The Item

BOOK 1 - Two Trails



Dedication & Acknowledgments


In memory of Klaas
(19-8-1954 – 5-8-2015)

Adventures on rooftops and alleys, playing in the street
Summertime journeys on trains and the girls we would meet
Canoeing on rivers and lakes we did too
And our friendship just grew and grew.
Across the seas we sailed, new challenges ahead
Brick laying, painting and carpentry in a shed
Motorcycles you tinkered with, a Matchless comes to mind, bringing to some a frown
For with an engine so loud and distinctive, it could be heard right across town.
In time, as we grew and different paths we followed, no worries, no bother
For the bond we forged, was truly like no other
You were the best friend.



Thanks to;

Gilly, my loving wife for over 42 years.
Daughter Suzy, for her valuable input,
assistance, guidance and research.
Margaret Alison for her encouragement
and prayerful support



Author’s favourite passage of Scripture;

‘Trust in the Lord with all your heart,
and lean not on your own understanding.
In all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He shall direct your paths’.
Proverbs 3: 5-6

And finally a big thank you to NOVUM Publishing.



PROLOGUE;

Paris, France


Monday 19th January 2015

When he saw it he recognised it immediately, and when he did, he also knew straight-away, that something just wasn’t right.
He stopped walking, tried to focus, tried to recollect what it was that had made him stop.
Some moments passed and once again he realised that his mind had wandered. Pictures and scenes, flashing around in his mind, faces, people, events, all jumbled together.
Why couldn’t he just focus? Why couldn’t he just breathe and make sense of it all?
Lost in thought, lost and unsure, feeling emotional, yet suppressing those feelings. Through the mists of his mind, he sensed someone approaching.
Letting out a deep sigh, he briefly closed his eyes, then opened them once more and stared at the painting that was hung on the wall before him. One of many that were lined along the wall.
But this one had drawn his attention.
A voice, a man’s voice, spoke to him, in French.

‘Sorry, my French is not great,’ he said in English, turning to face a smartly dressed gentleman wearing a shiny gold name badge that said he was the director of the Paris Fine Arts Auction House, Emmanuel Sauvonne.

‘Is Monsieur interested in the Gauguin?’

He looked again at the painting, his mind seemingly, at least for the moment, showing signs of clarity, ‘It caught my eye, but for the wrong reason. There is something about it’ he answered.
Again turning to face the director, he said, ‘But I can’t put my finger on it. A feeling, a hunch if you like, but it seems … wrong. Does it have good provenance?’
Less than two minutes later he stood in the director’s office. The director, who had picked up the phone and was speaking in rapid French, had opened a filing cabinet.
He stood and waited. His mind losing focus once more and drifting away.

Sonja had died.
Acknowledge it. Accept it.
Her words came to him, slicing through the mist in his mind, pushing aside all else that was around him, the opening of the office door, the presence of someone else, the quick conversation, …

… her words so soft, and yet so clear.
His mind suddenly bringing the scene to the forefront taking him back, back to earlier in the day …
She was holding his hand; her face was a picture of confidence. Her eyes were bright, and despite the tears in his eyes, he saw her so very clearly.
‘Go and find someone to love,’ she had said, her eyes totally engaging his, ‘You have so much more to give, and thank you so very much, for all the love you have given me …’

‘Go and find someone to love …’ Well, he thought, back in the present time, it certainly wasn’t going to be the woman who had entered the office and now stood before him, looking up into his face and berating him in strongly accented English. Her fiery French temper had brought a red blush to both her cheekbones.
She had asked him what expertise he had in judging the painting, but before he could even begin to formulate some sort of response through the confusion in his mind, she had gone on to say that she had studied at Atelier 115,School of Arts, had been the curator of a well-known Parisian Art Gallery for five years, the first woman and the youngest to ever hold that post, before joining the Paris Fine Arts Auction House in 2009.
Finally, taking a breath, still looking at him intently, she asked again, ‘and why do you think the Gauguin is not genuine? What expertise do you have?’

Finding his voice, he held her gaze, ‘I just walked in. The painting, well, just caught my attention, I’m sure I’ve seen it before, but I just have a sense that it’s not right. I merely question its provenance, but if you are satisfied, well, all is good. Sorry to have taken up your time.’ His voice, surprisingly calm and firm, ‘Good day to you.’ Nodding to them both, he turned and left the room.
Strangely, his mind was suddenly clear and sharp.
He headed back to the room which housed the paintings that were to be auctioned later in the day, made a note of the Gauguin’s lot number, checked the brochure he had picked up for the auction time and left the building.

