Paths crossing

“No love, no friendship can cross the path of our destiny
without leaving some mark on it forever.”
François Muriac

Mart decided to hang around the museum to see if he could make contact with Max Emmerich. He obtained directions to the offices of the curator from the information desk, but a security guard prevented him from entering the wing where the offices were housed. He lingered near the corridor leading to the administrative offices, but did not catch sight of anyone entering or exiting that was not dressed in museum uniform. When he noticed a security guard looking at him suspiciously, Mart felt his most prudent course of action would be to abandon his stakeout.

He hurried the few blocks to his hotel. As soon as he closed the door to his room behind him, Mart tossed his bag on the bed and called his editor.

Sabrina Abbott answered on the second ring. “Talk to me.”

“Hey, Bree, it’s Mart Belden. Listen, there’s a problem with the Rembrandt exhibit at the Louvre. The curator just held a press conference to announce that the exhibit would not be held as planned.”

“Gee, Belden, that’s too bad. I don’t have another assignment for you to replace this one at the moment, though.”

“That’s okay, Bree. I think there’s still a story here, an even bigger story than the Rembrandt. There’s something fishy going on. I overheard a conversation that I wasn’t supposed to hear. Monsieur Fournier’s assistant said that the painting is a forgery, but some German guy claims that he has the real one hidden away somewhere. I think I should check it out.”

“Belden, I don’t know how you always manage to turn nothing into something.”

“It’s a family trait. My sister can make a mystery out of anything.”

“It sounds promising. Go ahead and check it out. Your next assignment doesn’t start for a couple of weeks. Quit if you decide there’s no story, because I can’t reimburse your expenses if there’s not a story to attach them to.”

“Thanks, Bree. There’s something here. I can feel it.”

“Don’t let me down, Belden. This could be a big one.”

 “Listen, I need someone to do some research on a guy named Max Emmerich for me. He’s the grandson of the guy who claims to have the original painting. I hung around the museum for a while trying to catch him on his way to or from a meeting with Jean-Luc Fournier, but I didn’t have any luck. I left before the security guards decided I was planning an art heist. I thought you guys might be able to give me a jump start on finding him in case I don’t have any luck here.”

“Sure thing, Belden. We’ll shoot the results to your email as soon as we have anything.” 

After disconnecting the call, Mart pulled his laptop out of its bag. While he waited for it to boot up, he replayed the conversation he had overhead in his head. One part of it kept running through his mind in an endless loop.

“Mademoiselle Lynch has just confirmed what I feared.”

Could it be? No, there were many Lynches in the world, right? What were the odds that it would be his Lynch? Diana Lynch, here in Paris, wouldn’t that be a kick in the balls?

Following the proposal disaster at the Eiffel Tower, Mart had kept tabs on her.  He knew that she had completed her degree in Art History and was considered to be one of the leading experts in the field. Their paths hadn’t crossed often since she had turned him down. She’d made her feelings perfectly clear at the time and he wasn’t about to grovel. He had graduated and taken a job with a small newspaper in Oneonta, New York. Diana had completed her last year abroad, and he knew she had done some interning in France, Italy and London. Meanwhile, he had found a position with a larger magazine and started traveling for assignments. He kept a small apartment in Sleepyside because it was home, but he rarely spent any time there. In all honesty, that was for the best.  It kept him busy, from lingering in the past - in the world of “what if” - and also from repeatedly answering the same questions from friends and family.  On the rare occasion that he and Diana were in Sleepyside at the same time, which usually only happened during holidays, he managed to be cordial, but it was hard being in the same place as Diana, knowing that she had never loved him as much as he loved her.

It had been a tough go for the Bob Whites as well. Trixie had been angry at Diana, Honey hated being put in the middle, and he was just miserable. Wisely, Brian, Jim and Dan had done their best to stay out of it.  In a desperate attempt to save the group, Mart resorted to pulling Trixie aside and telling her that he was okay. He lied, saying it was a mutual split, and it wasn’t worth ruining their friendship over. Since they rarely got together as a group anymore, it had been a fairly easy matter to convince everyone else that there were no hard feelings between him and Diana. Mart suspected his sister knew he still harbored feelings for Diana, but she never pressed him on the subject, for which he was eternally grateful.

Shaking his head, Mart checked his email. He had a long email from Trixie, a slightly shorter one from Moms and a joke that Bobby had forwarded. There was also an email from Sabrina congratulating him on being in the right time at the right place and potentially unearthing a story even bigger than the one he was originally assigned to cover. Sabrina also promised to put the best people from the research department on finding Max Emmerich. She said that she had some contacts that she’d use to try to dig up more information.  She closed by promising to buy him dinner if this turned out to be the big one.

Mart smiled as he read the email. Sabrina was more than his editor; she was a good friend. He knew that most companies frowned on the idea of supervisors and employees having relationships outside the office, but he and Sabrina had both started as junior reporters, hitting senior reporter status at the same time. In fact, both of them had considered applying for an editor’s position that became available in their department, but after much thought, Mart had decided not to apply. Granted, it would have been a more financially secure position, but he hadn’t been interested in settling down and found that he loved traveling the world.  Sabrina’s perspective, on the other hand, was the exact opposite and she had easily won the job. It had been a little weird at first to have an old friend as a boss, but they had managed to work it out.

Mart knew that Sabrina had been interested in taking their relationship to the next level before she became his editor, but he had been unwilling to take that step. When he had heard rumors that a new editor position might be opening in a different department, he’d decided to throw his name in the hat. As he grew older, the list of places Mart hadn’t been was dwindling and the constant travel was losing its appeal. Plus, he missed being able to see his siblings and his nieces and nephews as often as he wanted.

