Authors: M.J. Rose
The Hypnotist
Fiction
THE VENUS FIX
LYING IN BED
THE DELILAH COMPLEX
THE HALO EFFECT
SHEET MUSIC
FLESH TONES
IN FIDELITY
LIP SERVICE
The Reincarnationist series
THE REINCARNATIONIST
THE MEMORIST
THE HYPNOTIST
Nonfiction
BUZZ YOUR BOOK
(with Douglas Clegg)
HOW TO PUBLISH AND PROMOTE ONLINE
(with Angela Adair-Hoy)
THE HYPNOTIST
To Mad Max Perkins,
for your faith
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“Often, in the cosseted quarters of a museum, we forget that every work of ancient art is a survivor, a representative of untold numbers of similar artworks that perished. This triumphant exhibition makes us remember, while demonstrating that every survivor saves much more than just itself: long strands of culture, identity and history waiting to be woven back together.”
—Roberta Smith, writing in the
New York Times
about the exhibit Silent Survivors of Afghanistan’s 4,000 Tumultuous Years
ONE
“Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term
Art,
I should call it the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.”
—Edgar Allan Poe
Twenty Years Ago
Time played tricks on him whenever he stood in front of the easel. Hypnotized by the rhythm of the brush on the canvas, by one color merging into another, the two shades creating a third, the third melting into a fourth, he was lulled into a state of single-minded consciousness focused only on the image emerging. Immersed in the act of painting, he forgot obligations, missed classes, didn’t remember to eat or to drink or look at the clock. This was why, at 5:25 that Friday evening, Lucian Glass was rushing down the urine-stinking steps to the gloomy subway platform when he should have already been uptown where Solange Jacobs was waiting for him at her father’s framing gallery. Together, they planned to walk over to an exhibit a block away, at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
When he reached the store, the shade was drawn and the Closed sign faced out, but the front door wasn’t locked. Inside, none of the lamps were lit, but there was enough ambient twilight coming through the windows for him to see that Solange wasn’t there, only dozens and dozens of empty frames, encasing nothing but pale yellow walls, crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to be filled like lost souls looking for mates.
As he hurried toward the workroom in the back, the commingled smells of glue and sawdust grew stronger and, except for his own voice calling out, the silence louder.
“Solange?”
Stopping on the threshold, he looked around but saw only more empty frames.
Where was she? And why was she here alone?
Lucian was walking toward the worktable, wondering if there was another room back there, when he saw her. Solange was sprawled on the floor, thrown against a large, ornate frame as if she were its masterpiece, her blood splattered on its broken gold arms, a still life in terror. There were cuts on her face and hands and more blood pooled beneath her.
Kneeling, he touched her shoulder. “Solange?”
Her eyes stayed closed but she offered a ghost of a smile.
While he was thinking of what to do first—help her or call 911—she opened her eyes and lifted her hand to her cheek. Her fingertips came away red with blood.
“Cut?” she asked, as if she had no idea what had happened.
He nodded.
“Promise,” she whispered, “you won’t paint me like this…” Solange had a crescent-shaped scar on her forehead and was forever making sure her bangs covered it. Then, catching herself, she’d laugh at her vanity. That laugh now came out as a moan.
When her eyes fluttered closed, Lucian put his head on her chest. He couldn’t hear a heartbeat. Putting his mouth over hers,
he attempted resuscitation, frantically mimicking what he’d seen people do in movies, not sure he was doing it right.
He thought he saw her hand move and had a moment of elation that she was going to be all right before realizing it was only his reflection moving in the frame. His head back on her chest, he listened but heard nothing. As he lay there, Solange’s blood seeping out of her wound, soaking his hair and shirt, he felt a short, fierce burst of wind.
Lucian was tall but thin…just a skinny kid studying to be a painter. He didn’t know how to defend himself, didn’t know how to deflect the knife that came down, ripping through his shirt and flesh and muscle. Again. And then again. So many times that finally he wasn’t feeling the pain; he was the pain, had become the agony. Making an effort to stay focused, as if somehow that would matter, he tried to memorize all the colors of the scene around him: his attacker’s shirtsleeve was ochre, Solange’s skin was titanium white…he was drifting…
There were voices next, very far-off and indistinct. Lucian tried to grasp what they were saying.
