A Nearly Perfect Copy: A Novel Read online

  Elm pictured Ronan’s pink face when they brought him home from the hospital. He had been overdue, and his skin was wrinkly and peeling like a tiny bird. What would they name a clone? They couldn’t call it Ronan.

  A tease, Elm thought. A crock of shit. She felt stupid for even looking at the site. Were they going to bring Ronan back from the dead? With their magic potions, their “patented scientific process”? Who fell for this? The same people who actually thought they were helping a Nigerian prince or the Russian czarina in response to an e-mail request.

  Was it possible that this site intrigued her because she was secretly interested in cloning Ronan? It was ridiculous, science fiction. She went back to the FAQ section; she imagined Colin asking her: Wouldn’t it result in defects? Wasn’t it dangerous for the mother? Was it ethical? Was it legal?

  Most of the ethical arguments seemed to hinge on the slippery-slope philosophy. First you start cloning, and then what? This didn’t apply to her, Elm thought. She didn’t want to make a clone assembly line; she wanted her child. She wasn’t fiddling with nature; she was replacing what nature had stolen from her. There were no larger implications of her actions. She just wanted her little boy back, with all his imperfections intact—his stubbornness, his slightly awkward run, his teeth that would inevitably need braces.

  And couldn’t she do a better job raising him this time, having raised two children already? She knew that he was allergic to cherries, that he didn’t like chocolate ice cream, that he would be bad at soccer but excellent at baseball. He had had trouble spelling; she could start him earlier. Elm felt a small hope begin to flutter, a minor lessening of the contraction that was her grief. If she could just hold him again, for a minute, it was worth any amount of money. Surely Colin had to see that.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she had the phone in her hands and was dialing an international number. For kicks, she told herself. Just to see. The phone rang in that non-American click that always screamed to her: “Expensive call! Don’t talk too long!” Then she realized that it was evening in Paris—likely no one would answer the phone and she could put this nonsense behind her. She was surprised when a voice greeted her in rapid French.

  “Bonjour,” said Elm in her college French. “Je voudrais de l’information, s’il vous plaît.”

  “You are American?” The voice was clogged with accent. “I have someone to speak to you.”

  Elm was transferred. The phone played generic hold music until a man answered. Hang up, Elm told herself. This was ridiculous. Just hang up.

  “You are the American woman who would like information?” He was French too, but his English was smooth, fluent.

  “Yes, I was wondering—”

  “Excuse me, but on the phone we speak in generalities, yes?”

  “Of course,” Elm said. “I’m so sorry.” She felt as though she were investigating a crime, pretending to be someone she was not in order to glean information.

  “You are a member of a government agency?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “You must by law identify yourself if you are a member of a government agency. It is both EU and American law.” Was that true? Elm wondered. Or was that just something people got from the movies?

  “I’m just a citizen,” she said.

  “And you are calling from your home?” he recited.

  “My place of business.” Elm began to worry. She hadn’t realized what she was doing. She was just calling out of harmless curiosity. She didn’t want to start an international incident. “Look,” she said. “Maybe I should hang up.”

  “I suggest the same thing,” said the man. “You give me a number at your home and I will call you this evening so we can both talk freely.”

  Elm said, “I don’t think … I mean …”

  “Madame,” the man said. “If you will permit. You obviously called here for a reason. You were curious. You might as well satisfy that curiosity. There is reason for subterfuge, but only because there are those who would impede the progress of science. You are seeking information. There is still nothing wrong with that, even with your Patriot Act. Am I not correct?”

  “Yes,” Elm said. She began to breathe faster. She felt a horrible sinking in the pit of her stomach; she realized she had made a terrible mistake that was going to reverberate for longer than she had anticipated. What had she started in motion?

  She gave him her name and phone number and replaced the headset in the cradle.

