The Imperial Wife (6 page)

But then one morning, the pavement still steaming on the soles of my shoes, armpits damp with subway exertion, jittery Marjorie Carlyle called me upstairs into her office, unveiled something masquerading as a Larionov, handed me an ultraviolet light, and said, “Who's this anyway? And is this fake or not? Now that Kudrina quit with zero notice, you're the only Russian we've got.” I didn't miss a beat: “This piece is in Larionov's Rayonist style, dated 1905. Which is impossible since Larionov created Rayonism in 1913.” Marjorie said, “Fine. How do you feel about working with your people?”

And what could I say? The fierce oligarch's daughter was finally gone. And no one else at Worthington's knew Russian art like I did. On the other side of the world lay a vast country in turmoil and, like it or not, it was the country of my birth, the country that shaped my first seven years. And I felt it needed me to save its art in this volatile time, to return it to the place it once belonged before it was sold off for tractors by Bolsheviks and Stalin. I wanted to return it to those who would love and appreciate it. Who understood it with their very souls, the way I did. It was to be my destiny. It also crossed my mind that, as head of a department at Worthington's, I would be deserving of Carl—if not his social equal, then at least possessing the proper veneer of respectability.

I realize Medovsky hasn't noticed my flagging attention. He's describing the staircase in his wife's boutique, the woes of eternal renovations, the perils of shipping marble from Florence to London.

“Mm-hm,” I hum as if deeply engrossed. What I didn't expect when taking the job were the people with whom I'd now be dealing, more concerned with their homes, their lavish lifestyles, with outdoing their friends than saving Russian art. And now I was intertwined with these men, my future tied to theirs.

“Sasha, I never asked. Is there a particular lot you've got your eye on?”

“The Order of Saint Catherine, of course.”

“How did you find out? We only just got it in.”

“Natasha at Hermitage told me. You know I have to ask. No chance is fake or didn't belong to the queen?”

I pause, in a delicate situation. These Russians gossip; to inject any doubt would kill the sale. Yes, the documentation hasn't yet been verified by the historian, but we are going forward anyway. In my old professional life, the one that seemed to have ended when Carl left, my conscience would have dictated telling Sasha the truth. But I'm a great believer in signs and portents. What if Catherine the Great is some ghostly yenta, bringing me and my husband back together?

“Tanyush?”

I stall with a sip of water. And it's probably fine, isn't it? Natasha at the Hermitage was very certain.

“I'm here. It's a nice choice. A very special piece. As you know, it was gifted to young Catherine by Empress Elizabeth so the value is really priceless. The provenance is very promising. Sold by the Bolsheviks through China. In 1926, Norman Weisz, an American diamond merchant, bought it at Christie's in London and resold it to Wanamaker's department store, where it was bought by a steel tycoon who gifted it to this famous silent film actress right before he died of a sudden heart attack. No indication he even knew it belonged to Catherine the Great. Now the actress's granddaughter in Chicago got it appraised by the Hermitage and she's selling. Don't you trust us?”

“I trust you. You're the only one in this rotten business to trust. The only one with any integrity. Maybe you can do what you can now to discourage the other bidders, because I'm set on it.”

I smile. It's typical for my clients to conflate my integrity with the expectation of bending the rules.

“You know that trust is the most important part of this business. I don't take it lightly, Sash.”

My job is to make Medovsky feel comfortable with me and, by extension, the auction house. Not that there's any doubt he will win the auction, a man of bottomless resources, a man who bought three hundred acres in Dartmoor from a dining companion who had no idea he'd be selling off his beloved property by the time dessert arrived. If Medovsky goes against a few other determined bidders in the auction, I'll get a bonus. I'll be made vice president. In the eyes of those who matter, I'll be an actual “Somebody.”

“You know, Sash, I just thought of something. I can already imagine the Order at the Hermitage, the plaque reading ‘a gift from Alexander Medovsky.' How wonderful would that be? Have you ever considered donations to institutions?”

“Actually, I intend to gift it to our president.”

I try not to let the frown seep into my voice. He must know the Russian president is hardly popular around here. “Really. Well, you know a museum donation—the museum Catherine actually founded—would make the same point. Even better, really.”

