Skin of the Wolf (3 page)

B
rittany Williams slid the box with the Ohtahyohnee mask into its place on the shelf. The holding room was almost empty; most of the items for the upcoming auctions were already on display. Not quite all: as usual, Native Art had only been given three galleries. Not like Old Masters, which always got a full floor when their big show came up. Or Asian Art, actually three separate departments with three Specialists, eight assistants, and two entire floors for two whole weeks in the spring. No, Native Art didn’t even have enough space to exhibit all their pieces and Brittany and Estelle were expected to do everything themselves.

Estelle was a genius, though. The pieces not on display were the ones buyers would be least likely to be familiar with, pieces they might have to be talked through to understand. Making people have to ask to see them was a way to ensure that either Estelle or Brittany would be right there to explain and extoll. Brittany had gotten a French doctor interested in a Spokane doll yesterday and she’d made sure Estelle knew it. If he bought it Brittany wouldn’t get a commission—God forbid Sotheby’s should work like that, as though any of this were about anything besides money—but Estelle would remember. Even
in the backwater that Native art had turned out to be, it was all about people knowing how good you were. And this Ohtahyohnee: according to Estelle the owner insisted it not be shown until the last possible minute, which by Sotheby’s policy was the day before the auction. This was the star item for Friday, slated to go on display tomorrow morning. Brittany didn’t believe for a minute an owner would hold a piece back that way, especially one causing a big stir. The first Eastern tribe wolf mask to be auctioned in, like, ever? As much as they liked making money, owners liked to show off. There was a lot of
nyaah, nyaah
in the collecting world and this was an absolutely primo opportunity for it. But holding it back was pure Estelle. The only way to create more demand than its existence did was to tell people you had it and then not let anyone near it.

Okay, Estelle might be a genius, but she abused her assistant just like every other Specialist. She was out to dinner kissing some German museum director’s ass and Brittany would be here late into the night yet again, getting ready for tomorrow.

She went into the inner office and sat at the computer to key in Estelle’s scrawled notes of the people who’d come to see pieces today. After that she’d be last-minuting all the oh-so-fascinating pre-auction details: making sure there were enough black velvet cloths of all the right sizes for the sale pedestals, dusting and polishing each piece one final time. Things no one with an art history degree, and God knows no one with a trust fund, should have to do.

B-o-o-o-oring. She yawned. She’d perk right up with a little coke and a night of clubbing, but no way that would happen. Unless she quit. Which she’d thought about. She didn’t want to wake up one morning and find she was like Estelle and her friends from this afternoon. Dried-up old prunes, not even cougars, just three single,
sexless, middle-aged women. Well, that Italian one, there was something about her. She could have been hot, but she didn’t do anything to help herself and God, what was she, like, fifty?

Brittany didn’t want to give Daddy the satisfaction of quitting, though. He hadn’t minded that she’d majored in art history, but he’d been incredulous when she’d actually taken a job. It wouldn’t last, he sneered to Mom. Some Switzerland ski trip or Caribbean beach would beckon and she’d follow like the airhead she’d always been. She wasn’t cut out for working.

So she stayed, because screw him. But maybe she really should reconsider the Native thing. The art was okay, but with Old Masters or Contemporary or even American Outsider, you had a whole gallery scene in addition to the museums and auction houses. You didn’t have to be a Slave of Sotheby’s, the assistants’ name for themselves. Which all the Specialists knew, and didn’t care. Sure, there were Native art galleries, but not in New York. They were in the Southwest or in places like Seattle, and no way she was going there. It wasn’t like she loved this art particularly, not like Estelle did. And Katherine Cochran, she was even weirder. Brittany suspected they actually bought into it, thought some of the pieces were alive and had powers. Brittany always took care to look thoughtful when they talked like that, but seriously? No, she had to get out of here. No one ever said a Koons had superpowers. Not all that many people even said they were any good. Brittany had only gotten into Native art in the first place because of that Chippewa guy, Stan, from junior year. God, he was hot, and she’d really gotten to Daddy with that one. He’d have been happier if she’d hooked up with a Jew or an Irish potato farmer.

