Last Chance, page 10
‘Wow!’ said Sophia. ‘Like, totally wow!’ This was the most animated Sophia had been in the whole time they had known her. She was clearly seeing Roberto in a whole new light.
‘Don’t say “wow” to that,’ said her father. ‘The man is a delinquent, a vandal. There is nothing “wow” about that.’
‘The Giorgio?’ asked Adam. ‘The guerrilla artist responsible for redefining graffiti as a high art form?’
‘He likes to think so,’ said Roberto.
‘This is exciting,’ said Melanie. ‘I love a good, dark secret. And we’ve just uncovered two!’
‘I think it’s wow too,’ said Adam, looking at his friend with new-found awe. ‘I liked the time he stuck “Made in Greece” labels on the Elgin marbles. And the time he let a live bull loose in the Prado Museum in Madrid!’
‘Was that to protest bullfighting?’ asked Melanie.
‘No, Dad doesn’t have an issue with bullfighting,’ said Roberto. ‘He did it as an artistic statement – to say that the gallery was a load of bull . . . well . . . you know . . . bull excrement.’
He glanced at the director. Friday noted that the director was visibly showing several classic symptoms of high blood pressure, but she rationally deduced that this would not be a wise time to suggest that he consult his doctor. She turned to Roberto instead.
‘How does he get away with it?’ asked Friday. ‘Painting graffiti on all those famous buildings and staging art stunts. Why has he never been caught?’
‘Hi-vis,’ said Roberto. ‘If you wear hi-vis and put out bright orange cones, people assume whatever you’re doing is official and no-one stops you. They don’t pay attention to what you’re doing either. Sometimes people don’t notice his work is there and he has to pretend to be a member of the public and report a sighting to a newspaper.’
‘Wonderful,’ sighed Sophia.
‘He’s not allowed in any major galleries in Europe,’ said Roberto. ‘Not since he stuck a smiley face on the statue of David.’
‘Where on the statue of David?’ asked Melanie.
Roberto looked deeply embarrassed now. ‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Oh,’ said Melanie.
‘He is accusing me of keeping his son from him,’ said the director. ‘So if you’d be so kind, could you please go out to the gardens and have your family reunion outside of my gallery? I do not want a pack of slavering journalists loitering on my doorstep. They lower the tone of the establishment.’
‘Your father is really good at insulting people,’ Melanie observed to Sophia.
‘I know,’ said Sophia. ‘I think that’s a large part of why he isn’t married to my mother anymore.’
‘I haven’t seen Dad in ages,’ said Roberto as he got to his feet. ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you to him. And we can find out what he wants.’
As they approached the Arc du Carousell that marked the border between the Louvre and the Tuileries Garden beyond, Friday could see a large scrum of journalists shouting questions and photographers snapping flash photographs. It was hard to make out who they were shouting to or what they were shouting about. There was evidently someone standing in the shadows under the arch. Then he stepped out into the light. It was Giorgio. He looked larger than life in a lavender zoot suit with wide lapels and baggy trousers.
‘Ah, Roberto,’ said Giorgio. ‘Mio bambino! So good to see you.’ He threw his arms wide and grabbed Roberto in a big bear hug. He even made bear-like noises and pinched his son’s cheeks. It was the most theatrical hug Friday had ever seen.
‘Papà,’ said Roberto. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Yes,’ snapped the director. ‘What are you doing here? You are not allowed on Louvre land.’ The director glared at Giorgio’s feet.
‘Oh, of course,’ said Giorgio in ostentatious apology. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so excited to see my boy, I forget myself.’ Giorgio grabbed Roberto by the wrist and pulled him the short distance through the arch to where the journalists were waiting, so he was no longer standing on Louvre grounds.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press,’ said Giorgio, clamping his arm around Roberto’s shoulders. ‘I give you my beautiful boy!’
Cameras flashed and journalists started barking questions at Roberto.
‘Are the rumours true?’
‘Is it a fake?’
‘Is the Mona Lisa still on display?’
‘What is this?’ demanded the director, walking through the archway himself. He turned on Giorgio for answers. ‘What are they asking? Why did you bring them here?’
