The Amber Room Page 0,33

"You didn't have to wait. Why didn't you come on up?"

"That wouldn't be fair, Mr. Braun."

"Membership on the board should have some privilege, shouldn't it?" Paul smiled. "You would think. Is there a reporter here waiting for me? I was to meet him at ten."

"Yep. Fellow's been in the front gallery since I opened."

He headed off, his leather heels clicking against the shiny terrazzo. The four-story atrium was open all the way to the ceiling, semicircular pedestrian ramps girdled the towering walls on each floor, people milled up and down, and the rumble of muted conversations floated across the conditioned air.

He could think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning than at the museum. He'd never been much of a churchgoer. It wasn't that he didn't believe. It was just that admiring real human endeavor seemed more satisfying than pondering some omnipotent being. Rachel was the same way. He often wondered if their lackadaisical attitude toward religion affected Marla and Brent. Maybe the children needed exposure, he once argued. But Rachel had disagreed. Let them make up their own minds in their own time. She was staunchly anti-religion.

Just one more of their debates.

He sauntered into the front gallery, its canvases a tantalizing sample of what awaited throughout the rest of the building. The reporter, a skinny, brisk-looking man with a scraggly beard and a camera bag slung over his right shoulder, stood in front of a large oil.

"Are you Gale Blazek?"

The young man turned and nodded.

"Paul Cutler." They shook hands, and he motioned to the painting. "Lovely, isn't it?" "Del Sarto's last, I believe," the reporter said.

He nodded. "We were fortunate to talk a private collector into lending it to us for a while, along with several other nice canvases. They're on the second floor with the rest of the fourteenth- and eighteenth-century Italians."

"I'll make a point to see them before I leave."

He noticed the huge wall clock. 10:15A.M. "Sorry I'm late. Why don't we wander around and you can ask your questions."

The man smiled and withdrew a micro-recorder from the shoulder bag. They strolled across the expansive gallery.

"I'll just get right into it. How long have you been on the museum's board?" the reporter asked.

"Nine years now."

"You a collector?"

He grinned. "Hardly. Only some small oils and a few watercolors. Nothing substantial."

"I've been told your talents lie in organization. The administration speaks highly of you."

"I love my volunteer work. This place is special to me."

A noisy group of teenagers poured in from the mezzanine.

"Were you educated in the arts?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I earned a BA from Emory in political science and took a few graduate courses in art history. Then I found out what art historians make and went to law school." He left out the part about not getting accepted on the first try. Not from vanity-it was just that after thirteen years it really didn't matter any longer.

They skirted the edge of two women admiring a canvas of St. Mary Magdalene. "How old are you?" the reporter asked.

"Forty-one."

"Married?"

"Divorced."

"Me, too. How you handling it?"

He shrugged. No need to make any comment on the record about that. "I get by." Actually, divorce meant a sparse two-bedroom apartment and dinners eaten either alone or with business associates, except the two nights a week he ate with the kids. Socializing was confined to State Bar functions, which was the only reason he served on so many committees, something to occupy his spare time and the alternate weekends he didn't have the kids. Rachel was good about visitation. Any time, really. But he didn't want to interfere with her relationship with the children, and he understood the value of a schedule and the need for consistency.

"How about you describe yourself for me."

"Excuse me?"

"It's something I ask all the people I profile. They can do it far better than I could. Who better to know you than you?"

"When the administrator asked me to do this interview and show you around, I thought the piece was on the museum, not me."

"It is. For next Sunday's Constitution magazine section. But my editor wants some side boxes on key people. The personalities behind the exhibits."

"What about the curators?"

"The administrator says you're one of the real central figures around here. Somebody he can really count on."

He stopped. How could he describe himself? Five foot ten, brown hair, hazel eyes? The physique of somebody who runs three miles a day? No. "How about plain face on a plain body with a plain personality. Dependable.