  She hit her home key and was immediately returned to a cached version of Tinsley’s site: brocade tapestry background, the trademark photo of her great-grandfather in Egypt next to an enormous amphora, links to departments. She stared at the page and permitted herself a small fantasy in which she walked out of a new clinic somewhere on the outskirts of Paris holding Ronan’s hand. But no, she corrected her reverie. He would be a baby. She revised the vision, holding him in her arms, remembering his wrinkled, red hands, the skinny legs that looked too big for his body, the slightly smushed head. Then she shook her head as if to get rid of the image, just as someone walked by her office door. Elm rolled her head on her neck, pretending to be stretching a kink, and not rebooting her mind.

  Elm was supposed to be writing a press release, but she was unable to concentrate. Her heart beat fast, anticipating bad news. It was barely noon. Too early for lunch.

  Sometimes looking at prints brought fresh language to her cortex, loosened her tongue enough to find new-sounding synonyms for important, major, chef d’ouevre, etc., so she headed down to the print room. She got off the elevator on the mezzanine. She would take the grand staircase, see what was happening on the floor. Emerging from the elevator, she had to appreciate, though it was not to her taste, the new entry, designed by a celebrity architect. The mezzanine floated above the main floor, turning what once had been a cavernous hull, like a high school gym, into a display place for hanging, appreciating, and admiring art.

  The mezzanine walkway (or the mezzie, as facilities called it) extended from one side of the building to the other, but was only ten feet wide, so that views of the downstairs were not only unavoidable but the focus. Sculptures, or objets, were sometimes displayed here, but often the space was left intentionally bare. Today facilities had set out small pedestals at regular intervals, but they remained as yet artless, so that the walkway looked like a conceptual graveyard, or the control deck for a spaceship.

  The main space was four stories tall, and the front wall of windows extended all the way to the top, their steel supports nearly invisible. The usual East Side traffic of nannies and children paraded by, and the normal array of large delivery trucks was blocking traffic. She stood with her hands on the railing and looked down over the first floor. It could have been the lobby of any enterprise: dark marble floors, receptionists, post-9/11 security measures (less ridiculous than in most businesses when the building’s museum-quality contents on any given day could exceed the gross national product of medium-sized nations). But at Tinsley’s, the air, filtered through the purification system and the tempered glass, was different. It was entitled, cultured. No one walked with the slumped posture of those beaten down by the cruelty of the corporate world, its ladders and pernicious chutes, its denizens who toiled merely for the paycheck to feed the family, to pay the credit card debt, to get the health insurance. Instead, in the art world, there was a tacit rule that everyone was doing exactly what he had always hoped he’d be doing. The fiction stated that proximity to the world’s most beautiful objects was a privilege, and there was a slight pity for everyone else who didn’t get to do this fantastic job.

  In this environment, which Elm’s great-grandfather had purposefully cultivated via mandatory monthly all-company meetings-cum-lectures, and a refashioned annual picnic that was more of a gala, including the receptionists, facilities, and the janitorial staff, complaints were not only prohibited but smacked of ingratitude and, frankly, the same uncomprehending troglodism that marked the
noncultured. Part of the elitism of Tinsley’s was the culture of secrecy, the mystery of fine art, of its aesthetic possibilities and its inherent value. Yes, one could point to artistic mastery—beautiful composition, or a startling use of color, an elegant line—or the provenance of an objet (Queen Elizabeth’s ivory fan, Edgar Allan Poe’s cloisonné snuff case)—but the best pieces had their own allure, unspoken and magnetic. Part of the value, though, required that no one mention the emperor’s new clothes, for fear of driving down prices or the perceived importance of a work. Therefore, it was wise to play up the aura of mystery surrounding fine art, and this secrecy spread to all facets of the industry. The auction house hid minimum reserves, obfuscated provenances, kept buyers anonymous. Dealers buying for clients sometimes phoned in their bids from the auction room itself, adding an unnecessary layer of intrigue. Rarely were the numbers published, and no one would have dreamed of asking. The less anyone knew the better. And so Elm often felt like she was working inside a burlap sack—light filtered in, but not enough to see by.

