taped it same fatness—”
“I asked why did you take it.”
“What can I say. I am thief.”
Popper was still noisily slurping up the water. With exasperation I wondered if Boris had thought to put a bowl down for him in their so-nice day out.
“And—” lightly he shrugged—“I wanted it. Yes. Who would not?”
“Wanted it why? For money?” I said, when he didn’t answer.
Boris made a face. “Of course not. Can’t sell something like that. Although—must admit—one time I was in trouble, four-five years ago, I almost sold it outright, low low price, giveaway almost, just to be rid of it. Glad I did not. I was in a jam and I needed cash. But—” sniffing hard, wiping his nose—“trying to sell piece like that is the quickest way to get caught. You know that yourself. As negotiable instrument—different story! They hold it as collateral—they front you the goods. You sell the goods, whatever, return with the capital, give them their cut, picture is returned to you, game over. Understand?”
I said nothing, began to leaf through the Christie’s catalogue again, which was still lying open on my desk.
“You know what they say.” His voice both sad and cajoling. “ ‘Chance makes the thief.’ Who knows that better than you? I went in your locker looking for lunch money and I thought: what? Hello? What’s this? It was easy to slip it out and hide it. And then I took my old workbook to Kotku’s shop class, same size, same thickness—same tape and everything! Kotku helped me do it. I didn’t tell her why I was doing it though. You couldn’t really tell Kotku things like that.”
“I still can’t believe you stole it.”
“Look. Am not going to make excuses. I took it. But—” he smiled winningly—“am I dishonest? Did I lie about it?”
“Yes,” I said, after a disbelieving pause. “Yes, you did lie about it.”
“You never asked me straight out! If you did, I would have told you!”
“Boris, that’s bullshit. You lied.”
“Well, am not lying now,” said Boris, looking around resignedly. “I thought you would have found out by now! Years ago! I thought that you knew it was me!”
I wandered away, to the stairs, trailed by Popchik; Hobie had shut the vacuum cleaner off, leaving a glaring silence, and I didn’t want him to hear us.
“I am not too clear—” Boris blew his nose sloppily, inspected the contents of the Kleenex, winced—“but am fairly sure it is in Europe somewhere.” He wadded the Kleenex and stuffed it in his pocket. “Genoa, outside chance. But my best guess is Belgium or Germany. Holland, maybe. They will be able to negotiate with it better because people are more impressed with it over there.”
“That doesn’t really narrow it down a lot.”
“Well, listen! Be glad it is not in South America! Because then, I guarantee, no chance you would see it again.”
“I thought you said it was gone.”
“I am not saying anything except I think I may be able to learn where it is. May. That is very different from knowing how to get it back. I have not dealt with these people before at all.”
“What people?”
Boris, uneasily, remained silent, casting his eyes about on the floor: iron bulldog figurines, stacked books, many little carpets.
“He doesn’t pee on the antiquities?” he inquired, nodding at Popchik. “All this nice furniture?”
“Nope.”
“He used to go all the time in your house. Your whole carpet downstairs smelled like pee. I think maybe because Xandra was not so good about taking him out before we got there.”
“What people?”
“Huh?”
“What people have you not dealt with.”
“It’s complicated. I will explain to you if you want,” he added hastily, “only I think we are both tired and now is not the time. But I am going to make a few calls and tell you what I find, right? And when I do, I will come back and tell you, promise. By the way—” tapping his upper lip with his finger.
“What?” I said, startled.
“Spot there. Under your nose.”
“I cut myself shaving.”
“Oh.” Standing there, he looked uncertain, as if he were on the verge of rushing in with some much more heated apology or outburst, but the silence that hung between us had a decidedly conclusive air, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Well.”
“Well.”
“See you later, then.”
“Sure.” But when he walked out the door, and I stood at the window and watched him duck the drips from the awning and saunter away—his gait loosening and lightening as soon as he thought he was out