Deceptions by Anna Porter (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📗

planned this. Two glasses of white wine appeared on the table as soon as she sat down, as well as some sort of pâté with thin wedges of bread. “The waiter says it’s a Bordeaux,” Attila said, “and something about it having been a good year. Will you try it?”

She settled with her back to the wall and examined the offerings. The waiter must have concluded that Attila was a tourist. The last good year in Bordeaux that was ready to drink was 2015, and the pâté looked like it had seen better days. She ordered an espresso. “What brings you to Paris?” she asked in a light, conversational tone, as if they were almost strangers, as if he wasn’t a former lover, if only for a few weeks, as if he hadn’t sent flowers each week after she left, as if she hadn’t saved his life, as if she hadn’t missed him so much she had almost returned to Budapest . . .

“A job, I think, but where I come from you can never be sure. Hired by my old sergeant at the Police Palace. You remember the man?”

“Tóth?”

“He wants me to watch over one of our esteemed Council of Europe representatives. Maybe our supreme ruler wanted to get him out of the way. Or to move him somewhere more pleasant than Hungary these days, as a reward for past service. It’s hard to tell until our man has made his first speech at the CE. Our ruler has been talking about defending our Christian culture against the Muslim tide, but what he means is defending himself from anyone who disagrees with him. About anything. My man has a chance to prove himself, pushing for general agreement on agricultural subsidies.”

“Agricultural subsidies,” Helena said. “Is that a contentious issue?”

“Only if you want to hand over the many millions of agricultural euros to your family and friends.”

Helena was not particularly interested in the Hungarian political landscape. “And he is in Paris?” she asked.

“He is. And that’s the official reason I am here, but the real reason is I wanted to see you again.”

“Hmm. Why is he in Paris?”

“He has meetings.”

“Political meetings? And you are his babysitter? Or Tóth’s spy?”

“It’s complicated,” Attila said, scratching the top of his head where the hair had almost begun to recede but not quite yet. “I could be both. And I am not sure why Tóth chose me for this. It’s the sort of job he would offer to his favourite people, and I am not on that list. All he told me was to watch my man and report whatever I see that seems out of the ordinary. I thought coming to Paris was out of the ordinary. But maybe he is only washing some money.”

“Money laundering?”

Attila grinned and stretched his hands palms up. “My English . . .”

“It’s improved since the last time.” Last time was at Budapest’s Four Seasons Hotel, where she had overstayed her welcome, caused a major stir by confronting a Russian billionaire, and enjoyed some days with Attila walking along the Danube, watching the waves as his dog inspected lampposts. They had breakfast in bed in her room and shared dinner sitting on his dog-infested sofa in what must, at one time, have been a pleasant enough apartment in Pest, but now looked like it had been turned over by a mob. Although she hadn’t noticed in the beginning, his bed had smelled of dog in the mornings, and he had shown no interest in changing the dachshund’s sleeping arrangement. As for the state of the apartment, Attila had explained that his ex had taken all the good furniture, even the shelves that used to house his collection of books (that’s why they were in unruly piles along the walls), but the ex had left more than a year before. To Helena, who liked order in her own life, Attila’s lack of it had seemed incomprehensible. The moment she felt she thought she could belong there, she had fled. But it was still great to see him again.

“And there is this painting,” he said. “Our man is divorcing his wife, and she claims her share of the painting is worth a million euros.”

“Who is the painter?”

“Gentileschi.”

“Artemisia Gentileschi? Or Orazio?”

“Artemisia.”

“There is always a slim chance of another undiscovered work,” Helena said, “but not one that hasn’t been mentioned before. She has become quite the heroine for our times. Books, essays, reproductions. That massive retrospective in Milan, another in Paris, then the big one in London, two documentaries, a collection of letters by and about her. A feature film. A novel. And her value has gone up with her reputation. Her Mary Magdalene was sold some years ago for fifteen million pounds at Sotheby’s. Recently, I think, her Saint Catherine went for twenty-one million euros. Is she the reason you came to see me?”

“Not the only reason,” he said defensively, “but I did hope that you knew something about her.”

“Nothing you couldn’t have found out for yourself by looking up a few reliable sources, most of them online.”

“It would take me years,” Attila said. “And I thought you might be interested in a small job, authenticating. The husband, my man, claims it’s a copy and worth nothing, or very little. He is talking here with some people in your business.”

“Who?”

“A man at the Louvre. European Collections. It’s where I left him this morning.”

“Did he mention the man’s name?”

“No.”

Aubert? She wondered. He was supposedly an expert on the Baroque period, but he had left for London a couple of days ago on a buying trip.

“The wife,” Attila said, “— and she would be your client — believes her husband is trying to cheat her out of a fortune. I thought she could use some help.”

“You thought, or Tóth thought?”

“Tóth doesn’t think. He follows orders. So, someone higher up who does think may suspect this. Or that she is trying to extract more from him than she has a right to expect. Why that