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She handed Mona a clear glass bottle sealed withacork.
Mona laughed to herself.Terribleman.
"If you’ll wait here, I’ll findsomecash.”
"He tipped me well enough for ten men,” the woman said. "Enjoy your flowers. He said you’d more thanearnedthem.”
The woman gave her a knowing smile and stepped away. Mona set the flowers on the desk. They smelled of summer, which it was today—June 21st, the summer solstice. A new summer full of promise. She pulled the cork from the bottle. There seemed to be a note inside. It took a little doing to ease the rolled parchment from the bottle’s mouth, but at last she workeditout.
Mona unrolled the paper and her eyes widened. She dropped down into her desk chair, heedless of thediscomfort.
The paper wasn’t a note at all but a drawing. Not a drawing but a sketch—a sketch she recognized instantly. She knew those curves, those watery lines. A sketch of a dancer. Not any sort of dancer. A balletdancer.
There was only one word on the entire page and one word was all she needed to know Malcolm had made good on his first payment for herservices.
Degas.
The SlaveMarket
Mona called aroundto every gallery in town and was given the name and number for Sebastian Leon, a well-respected Degas historian. She took the sketch to him at his apartment on the West Side. When he opened the door to let her in, she was surprised by how young and handsome he was. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, and the energy with which he greeted her and the sketch was that of an eagerschoolboy.
"I couldn’t sit still waiting for you,” Sebastian said as he pulled her into his apartment. It was a small, intimate sort of place, brick walls painted white with colored framed Degas prints and sketches hung everywhere she looked. He led her to his blue velvet sofa, gave her a glass of white wine, and he sat next to her so close their shoulders touched. "I’ve beenpacing.”
He spoke with near childlike enthusiasm. A man who loved art. She liked himalready.
"Here it is,” she said. "I need to know if it’sreallyhis.”
Sebastian took the sketch from her, which she’d pressed flat into a leather portfolio. He put on white cloth gloves, opened the portfolio and said, "Ahh…” at the sight of it. "Beautiful.” He had curling dark hair, long enough to tuck behind his ears. The curls fell over his forehead as he bent to examine thesketch.
"Have you seen it before?” she asked, looking more at Sebastian than at thesketch.
"Other sketches like it, but not this one. It looks like his lines. Just like it,” Sebastian said. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined the signature. He sniffed the paper, explaining that forgeries often had a recognizablesmell.
"What do you think?” she asked when he at last placed the sketch into the portfolio and closed it again reverently, like a monk closing his illuminatedBible.
"It’s real,” he said with a boyish grin. "It’s absolutely real. I have nodoubt.”
"Wonderful,” she said. "Howmuch?”
"If it were me—and I wish it was—I’d have it insured for sixty thousand atleast.”
"I will. Thank you.” They clinked their wine glasses in a toast and drank in theirhappiness.
"I have to ask,” he said as she set his glass down on the table. "Where does it come from? You have theprovenance?”
"A man gave it to me asagift.”
"A man gave it to you? Simply gave ittoyou?”
"He’d taken me to bed the night before,” she said, wanting to impress handsome Sebastian, perhaps even shock him. "The next morning he had white roses and that sketch delivered to thegallery.”
"I don’t know who I envy more,” he said. "You for having the sketch. Or him, forhavingyou.”
Sebastian didn’t try to take her to bed, but she sensed he wanted to. Professional courtesy kept him chaste, perhaps? She kissed him goodbye on the cheek, and he told her if her lover had any Degas paintings in storage, she should do whatever he asked to get one. No maidenly modesty in the world was worth more than a Degas painting. Mona promised him that she would do anything shecould.
It was a promise she meanttokeep.
It took very little time to have the sketch insured, especially with Sebastian Leon’s imprimatur behind it. And overnight she was worth sixty thousand more dollars, and all for selling her body to Malcolm. She felt no guilt over sleeping with Malcolm in exchange for valuable art. Although she’d been desperately sore after their night together and had worn finger-sized pale blue bruises on her breasts for a week afterwards, she felt no negative aftereffects. She’d even gone to the nearest clinic and had herself tested for every possible venereal disease and after a tense two weeks of waiting received the results—all negative. Nor was she pregnant, which hadn’t concerned her as much since she was on the pill. He was keeping his end of the bargain. Nothing to do butkeephers.
