KALEIDOSCOPE II PART 5
By Cynthia Hatch
The morning papers held for Catherine a certain ironic confirmation of life's unpredictability and a test of her determination to maintain a positive outlook. News of the art theft had pushed the story of last week's abduction from the front page. Although she was depicted as a courageous public servant, obliquely credited with the downfall of several badly corroded links in the chain of corruption that sometimes threatened to choke the city, the incident lacked the glamour and mystery of the painting's disappearance, and so it was relegated to a place of lesser importance. The proof that, no matter what she'd risked, the criminal activity that had been curtailed was quickly supplanted by another crime might have seemed discouraging.
It was a typical pattern to her job and to that of every other law enforcement official in the system: No sooner had one threat to the public welfare been obliterated than another would spring up to take its place. Many idealistic people succumbed finally to the burnout, the seemingly futile efforts to progress the cause of civilized society. Once she would have shrunk from the challenge. Any obstacle that refused to be circumvented by her privileged connections she would simply refuse to acknowledge. Had she managed to conquer one only to find another barring her way, she would have bristled at the unfairness of it all and haughtily taken an easier route.
Now she felt, deep within her, the value of persistence, the quiet triumph of each small, moral victory, the rightness of carrying on the battle, however unwinnable the war might seem. The change in her attitude was less a conscious decision, than an element of the fresh breath that had blown sweetly through her since that April night, a breath of such purity, such an inseparable blending of courage and love, that it had settled around her heart as the ultimate truth, one she could neither question nor ignore.
The Metropolitan Museum was always crowded on a Sunday, particularly in the summer when a wealth of different languages could be heard among the tiers of visitors, jockeying for a clear view of its treasures. Today. she suspected that many of those trudging the wide stairways or wandering aimlessly through the galleries had been drawn less by the art than a compulsion to enter the heart of a mystery, to see for themselves the impregnable fortress that had been so sensationally violated.
In fact, she wondered if some of the shorts and T-shirt clad patrons hadn't come here for even a more prosaic reason -- to seek refuge from the humid August afternoon in its cool expanse. From her seat on a bench in the middle of the room, she watched people file past the paintings with no more than a cursory glance, moving dutifully on to the next with no change in expression. Could they possibly have seen what the artist had to show them or feel what the work was capable of expressing in so brief a study?
Maybe no one had ever taken the time to show them how to really open themselves to the wordless poetry hidden in the swirls and dabs of color. It was a language she had understood since childhood, taken for granted like so many gifts. Her parents had often included her in their trips to museums, to galleries, to the rich exhibits from around the world that inevitably found their way to New York.
As the knots of people slackened, she got up and approached her goal. The morning papers had confirmed that the missing painting was, in fact, one of the museum's own Vermeers. It had been a favorite of hers, as was the one that still hung safely in this gallery. The girl in the picture was sleeping, her head resting on her hand as she sat at a richly clothed table. Catherine felt sure that she had drifted off in the midst of some pleasant daydream, perhaps of a lover whose shadow might fall at any moment across the softly lighted floor of the room beyond.
For a moment she felt the familiar ache of longing that accompanied any deep pleasure experienced alone. The hollow, unfinished feeling threatened to engulf her. She needed to share this with Vincent; he deserved the pleasure of looking on a beauty that he -- above all others -- would be capable of appreciating.
One night, when she was just beginning to understand how much he meant to her, she had let that feeling take her, almost crushing her with its hopeless, unjust despair, and she had fled to the comfort of his arms, the strains of Grieg's concerto ringing in her ears.
Now she viewed that time as from the other side of a mirror, its images still sharp and rich with memories, yet reversed to be seen in their true perspective. Then she had railed at the limitations, the obstacles that made their dream seem unattainable. Once she had truly opened her eyes and her heart to discover that the dream was indestructible, despite every argument logic could throw against it, that it was, in fact, everything, the limitations lost their power to intimidate. She saw them now not as serious threats, but challenges, dim shadows in the bright luminance of their love, to be coped with the best way they could.
Accordingly, she thought of a way to share some of the day's pleasures with him soon, and the empty feeling receded. She even allowed herself the momentary indulgence of imagining what it would be like if he could be standing here with her this afternoon.
She could almost feel the solid presence of his body behind her, one arm perhaps around her shoulder. He would lean forward, his hair brushing hers, to study the painting with a combination of childlike wonder and cultured sophistication that would open the artist's intentions to him like the petals of a flower before the sun. And he'd talk to her then, his soft voice painting in words what the artist had rendered in pigments. Somewhere, she thought, Vermeer would be smiling, pleased that someone had understood.
Although they'd never really spoken much about art, she had no doubt at all that Vincent would be sensitive to the nuances that escaped even dedicated historians and critics. She'd watched him open the doors to literature for the children below, not so much teaching, as revealing to them their own powers of perception and appreciation, the keys within themselves that could unlock an endless parade of doors. That power, the intuitive link he seemed to share with even the most delicate creative forces, would doubtless make him capable of explaining to even the least discerning eye the pleasures to be found in the works around them. Whimsically, she imagined him turning to the rumpled couple next to her, who were regarding the lobster in a de Heem still life with baffled expressions, and in a few mellifluously spoken sentences, awakening their sensibilities to the drama of hedonism and the transience of life woven through the painting.
The man appeared to regain his confidence as an art critic, as they moved in Catherine's direction.
"Now this one's not bad," he proclaimed, hooking his thumbs authoritatively into the belt loops of the greenest Bermuda shorts she'd ever seen. "You can tell if they're any good, if they can draw people. Picasso and those other shysters -- they couldn't hack it. That's why they just stuck a mess of colors on the thing, and some rich dummies fell for it. I bet those guys laughed themselves sick all the way to the bank. But this one's all right. See, she's even got eyebrows."
His companion stopped fanning herself with a crumpled museum map, long enough to admire the eyebrows. "I think she's drunk, Frank. See the wine glass on the table. Now why would anybody go to the trouble to paint a drunk?"
"Who knows? Artists are peculiar people, babe. He shoulda waited a couple of minutes -- till she conked out in the fruit bowl. Now that woulda been a picture."
The woman trilled loudly, hooking her arm through her husband's as they moved on, proud no doubt that the witty and discerning Frank belonged to her.
Well, they're having a good time, Catherine observed, suddenly glad that Vincent wasn't burdened with the education of all New York.
She spent the rest of the afternoon exploring as much of the building as she could, taking less notice of the objects on display than the rooms themselves, the corridors and stairways, even noting the utility ducts on the folded map she carried. The police would have done all this with more precision and fewer restrictions, but she wanted to be able to picture as much as she could when she read their report in the morning.
The gallery where the stolen painting had hung was sealed with a dignified sign on the door simply stating that it was regretfully closed to the public. The security guard she engaged in casual conversation, either knew little of yesterday's events or was reluctant to discuss them, and she didn't reveal her official interest. Jurisdiction for this investigation would likely be as complex as the crime itself. She might not even be allowed to work on the case at all. Still, she was going to push to do so. Her role in the Denton case had given her a high profile, however temporary, as a crusading member of the DA's office, and she might be able to use that to her advantage. Never mind that she had been more victim than victor in the incident. Her name was currently in the public consciousness, always finely tuned with elections approaching.
Joe had assumed she'd find the case attractive, but there was more that made working on it appealing. It could very well rely more on research and phone calls than anything else. The mind behind a robbery that many would have thought impossible could be complex, requiring more intellectual detective work than the usual forays into the seamier corners of the city. Too often, she found herself confronting an adversary on the edge, brought there either by drugs or a life of desperation that left little capacity for reason. Hopefully, this would give her a respite from the violence and one for Vincent as well, and she welcomed the novelty of the case. She needed to take an interest in her work, needed to occupy some of her thoughts with something besides Vincent. She needed to do that for him.
For too long, she'd treated him as her personal guardian angel, to materialize when she was in trouble or simply when she was missing him terribly. That attitude, however unconscious, now seemed a vestige of her former, self-centered life, Because he was important to her, she'd thought little of his importance to so many others. His responsibilities in the world below were many, and she wondered how often he'd set them aside for her sake. It was not in his character to let anyone down, and though he'd never say so, she thought now there must have been many times when he went without sleep in order to fulfill all the roles he felt obligated to play. The least she could do was accept that he couldn't always come to her without some cost she wouldn't know and try to occupy the time apart in a meaningful way, by doing something that might ultimately earn his admiration.
She spent an hour in the museum's shop and, pleased with her purchase, took a cab back to her apartment. She hadn't really expected him to come tonight, knowing the extensive projects going on below, and she resolved that he would feel nothing emanating from their bond but a quiet contentment, a joyful acknowledgment of their love.
It wasn't that hard to do, she discovered, as she worked around the apartment that evening, surprised to hear herself humming as she cleaned out the refrigerator. What would she rather be doing? Well. almost anything, she admitted, sitting back on her heels to toss a particularly challenging piece of "mystery meat" into the trash, and that she'd rather be with Vincent was a given, but the anxiety that used to accompany their time apart had dissipated. There had long been a fear that he would turn away from her, shut himself off in a misguided effort to set her free, but now they had spoken the words. committed themselves to each other openly. She would see him soon.