She looked up when she heard the outer door click open. The
Jamaican guard, Harold, this was his night. She’d taken a run at him but he didn’t want to lose his job. Maybe she should try harder. He was big, with broad shoulders, and talk about pissing off Daddy! And he was early tonight, so maybe he wasn’t as immune to her as he pretended. She swept her golden hair off her forehead—at $300 every few weeks, it better be golden—so it would fall back into place when she looked up. Harold would pass through the storeroom and then, seeing her light on, stick his head in here. She recrossed her legs to reveal a little more thigh.

He didn’t show up, though. She didn’t hear the outer door shut again, so he must still be in the storeroom. What was taking him so long? He couldn’t be, like, afraid of her, that she’d make another pass? She smiled. Or maybe he was trying to figure out a line to use, because he’d decided to do her but he wanted her to understand it was his idea. As if. She stood, tugged the neckline of her sweater a little lower, and went into the storeroom.

Nothing to be seen. “Harold?” A sense, then, that someone had just frozen, that movement had stopped. God, what a coward he was. She stepped up the aisle in her red-soled Louboutins, shoes that turned men to jelly even on women not as beautiful as she. She made a right and halted. Wait. What? She didn’t get what she was seeing, couldn’t grasp this. The Ohtahyohnee’s box was open; the mask grimaced up at her. Standing over it, staring down, quivering in taut-muscled rage, was a huge gray dog.
How the hell did that get in here?
Brittany started to tiptoe backwards. Her stiletto heel caught the rug and she stumbled against a shelf. Just a tiny clunk, but the dog whipped its giant head in her direction. Its eyes glowed and its lips peeled back in a hungry, insane smile. Brittany took two more slow steps back while the dog just stood. Then it crouched to spring.

Brittany spun and dashed for the office, but the Louboutins weren’t made for running and she tripped. She tried to scramble up from her knees but the dog crashed into her, knocked her down. Its breath stank, it weighed a ton. She struggled but the mouth slavered and the teeth gleamed and for the first—and last—time in her life, Brittany was prey.

W
hile they ate Livia caught Thomas up on people they both knew in Rome. Livia’s painter friend, Ellen Bird, was about to have a show of her pastel portraits; Father Franconi at Santa Maria dell’Orto had been delighted with Livia’s gift establishing a fund for the care of the church’s artworks. “He was embarrassed, though. I told him it was because of how much he helped you when you needed him and he said all he did was hear your confession, that was his job.”

“Well, he’s right, it is his job.”

“Oh, now
you’re
embarrassed.” Her smile was playful. “Don’t worry, he still doesn’t know your real name. Or mine. And not everyone does his job so well. I thought that ought to be rewarded.”

The waiter removed their soup bowls. Thomas was silent until he’d gone, and then said, “Speaking of confession, I want to say something.”

Livia waited.

“As hard as all that was last fall,” Thomas said, “there was a part that, even at the time, I loved: working with you. Oh, look, now you’re the one who’s embarrassed.”

“Am I blushing prettily?”

“You are.”

“Good for me. Thomas, thank you. That means a lot.”

“It’s true. This hermit-scholar business, I mean, it’s the life I chose, and it’s a good one, but . . . well, you know what Keynes said.”

“I’m not sure I do.”

“‘It is astonishing what foolish things one can temporarily believe if one thinks too long alone.’”

Livia laughed. “Well, you’re always welcome to call me, if you find yourself thinking foolish things. I agree we work well together, and I’m pretty much of a lone wolf myself.”

“I’ll take that as a high compliment, then.”

“It was meant that way.” Their eyes met and held each other. She broke away with a smile and said, “Now. Tell me more about your saint.”

“I will, but you know how single-minded I can get.”

“Oh, can you?” she asked innocently. The waiter returned, setting down their main course: haddock for Thomas, bluefish for Livia.

“I don’t want to talk and talk and then leave here and realize I know nothing about what you’ve been doing. And you know I could. So first, you tell me about the conference. And ‘lone wolf’ reminds me: the piece at Sotheby’s. The famous wolf mask. You went to see it, didn’t you? Was it all it was cracked up to be?”

Livia reached for a piece of bread. “As a matter of fact, no. It’s extraordinary and beautiful, but it’s not authentic.”

“It’s fake? But I thought it had unassailable provenance.”

