“You’ve got to admit, Teddy,” said Gaston. “It could have just been a surrealist performance circus. They used mirrors or mesmerized them all. The joke could have been on the audience. I mean, I don’t know how they pulled it off, but you have to admit it is possible. Even the journal could be a fictional account.” He pointed toward the notes.
Barrow shook his head violently. “I’ve considered that. Mourier didn’t believe it was performance art, like so many of the artists did at the time. In fact, he was the one who coined it the Devil’s Circus in his article.” Barrow pointed a fork at Gaston. “When Giroux died mysteriously after completing the final painting of the circus, Mourier was convinced that it had been his association with it—and the ladies—that killed him.”
Gaston grinned at Barrow, conceding. “It’s a real fucking Giroux, isn’t it? You finally found one of the missing Giroux paintings, my friend!”
“In my estimation, yes,” said Barrow, leaning in. “The canvas on your painting is the same, down to the wraps and the hardware of the other ones from that time period. I could set that painting next to another one and you could see the blue he used. He loved muted turquoise and it wasn’t an easy color to paint, but he used it in all his works. That it isn’t finished is also an intriguing detail giving credence to it being one of his final paintings.”
“To think it was hanging in the hallway next to the powder room all these years,” said Lara.
Barrow laughed. “So many valuable paintings were in barns or in attics, especially after the Second World War.” He leaned in. “If you leave the painting with the institute, I will give you a definitive answer. I don’t know your plans for the painting’s future, Ms. Barnes, but I do know that the Musée d’Orsay would be a fine home for it should we all agree that it’s authentic.”
While Lara had thought about parting with the painting, she wasn’t prepared to make a decision this fast; plus, she’d need to consult with Audrey. Gaston, sensing her unease, tapped his fingers on the table. “I don’t think Lara has thought much about the painting’s future yet. This is all so new.”
“Well, Gaston,” said Barrow. “I’m not sure carting it around is exactly the best plan for what might be a French national treasure.”
The weight of this hit Lara suddenly. “How valuable is it, really?”
Barrow shrugged. “In one of the auction houses, ten million, especially if it is proved to be one of his final paintings.”
“You might consider keeping it locked in the institute’s vault, not that the Tumi you’re carting around isn’t doing a wonderful job of securing it.” Barrow winked at Gaston.
During a breakfast of croissants and café au laits, Barrow had called saying another Giroux specialist was excited at the prospect of seeing the painting and would be driving up from Nice that morning. Barrow had also been working most of the night enhancing Lara’s translation of the diary, adding to and fixing missing entries.
“I wonder if there are more journals?” Gaston settled into reading her notes.
“I don’t know,” said Lara, lying. While Althacazur had promised her a scavenger hunt where she’d find more, so far there had been nothing.
After he’d finished reading, Gaston flagged the waiter for another espresso. “I am going to see a few art contacts up in Saint-Denis. The art is cheap up there. Would you care to join me?”
“Nah, I’m going to try Père Lachaise instead.” The last time Lara was in Paris, she’d failed to see Jim Morrison’s grave. Her father wouldn’t forgive her if she didn’t make the pilgrimage on this trip. After that, she’d thought about going to the Rue Mouffetard and the cafés that Cecile mentioned in her diary.
“Jim Morrison is so touristy.” Gaston frowned. “Maybe go see Sartre’s grave instead?”
“Wrong cemetery,” said Lara. “But I may do that when I’m over at Montparnasse. I know, I’m so American.” She looked at him gravely.
“There is hope for you yet. At least see Proust while you’re at Lachaise.”
“That,” she said, grabbing a pain au chocolat on her way out, “I will do.”
As she rode down the boulevards in her taxi, she could smell the linden trees blooming above her, the sweet smell reminiscent of honeysuckle. The driver let her out at the Père Lachaise entrance gate on the Boulevard de Ménilmontant. After consulting the map, Lara walked up the hill on the cobblestone path through the thick canopy of trees, weaving among old stones with their layers of moss and untended tombstones covered in weeds. After winding around, she made a hard right and followed a group of people who were clearly Americans and about her father’s age, so she took a bet which grave they were visiting. Within moments, she found a group gathered in front of the modest headstone of James Douglas Morrison, lead singer of the Doors. The site was overflowing with a number of trinkets, flowers, and photos of the musician in front of his concrete slab, causing the cemetery to require a barricade.
The Lizard King was one of her father’s great music idols, and that legacy had been passed down to her. Jason Barnes was one of the true anchors of her life. While her mother was a reminder of who she was—the daughter of a famous family of circus owners—her father was the catalyst to show her who she could become. Without him, she never would have had the courage to buy a radio station. For both of them, music was always the door to where they could go next. It still pained her to think of the way he’d looked at her the other night as she’d played Peter Beaumont’s song.
As a kid, Lara recalled riding around with him in his old pickup truck to see a widow about a vintage guitar. Jason was always
