A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,55
at Tinsley’s, the air, filtered through the purification system and the tempered glass, was different. It was entitled, cultured. No one walked with the slumped posture of those beaten down by the cruelty of the corporate world, its ladders and pernicious chutes, its denizens who toiled merely for the paycheck to feed the family, to pay the credit card debt, to get the health insurance. Instead, in the art world, there was a tacit rule that everyone was doing exactly what he had always hoped he’d be doing. The fiction stated that proximity to the world’s most beautiful objects was a privilege, and there was a slight pity for everyone else who didn’t get to do this fantastic job.
In this environment, which Elm’s great-grandfather had purposefully cultivated via mandatory monthly all-company meetings-cum-lectures, and a refashioned annual picnic that was more of a gala, including the receptionists, facilities, and the janitorial staff, complaints were not only prohibited but smacked of ingratitude and, frankly, the same uncomprehending troglodism that marked the noncultured. Part of the elitism of Tinsley’s was the culture of secrecy, the mystery of fine art, of its aesthetic possibilities and its inherent value. Yes, one could point to artistic mastery—beautiful composition, or a startling use of color, an elegant line—or the provenance of an objet (Queen Elizabeth’s ivory fan, Edgar Allan Poe’s cloisonné snuff case)—but the best pieces had their own allure, unspoken and magnetic. Part of the value, though, required that no one mention the emperor’s new clothes, for fear of driving down prices or the perceived importance of a work. Therefore, it was wise to play up the aura of mystery surrounding fine art, and this secrecy spread to all facets of the industry. The auction house hid minimum reserves, obfuscated provenances, kept buyers anonymous. Dealers buying for clients sometimes phoned in their bids from the auction room itself, adding an unnecessary layer of intrigue. Rarely were the numbers published, and no one would have dreamed of asking. The less anyone knew the better. And so Elm often felt like she was working inside a burlap sack—light filtered in, but not enough to see by.
She made her way across the mezzie and down the utility stairs to the basement. The corridor was long and painted a glowing white so that the hallway looked like a cinematic version of an endless existential hell. The corridors were monitored by video cameras that downloaded the activity to remote servers in India. Doors along this expanse of hallway were marked only with numbers, either for security’s sake or to propitiate the secrecy gods. Elm punched in her code to the third one, marked 4357, and the green light above the combination pad clicked, granting her access.
Inside, the dim light was such a contrast to the overlit hallway that Elm stopped automatically at the entrance, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Finally, the shelf materialized, traversing three walls, a complicated three-dimensional lightbox. Standing at the one in the far corner was a thin figure poring over a drawing with a loupe, a stack of others at her elbow.
Elm identified the woman before she even looked up. “Hello, El-MEE-ra,” Colette purred. Elm had to admit that her name sounded better with a French emphasis than with the American “El-MY-ruh.”
“I didn’t know you were back in town.” Elm tried to sound chipper.
Colette smiled in response.
“Whatcha doing?” Elm asked.
“Familiarizing myself with our inventory. What are you doing?” Colette asked. Elm wasn’t sure if her tone could be described as hostile or French.
“Making sure everything’s how I left it.” She was unable to disguise the antipathy in her voice. Colette continued to smile. The woman enjoyed sport; intrigue, not art, Elm thought. This was what the art world was coming to. Dealers who acted like businessmen and businessmen who acted like dealers. No wonder Elm’s numbers weren’t what Greer had hoped.
“Where’s …” Elm snapped her fingers, grasping at the intern’s name.
“Franz?” Colette said. “I sent him out for coffee.” She turned back to the drawing she was examining.
“He’s not bringing it in here,” Elm said. It was unthinkable to let liquid anywhere near these drawings.
Colette didn’t even look up and yet that feline smile was unmistakable, mirthless. “I will meet him in fifteen minutes.”
“Ahhh,” Elm said. She put on a pair of white gloves from the basket close to the door. They were scratchy on the inside; she disliked wearing them. She couldn’t feel the drawing, which was, for her, as much a part of identifying