“Not exactly fake. With wooden pieces made for ceremonial purposes, there’s always a question of what ‘real’ means. If a piece is damaged or destroyed and one is made to replace it, the new one’s
as authentic as the original, and as valuable to the users, even if it’s less valuable to collectors because it’s less ancient. Now I’m giving the lecture, aren’t I?”

“I asked for it, in more ways than one. But what you just described, that’s not what you mean by ‘not authentic’?”

“No. I got the feeling that this piece wasn’t made for use.”

“Why do you think that?”

“It didn’t feel alive to me. I don’t mean really alive—it’s a piece of wood. I mean, I didn’t get the feeling the maker thought it was alive.”

If a different art historian were speaking, Thomas would have been skeptical. He was a scholar. He needed evidence, facts, proof. But Livia’s Noantri senses brought her close to artworks in ways he credited even while he didn’t fully understand them. “What do you think it was made for?”

“To replace the original.”

“Isn’t that what you just said, though? If one’s damaged or destroyed—”

Livia shook her head. “The original was made for use. For a ceremony no one knows anything about anymore. The only Europeans who ever did, by the way, were Jesuit missionaries. But this mask was out of the hands of the tribe who made it and owned by an Irishman as early as the eighteenth century. That’s where the provenance starts. I think somewhere after that the original was replaced by this one.”

“Why? When?”

“I have no idea.”

“Wouldn’t the owner have noticed?”

“Maybe he was the one who made the switch.”

“Why?” Thomas asked again. Without waiting for her answer,
he went on, “Or is it possible the original wasn’t made for use at all? It was made for display, and this actually is it?”

“I don’t think so.”

As they ate, Livia told him about the tiny contractions in her hands and arms, the tug of the lines of the work; how, since her Change, she understood art not just visually, but viscerally, not just intellectually, but physically. Listening, he marveled that such a thing was possible. That the human body, after a microscopic alteration in the structure of its cells, could be capable of such sensitivity. And how, almost alone among the non-Noantri, Thomas Kelly, SJ, had been accorded the privilege of the knowledge of this.

From the mask, talk drifted to Livia’s conference, and then to Thomas’s research. His newfound fascination with the Northeast tribes at the moment of first contact animated his conversation; Livia hardly spoke until the coffee came.

“Well,” she said, “it certainly sounds like you’ve found a niche.”

“There’s so much to learn! Completely absorbing, to a bookworm like me. I hope I haven’t been boring you. Lorenzo used to say—” He stopped. His excitement about the work had caught him unawares, driven him into territory he hadn’t thought to go.

Livia waited, then gently asked, “What did he say?”

After a pause: “He said, if I were marooned on a desert island with just a phone book, I’d have written three treatises—historical, philological, and philosophical—on the names in it by the time they found me.”

She smiled. “I think he was right. Thomas—”

Thomas shook his head. “I’m fine. Really. As I said, I meditate daily on what happened in Rome. So much to understand. So many souls to pray for.”

“I’m sure your prayers are well received.”

“As yours would be, if . . .”

Now it was Livia who was shaking her head.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said. “I didn’t mean to push you. Come on, let’s have dessert. The crème brûlée is supposed to be exceptional. There’s so much more I want to talk to you about!”

“Me, too. I could sit here with you all night.” She checked her watch. “We have time for dessert and coffee. But then we have another appointment. No, Thomas, don’t look at me that way. I told you, Spencer wants to see you.”

“We weren’t the best of friends in Rome.”

“On the contrary, it was he who arranged things so that you could go on with this life you’re enjoying so much without any pesky interruptions, like getting arrested.”

“Yes, that was kind, and I thanked him. By letter. I even sent flowers. Irises. But you know how he feels about priests. He hasn’t gotten in touch since he came to New York.”

“You haven’t called him, either. I told him I was having dinner with you and he insisted I bring you along for a drink. He has a friend he wants us to meet.”

“You. Wants you to meet.”

“Thomas.”

“I don’t know.”

“I do. This is ridiculous. You got off to a bad start. All right. Now things have changed. A new city, new lives for both of you. And you have so much in common. You’re practically mirror-image obsessive scholars. I’m going to go see him. Let’s have our dessert, and then, please—come with me.”