The Reincarnationist Papers Page 38

  My shoulders filled the cramped circumference of the can and the ache of immobility crept into my joints after the guard's sixth or seventh circuit. In the long sabbaticals between each pass, my mind drifted to thoughts of my impending fortune; a Black Sea home, a flat in Istanbul, liberation from this confinement that had been my limited life.

  The initial rustling scratches at the steel below my feet came just as night fell beyond the two small skylights visible through my fissure. The first big rats came in quick sorties, running along the walls one by one. But within the next three guard passes that measured an hour, the floors were being crisscrossed by them, the constant flashes of the red dots on the motion detectors betraying their nightly invasion to uncaring defenders.

  I could see it was dark enough to do it, and I resolved to go after the guard's next pass, but before he could come I was startled by another visitor, in the can with me. A young rat had slipped through a small hole in the bottom and scrambled about, unaware or uncaring of the giant above him. I felt him scurrying around from morsel to morsel and I concentrated on the gnashing of his tiny teeth in an attempt to ignore the stiffening ache in my knees and back. My little friend not only ate, but jealously guarded the small entrance as well, biting at any strange nose poking in. The drama playing itself out at my feet made me laugh. There we were, both of us rats, earning our living in the trash. 'If only you had the chance to better your condition,' I whispered down to my friend. I wondered if he could possibly know that he would eventually become too fat to leave and would be trapped inside the can. Probably not.

  The roaming rats scattered with the approaching footsteps of the guard. I readied the pack of supplies beneath my feet and clutched the wood grip of the pistol as he passed close, the danger palpable, the reward tangible.

  I eased off the top of the can and carefully stood up, stretching my legs slowly until the blood began to flow again. My eyes never wavered from the open end of the lit entrance hallway as I sat the pack down and tucked the gun into my waistband. Faint television noise still flowed into the dark gallery. I had to urinate very badly and cast a longing glance at the small male silhouette on the bathroom door before taking my first catlike steps toward the back wall.

  I slinked around the rear of the gallery until I reached the enlarged shaft of light projected onto the back wall from the fluorescent tubes above the guard desk in the foyer. The ten foot wide beam of cold, white light exposed me as they came into view around the corner. Both of their backs were to me as they watched the small flickering screen. The street traffic was visible between the elephants beyond the glass doors. Two quick steps would have easily taken me across the gulf and back into darkness, but I hesitated and hovered in the bathing light, emboldened for a moment by the sense of vulnerability. It seemed if I lingered long enough, I might even the odds. Several dark rats, enlarged with shadow, braved the breach along with me. I stepped back into the cloaking dark on the other side and glided over to the waiting portrait.

  Stooping to one knee, I unzipped the pack and, one at a time, laid the tools out on the floor; the razor knife, the thin wire noose, the small flashlight, the weight, the hammer and the gun. I stood up slowly and approached the painting, noose in hand. Vermeer's incredible attention to detail was apparent even in the dim darkness. I turned to search for the back door, visualizing a path of escape through the slumbering statues, then opened the noose and draped it over the top of the frame. The wire slipped behind it effortlessly, catching on the alarmed mount a third of the way down. I remained motionless for a tense moment, easing my head around toward the lit hallway in search of alerted guards that never came. Cautiously, I maneuvered the rest of the noose over the gilded frame until it hung in a thin line under the center of the portrait. The curious rats investigating my tools scattered as I reached for the weight. I adjusted my stance so that I faced the shaft of light as I placed the hook of the weight onto the wire. Then slightly, ever so slightly, I lowered my hand, incrementally burdening the wire until it hung free. And still there was no shadow or sound of stirring from the guard desk. Every square inch of my skin tingled with excitement; with that same intoxicating mixture of danger, guilt and power that a child feels the first time he steals or disobeys, when he ventures out onto the thin ice of his own morality for the first time. For a lucky few, it's like that every time.

  Standing up, I placed both hands gently on the frame and slipped my fingers in behind it. I looked at Samas' smirking face and exhaled deeply before gently lifting. It was light, and came up easily off the mount. I held it in my hands, two million dollars. Almost there.

  I glanced again toward the hall then placed the painting face down on the floor, exposing the frame fasteners. Flashlight and hammer in hand, I started prying at the first nail. The low groaning squeak barely carried above the collective footfalls of the scurrying rodents. On the second nail the flashlight caught and highlighted a faded handwritten message scrawled onto the back of the canvas. The third and fourth nails came out easily and the painting itself popped out after several silent strains with my thumbs against the corners of the canvas. And still, after all that, the unknowing guards did nothing.

  I took the razor knife and laid a long incision just outside the crude metal staples holding the fabric to its skeleton. The thin blade clicked with each aged strand it cleaved in two. The brittle canvas immediately frayed at its fresh edges and the yellow unpainted border of the liberated painting crackled as I rolled it in my hands.