Another thought had been lingering in the back of his mind. After ten years of thinking that there could be no one else for him except Diana Lynch, Mart was finally opening up to the idea that he might be able to find someone else to spend his life with. He’d always wanted a family, and had reached a point in his life where he could contemplate having that family with someone other than Diana. If the new editor position materialized, he and Sabrina would no longer be supervisor and employee; they would hold equal positions. If he got the job, Mart could reconsider moving forward with their relationship.

He shot back a quick reply to Sabrina and then googled Max Emmerich, but wasn’t able to find anything useful. Mart generally did all the research for his stories, depending on the research department only for verification and fact-checking purposes. Today, however, he was unable to fully concentrate on the task at hand. The possibility that Diana Lynch might be in Paris kept distracting him. The fact that she might play a part, however small, in the story that he was chasing was even more interesting. Realizing that more work was not likely in his current frame of mind, he decided to get some fresh air.

Taking his room key, Mart exited the hotel onto the street. He wandered the streets of Paris aimlessly, pondering his life. He had dated other women over the years. Some he had really liked, but he never felt for any of them the way he felt for Diana.

After half an hour, Mart decided that he had spent enough time in the chilly air. He headed back to the hotel to see if there was any news. As was his habit, he immediately checked his email. There was a message from Sabrina. He clicked his email open and a message from her popped up.

Mart –
I have a line on your mysterious Max Emmerich. An old contact came through, but it will be at least tomorrow before I can get more detailed, concrete information. Feel free to investigate on your own if you want. In the meantime, I know it’s almost 8 o’clock there and thus dinnertime for most Parisians. Go have something fabulously French to eat and relax for the rest of the night. (Don’t have too fabulous a meal! I can only authorize so much in reimbursement after all!)

Ciao,
Bree

Mart’s stomach growled its approval of Sabrina’s idea.  It wasn’t often that he forgot dinner.  It was just another brutal reminder of how thoughts of Diana could be all-consuming in his mind.  Keeping it simple, he headed to the restaurant in the hotel. The waiter announced the night’s special as coq au vin; Mart shuddered inwardly at the very thought of it. Instead he opted to start with salade de tomates et mozzarella, followed by boeuf bourguignon. The most vital decision of the evening was which dessert to order. Torn between profiteroles au chocolats and tarte fine aux pommes, Mart settled on the latter.

Back in his room, he checked his email again, but no messages were waiting. Unable to think of anything better to do, he opened his browser and began preliminary research on Rembrandt and his paintings. Finding several sites devoted to Rembrandt’s techniques, Mart learned far more about art than he knew previously. According to one website, Rembrandt perfected a technique started by da Vinci dealing with the juxtaposition of light and shade. The technique was known as chiaroscuro.

Some of these paintings are incredible, but I still don’t know how people get all this stuff about visual rhythms and movement in a painting. Paintings don’t move and it’s just a picture of an object. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but I’ll take the thousand words any day! Mart chuckled to himself.

Mart browsed a few more websites before calling it a night. Sleep did not come easily. He tossed and turned and when he finally settled into sleep, his dreams were filled with the shadows of a lady, one with raven black hair and violet eyes.

Arising early the next morning, Mart enjoyed an early breakfast of croissants with jam, fresh fruit and coffee in the hotel dining room. While he ate, he contemplated his next step in the quest to find Max Emmerich. Due to the time difference, it would be afternoon before Bree would have anything for him, so he decided to change his focus slightly to that of Jean-Luc Fournier. If he got nowhere with Monsieur Fournier and Bree’s source didn’t pan out, Mart didn’t know what he would do. He dreaded having to call on all of the Emmerichs listed in the phone book.

Mart knew that a phone call requesting an appointment with the curator, Jean-Luc Fournier, regarding the Rembrandt would most likely be rejected. He hoped that some research would yield something that he could use to make his request more enticing. Just as he started to boot up his computer, he noticed a magazine with a picture of the Louvre Pyramid on the cover. He picked it up and saw that it was a guide to the sights of Paris designed for tourists. Flipping through it, Mart found an entire section devoted to the Louvre and the Tuileries gardens. Most of the copy focused on a brief history of the Louvre and the various collections it housed; however, at the end of the piece were brief staff biographies of the several curators including Jean-Luc Fournier.  Mart skimmed the biography looking for an “in”. A smile crept over his face.

Picking up the phone beside the bed, he dialed the number listed for the museum. With his dreadful accent, it took a few minutes to be transferred to the correct office. Once Mart had reached what he thought was the correct person, he decided it would be more effective if he could switch to English.

“Parlez-vous anglais?”

“Oui. I speak English. May I help you?”

“I hope so. My name is Mart Belden and I work for National Geographic magazine. I would like to make an appointment to see Monsieur Fournier.” Mart knew it was a gamble revealing his status as a reporter, but he had found that it usually paid to be upfront. It also paid to keep requests simple and not elaborate.

“I am sorry, Mr. Belden. Monsieur Fournier is very busy and has few appointments available. What is the nature of your business with him, please?”

“I understand that we are both fans of the New York Mets baseball team. I’d like to talk to him about how he became interested in the Mets. I’ve been assigned a human interest piece about the universal appeal of baseball. I thought it would add a unique perspective to interview a man who clearly appreciates the finer things in life, to find out what it is about baseball that appeals to him.” