The Firebird

‘Got it in one,’ said Sebastian. ‘Yuri’s one of the curators. You remember Yuri? And he tells me Wendy Van Hoek will be there for the opening.’

I waited for the rest of it. ‘Yes?’

‘And I’d like you to do a deal with her.’

‘I’ve never met Wendy Van Hoek,’ I reminded him.

Sebastian counted that as a point in my favour. ‘She’s rather …’ He paused as though searching for a way to put it politely, finally settling on, ‘Formidable. But then I’d imagine one can’t be a Van Hoek without having that attitude. God knows her father was even more frightening to deal with.’

Her father, I knew, had been one of the greatest private collectors in Amsterdam. I’d never met him, either.

I told Sebastian, ‘Surely you should be the one to do the deal. She knows you.’

‘She thinks she does, yes. But unfortunately, what she thinks she knows, she doesn’t like,’ he said. ‘We don’t get on.’ He paused at the expression on my face, and asked me, ‘What?’

Dryly, I remarked, ‘I didn’t know that any woman could resist your charms.’

‘She isn’t any woman.’

I had never seen Sebastian frown like that about a woman. It intrigued me. ‘So, what is this deal you’re wanting me to do with her?’

‘She has a Surikov. I want to buy it. It’s in the exhibit, you’ll see it.’

‘And who is it for?’

He said, ‘Vasily. He’s set his heart on it, and you know Vasily.’

I did. A lovely man, with quiet charm that masked a fierce tenacity, he was, hands down, my favourite of our clients. He’d suffered, as his parents had, under the Soviet regime, and had been tortured in the Lubiyanka prison, though he rarely ever spoke of that. Instead he seemed determined now to focus on the beauty in the world, and not its ugliness. It made a difference, knowing I’d be doing this for Vasily.

Besides, I liked St Petersburg. I’d done a term of study there, at the St Petersburg State University, and knew the city well.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll do my best.’ I made another mental calculation of the time remaining and the things I’d need to do. ‘I’ll have to get myself another suitcase, though. My old one’s broken. And I ought to go and have a chat with Vasily, beforehand.’

‘Go tomorrow, if you like. In fact, why don’t you take the day?’ he offered. ‘It’s Friday, you could start your weekend early. Get some rest.’

The way he said that made me raise my eyebrows. ‘Do I look as though I need rest?’

‘I don’t know.’ He looked me over and pronounced, ‘You’re not yourself.’ And then he said, ‘Oh, hell, is that the time? I’m late for drinks.’

‘With whom?’

‘Penelope.’ He stopped and stood a moment near his desk, expectant. ‘Jacket, or no jacket?’

‘For drinks with Penelope? Jacket.’

‘I thought as much. Damn. Where’s my tie? Is that it on the chair, just behind you?’

I crossed the few steps to look. ‘No, that’s a scarf.’

‘A scarf?’ He frowned. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure.’ A woman’s scarf, in shades of blue, the colours of the tie that I caught sight of now, coiled tidily at one end of the bookshelf. ‘There it is.’

He looked where I was pointing. ‘Thanks.’ He threaded it into his collar, flipped it round and over in a Windsor knot. ‘How’s that?’

‘It’s crooked.’

‘Could you … ?’ Standing with his chin angled slightly to the ceiling, he glanced sideways at the blue silk scarf still hanging on the chair. ‘It must be hers,’ he said. ‘The Scottish woman from this morning. Margaret …’

‘Ross.’ I fixed his tie as I had done a hundred times before this. I had a brother. I was good with ties. ‘I don’t remember her wearing a scarf.’

‘Well, that’s where she was sitting. And apart from yourself, she’s the only woman who’s been in here today.’

‘She left her address, didn’t she? I’ll put it in the post to her.’

As I stepped back his hand came up to smooth the finished tie with satisfaction. ‘Thanks. You’re all right locking up, then?’

I assured him that I was. Alone, when he had gone, I took the blue scarf from the chair and brought it out to the reception desk, to put it in an envelope for posting.

It was, I thought, the least that I could do. No matter what my day had been like, I knew Margaret Ross’s had been worse. She must have been so hopeful when she’d woken up this morning, still believing that her carving could be traded for the means to buy a little bit of happiness, a little bit of life. And we had killed that dream and stomped on it, and that seemed inexcusable.

The scarf was a designer one. My fingers touched the label. Hermès. Not an inexpensive, everyday thing, but a rare indulgence – something that the woman I had met today could ill afford to lose.

I found the address she had left Sebastian, and I copied it with care onto the envelope. And then I took the scarf and started folding it.

I shouldn’t have.

My visions, when I concentrated, started out more cleanly. Though I didn’t ever fall into a trance in the accepted way, the concentration brought a sense of calm – a peaceful, deep awareness not unlike the way I sometimes felt relaxing in the bath. Then gradually, against the void, I saw a small parade of moving images, projected like a filmstrip running past until one image grew to blot out all the others, and I viewed it much as I would view a film at the cinema, observing what was going on.