a twenty-foot-high weathered brick wall curved out of his line of sight. The gate opened, and a security guard in a little brick house waved him forward.
Very Hitchcockian, he reflected, remembering great suspenseful driving scenes from Vertigo and North by Northwest.
The grounds might have contained a couple of malls or golf courses–or as many cemeteries. Nick marveled at the probable value of this real estate, so oddly isolated and serene in the midst of all the nearby development. The cobblestone road meandered through extensive, meticulously kept rose beds. Now and then there was a classical folly; wisteria-draped gazebos and jasmine-covered walkways invited quiet contemplation. The scene seemed ancient, strangely suspended in time, eerily deserted.
Cue the haunting Bernard Herrmann soundtrack.
In the distance, on a slope, he saw what looked like a large, beautiful seventeenth-century French chateau. As he got closer, he realized that the distance was not as great as he had at first thought. The building had been constructed on a miniature scale, with perfect illusionary proportions.
He parked amid potted orange and lemon trees, and abundant topiary, and walked toward the front door in the heavy green silence of the rose-fragrant air.
Inside, he found himself in a high-ceilinged room of improbable spaciousness; above him, a balustraded gallery on the two sides and back of the building suggested a second story, and possibly more. There were flamboyant materials and elaborate architectural features that might be tricks of painting, might be real. It was impossible to guess the actual dimensions or composition of the whole structure, so much was artifice.
Amazed, Nick turned in a circle where he stood: dozens of paintings hung from the walls and freestanding display flats; bronze, marble, wooden, and stone sculpture competed for space in the peculiar maze.
He made his way around the room. His shoes squeaked on the polished floor of black, white, brown, and gray marble set in an intricate repeating geometric design. Outside, doves cooed sedately. He supposed that the collection of art was worth a fortune; but this strange museum he’d entered as if by a magic door sent a shiver down his spine.
The art was exclusively twentieth century; not the pleasant visual discourses of the Impressionists viewing the human comedy, or the severe calm of Constructivism, or the sardonic kitsch of American Pop Art, but the violent nightmares of a contemptible civilization that had lost its center, from the time of World War I and after, when artists no longer believed in old verities slaughtered in muddy trenches. Nick thought of Yeats’s “The Second Coming,” of a world circling self-destructively out of control like a falcon ignoring its master.
A profusion of French doors let in bleached light from outside. The building might have been a conservatory once; but now, the lighthearted spirit of the architecture nourished only this poisonous depression. If these artworks gave any clue of Natalie Armiger’s state of mind, this wasn’t going to be a pleasant meeting.
A narrow flight of stairs led to the gallery. Nick went up, still not sure he was in the right place. He had a sudden memory of the conclusion of 2001: A Space Odyssey, when astronaut Bowman finds himself in weird, otherworldly, inexplicable captivity.
Upstairs, Nick saw lighted glass cases, like transparent coffins, standing against the three walls of the gallery, which was otherwise illuminated only by high, small oeil-de-boeuf windows. The cases contained many books, documents, and scrolls.
He walked up to one case, and his breath caught. The writing on the centuries-old documents was old Provençal, and Hebrew. That much he could tell. These records belonged in the great museums of the world.
“I was beginning to doubt your reputation as a masterful genealogical investigator, but I see your instincts have led you correctly once again.”
Armiger was standing at double doors that gave access to a room behind her. She wore a less severe outfit than the one Nick remembered from their meeting in his office. A white silk caftan with paisley designs and a chiffon scarf for accent around her neck replaced the intimidating high-fashion uniform of their first meeting.
“Allow me to be your tour guide,” she said.
He listened as she led him by each glass case, describing the genealogical riches inside.
In impassioned detail she told him about the medieval Jewish burial-society books; the royal permission for Jewish merchants to conduct business with Christians; guild complaints about Jewish competition; synagogue records; petitions, judgments, and proclamations; lists of deaths and property destruction from pogroms; documents relating to the final 1394 expulsion of Jews from France.