“She said your name was ridiculous,” said Gaston wryly, rubbing his chin as he studied his phone.
“So when did you two last see each other?”
Barrow looked at Gaston, and they both seemed to blank. “What has it been? Twenty years?”
“Nineteen eighty-five, I think,” agreed Gaston.
“And neither of you say you’ve changed?” Lara raised her eyebrow. “Liars.”
The two men looked at each other and laughed. “Un peu,” said Barrow, bringing his fingers together.
“We are great liars,” agreed Gaston.
Dismissing the small talk, Barrow rubbed his hands together. His worktable was in disarray, and he began clearing it. “I have been waiting all week to see the painting.” He looked at them, disappointed to see only luggage trailing behind them. “Did you bring it?”
Gaston lifted the suitcase onto the table and unzipped it. Removing the wrap, he slid the canvas out and presented it to Barrow like a swaddled newborn.
Lara leaned over the portrait while Barrow donned gloves and began to carefully unwrap each layer. If Lara closed her eyes, she could almost hear the audience whispering and murmuring to each other while the horse galloped around the arena. The sophisticated dress of the seated patrons was a reminder that the circus in Paris during this time was not the same as its traveling American carnival cousins, like the Margot or even the Rivoli. Here women wore pearls and furs. Circuses in France were considered art and were treated as such. While not as prestigious as a trip to the opera, a night at the circus was still considered a glamorous evening out.
“Beautiful job removing the frame, Gaston,” said Barrow, taking the painting in his gloved hands.
“It was a later frame,” said Gaston. “Likely the 1940s. Monstrous bastard.”
“Ugly, too,” added Lara.
Barrow spun around to another table with a lamp, just missing a stack of art books that sat on the floor. He pulled out a loupe and began to study the painting carefully, examining every edge and adjusting the light in places. Lara held her breath. If he didn’t think this was a real Giroux, then her Paris adventure was over barely thirty minutes after it began. Lara blinked, trying to keep her heavy lids open after the flight. The room was silent as Barrow turned the light as he went. She wondered if they should have dealt with the painting tomorrow, allowing themselves to rest for a day while they held on to the magical idea that they might be in possession of a famous missing masterpiece.
In the corner was a box of hardback books. Lara picked up the top one. Émile Giroux: A Perspective by Edward Binghampton Barrow. While Lara had been a music major in college, she’d minored in art history. Yet until she heard Gaston talk about Giroux, she couldn’t recall seeing any of his works. Then she spied The Vampire. There wasn’t an art student in the world who didn’t recognize The Vampire.
Thumbing through the book, the photos of Giroux’s work showed a range of styles. His early paintings right out of school were classic and traditional. Then Giroux migrated toward cruder paintings, longer legs, elongated heads. The work was rich and vibrant—the colors leaping off the page—yet Lara didn’t care for them as much as Giroux’s earlier work. She kept flipping the pages as Giroux shifted to an attempt at cubism. Here, Lara thought he excelled. His portraits were deeply angled, exaggerated, yet displayed perfect perspective. The subjects were close-up. The deep angles were shaded with objects. Inside a cheekbone or a crease of the eye were tiny symbols that represented the moment, the time, or the subject. The paintings were intricate, textured, yet beautiful. Lara could see that his color choices were either tightly coordinated or elegantly contrasted. The final folio of photos showed Giroux—a striking man with long brown hair in a style that looked like he couldn’t be bothered to cut it. He had light round eyes and small pursed lips; his skin was pale. The photo of him, slouching in an uncomfortable chair, head cocked and resting in his hand, was taken by Man Ray. The date: April 8, 1925.
The artist was dressed in brown, his clothes warm and worn. For a poor artist, Lara imagined how cold April could be in Paris. A smile formed at the corner of her mouth as she recalled the journal entry where Cecile described all of the men in Montparnasse wearing brown jackets. Her description of the man in this photo had been so accurate that he could have stepped right out of her journal.
Seeing him, Lara wanted Sylvie on the Steed to be his creation. He looked dreamy and romantic, worthy of painting Cecile. She’d brought the journal with her, finding it hard to be away from it. Now that she was in Paris, she felt it was almost guiding her, Cecile’s voice beckoning her on. With her free time, she’d planned on retracing her great-grandmother’s steps—touring the cafés of Montparnasse, the markets at Rue Mouffetard and the Bois de Boulogne—places where Cecile had stood and lived.
A steady tick of the clock was the only sound in the room. Barrow took a long time studying the EG signature before he turned the painting over to look at the back, running his hand over the wood frame that shaped the canvas. He tilted Sylvie on the Steed under the light, scanning each inch of the edge of the picture.
Gaston had begun to whistle, and both Lara and Barrow looked up at him, annoyed.
“Well?” Gaston leaned over the table, joining Barrow.
“You were right. The signature looks correct, although it is not perfect, but the canvas and the painting style are pure Giroux. I’ve seen this exact canvas type and paint in every one of his other works.”
“But?” Lara dreaded what was coming next. There was something in his voice.
“Well, while there were rumors that in the year before he died, Giroux had been a frequent guest at
