Instead of bringing all of the pieces to the stage to be viewed, a camera feed from the vault room was shown by projector during a brief intermission. As the stream switched from piece to piece I looked for Pierre from my seat at the back of the room. Just as I caught a glimpse of his jacket, my attention was stolen by a familiar moving woman in a deep green vail.
My mother, I was sure of it, entered the room from the back in the company of a tall man. His head, pointed downward, was hidden by the brim of his hat. A pair of thick glasses hung around his neck from a gold chain. They both took a seat in the final row on the left side. Paddle #96.
I looked to where I last saw Pierre, hoping he was witnessing the same as me, but only saw a closed door. Despite my agitation, I calmly moved towards it.
Pierre was pacing in a small circle around his tray of dropped food. As I entered his eyes lifted his cursed brows as he looked in my direction.
“Did you see them? Did you see my mother?”
“Your mother! Your mother is not a concern.”
“Then why are you agitated? Why are you not on the floor? The collection is about to come out!”
Pierre took his phone from his pocket, a video streaming on its screen. The Scalise brothers were inside the same tunnel we came down not an hour before, guns drawn, hats down, in a quick jog.
“They’re coming for the vault.”
Ch 5. The End of the Tunnel
“Is there no security for an auction like this?”
“Sure, the best you can buy, but we took care of that problem ourselves. Well, Boris did.”
“Isn’t this what you expected? We knew the Scalise brothers would make a run at the collection.”
“I thought they would take the easier route and hit the collection as it was being moved to the buyer. If they make their move now, it would disrupt the auction. We would lose the offers.”
Pierre rubbed his jaw, he was beginning to sweat off his disguise.
“You said your mother is here? Just walked in?”
“Yes, with a man. I can’t see her face but I’m sure it’s her.”
Pierre walked to the door, peered out, found Anna Pavlov and quickly closed the door again.
“Her timing was apt.”
I could hear the auction continue on the other side of the wall. The collection was announced and paddle numbers were beginning to be called out, more quickly than the previous pieces. Pierre looked down again at his phone, there was no sign of the Scalise brothers in the hallway anymore which meant they had to be just outside the vault. He called Boris but the line rang just once.
“Okay, you stay here. I’ll go help Boris at the vault. Make sure Mickey draws out the auction best he can.”
Pierre put his hand to my shoulder and squeezed before he disappeared again behind the door. I flattened my dress with my sweaty palms and made my way to an open seat at the back of the auction room.
There were four main paddles still in the mix. Mikolaj and Cecile. Edward, who seemed much more relaxed without his daughter. The overzealous Julian Pourcel. And the man accompanying my mother. It seemed Sam and Julia Stone had tapped out early at 30 million, I guess business wasn’t as booming as it used to be.
“38.9 from paddle 57, do we have 40?” and within the same breath, “40 from paddle 96!”
The sequence continued like that, between Mickey and my mother’s date, with a few interjections from Edward. When the price climbed above 65 million Edward decided to bow out and it became a one on one. My mother seemed unbothered by my presence even though only three seats separated us, she didn’t once turn in my direction. Cecile turned to look back at me several times throughout the process. I gave her a nod to push the pockets further.
“72 from paddle 96, do we have 73?”
No movement. Cecile tapped Mickey’s forearm.
“Do we have 72.5?”
No movement.
“Going once…”
I turned to gauge my mother’s response. Stoic.
“Sold to paddle number 96 for 72 million! The Al Thani Collection in its completion, congratulations sir!”
Gasps and whispers filled the crowded room as people began to rise from their seats to get a better view of the winners. My mother and her escort stood from their seats and turned to exit through the same way they came. I locked eyes with Cecile and quickly moved to follow them, motioning her and Mickey to come along.
When I entered the ball room behind the auction room doors the servers and hostesses began to fill the space. I searched the large room, seeing the final piece of green fabric from my mother’s dress slip behind a curtain to the left. I quickened my step.
Behind the curtain was a closed door, locked when I tried to open it. Cecile and Mikolaj were in front of the curtain when I came out again.
“It’s locked.”
“Did you see them leave?”
“Yes, through that door. We should find Pierre.”
“No time.” Mikolaj turned to the nearest server and grabbed him by the vest.
“Excuse me, sir can I help you?”
“Where does this door lead to?”
“That one there? The kitchen, I just came from it.”
“Why is it locked?”
“It shouldn’t be.”
“Well, it is! We need you to open it.”
“You expect me to have the key?” The man swiped Mickey’s hand away and continued to serve the guests.
“Mickey, are you or are you not the King of Keys?” Cecile questioned demandingly.
“Oh, right you are my sweet lemon pie.”
He brushed us aside and went behind the curtain to work on the lock.
“What’s your mother doing here? Did you see her dress? And that veil.. Gorgeous! And who’s that man? So tall and mysterious.. She really knows how to live.”
“How many drinks did you have?”
“None!”
“Ladies,” Mikolaj whispered from behind the curtain. He had made quick work of the door and we were easily into the kitchen.
We searched for another way out, zig zagging between the chefs as they continued to assemble their hors d'oeuvres. One of them started to yell at us in Dutch but we blew past him towards the massive pantry in the back of the room. Mickey entered first and disappeared behind the steel standing shelves. We followed him to an open door against the back wall. He stuck his head through the doorway for a peak before flinging the door open and calling gently for us to follow.