  I left my tools on the floor, tucked the pistol into my pants and was halfway back to the shaft of light when I heard the now familiar sound of the heavy guard's footsteps. I dropped to the floor and froze instinctively. His elongated shadow slowly grew on the floor until he stood fully silhouetted in the end of the hallway. The flashlight in his hand darted wildly about the room, cutting at the dark in a narrow beam. I could smell him and wondered if he could smell me. My eyes followed the dancing light, willing it away from the empty frame at the foot of the weighted wire. The floor was cool against my chest and seemed to absorb the tremor running through my body. If I could just calm myself, I knew I could concentrate hard enough to make the light stop moving. Unfortunately it stopped before I was ready and came to rest on the hammer lying on the floor twenty-five feet away from me. I slipped a hand under me in search of the pistol as he took two cautious steps forward, his light finding the empty frame and bare wall. I turned my eyes toward the darkness on the far side in search of the door just as he shouted above the television noise to his partner. The high pitched shrill of an alarm split the air a second later. Powerful strobe lights pulsed from the ceiling in a rapid staccato, exposing me. In the corner of my eye I saw the guard retreat around the corner in a series of six interrupted white flashes. The rear door was visible in the intermittent play of light and dark. I jumped to my feet, gripped the rolled painting and bolted for the exit. The silver painted door frame reappeared closer with each successive flash until I was through it and back into the comfort of night.

  The strobes had filled my night vision with floating white globes, ruining it. I plunged my hand into the garbage pile, pulled out the case and took off in a running limp down the alley. The guards did not follow. I shortened my strides to a trot as I neared the cross street. Backing up against an unlit wall, I opened the case, pulled the slackened guitar strings to one side and inserted the rolled painting through the round hole into the body of the instrument, being careful to lay it against the edge of the cavity out of sight. The constant wail of the alarm rose above the alley and spread out over the city. I had done it, it had been done, I had it. The excitement was tremendous.

  I slid down against the wall for a second to take weight off my shaking legs. The running had triggered painful messages from my foot again. Taking deep regulating breaths, I closed the case, got to my feet and walked around the corner, skirting the edge of the gathering crowd circling the elephants. I limped toward the long line of taxicabs bordering the cur
b and nodded to the one in the front.

  "American?" the driver asked.

  I nodded.

  "Where to? I give you good price. I like America. You tell me where."

  "The docks," I said, climbing into the back with my guitar. "Oh shit, the cane," I mumbled. "No driver, take me to the Hotel Majeet first."

  "Okay," he said, steering wide of the approaching blue and white police vans.

  I held the case tight as they passed and couldn't help but feel I'd set in motion the gears of a large machine that now silently worked against me. I knew the onus would be on me to keep ahead of it.

  "I went to America once," he said, distracting me from new dreams of comfort and travel.

  "What?"

  "I said, I went to America once, 12 years ago. My brother drives a taxi in New York."

  "That's nice," I said disinterested.

  "Are you from New York?"

  "No I'm not, but I am in a hurry. How long will it take to get there?"

  "We are here," he said, stopping across the street. "Five dollars please."

  I placed a twenty in his hand. "Wait for me, I have to get something."

  "Okay," he said behind me as I crossed the street, guitar in hand.

  The woman behind the counter looked up as I walked past, then turned back to her book. I fished the key out of my pocket and inserted it into the lock with an unsteady hand.

  The room inside was dark and my nose caught the scent of cigarette smoke as soon as I'd closed the door behind me. I moved my hand under my shirt and onto the butt of the gun just as the night light next to the bed clicked on. I whipped out the pistol before I had gotten a firm grip on the handle and accidently fumbled it across the floor toward Poppy, who sat in the chair next to the bed, cigarette in one hand, the cane in the other.

  She raised her eyes from the gun. "That's not for me I hope. You forgot this," she said, tapping the cane on the floor.

  The accumulated adrenalin coursing through my veins turned to anger as I stood there confused. "What the fuck are you doing here!" I shouted. "You scared the shit out of me. How did you know I'd be here?"

  She stood up slowly and walked over to me, gracefully stepping over the gun. "You still don't understand how all this works do you?"

  "What are you talking about? Why are you here?"

  She crossed the room, crushed out the cigarette and placed the cane in my empty hand. "I'm here for vengeance," she said, looking into my eyes.

  I stared back. "Vengeance? What have I done to deserve your vengeance?"

  She laughed out loud. "Don't flatter yourself junior. My vengeance is not for you, in fact I'm here to help you." She looked down at the guitar case. "Clever boy. Is it in there?"

  "Is what in there?" I asked defensively.

  Her face cracked into a sly smile. "How much did he offer you for it? One million? Two?" she asked as she moved closer to me, running her hand over the front of my pants.

  "Two," I conceded.

  "He certainly saw you coming." She unzipped my fly and slipped a hand inside in search of me. "He'll pay twenty," she whispered before lowering to her knees.

  I gripped the dragon and dropped the case as she took me into her warm mouth. "Wha- What are you suggesting?"

  She pulled off after a few seconds. "I think you'll like what I can do for you."

  24

  "Evan," she whispered as she shook my shoulder. "Evan, wake up. We need to go now."

  It was Poppy. I hadn't dreamt her. "What time is it?"

  "Almost morning," she said, slipping her high heeled shoes back on.

  "Go where?"