‘I’m concerned for my son,’ said Giorgio with a shrug. ‘I see this report on the internet . . .’ Giorgio took out his phone and opened it to the New York Times app. ‘They are saying that the Mona Lisa is a fake. I’m devastated. My boy, he comes to study here from an institution that houses a fraud. A great fraud on the people of France and the whole of Europe.’
The director’s mouth hung open. He looked like he was going to explode with rage. ‘What?!’ he bellowed.
Giorgio turned to address the journalists more than the director. ‘The curator at the Museum of Contemporary Art in New York has revealed just one hour ago that they have reason to believe that a Picasso painting in his gallery is, in fact, da Vinci’s great masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. And that the painting inside this building . . .’ He gestured to Louvre behind him. Friday could instantly see why he’d chosen this spot for the press conference. It was a beautiful view of the Louvre complex.
‘This “Mona Lisa” . . .’ Giorgio used his fingers to make air quote marks as he said this, ‘. . . is a fake!’
There were gasps, flash photos and more shouted questions.
‘How dare you! I’ll have you . . .’ spluttered the director.
‘Which begs the question,’ continued Giorgio. He was a big man, who spoke from the diaphragm, and his voice drowned out the director. It was even amplified by the stone arc surrounding him. It was almost as if he’d hired a sound engineer to figure out the exact right spot to stand to make everyone listen to him. ‘How many other artworks in the Louvre are fakes too?! Is this the great French gallery of knockoffs? Have they been selling their real artworks to the highest bidder?’
‘You are a disgrace,’ yelled the director.
‘No, you, sir, director of the gallery,’ accused Giorgio, ‘you are the disgrace. As is your entire institution. I call for an immediate inquiry into the outrageous fraud that has been perpetuated here.’
‘There is no . . .’ began the director.
But Giorgio talked over him again. ‘But now I must spend time with my son. The father-son bond is so strong. I must support him in this difficult time.’
The journalists started lunging forward en masse and yelling their questions, but two burly bodyguards stepped forward, shielding Giorgio as he hustled Roberto into a waiting limousine, which pulled away.
‘Wow,’ said Friday.
‘That was amazing,’ said Melanie.
‘Really, it was practically a work of performance art in its own right,’ said Friday.
The director had pulled out his phone and was striding back to the gallery barking orders into it in French.
‘Papa,’ Sophia called after him. But he didn’t even hear.
‘What do you think happened?’ asked Melanie.
‘I’m guessing things haven’t gone well for Bernie in New York,’ said Friday.
Friday and Melanie decided it would be best if they didn’t go back to the Louvre that day. They didn’t want to get in a confrontation with the director.
‘What do you want to do?’ asked Melanie. ‘We’re in Paris. We could do anything. Have you ever been up the Eiffel Tower?’
‘I haven’t got time to go and stand on the top of a tall architectural structure,’ said Friday. ‘I need to get to the bottom of this mystery. And I need to talk to Bernie. I want to go back to the Art Institute so I can call him.’
Melanie sighed. ‘I don’t know how you can be so smart and yet constantly forget that mobile phone technology has been invented.’ Melanie took her phone out of her pocket and handed it to Friday. ‘Just call him now.’
‘But it’s long distance,’ said Friday. ‘He’s in New York.’
‘I think my phone can handle that,’ said Melanie. She opened her contacts and selected Bernie’s number, hit the green button and handed it to Friday.
Friday held it to her ear and listened to it ring. ‘He could be on a plane or in a subway. Somewhere there’s no reception.’
‘Yes, he could,’ agreed Melanie.
‘I think Highcrest has scarred me,’ said Friday. ‘It still feels naughty to be using a phone. Like I should be hiding it from adults.’
‘That’ll be another thing you can speak to your psychiatrist about when you inevitably end up in therapy,’ said Melanie.
‘Hello, Melanie?’ Uncle Bernie’s voice came over the phone.
‘No, it’s me, Friday, your niece,’ said Friday.
‘Oh, thank goodness. I wanted to talk to you, but I wasn’t sure how, short of hiring a sky writer to spell out the words “call your uncle” over the skies of Paris,’ said Bernie. ‘Have you heard what happened over here?’