“…extensive blood loss…”
“…multiple stab wounds…”
He was traveling away from the words. Or were they traveling away from him? Were the people leaving him alone here? Didn’t they realize he was hurt? No, they weren’t leaving him…they were lifting him. Moving him. He felt cool air on his face. Heard traffic.
Their voices were becoming more indistinct.
“…can’t get a pulse…”
“We’re losing him…quick, quick. We’re losing him…”
The distance between where he was and where they were increased with every second. The words were just faint whispers now, as soft as a wisp of Solange’s hair.
“Too late…he’s gone.”
The last thing he heard was one paramedic telling the other the time was 6:59 p.m. A silence entered Lucian, filling him up and giving him, at last, respite from the pain.
TWO
The Present
The building on Fortieth Street and Third Avenue was a series of cantilevered glass boxes. Upstairs on the sixteenth floor, in an opulent office inconsistent with the modern structure, three men were on a conference call with a fourth via a secure phone line. It was an unnecessary precaution. When the mission of Iran to the UN had rented this space, they’d torn down the walls so they could properly insulate against long-range distance microphones. But one could never be too cautious, especially on foreign soil.
A fog of smoke hung over the windowless conference room table and the odor of heavy tobacco overwhelmed Ali Samimi. He hated the stink of the Cuban cigars but he wasn’t in charge here and couldn’t complain. He coughed. Coughed again. It was so like his boss to blow the smoke in his direction, despite knowing he was sensitive to it.
Farid Taghinia was one mean motherfucking son of a bitch.
Samimi stifled the smile that just thinking the American curse words brought to his lips.
“We have no trouble working with the British, the French or the Austrians. Only with the Americans do complications and
conflict continue to arise. Haven’t I been generous in offering to allow the museum to keep the sculpture for the opening of their new wing? Haven’t they seen the documents we provided proving the sculpture was stolen? Why are they still hesitating?” Even though his voice was traveling six thousand miles, from Tehran to Manhattan, Hicham Nassir’s puzzlement was perceptible.
“Because I haven’t shown them the documents,” said Vartan Reza, a craggy-faced, Iranian-born American lawyer who specialized in cultural heritage cases. It had been almost two years since the mission had hired Reza to orchestrate the return of a piece of sculpture currently owned by the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the basis that it had been illegally taken out of Iran over a hundred years before. The lawyer had hesitated in accepting the case until Taghinia had made it clear that a generous fee would not be the lawyer’s only recompense. The members of Reza’s family still living in Tehran would be well provided for, too.
If Samimi had respected Taghinia at all, he would have been impressed by his boss’s cunning—offering a generous bonus wrapped around a threat. Instead it made him all the more nervous about watching his own back.
“Didn’t show them the papers? Why is that?” demanded Taghinia from the opposite end of the table as he put the Cuban up to his mouth and inhaled again.
“I have some questions about their authenticity,” Reza explained. “And I don’t want to turn anything over to the museum’s attorneys that might prove embarrassing and hurt our case.”
Taghinia picked a piece of tobacco off his thick lips, blinked his lizard-brown eyes and started tapping his foot on the carpet. “Questions?”
Tap, tap.
“Questions at this point are not a good thing, Mr. Reza.”
Tap, tap.
“Our government is losing patience.”
“Regardless, it’s not in your best interest to have me proceed rashly.”
Taghinia glared at Samimi as if this was somehow the underling’s fault. The only real civility and cooperation between Iran and America was in the cultural arena, and if this issue dragged on and became an international incident it wouldn’t help either country’s already strained diplomatic efforts.
“Were you aware of this?” he asked.
“I don’t care if Samimi knew about it or not. I want to know what’s wrong with the documents.” Nassir’s voice drew everyone’s attention back to the squawk box in the middle of the highly polished ebony table.
“I don’t believe they’re authentic,” Reza said.
“What?” Taghinia’s face flushed with an emotion that read as outrage but that Samimi suspected was guilt.
“That’s impossible,” said Nassir. “Reza, do you understand? That’s impossible.”
Samimi had never heard the minister of culture so upset. Nassir had studied art history at Oxford and had published two books on Islamic art that had each been translated into more than twenty languages. Nassir had once said that he believed every piece in Iran’s museum was a member of his family and it was up to him to safeguard them all.
