The setting was a seventeenth-century Dutch domestic interior. The amazing Vermeer light slanted in from the window. A shallow bowl sat on what could have been a kitchen table. A girl stood between table and window. A bird perched on her extended right hand, taking seeds from her palm. Another bird sat on her left hand, which she held up under her chin. The bird was taking a seed from between her lips, so it looked as if girl and bird were kissing. If the subject was unique, the coloring of the birds was astounding. Vermeer’s palette had included vermilion, yellow ocher, and red madder. But nothing in the known works was half as bright as those birds.
Cultural events, like funerals, can become noisy, cheerful parties at which the guests talk about anything and everything except what brought them together. But at this party, everyone was talking about the Vermeer. I caught the buzz in snatches as I darted through the crowd. Cousin Ash demanded frequent refills of champagne and made me put her bottle of Xanax in my purse so she wouldn’t be tempted to mix them. But in between, I enjoyed the party.
Halfway through the evening, I ran out of steam. My feet hurt. My cheeks ached from smiling. I was too tired to find a place to set down the empty champagne flute in my hand. I scanned the crowd. I couldn’t see Ash. Good. That meant she couldn’t see me. I closed my eyes and let the talk and laughter eddy around me.
“How do they know it is a real Vermeer? There was van Meegeren.”
“That was back in World War Two. With today’s techniques, it’s a lot harder to forge a painting that old. They’ve authenticated this one up and down and sideways.”
“What about the red and yellow birds? They’re so un-Vermeer.”
“Vermeer had the palette. He was a genius. Why shouldn’t he try something different?”
“Where did it come from, anyhow? How could a painting like that be hidden?”
“They’re still finding works the Nazis looted. I don’t want to spread any rumors, but I heard this was one of those.”
“Van Meegeren sold some of his forged paintings to the Nazis.”
“Aren’t those works all supposed to go back to the Jewish families that owned them before the war?”
“That’s a matter of opinion. Anyhow, a lot of those families died out completely.”
Died out? My eyes snapped open. Murdered! I felt a surge of fury. Six million Jews had been rounded up, herded into cattle trucks, thrown into concentration camps, and gassed or tortured to death. Uncle Solly’s parents and his younger brothers had been killed. I wanted to speak up. But I couldn’t make a scene in the middle of the Great Hall unless I wanted to throw away not only my job, but my career.
“Champagne? Your glass is empty.”
It took me a moment to realize the smooth male voice was addressing me and another to realize he was not a waiter, but a very attractive man in black tie that fit as if he’d had it custom made, possibly on Savile Row, not rented it for the evening. He smiled, flashing perfect teeth against skin a little darker than a world-class tan. Liquid black eyes narrowed as his face crinkled into lines of good humor. He took the glass from my unresisting fingers and handed me a fresh one, brimming with bubbles.
“You look rather lost. Do you know where you’re supposed to be?”
His accent was Oxbridge English over the faintest breath of foreign — from his looks, probably Arabic. I smiled at him.
“Thank you. I’m supposed to be glued to my boss’s heels all evening. But she’s vanished, and I don’t particularly want to go and look for her.” There, I’d let him know up front I wasn’t a somebody. “I’m Janny. How do you do?” I shifted the glass to my left hand, held out my right, and shook. His hand was warm, dry, and fine-boned, not a big paw like Joel’s.
“I am very glad to know you.” He held my hand in a light clasp until I pulled it away. “I am Daoud. I am nobody. That is my prince over there. Sheikh Akhmed Abdelaziz. I too am expected to heel and much happier not to.”
Too polite to point, he lifted his chin toward a knot of gentlemen wearing white keffiyehs on their heads. At the moment, they were talking to one of the Met’s big donors, a crony of Aunt Gwen’s. “The one in black tie,” I guessed. The others all wore flowing white robes below their headgear. “He looks angry.”
“He wanted the painting,” Daoud said.
“He could afford it?” I blurted before I could stop myself.
Daoud laughed.
“He is one of the great collectors.”
“Oh.” Belatedly, I recognized the prince’s name. “Stupid of me. I’ve heard of Prince Sheikh Akhmed Abdelaziz.”
“In my country,” Daoud said, “he has a museum that is part of his palace. Climate controlled, experts to make sure every piece is always in perfect condition.”
“Is it open to the public?”
Daoud laughed again.
“Americans are so refreshing! In my country, that is not the way things work. Only the prince’s most privileged guests are invited to view his collection.”
“What’s he got?” I asked. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I am not offended that you ask,” he said. “But regretfully, I am not allowed to tell you.”
I remembered reading that the prince’s collection was rumored to include quite a number of works that had passed through Nazi hands. He had fought against returning to their rightful owners those works that the families of European Jews had identified as theirs. All at once, Daoud didn’t look quite so attractive.
“Have you heard,” I asked, “that the reason this Vermeer has just come to light is that it was Nazi loot?”
“I have heard this.” Daoud pressed his lips together, and the twinkle faded from his eyes. “True or not, that is ancient history. Some collector acquired it decades ago, and now it belongs to the museum.”
“You don’t think the Jewish families ought to get their treasures back, if they can prove the provenance?”
“Is the Metropolitan Museum offering to give this painting back? Has the British Museum returned the Elgin Marbles? Besides, they are only J—.”
He caught himself. He must know it was impolitic to make anti-Semitic remarks in New York. But it was too late. To him, the Holocaust survivors’ descendants were “only Jews.”
We parted awkwardly. I still couldn’t see Ash anywhere, and I was in no mood for her. I needed a hug. I wanted Joel. He should be somewhere between the top of the stairs and the Vermeer. He’d told me Security wanted the guards to keep moving throughout the evening, so that part of the time he’d actually stand guard over the painting.
“I’ll be tom between wanting to examine every brush stroke and making sure no one makes off with it,” he’d admitted.
I couldn’t imagine how thieves would get it out the door, even if they rolled the canvas, which I could hardly bear to think about. But then, I wasn’t an art thief. There was always some crook who had the skills. And there was always a collector with more money than God and more covetousness than conscience who would pay a fortune to possess such a painting.
In the small gallery, the crowd had diminished but not dispersed. I walked the route from the Great Hall to the Vermeer and back twice, asking guards along the way if they’d seen Joel. The one who’d talked to him last said he had gone for a break, but he should have been back by now.
“Maybe he snuck out to smoke,” the guard suggested.
But Joel didn’t smoke. Maybe I’d find him in the little room with the fountain, our special place. It would be quiet there even with thousands of people on the premises. He’d been on his feet all evening. He’d want to sit down. Nobody else would preempt the marble bench. Maybe he’d even stretched out — or curled up, since the bench wasn’t that long, as we’d discovered — for a cat nap. He might have hoped I’d join him or simply lost track of time.