‘Well, I can guess from what just happened here,’ said Friday. ‘Giorgio just ambushed the director of the Louvre, announced that the Mona Lisa was a forgery and suggested that the whole collection was full of fakes.’
‘Oh no,’ said Bernie. ‘This couldn’t be worse.’
‘Where are you?’ asked Friday.
‘Still in New York,’ said Bernie. ‘I’m at JFK airport trying to get a flight back to France. It’s been a disaster.’
‘What happened?’ asked Friday.
‘Well, the director of the gallery here seemed really nice,’ said Bernie. ‘A really friendly fellow, very sympathetic to my troubles in Paris. But when I explained the situation – that the Mona Lisa might be hidden under one of his paintings – his face lit up. He couldn’t have been more excited.’
‘Why?’ asked Friday.
‘He doesn’t care about proving the authenticity of the Mona Lisa,’ said Bernie. ‘He just wants to get visitors into his gallery. The rumour that the Mona Lisa is under his painting is far better for him than whatever the truth might be.’
‘So he didn’t let you test it?’ said Friday.
‘No,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘He delayed me in his office so he could call in a bunch of journalists, then had security throw me out of the building. It was all caught on camera and sent to every news service so the story would get maximum coverage.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Friday.
‘He’s been on every talk show and radio station in New York that would have him,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Which is all of them! Everyone here is talking about how the Mona Lisa in Paris is a fake. People are flooding social media with selfies of themselves with the Picasso, saying it’s the real Mona Lisa.’
‘This is pretty much exactly what Interpol and the French government didn’t want,’ said Friday.
‘I’m going to get sacked,’ said Bernie.
‘We can’t let that happen,’ said Friday. ‘If you get sacked, Agent Okeke will be in charge of the case. If things escalated this quickly for you, they’ll degenerate into World War Three for her.’
‘I’ve got to get back there,’ said Bernie.
‘We need to test the painting,’ said Friday.
‘Which painting?’ asked Bernie.
‘The Mona Lisa in the Louvre,’ said Friday. ‘If we can prove it’s authentic, all this will go away.’
‘Interpol will have to persuade the magistrate to get the painting tested,’ said Bernie. ‘I need to hang up. I’ve got calls to make before I get on my flight.’
Friday had been walking with Melanie back towards their dorm the whole time that she’d been talking on the phone with Bernie. As they turned the corner into their street, they saw a big black limousine parked outside their building.
‘Is that Giorgio’s limo?’ asked Friday.
‘He must be dropping Roberto off,’ said Melanie.
When they opened the front door of the Institute, Friday was shocked to see the porter smiling and giggling. She was almost unrecognisable from the grumpy woman who had been rude to them every day since they had arrived. They soon realised what the porter was smiling about. Giorgio was standing on a chair and drawing a picture on the wall. He was using a sharpie to draw a cartoon of the Mona Lisa. Roberto was sitting on the staircase, slouched, with his head in his hands. He was trying to look bored but he couldn’t hide his embarrassment at his dad’s antics.
‘Are you allowed to do that?’ Friday asked as Giorgio’s pen flew across the wall, honing his picture.
‘My dear friend Patricia has given me permission,’ said Giorgio. He looked down at the porter, blew a kiss and waggled his eyebrows at her. The porter giggled.
‘Ew,’ said Melanie.
Roberto just covered his eyes and shook his head in despair.
As Giorgio was finishing up his drawing, he bent over to write a caption underneath . . .
I AM THE REAL MONA LISA.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
Friday considered the giant cartoon. It was only black pen on a dirty white wall, but he had captured the essence of the famous painting and something more. The Mona Lisa’s already inscrutable expression was now a little bit more sarcastic. She seemed to be in on the joke. ‘It’s good,’ said Friday.
‘I know,’ said Giorgio, jumping down from his chair. ‘Thank you.’ He returned the sharpie to the porter, then took her hand and bent over to kiss it.
The porter gasped.
Roberto groaned like he was physically in pain.
‘Oh no,’ said Melanie. ‘Now she’s never going to want to wash that hand, which is so unhygienic for someone whose job it is to hand over keys.’
