a letter, too, but that could wait. He sat and closed his eyes and, blindly, plucked one photo to hold up in the window light. It was a Foujita, or it was meant to be a Foujita, he reminded himself, and at the very least it was instantly identifiable as such. And it was not a work he was familiar with, not a copy of something famous. A young woman in profile, a simple drawing done in ink, small bits—her hair, her green dress—filled in with watercolor. Charmingly incomplete, yet fully realized. Signed, in the corner, both in Japanese and in Roman letters.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.” This was just going to be one of those times when he talked to himself. He would hand the photos over to Bill this afternoon, but for now they were his. He put his palms flat on the desk. He did not want a two-million-dollar repercussion, didn’t want whatever legal battle might come from Nora’s family, didn’t want to make the phone call to Cecily, didn’t want his job on the line over this, didn’t want, even, to start hyperventilating right now with excitement. And yet, if these turned out to be real, this would be the find of his career. This was the dream version of his job. What Indiana Jones was to a regular archeology professor, Yale was right now to a regular development director of a modest gallery.
The Modigliani sketches struck him next. Well, sketches was the wrong word. They were simple drawings, perhaps studies for something else, perhaps—as Nora had suggested—pieces made in payment to a model. All appeared to be done in blue crayon. Three of the four were signed. All nudes. If these were real, if they could be authenticated, they’d be worth a lot more than the pencil sketches Yale had been imagining.
He examined three more Foujita line drawings—a woman in a robe, a woman holding a rose in front of bare breasts, a pile of fruit—plus a painting of an empty bedroom and a chicken-scratch pencil study of a man in a jacket, neither of which seemed to match any of the artists Nora had originally listed. It was when he picked up a wonderfully smudgy Soutine in one hand—God, this was a full painting, swirled and vertiginous and wild—that he stood straight up and then sat immediately down again, his knees not working properly. This piece showed, identifiably, the same woman as in the Foujitas: blonde, small ears, small breasts, impish tilt to her smile. Nora, presumably. If he tilted his head, it kind of even looked like Fiona. Was he nuts? It really did look like Fiona. The Modigilianis were too abstract to pin to Nora, all sinews and pointed ovals.
One of the photos showed not artwork but a shoebox full of papers, and so after he’d sorted and examined every other Polaroid, Yale looked at the letter, typewritten on law-firm letterhead, to see if it explained.
Dear Mr. Tishman:
My greetings for the holiday season! Please find, herein, nineteen (19) Polaroid photographs documenting the collection of Nora Marcus Lerner. Mrs. Lerner wishes to remind you that the pieces are the work of the artists Chaim Soutine, Amedeo Modigliani, Jeanne Hébuterne, Tsuguharu Foujita, Jules Pascin, Jean Metzinger, Sergey Mukhankin, and Ranko Novak, completed between the years 1910 and 1925. Additionally, one (1) photograph shows the collection of correspondence, personal photographs, and other mementos Mrs. Lerner had amassed during her time in Paris.
Mrs. Lerner and I are delighted by the Brigg Gallery’s interest in the collection, and look forward to your further communication.
With warm regards,
Stanley Toynbee, Esq.
Yale walked down to Bill’s office, his legs still shaking, but Bill had stepped out. Yale left a Post-it on the door: I have good news and bad news. He went back and drafted a letter to Nora—he’d wait for Bill’s permission to send it—effusing over the photographs, saying that the sooner they began to work together, the sooner these pieces could receive their public due. He added that it might be best if she keep all correspondence private for now; he hoped she’d understand this to mean she shouldn’t talk to her son. He called Fiona and left a message. “You made my year,” he said. “You and your artist-schtupping aunt.” He did not call Cecily. As she’d pointed out, she wasn’t his boss. And when Bill came back, when he stood there cooing over the Polaroids like they were newborn kittens, when Yale told him about Chuck Donovan, his