library table and waited for the woman who belonged to the long legs to ascend the staircase, her high heels silent on the Persian-carpeted treads.
As she made the last graceful turn of the staircase, she arose slowly from within the winding tracery of the mahogany balustrade like Venus from the sea. Knight’s heart stalled. Ms. Paille, dressed in black, was a most exotic mixture of Asian and European: tall, trim, her beautiful proportions clothed in a short two-piece affair of snug, fine silk. Her jet hair spilled generously over her shoulders, its highlights glistening in the soft spotlights of the showroom. Her dusky eyes were deep enough to swim in-swim naked, Knight thought-and her olive complexion was stunningly set off by rich carmine lips, which, as fate would have it, were the exact color of the scarlet silk walls of the library in front of which she now stood.
“My dear Ms. Paille,” Knight said. The word of endearment surprised even him, but it just seemed so appropriate.
“Mr. Knight…” She extended a long arm, and he took her hand… and kissed it.
By God, if ever a woman wanted to have her hand kissed… The surprised smile she gave him was worth the extravagance of the gesture, and-should he not have guessed? — so was the fragrance of her wrist.
Jeffrey emerged from behind her and put the wrapped package on the library table, then disappeared silently down the staircase.
“I do appreciate your taking the time for this,” she said. “My pleasure, I assure you,” Knight beamed. He turned to the package. “These, apparently, are the drawings?”
“Yes.”
“And these are your own personal drawings?”
“No, I represent the owner, a gentleman from Hong Kong.”
“Hong Kong? Really?”
“I’m Chinese American,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Cao Pei is Hong Kong Chinese. I’ve worked for him for eleven years. Mr. Cao is not an art collector, but he acquired all of these drawings during the last fifteen years from a variety of sources, mostly Englishmen living in Hong Kong. Now he wants to sell them. He believes he can get better prices here than in Hong Kong. That’s my purpose for being here.”
“How interesting.” He looked at her. “Then, your background is not in art?”
“No, not at all.”
“Oh?”
“International economics.”
“Then, uh, this is just an assignment for you. Art is not particularly an interest of yours.”
“Not particularly.”
What, Knight wondered, did impassion her? He couldn’t imagine, but he would love to know. He would love to see her impassioned.
“Well, then, do you have documentation that this belongs to Mr. Cao? That’s a very important part of my business, you know, provenance. A work of art, especially an important work of art, has to have, as it were, a genealogy of ownership.”
“I have that in a bank box.”
“I see.” He looked at her breasts, their contours revealed to him in relief, black upon black, their actual shape apparent beneath the capillary attraction of the watery silk. “Then, let’s take a look at what you have.”
The double entendre was out of his mouth too quickly to stop. He smiled at her. She smiled back. Did they understand each other? He wasn’t sure.
She stepped up to the library table, undid the clasps on the case, which was bound in heavy wheat buckram, and opened it. Inside the case a cover page preceded the actual drawings and was closed with a bow of silk. She untied the bow and folded back the cover leaf.
He was silent.
He leaned over the portfolio and carefully put his fingertips on the edge of the table. The first drawing was a Balthus. A fine, a very, very fine Balthus. My God, he thought. A surprise. He turned the leaf. On both the left and the right were two Delvauxs. Rare Delvauxs. Both deliberate drawings, not studies. Knight’s stomach quivered. He turned the leaf. On the left was an Ingres. On the right, Klimt. Both impeccable. Im- pec — cable. Good God. Either alone would have been a wonderful sale. He turned the last leaf. Maillol, left and right. Mother of God. He steadied himself. He squinted as if to see better, but he saw well enough. He saw damn well. He bent closer and pushed up his eyeglasses to the top of his head.
It was extraordinary.
When you were in the art business a long time, as he had been, you experienced over the years many exciting discoveries, you lived through many exciting deals, near misses, achievements. All of these accumulated in the course of one’s career until, eventually, the best dealers were in possession of a colorful oeuvre of anecdotes, stories of art and artists, dealers and collectors, of happenstance and serendipity, of good luck and bad, stories of people who were eccentric and feckless and passionate and ignorant. By far the best stories of all were those of discovery of great works of art and of serendipity. Carrington Hartwell Knight was staring down at a portfolio that represented a second great opportunity in as many days, which together would make one of the best anecdotes of serendipity and discovery that he would ever have to tell. It was passing odd how incidents of good (and, unfortunately, sometimes bad) luck often came in clusters.
Jesus. Mary. And Joseph.
“Ms. Paille,” he said, pulling out a chair for her, “please sit down.” He held the chair for her. He pulled out another for himself and sat down, each of them turned half toward the other, the unbelievable portfolio between them on the table.
He concentrated on bringing himself under control. Ms. Paille-how the hell did she get that name? — was, it was obvious, a most sensible woman. She would not react well to flighty excitement.
“This is a very fine collection,” he began. “Really, it is superb. A singular collection.” He hesitated, but only a heartbeat or so. “Does Mr. Cao have any idea of the collection’s worth?”
She looked down at the two Maillols. Knight studied her profile, appreciating the little dimple at the corner of her mouth that gave her smile a slightly askew expression.
“I have looked into this a little,” she said. “It’s my responsibility to be somewhat informed. But I would rather you told me.”
“I would say, surely, a minimum of three million pounds.”
Slowly, ever so slowly, as slow as the minute hand, her mouth formed a soft, pensive smile.
“Well,” she said, “what do we do now?”
“If you want me to sell them for you, I shall need all the documentation you can give me about their provenance. You mentioned that you had considerable documentation.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll need some time to examine that. I will also need to spend time with the drawings themselves, outside of the portfolio. I’ll want to examine the paper, and the medium… whether it’s pencil, crayon, graphite, chalk, etc.”
“I understand,” she said. “But they must not leave here.”
“Oh, of course not. They remain here.”
“Now, I would like to discuss some of the business aspects of the sale.”
Knight nodded.
“What is your fee for brokering these?”
He told her.
“Will you sell them as a lot or separately?”
“I think as a lot.”
“As I understand it,” she said, “the drawings market is distinctive, quite different from, say, paintings.”
“Exactly.”
“Those collectors-individual collectors, that is, excepting institutions, who consistently pay the highest prices for the finest-quality works-are a rather small group. Some of them, those at the top, are passionate.”
“Exactly.”
“I looked into this,” she said, “and I would like you to offer Mr. Cao’s drawings to three different collectors. I understand that they are especially ardent collectors, and therefore pay the highest prices.”