  She made her way across the mezzie and down the utility stairs to the basement. The corridor was long and painted a glowing white so that the hallway looked like a cinematic version of an endless existential hell. The corridors were monitored by video cameras that downloaded the activity to remote servers in India. Doors along this expanse of hallway were marked only with numbers, either for security’s sake or to propitiate the secrecy gods. Elm punched in her code to the third one, marked 4357, and the green light above the combination pad clicked, granting her access.

  Inside, the dim light was such a contrast to the overlit hallway that Elm stopped automatically at the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Finally, the shelf materialized, traversing three walls, a complicated three-dimensional lightbox. Standing at the one in the far corner was a thin figure poring over a drawing with a loupe, a stack of others at her elbow.

  Elm identified the woman before she even looked up. “Hello, El-MEE-ra,” Colette purred. Elm had to admit that her name sounded better with a French emphasis than with the American “El-MY-ruh.”

  “I didn’t know you were back in town.” Elm tried to sound chipper.

  Colette smiled in response.

  “Whatcha doing?” Elm asked.

  “Familiarizing myself with our inventory. What are you doing?” Colette asked. Elm wasn’t sure if her tone could be described as hostile or French.

  “Making sure everything’s how I left it.” She was unable to disguise the antipathy in her voice. Colette continued to smile. The woman enjoyed sport; intrigue, not art, Elm thought. This was what the art world was coming to. Dealers who acted like businessmen and businessmen who acted like dealers. No wonder Elm’s numbers weren’t what Greer had hoped.

  “Where’s …” Elm snapped her fingers, grasping at the intern’s name.

  “Franz?” Colette said. “I sent him out for coffee.” She turned back to the drawing she was examining.

  “He’s not bringing it in here,” Elm said. It was unthinkable to let liquid anywhere near these drawings.

  Colette didn’t even look up and yet that feline smile was unmistakable, mirthless. “I will meet him in fifteen minutes.”

  “Ahhh,” Elm said. She put on a pair of white gloves from the basket close to the door. They were scratchy on the inside; she disliked wearing them. She couldn’t feel the drawing, which was, for her, as much a part of identifying it as looking at it. She stepped over and took the top three drawings from Colette’s pile. The first was by Delacroix, undated, unsigned. It was an apparent study, for Christ on the Lake of Gennesaret, of an oarsman, muscled back to the viewer. It was beautiful, and Elm’s heart had sped when she first saw it in the ornate public conference room. The seller was getting divorced (a common, if sad, method by which many drawings and paintings came to sale), and needed to sell his collection as part of the settlement. He was a small man, emotional when handing over the drawings, which he held by their edges like photographs in danger of being smudged. His few strands of hair were combed in concentric circles on the top of his head, and when he looked down to say good-bye to his Delacroix, Elm could see the delicate flakes of dandruff woven like cotton in a bird’s nest.

  This was the kind of sale Elm loved. Not that she was glad to profit off someone’s disintegrating marriage, but she rejoiced to see others who felt the same connection to the art that she did. This man was selling more than a ripe investment, more than a decoration. He was selling something that was as close to his heart as his wife must once have been. He had lived with the art, loved it, saw in it the accomplishments of mankind, the sensuousness of nature, the artist’s raw talent and unique vision. That’s what would ultimately separate Elm and this man from the Colettes and the Greers of the world: art could still bring Elm to tears.

  It was truly beautiful. She would be sad to see it at auction, but, then, she knew she would secretly root for it as its lot came up. She often grew attached, rejoicing when a piece fetched a higher price than expected, flushed with pride as though she had drawn it herself.

  Elm put it aside, assigning adjectives to it for the catalog entry: paramount, influential, emblematic. She watched Colette, who had returned to her loupe, minutely peruse a drawing. This was not the way to examine something, Elm thought. You hold it away from you, judge it as a whole, not scrutinize each individual stroke of the quill or pencil. Unless you were trying to authenticate it. Then you might look for telling details.

  The two women stared in silence. Colette straightened and said, “You have not contacted Monsieur Klinman.”

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve been busy,” Elm said.