‘It was good to see you, Roberto,’ said Giorgio. ‘Maybe we will catch up again at Easter, yes?’
‘That’s it?’ said Roberto. ‘You’re leaving Paris already.’
‘I’m a busy man,’ said Giorgio. ‘You know that.’
‘He’s obfuscating,’ said Melanie.
‘What?’ said Roberto.
‘Melanie has a bizarrely accurate ability to tell if someone is lying,’ said Friday. ‘Obfuscating is a variety of lying. To obfuscate is to mislead someone by withholding a truth. In this case, you asked your father if he was leaving Paris. He said he was busy, implying that he was leaving Paris. But he did not actually say that.’
‘So you’re staying in Paris but you’re not going to have time to see me again?’ said Roberto. ‘I get it.’
‘Come now,’ said Giorgio, grabbing Roberto by the back of the neck and kissing him on the head. ‘You’re a big boy, you don’t need your papà to hold your hand, do you?’
‘No, Papà,’ said Roberto.
‘Of course not,’ Giorgio said, ruffling Roberto’s hair, before turning to call out to the porter, who had returned to her little office. ‘Ciao, bella!’
They couldn’t see the porter but they could hear her giggled response. Then Giorgio swished out of the lobby. Roberto looked crestfallen.
‘At least he came by to visit,’ said Melanie.
‘He came up and looked at my work,’ said Roberto defensively.
‘I’m sure he was proud,’ said Melanie. ‘You draw beautifully.’
Roberto looked a little bit less certain. ‘He said I need to practise my line work. But still, he came to look. He’s never asked to see my work before.’
‘We’re staying away from the Louvre for the rest of the day,’ said Melanie. ‘Do you want to come out with us and do something? We could climb the Eiffel Tower, or the Arc de Triomphe.’
‘Or we could go to the Marie Curie Museum of Radiation,’ suggested Friday.
Roberto just looked at her. ‘Is she serious?’ he asked Melanie.
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Melanie.
‘If there’s no Louvre today, I might as well go to work at the pizza shop,’ said Roberto. ‘I’m not going to be able to concentrate now.’
But when they got up to their apartment, Roberto couldn’t find his uniform for the pizza shop, so in the end he did end up tagging along with the girls. He and Melanie outvoted Friday. They didn’t go to the Marie Curie Museum. They went to the modern art gallery, the Musée d’Orsay, instead. Roberto wanted to see their famous collection of Degas paintings and Melanie wanted to eat the famous cheesecake in the museum restaurant. So that is what they did.
Friday found herself really enjoying the afternoon. It’s hard not to enjoy yourself when you’ve just eaten a beautiful French dessert, and the Musée d’Orsay was more relaxing than the Louvre. It was totally different in every way. Whereas the Louvre was a complex array of rooms, many of them underground, the Musée d’Orsay had been a train station. So it was one giant, light-filled room with a very high ceiling. The art was lovely but best of all – so were the couches.
The museum had one leather couch in particular that was huge and shaped sort of like a giant octopus spread out over a rock, which sounds bad but was actually extraordinarily comfortable. And it was right in front of a massive window that overlooked Paris. It was a beautiful spot. The three of them lay back on the couch in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Friday pondering the mystery of the Mona Lisa, Roberto pondering the mystery of his father’s behaviour and Melanie fast asleep – she could never resist a nap and it was a very comfortable couch.
Eventually, Friday closed her eyes and her mind started to drift. She wasn’t going to sleep. She was drifting deeper and deeper into her own thoughts, running through all the evidence, the possibilities and the motives of this strange situation. But no conclusion was forthcoming. She knew the solution was there, she just couldn’t quite bring it into focus. It was frustrating.
Friday opened her eyes, planning to suggest they head home. But Roberto wasn’t sitting on the couch anymore. He was standing in front of the big picture window, smiling as a girl took his photo. It took a second before Friday realised – it was the girl. The pretty one they’d seen hacking phones in the Mona Lisa room. She was wearing a different outfit but she was so pretty and her smile so charming and she had that unicorn phone case, there was no mistaking her. She was conning Roberto.