  "To make delivery," she said, before pointing to the unrolled painting laying on the floor in front of the open guitar case. "How were you supposed to make the drop?"

  I slid to the edge of the bed. "At the docks, right after I'd finished."

  "Word has already reached Samas then that you're overdue and were most likely unsuccessful. That bastard is probably on the phone to his next prospective helper by now." She knelt down and rolled up the painting, taking notice of the handwritten message on the back. She translated aloud. 'To my dearest Emil, the only woman I have ever loved. Your favors have become the star that I steer by.' "Ugg," she exhaled in disgust, "how saccharine." She looked at the portrait for several seconds. "I just can't picture it can you?" she asked, holding it up for me.

  "I prefer not to think about it."

  She inserted the roll back into the guitar and closed the case. "Are you ready?"

  I leveled my eyes at her. "Are you here to help me in this? Because if you're not, I'm going through with this as planned, down at the docks."

  Unaffected, she picked up the case, walked over to me and placed it on the bed next to my leg. "You can do whatever you like. I believe I can help you Evan, and you me. What you need to ask yourself is whether or not you can trust me."

  "Can I trust you?" I shot back.

  She looked up at the cracked plaster ceiling for a few seconds before answering. "Yes, you can trust me. I will protect any financial interest you have in this, in fact I will better his offer and take it from you now if you like."

  I was shocked by her offer. It was tempting. If I accepted, it meant that I could walk out the door a multi-millionaire, unencumbered by the stolen piece. Her exotic eyes burned charcoal black as I mulled it over. She wanted this worse than I, and I wanted to see why. "I appreciate your offer but I think I'd like to see this thing through to the end, with you."

  Her face burst into a bright smile. "Oh I hoped you would say that. Get your shoes on, we're about to make a killing."

  Her driver steered the white sedan onto the airport tarmac toward a small lone white jet. 'Fabric des Glaces St. Gobain' was stenciled across the fuselage in French red, white and blue.

  "Rabat," she shouted into the cockpit as she entered the plane. "I think he'll be surprised. What do you think?" she asked me.

  "He'll certainly by surprised to see you. I know I was," I mumbled to myself.

  The lowering whine of the engines woke me as they throttled back for a descent. My arms still clutched the case close to my chest. Poppy spoke French into a portable phone from her seat in the back. She came forward to see me as soon as she'd finished her conversation.

  "Good morning. There's a car waiting for us on the ground. Do you know how to get to his home?"

  "Yes, I remember the way."

  "Good," she said, looking out the window at the approaching earth. "Good."

  The coarse gravel in the driveway crunched under the car's tires as we rolled to a stop behind Samas' beach home.

  Poppy surveyed the residence over lowered sunglasses. "How quaint, it looks like a carriage house. Are you ready?" she asked as she reached over and placed her hand on the case's handle.

  My first instinct was to shout out in protest. Everything rode on this. I mustered a stern look from my tired eyes and spoke. "I am choosing to trust you."

  "I know that," she said through an innocent smile. "Let's go."

  The sad notes of a cello hung in the air as we approached the open door. I knocked softly on the wooden door jamb and stepped cautiously inside, Poppy right behind me, case in hand.

  Zohra sat in a kitchen chair, her eyes shut tight in concentration. She cradled the singing cello between her legs like a wooden lover.

  "Zohra," I said in a soft tone.

  Her eyes snapped open in shock. A sour note escaped them both as the bow slid wildly off the strings.

  "It's you," she gasped. "We thought that you had..." She left the sentence unfinished as she noticed Poppy's embe tattoo.

  "Where is he?" I asked.

  "Upstairs, on the balcony," she answered, still somewhat disoriented.

  I smiled at her and walked down the hall. The sound of the amplified surf rolled down the stairs toward us like an invisible waterfall. We climbed to find Samas filling a lounge chair on the balcony overlooking the ocean.

  He placed the telephone h
andset back into its cradle as he heard the approaching footsteps. "I don't like this at all love. The woman at the hotel said he left with--" His jaw dropped open as he turned around and saw us. "You!" he growled at her.

  "Hi there," Poppy said cheerfully.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "That would seem to be the question of the day," she said, glancing at me. "And one I very much want to answer." She walked over and placed the guitar on the railing. Samas seemed to hold his breath as she opened the case and removed the canvas roll. Gripping it by the top edge, she let it unfurl in front of her, exposing the image to him. His face flushed white then red with the realization that she had it, not me.

  "What's the matter Juan? You're not laughing this time," she said, in a sly smile that betrayed her enjoyment of this perverse pleasure.

  He reluctantly turned toward me, barely able to take his eyes off the long awaited painting. "Why have you done this?"

  "He did nothing," said Poppy. "I took it from him for my own reasons. This is between you and me now."

  "You don't mean to tell me this is still about Latsei?" he asked, getting to his feet.

  "Of course it is, how can there be forgive when there is no forget."

  He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stepped to the railing. "What is it you want?" he asked looking out to sea.

  She reached into her purse for a slim gold cigarette lighter. "Oh it's simple really. I want to see the look on your face when I burn it."