“The partage agreement that details the fate of the objects found at the Susa excavations is dated 1885,” Reza said.
“Yes?” Nassir asked.
“The paper it’s written on was manufactured in 1910,” Reza explained.
“Impossible.”
“I’m afraid not. I’ve had two experts test it.”
“But there are corroborating records,” the minister argued.
“None that mention this piece by name or description, Mr.
Nassir. For the past eighteen months, we’ve been operating on the assumption that these papers were authentic. We’ve built our whole case on them. This is a serious setback.”
At the heart of Iran’s request was an eight-foot-tall chryselephantine statue of the Greek god Hypnos, the god of sleep, which neither Samimi nor anyone else on the phone call had ever seen. According to art historians, some of the best chryselephantine sculpture came from the city of Delphi, which had been looted by the Phokians in the mid-fourth century BCE. The Phokians had sold some of the treasures to raise money and pay troops; others they melted to make coins. It was believed that a Persian satrap or king in Susa had bought Hypnos when the Phokians reached the east and that, at some point after that, the statue had been buried. It might have been hidden during an attack to save it from more looters because of the amount of gold, ivory and precious stones that decorated it, or stolen again and hidden by the thief. No one knew, but the result was that it had survived practically intact until the 1880s.
“What about the treaty?” Nassir asked.
Samimi had also given Reza a copy of a treaty dated April 12, 1885, that granted France the exclusive right to excavate the area of Shush, which was on the ancient site of Susa. “That’s authentic, but since we have no proof of when Hypnos was found, only when it was shipped out of the country, it’s useless.”
“It was discovered prior to April. The American collector bought looted art,” Taghinia insisted. He turned and looked at Samimi, then blew out more of the toxic smoke.
Samimi knew he couldn’t logically be blamed for this latest snafu. Nassir had sent the documents in question to America via the diplomatic pouch. But Taghinia was going to need someone to blame and the case had been Samimi’s responsibility for
the past year and a half. He knew more about the history of the hypnotist than anyone here but Reza.
When the American collector who’d bought the sculpture died in 1888 he left it, along with the rest of his vast collection, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. At that time New York’s fledgling museum, which had recently moved from Fourteenth Street up to Eighty-First Street and Fifth Avenue, had already outgrown its new space, and its director, General Luigi Palma di Cesnola, was using all available funds for expansions. When he saw how much conservation Hypnos needed he put the sculpture in storage in the cavernous tunnel under Central Park until he had the money to tend to it. In 1908 a young curator mislabeled it and for almost an entire century after that, it remained lost. Then, in the winter of 2007, another curator, searching for a Roman bronze, discovered the mislabeled crate. A few months later, the Met announced its find. Hypnos, they said, would be getting the conservation it needed before being installed in a special exhibition space linking the Greek and Roman wings with the new Islamic wing when it opened in 2011.
Five months later, Vartan Reza formally made a request on behalf of the Iranian government that Hypnos be returned, claiming it had been illegally smuggled out of the country by a French archaeologist.
Once the international press reported the story, the Greek government filed a similar claim, requesting that the sculpture be returned to them since, even though the piece had been found in the Middle East, it was clearly of Greek origin and a national treasure.
It was no surprise that the single surviving piece of chryselephantine sculpture in the world was a prize to fight over, but the Met refused to even get into the ring.
In a
New York Times
op-ed, the museum director wrote about the cultural heritage issue at the heart of the battle:
There is no case here. Frederick L. Lennox, who bequeathed the sculpture to us, did not engage in buying contraband. Partage was a common and legitimate system in the nineteenth century, and this treasure was part of that fair exchange—expertise traded for a percentage of what was found. It wasn’t illegal activity then and can’t be looked at as illegal activity now.
Hypnos has been at the Met for over one hundred and twenty years. This is his home, and with us he is safe in a way that he might not be in his homeland. We’ll continue to protect him and prepare him to be shown unless and until we have irrefutable proof that he’s here illegally.
All over the world, museums engaged in similar battles were watching what happened in New York. When accused of harboring looted treasures, most of them took it upon themselves to do the research necessary to prove the legality of their ownership. Not the Met. The director insisted the burden of that proof was on the claimant. The Metropolitan, he said, was under no obligation to prove the opposite. The last will and testament of Frederick L. Lennox had been verified when it was executed over a hundred years before.
