A Nearly Perfect Copy - By Allison Amend Page 0,74

have the roast chicken, because, she added, no one roasted chicken better than the French. The waiter took the menu and bowed slightly. Elm wondered if she’d said what she thought she’d said. She often made mistakes in French that were hilarious and sexual—commenting on the length of dicks outside the opera, or talking about how her grandfather liked to hunt twats.

She read up on Canaletto by candlelight, having trouble focusing after the carafe of wine. Whenever she caught herself thinking about the clinic, she corralled herself. She was afraid that if she let her guard down everyone in Paris would see the nakedness of her desire. She ordered a decaf coffee and a tarte tatin for dessert. Then, like someone had flipped a power switch, her jet lag caught up with her. She paid the bill with a Visa card, which the waiter ran through a handheld machine tableside, printing out her receipt immediately. When he pulled her chair out as she stood up, she had the feeling that, like Ronan, she didn’t exist here, that she might disappear on the way to her hotel and it would be like she had never been here at all. She checked that the hair and tooth were still where she left them in the room safe before donning her eyeshade and falling asleep.

Augustus Klinman was not the man she supposed he’d be. She was expecting a typical Englishman—thinning hair, scarecrow body stuffed into an ill-fitting, obviously expensive suit. Instead, when the man approached her in the lobby of the George V hotel and extended his hand, she was faced with a hairy-knuckled, hirsute, overweight, well-tailored surprise, though she had the expensive suit right. He shook her hand like an American, forcefully.

“Ms. Howells,” he said.

“Mr. Klinman.” She allowed her arm to be pumped.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said. “Won’t you come upstairs?”

The elevator attendant looked at his gloved hands discreetly. Oddly, Colette had not asked to accompany her to see the drawings. That saved Elm the trouble of explaining that she wanted to see them on her own, that is, without Colette. The less she saw Colette the better.

Klinman had taken a suite on one of the upper floors. It was decorated in what Elm recognized as an attempt at Empire-style homage to Josephine and Napoleon. Heavy velvet curtains were tied back to offer a view of the Eiffel Tower, or part of it; the city was covered in its typical fog. Some of the objets decorating the room, while not fantastic examples, were period-correct, Elm knew. On the coffee table near the sofa, a small, covered urn sat uselessly, throwing shadows from the lamp on the glass. Bronze winged figures perched on marble-plated pedestals, and cherubic babies frolicked on painted canvases.

Klinman offered her a drink. Though it was only noon, Elm accepted a glass of wine. She was nervous and had the paranoid thought that she was being drawn into some sort of trap. She had even left a note in her hotel room saying where she was going. Having Klinman appear opposite her expectations didn’t help. She crossed and uncrossed her legs. The sofa was too deep; she couldn’t get comfortable.

“So,” he said. “I appreciate that you came all the way to Paris to meet with me.”

“My pleasure,” she said. “I had other business, and Colette had such good things to say about you.”

“I am sorry that I could not receive you in my office, but it’s undergoing renovations. And the French take their time with these things.”

Elm smiled politely.

“I am originally German, Ms. Howells. My family is Jewish; we narrowly missed Auschwitz.”

“I’m sorry,” Elm said. The wine was too sweet, but she had another sip. Why was he telling her this?

“That is why I am able to do what I do. There are individuals in England and in Germany who will still only do business with those whom they trust.”

“I don’t blame them,” Elm said. “There are a lot of unscrupulous people out there.” She smiled, but Klinman remained deadly serious.

“People have wondered, sometimes. Out of jealousy? Innate suspicion? I don’t know. But I can tell you that these drawings are new to the market.”

Elm’s eyebrows rose in surprise. New to the market? Most deceased artists’ catalogues raisonnés were long complete. It was rare that another drawing would be added to the oeuvre. Several at once would be strange.

“May I take a look?” she asked.

He nodded and took back the wineglass, placing it on the bar. He