Behind the door ran another underground alleyway that seemed to be making its way up to ground level. A bit of streetlamp light polluted the right side of the bricked tunnel.
“Why would they leave so quickly after purchasing the collection?”
“Why would your mother want to buy the collection she just paid Pierre to reassemble?”
Mickey and I stood five strides apart. He was looking at me differently, when he would look at me. He was pacing.
Heavy footsteps came from farther down the tunneled alley. Cecile’s excitement rose when we realized it was Boris. I looked behind him for Pierre.
“Did you see them?”
“Who?”
“Pierre! The Scalise brothers! Who else? They hit the auction’s holdings cellar with some sort of incapacitating agent just before Pierre got there. He woke me but I couldn’t keep up.”
“Oh!” Cecilie gasped and moved towards Boris.
“Incapacitating agent, how resourceful.” Mickey said, staring at me the same way he would when he was creating my costume for the auction.
“What’re you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that to our knowledge the Italians have been cut off from their support, but somehow they managed a heist using chemical warfare. At least to some of our knowledge.”
“That is hardly chemical warfare,” mentioned Cecile.
“What are you insinuating?”
“Someone needs to go after Pierre!” Boris raised his voice. His face was red and he seemed to be fighting against the pain in his vocal chords.
“I guess I am the only one with eyes that can see, so I should go after him ya? Since no one else understands what's going on in this stupid foreign tunnel in this stupid foreign city. I leave Poland to get out of the cellars and here I am!”
Mickey took off in the direction Pierre was meant to be heading. I followed closely while Cecile, who was helping Boris along, fell more and more behind.
“Anna! Anna, we have to stop!” Cecile’s yell echoed off the bricks and into the nothingness.
I looked at Mickey and slowed my pace as he continued on. I turned back and saw Boris on the ground, Cecile kneeling and cradling his head.
“He’s bleeding! I have to stop, he’s bleeding!”
She waved me off when I started to come towards her.
“There’s nothing for you to do, Anna.”
I left them there and went after Mickey.
The yellow light from the streets above danced in and out of the metal vents as I ran. I could hear someone yelling. Over and over. When we got closer I could tell it was Pierre. He sounded hysterical. Mickey took off faster down the tunnel.
“Anna! Stop!”
Over and over he yelled, until suddenly he was there. Mickey stopped. Pierre’s silhouette faced away from us with both hands out in front of him. He seemed to be pleading, bending towards the light that showered down from a vent. As I came up behind him I could see my mother, standing on the other side of the light, at the bottom of a staircase. A man was climbing up the stairs next to her, holding two armored suitcases at his sides. Pierre yelled again and Anna Pavlov turned, stepped down one step with her left foot, and brought her hand to her veil and lifted it, exposing eyes that looked so much like my own. Then she raised her right hand from her coat and shot twice into the tunnel.
The bullets sparkled once as they passed through the street light before ripping through Pierre’s chest. Blood painted my face as he fell back between us. I went towards him. Mickey yelled something but I felt I couldn’t hear him, then he turned and ran after my mother.
Pierre seemed calm and laid still with his hands over his wounds and they filled with blood. His eyes searched for me then followed my face, shifting with my expressions. I tried to take off his coat but he stopped me with a strong hand on my wrist. I couldn’t stop thinking about all the blood. How could there be this much blood?
“Mickey!” He yelled, without breaking from my eyes. “Mickey!” The second time with more urgency. He brought his other hand to my face and it came away a beautiful deep red.
Mickey’s feet were quickly at our side. Pierre held my face in his hands and suddenly I realized he was the one kneeling.
“Fuck.” Mickey said, bending down to Pierre’s level.
Pierre took off his jacket and laid it beneath my head on the damp concrete.
“Your chest,” I said. But nothing seemed to come out.
“We need to stop the bleeding.”
“Where’s Boris? We need the van!”
“Pierre, the bleeding.” Mickey was calm.
“We need the bus! Don’t you see? We need something, now!”
Mikolaj shook his head and turned towards the stairs. I could see diagonally up through the vent, onto the street. The light flickered as a car passed above. Small drops of dirty rain water gathered themselves on the edge of the metal before dripping down. I watched them splash in the lone puddle and imagined their sound. Pierre layed next to me, flat. His breathing was heavy and he tried to catch it.
“You hear that, Anna? Mickey is getting a car. We’ll get out of here okay. We’ll find Boris and we’ll leave Holland before the sun comes up. I’ll make a call and get us a plane, we will be in Paris in a matter of hours now.”
He gently squeezed my hand.
“And once we're in Paris we can go anywhere. Forget the Italians, the collection. Forget your mother. You can take me home, show me your university, show me where you strengthened ton bel esprit. I want to see it all. Huh, ma cherie? How does that sound?”
“Pierre, I can't carry you both. One of you has to go first unless you can walk.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and felt Mickey lift me and headed towards the stairs. I looked back to see Pierre laying flat in a puddle of blood. Up on the street Mickey laid me down in the back seat of a sedan. He wiped my face clean with a handkerchief.
“You’ll be okay. I am so sorry," he said.
“Go get Pierre!” I tried. Mickey didn’t seem to hear me. He got out of the car and closed the door. The driver started the car and we moved away from the curb. Mickey followed the car for a moment then he was gone. I could see the walls of the alley through the window, then they were gone too.