“I do. The worst case is very bad.” It was a scenario that involved their trying to get the art but failing, or (less likely, but still possible) procuring the art and then learning it was forged. In either case, Northwestern would lose Chuck Donovan’s money for nothing.
Bill said, “If Cecily gets word of what we’re doing, or if it comes out badly in the end, she’s going to take this higher and higher up the ladder, just to cover her own behind. It’s only two million, but she’s—things haven’t gone well for her lately.” He scooted his chair closer to Yale, and the back legs caught on the edge of the pale oriental rug, curling it over on itself. “I’m willing to try to take the fall for this, because they’re not going to fire me. For one thing, I’m actually still tenured. But I can’t guarantee what would happen. They might be determined to fire someone simply to prove a point, and that person would be you.” Yale wasn’t sure who they were, but he nodded. “I doubt they’d throw the entire gallery to the wolves, although—”
Charlie stuck his head back through the door. “I’ve been instructed to check your wine glasses!” Yale raised his full one and took a sip; Bill gave a big thumbs-up. It must have been clear they were talking business, because Charlie vanished silently.
Bill said, “Dolly’s already on me to retire. I figure I’m putting in two more years at most. And listen, I’ll stake the tail end of my career on this, and gladly. But you’re a young guy, Yale. You’re at the start of things. And we’re shooting the moon.”
A year ago Yale might have let his nerves back him out of the whole thing, but he felt ready now. He was full, the past few weeks, of an energy he couldn’t name. It might have had to do with the way Julian had looked at him at the fundraiser, the residue of feeling chosen—or it might have had to do with the evidence all around him that life was short, that there was no point in banking on the future instead of the present.
He said, “I want to do this.”
“On a tangential note,” Bill said, pointing a long finger, “let’s talk about interns. Bear with me, because it’s related. So, there’s Sarah and there’s Roman. Both excellent. You were going to have Sarah, but I’ve been thinking I’ll swap. I want you to have Roman instead.”
Yale was confused. “He’s an art history guy, right? He wouldn’t want to work in development.”
“Well. Sure he would. We’ve discussed it. He’s interested in museum administration. Maybe that’ll be his next degree, who knows. He’s the perpetual student type.”
“Okay, I—”
“His dissertation’s on Balthus, so he’ll—well, it’s not exactly Nora’s period, is it, but close enough. He’s innocent. A lovely young man. I want you to have him.”
Dolly was back in the room, putting out a bowl of mixed nuts. She said, “Roman is wonderful!”
“Thank you,” Yale said to Bill. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but it seemed that thanks were expected.
“And I’ll take Sarah.”
Dolly looked absolutely delighted. The opposite of how most wives would react to their husband bringing on a young female intern.
She disappeared into the kitchen, and then Bill said, “And if you think it might be helpful, we can take him to Wisconsin with us.”
* * *
—
When the Sharps showed up, shrieking and laughing about the cold, Yale felt instantly more at ease. Esmé hugged him and exclaimed that Charlie looked just as she’d pictured. Yale had an excuse now to stand, to move around the room. The Sharps were only in their forties, but Allen Sharp held the patent on the shut-off device used in almost every gasoline nozzle in the world, and now they split their time between Maine and Aspen and a small place in the Marina Towers. They were odd donors, intensely interested in helping the Brigg build its collection—Allen had gone to Northwestern and Esmé had studied architecture—but with no art of their own. Beautiful people with matching chestnut hair, matching Greek noses. “I know we ought to start collecting,” Esmé had said to him once, “but I don’t see the point in hogging something.” Yale wished the Sharps would adopt him, would give him and Charlie a room in their little wedge of Marina Tower.
Bill spread the photos on the coffee table and Yale told the Sharps the full story. Bill had instructed him to leave the Ranko Novak pieces out—and because there was no way to authenticate those anyway, Yale didn’t see the harm; they weren’t relevant to the conversation. Charlie and Dolly listened intently, too, and Yale realized he hadn’t explained this all to Charlie, not in so many words. Well, Charlie had been so busy.
“It’s incredible,” Allen said. “I’m embarrassed to say I haven’t heard of Foujita.”
And because Bill didn’t jump in, Yale said, “He was a fixture in Paris in the twenties, a celebrity. Just about the only Japanese man in France. There was an unfortunate period during the war when he moved home and made propaganda. But no one cares about that anymore.”
Allen laughed. “Don’t they? I think my old man would care.”
Yale leaned close, like he was telling a secret. “Well, one of his drawings just fetched four hundred grand in Paris. I don’t think that buyer minded.”
Charlie gave Yale a look, and it took Yale a moment to decipher the look as impressed, proud. It was rare that Charlie saw him in action. If Yale had a wife, she’d be dragged along to every dinner with a donor, every alumni event. She’d wear a short dress and flatter the men and then imitate the wives on the way home. Or, well, no. Maybe if he were straight he’d have married someone like Charlie, too busy with her own life to play the nodding and smiling game.
The doorbell rang, and Bill and Dolly both jumped to answer it.
Yale had imagined that a person named Roman would be built like a soldier, but the young man who stepped inside half frozen was small and blond, Morrissey glasses magnifying his eyes. He wore a black turtleneck, black trousers. “I’m so sorry to be late,” he said, handing Dolly a small poinsettia that must’ve been on post-Christmas sale at Dominick’s. He looked like an undergrad, in fact, although Yale soon found out he was twenty-six, that he’d started an MFA in painting before switching to art history. Roman turned down a drink and perched awkwardly on the end of the sofa to chat with the Sharps about the research he’d done in Paris last summer. He had a quiet voice, kept his hands glued to his knees. He said, “My mom was worried I wouldn’t want to come back.”
Esmé laughed and said, “Yes, why did you?”
“Well. I mean, I—my education, and my—”