Ten minutes later he sat in a sidewalk cafe, a black coffee within reach and looked up at the grey sky which threatened to produce some rain sooner rather than later.
He thought back, though with more clarity now, more in control of his senses and his emotions.
He had left the hospital in tears. It was only just starting to get light. She had called him to come in. He had called a taxi, had showered and dressed and was by her hospital bedside twenty-five minutes later.
This moment had been expected.
But how do you prepare for it.
His wife had, after speaking to him so softly, so sweetly and with such confidence, simple closed her eyes and slipped away.
He needed air, he needed to walk, to take it all in. He needed to breathe.
After walking in somewhat of a daze, he realised he had entered the grand Rotterdam central railway station.
He studied the electronic departure board, made up his mind, purchased a return ticket, and boarded the high-speed train to Paris eighteen minutes later.

Sipping his coffee and beginning to accept the events of the day, he checked the time and headed back to the auction house which, earlier, he had stumbled upon just walking through the streets of the French capital.
He registered for the auction and wondered why it had been that the Gauguin painting had brought that reaction in him.
He nodded to the director, who watched him and who, after he had sat down, had checked his registration form.



THE PRESENT;

Four years later
Baarn, The Netherlands


11am Tuesday 5th March 2019

She pressed the doorbell. Almost immediately the door opened.

‘Miss Price I take it?’ please, come in. said the man, stepping aside.
‘Thank you.’

The woman entered, waited while he closed the door, then followed him along the hallway, the clicking of her heels on the wooden floor echoing all around.
He entered a large room, the front lounge. It was nicely furnished, a couple of couches, two armchairs that looked invitingly comfortable to sit in, several casual tables, two standard lamps and, against one wall, a large, solid oak, bookcase.
There were several paintings adorning the walls and, above the chimney, a large flat-screen television. The room was fully carpeted, and the man strode through to the dining area and kitchen beyond.
She followed, glancing all around, taking in her surroundings. The carpet ended, another wooden floor began, and her heels, briefly muffled on the carpet, once again clicked audibly.
He walked around a large dining table, gesturing for her to come around as well. She did and watched as he proceeded to unfold a cloth that lay on the table, revealing what lay tucked beneath.
The man stood back. The woman placed her handbag on the table, her eyes fixed on the item. She admired it for a moment, then, opening her bag, she took out a pair of white cotton gloves. These she put on, then looked at the man, who nodded.
Carefully she took the item, lifted it from the table, looked at it closely, from all angles, then placed it back on the table. She reached for the camera that was slung across her left shoulder then took several pictures, front and back, before focusing her attention on the piece of paper that lay next to it.
It was an old document, a very old document. It was faded, a little torn, had a couple of stains upon it and several creases.
She looked at both sides, then also took photos of it.
She turned to the man, ‘Thank you.’

The woman took the gloves off, flung the camera back across her shoulder, then, putting the gloves away, said, ‘That’s fine.’

‘So, you’ll be in touch then?’ the man asked, putting the cloth back over the items.

‘I’ll get the paperwork sorted. Your suggestion of two million seems valid. We will add it to your existing policy, I will send it by registered mail tomorrow, with the amended premium costs, sign the relevant pages, and send it back in the prepaid envelope. Then you’ll have peace of mind.’

‘Excellent’ he replied and set off to escort the woman back to the front door.

‘Here’s my card,’ she said, handing it to him as he opened the door, ‘any queries, just give me a call.’ She smiled at him. He nodded as she walked past him and down the three steps to street level where she turned left towards her car, parked only yards away.


Three hours later

He pressed the doorbell and waited. It was an overcast day and it was cold. He heard footsteps and the door opened.
‘Mr Price is it?’ the woman asked,’ Please, come in’
‘Thank you’

The man entered, waited whilst she closed the door, then followed her along the hallway.
The heels of her shoes clicking on the hardwood floor and resounding through the passageway.
She entered the lounge. He followed as she led him across a deep pile carpet towards the dining room and kitchen area beyond. He took in the furnishings as he followed, particularly drawn to a couple of fine paintings on the wall.
Her footsteps hushed until she once more clicked and clacked on a wooden floor and walked around a large dining table.
He joined her as she bent forward to reveal what lay beneath the cloth on the table.
‘Wow’ he said, peering at the object, then looking around and up at her asked, ‘may I?’

She nodded and he, just using his forefinger and thumb, carefully lifted the item and studied it from all angles.
Then, after just as carefully replacing the item, he took hold of the old document. This too he studied closely before laying it back down on the table. The man then reached into his jacket pocket, took out a small digital camera and, again being very careful handling both the item and the document, took several pictures.
Standing back, he turned to the woman and said, ‘Okay, yes, we will put it into the catalogue at a suggested price of between two and two point two million euros, with a fixed reserve of two. If that is still okay with you then I’ll go ahead and prepare it, in readiness for our next auction, which is seven weeks tomorrow. Now, remind me, I was told that this was an inheritance, in a box of items you recently decided to go through and found?’

‘Eh, yes, my husband’s uncle,’ she replied, offering no further information.