“No, no. This is not joke, Tan'.” He sounds annoyed now, a warning for me to back off. “I have promised him this.”

I quickly switch the subject to Medovsky's rugby team, the acquisition of the new scrum half who will be starting the Amlin Challenge Cup. I have no idea what any of those words actually mean.

“
Ladno,
got to go.
Obnimayu
. Oh, and don't forget to book your tickets to Monaco. May tenth. Get there by sundown.”

“What? Monaco? Sash, what are you talking about?”

“Are you or are you not vacationing in New Jersey this year?”

“Yes, but.”

“No buts. They tell me New Jersey is paradise on earth, but Monaco is not too shabby either.” He explains the event: a fund-raiser for the Tel Aviv Museum of Art at his house, friends Oleg and David will be there. Do I know who they are? They are Very Important Men, and if I want to know more about them, their names and histories are actually linked on the Wikipedia page under “Oligarch.” “If you want to be a player, Tan, you have to drink with players. You know this.”

I could call Carl and ask him to come with me as a kind of truce. But Carl disapproved of my clients' lifestyles so I'd been underplaying the outlandish details of my business trips. This trip might delay, rather than accelerate, our reunion.
Book tickets NYC–Nice.
I jot down the date and pass the stickie to Regan.

Regan's voice has amplified. “No, Mr. Meskin, we don't give discounts on art, this is not a sample sale.” Then Marjorie's head is framed by the door, a face made even more yellow by the overhead lights. “Off the phone?”

As always, Marjorie's look is disheveled and blocky. Squares of conflicting color in her peach pants and burgundy blouse, cinched at the waist but not complementing her body, an unflattering bird-feathered haircut.
Do you think we're all afraid of her because she looks like she doesn't give a shit in a place like this?
Regan has said, not once. There is something unnerving about a person who makes no effort to appear polished among women who wear pearls and Lilly Pulitzer prints unironically, men who sport speckled bow ties and double-breasted blazers. This, or the position etched onto her door, or her brusque manner, or the fact that she never entirely trusted me, thought me too green for the job while trying to promote twenty-five-year-old Nadia Kudrina.

“What's up?”

“First of all, nice article in the
Financial Times
.”

“Did it sound on point?”

“Hey, all publicity is good. It was a little chipper, even for you. But we're glad you did it.”

“The reporter mangled a few of my quotes but I thought Worthington's got a nice boost.”

“Dean's happy with it. So I heard about the Order. It's been verified, right?”

“Pretty much,” I say. Admitting anything less than ironclad about the Order's authenticity might push an object off this auction. And I'm convinced that this auction will be deciding the future of the Russian art department, of my job, maybe even my marriage. When you pull off a major feat in one area of your life, it radiates outward.

“Fabulous.” As expected, Marjorie hears what she needs to hear. She rises, pacing, tablet in hand. “This is just the news we needed. No one even knew the thing existed, right?”

“Right. The timing is perfect too because of Russia's renewed interest in the Romanovs.”

“Oh, yeah? I didn't hear about that.”

I find the article on my tablet, prepared to underscore the Order's importance. “They're inviting all the Romanovs back to Russia actually: ‘The return of the descendants of the last Russian tsar to their historic homeland will contribute to the smoothing of political contradictions in the country, remaining from the time of the October Revolution, and will become a symbol of revival of the spiritual power of the peoples of Russia.'”

“Yikes, okay. And I hear Medovsky's going active. You clearly have a way with these people.”

What was wrong with Worthington's and the way they always classified me as one of “these people” just because I happen to be Russian? Another way Worthington's pushes me across the border from those who belong, the unspoken demarcation between
us
and
them
. If only they knew that I'm neither
us
nor
them;
unlike Nadia Kudrina at Christie's, I'm no insider among the oligarchs, and unlike Carl, I'll never be truly American. What they don't know is that I exist elsewhere, in a third, unmarked space.

A sudden spray of afternoon sunshine slashes across my eyes. I watch its reflection chime against the glass skin of the skyscraper across the street.

“I hope I've got a knack for this by now, Marjorie. I've been doing this for some time.”