Reza had countered by getting a subpoena requiring the museum to turn over Lennox’s bequest and any other pertinent paperwork. When that request was refused, Reza filed with the Manhattan district attorney, asking to be allowed to review the Met’s documents and study the detailed history of the object’s journey to the museum in order to prove it was there illegally. The district attorney was quoted as saying, “A museum must
recognize its obligation to return looted objects of art to their country of origin. That’s in the public interest.” But, stopping short of penalizing the Metropolitan, he added, “It is, though, incumbent on Iran to first present some proof that the sculpture was removed illegally.”
A new fit of coughing overtook Samimi, who hated giving his boss the satisfaction of knowing he was affecting him.
“This situation is taking far too long to resolve,” Nassir said. “I’m afraid that this isn’t acceptable.”
“Cultural heritage issues are never resolved quickly. The result is what matters here, not how long it takes to achieve it,” Reza argued.
“But will we ever achieve it? We’ve been involved in tiresome negotiations for more than a year and a half and have managed only to engage a rival country in our battle. We could wind up doing all the work, only to have the Greeks get custody.”
“The sculpture was created there. It’s difficult to imagine that the Greeks wouldn’t stake a claim once it was reported that—” Reza started.
“You should have anticipated that and found a way to keep our request out of the press,” Nassir interrupted, something else he’d never done before today.
Samimi paid strict attention to the volley, looking from the squawk box to the lawyer and then to his boss, who was staring at the burning ember of his cigar.
“Keeping something out of the press is simply not possible in America,” Reza countered.
“Really? Don’t they say anything is possible in America?” Nassir asked.
“Mr. Nassir, we’re arguing about something that happened over a year ago,” the lawyer said. “We have a new problem now and need to deal with that. I can’t take a chance—”
“Thank you, Mr. Reza,” Nassir cut him off again. “Let me look into what you’ve told me and find out where this phony document originated and where the real one is. Because there is a real one, I assure you. Someone is trying to embarrass us. Can you give the papers back to Samimi… Samimi, are you there?”
“Yes, Minister.” He sat up straighter in his chair as if the speakerphone had eyes that had suddenly been turned on him.
“Please show Mr. Reza out and then come back. We have other issues we need to discuss that don’t relate to Hypnos.”
Reza stood and walked to the door without waiting for Samimi, who rushed to catch up and then escorted the lawyer into the reception area. The mission didn’t allow visitors to roam through the offices unescorted.
In the lobby, two uniformed security guards stepped aside to let the men through to the outer hallway where the elevators were.
“I hope you can explain to your boss that we can’t untangle in so short a time what it has taken centuries to tangle.”
“I will, Mr. Reza. At least, I will try,” Samimi said diffidently as he looked up at the lawyer, who had a good three inches on him. “We appreciate your efforts and so does the minister, even if he seemed impatient today.” He pressed the elevator button.
“Seemed?”
For the first time since Samimi had met him, Reza looked worried. Trying to be reassuring, the junior attaché smiled. “It was just the shock of finding this out on the heels of discovering how unsympathetic the museum’s new director is to our cause.” He shrugged. “If I were Tyler Weil, a cultural disaster wouldn’t be the way I’d want to begin my tenure.”
“Or it would be exactly how you’d want to begin it. By making a strong statement cementing your position.”
“Yes, I see your point,” Samimi said. He hadn’t thought of it that way.
The elevator arrived. Reza stepped inside, put his hand out to hold the door open and said, “Let me know as soon as you have any news.”
Samimi noticed the high polish on Reza’s oxfords as the door slid shut and then looked down at his own shining shoes. He’d been paying close attention to everything about the lawyer. It was all part of what he called “the education of Ali Samimi,” a self-styled course designed to help him fit in the way Reza did, despite the man’s skin color and dark hair. Samimi wasn’t just impressed with the American Iranian, he was envious of him: Reza was a US citizen who called New York home and didn’t worry about being shipped back to Iran on someone’s whim.
Returning to the stinking conference room and the call still in progress, Samimi didn’t wonder what he’d missed. He’d find out later when he played back the clandestine recording he hoped his boss had no idea he was making.