  “Well,” Colette said, reminding Elm of her high school French teacher, whose disappointment when Elm didn’t complete her homework hurt worse than the F she’d receive for the assignment. “Unfortunately, the drawings I mentioned have been dispersed, but he has acquired other artists: Canaletto, Piranesi, some contemporaries of the Impressionists. I will forward you the PDFs. I think you will like what you see.”

  Elm said, “I’ll take a look.”

  “Well,” Colette said, after a pause. “I’ll say good-bye.”

  Before Colette left the room, she rolled her skirt up and put on another coat of lipstick, smoothing her hair in its bun. The sight of her primping disgusted Elm. Her willingness to use sex to further her ambition, the strength of that ambition, reminded Elm that she had entered a different age. An age where having children was no longer possible. The light, when Colette closed the door, was an odd brown shade, nearly ochre, thrown up either from the play of light against the dark carpet or, more likely, from the palimpsestic echoes of the brown wash lingering in Elm’s visual cortex.

  By the time Elm got back to her office, Colette had sent the PDFs from her contact, Augustus Klinman. Did she forgo her coffee with Franz? Elm wondered. She opened up the file.

  The images were actually quite interesting. The first seemed to be a Piranesi. The subject matter was typical Piranesi—blueprintlike attention to architectural detail. An arch, in ruins, with Romans strolling nearby. And the line was spontaneous in the manner of a study for an etching. And certainly, the wash and ink, the exaggerated shading, and the lack of interest in nature all suggested that the famous artist had created this with his own hand.

  There was also a gouache by that artist who was a contemporary of Connois, that Greek guy, what was his name? Elm could never remember. It was of a little girl, a bow in her hair, petting a white dog whose tongue lolled out of its mouth, giving it a rather dumb appearance.

  The third was by Connois, a market scene, a sketch that looked to be a finished drawing in its own right, which was curious, because Elm wasn’t aware that Connois ever finished his drawings. Two Connoises so close together—Indira’s pastel and now this sketch? How strange, their popping up like toadstools. But, then, coincidence was commonplace, and this was rather lovely.

  Klinman’s web page said he dealt primarily in eigh
teenth- and nineteenth-century pieces, especially French, Italian, and Flemish artists, maintaining offices in London and Paris. Working in conjunction with museums, restorers, and master framers, he presented the art in its best possible condition.

  Other Google entries quoted Klinman in articles about stolen Nazi art, specifically the faking of provenances. “Ruthless dealers and incompetent experts abound, sadly, in the art world. The temptation to verify that which is not verifiable is strong.” “Art stolen by the Nazis should be returned to the family of the original owner whenever possible. When not possible, the families should be compensated. Descendants of murderers should not be allowed to profit from their grandparents’ marauding.”

  Another entry was a press release announcing the highest price ever paid for a Raphael sketch, $48 million, sold via Sotheby’s in London by a family who wanted to be known only through their representative: Augustus Klinman. The purchaser’s name was also kept anonymous.

  The uneasy feeling that started the second she dialed the clinic hadn’t subsided all day. It remained through the rest of the afternoon, following her on the bus up First Avenue, to the grocery store, and home, where she was distracted.

  Colin was involved in his own drama. “It won’t be inked for thirty days, the deal,” he said tersely in response to her automatic How was your day? “I don’t want to discuss it before then.”

  “Fine,” Elm said. She slammed the door to the microwave. She was planning on telling him about her visit with Dr. Hong, but his hostility made her want to keep it to herself.

  Moira must have sensed the tension. She refused to eat the spaghetti Elm made for her, and then, after Elm microwaved some chicken fingers, refused to eat the middles, or even touch the single stalk of broccoli alongside them.

  “Just eat it,” Colin said with uncharacteristic harshness. Moira sat up as straight as if he’d thrown a glass of water in her face. She began to cry. Elm frowned at him. She picked Moira up and carried her to the bathroom for her bath. Moira began to cry louder, in a whining, overtired way that grated on Elm.