Marjorie lowers her voice. “You know how important this auction is. You've probably heard what happened in Decorative Arts.”

“Has the entire department been let go?”

“Between you and me? Yes. French furniture, English silver? There's no coming back for it. Not in the near future anyway.”

“And us?”

“You know all the action's in Europe. If this auction's lackluster, we might have to consolidate the departments in London.”

As quickly as it strikes, the light fades away, the office swabbed in sickly green. On the very day we were sipping prosecco for the Order's discovery, seven people were packing up their offices.

Marjorie returns to her chair, descends into it heavily. “Those people, they're not easy for most of us here to understand and that's why it's important you know we value your ability to build relationships. It certainly helps that they think you're on their side, reuniting them with their national art and all that.”

Again, “those people.”

“Very kind of you to acknowledge my efforts, Marjorie. Perhaps you can pass word of your thoughts to Dean. I think the U.S. office is very important for this company. This will be the department's biggest yield, not to mention all the revenue we're creating by collecting the seller's commission and not waiving the buyer's premium. I've gotten many phone calls about quite a few of the pieces. And now that you bring it up, I'd love to schedule a meeting to discuss some thoughts. I'm bringing in extraordinary people who are signing with Worthington's because of my relationships…”

But Marjorie is fidgeting. She's done with me. “Fine, fine, call Karen and set that up.” A hint of anxiety crosses her face. She's likely having a very different conversation with the director of Southeast Asian, whose five major buyers just dropped out. The three Ds. Death, divorce, debt: the blessing or curse of any market.

When Marjorie leaves, I get ready to go for the night. Outside my window the spire of the Empire State Building injects white into the turbid lavender of evening. “Good night, Regan.” The next time I glance up at the young woman's screen, Facebook is exchanged for the vividness of Goncharova's
Spanish Dancer,
the painting conservatively estimated at one point nine million.

“Don't forget to friend Mr. Meskin,” I call out.

“I won't!” comes the sheepish reply. Caught.

Next to the viewing room is the storage room, and a pull compels me to the knob, to the back wall where the safe is kept. Past a small sculpture by Jacques Lipschitz, a Joseph Cornell etching, and I turn the knob of the safe tucked into the back wall. Next to a sapphire necklace worn by Grace Kelly and the rare 1913 Liberty Head five-cent piece, the Imperial Order of Saint Catherine sits on its velvet tray, its embedded diamonds winking, fresh from its intercontinental voyage. A medal of honor for female friends and relatives of the court. And, of course, awarded to all new Romanov wives. Carl would have loved to see it, to touch its face with his own hands. Why didn't I let him do that?

In the center of the pendant, Saint Catherine sits wrapped in her cape, holding cross and wheel. On the ribbon the embroidered words “For Love and for the Fatherland.” I imagine the almost-fifteen-year-old future queen bowing her head as it was wound across her chest. The recent immigrant from Prussia who had no dynastic right to be an empress. Carl's Catherine who became mine too for a while.

Reluctantly, I drape the order back into the bloodred leather box and seal it under a tomb of chamois leather.

In the elevator, I step next to my old boss from Impressionist, as always tucked into a pressed Italian suit, a silk tie. How comforting it had been to watch his manicured hands in meetings, to simply follow orders rather than give them. To be commended, “Nice job on that catalogue, Tanya.”

“Going to the event on five?” he says, a shellacked pinkie encircled by a heavy garnet ring pressing the already illuminated button. White teeth, impeccable suit, a man whose cosseted reality is incomprehensible to me.

“I've got my own later this week.”

“Well, good luck up there with Eastern Aggression. Call me if I can help.”

You'd think that U.S. relations with Russia being what they are, there'd be awkwardness about my position at the company, but luckily, auction houses are apolitical. They take advantage of the market unless there's a possibility of bad press. We had to say no to a charity auction by the president of Uzbekistan because of the country's record of human rights violations, but the only thing that truly changes the strategy of an auction house is if the money dries up. I've tried to use this to my advantage to show that Russia is not a simple, evil nemesis, that there are many important people who are fighting for change, operating for the good of the world.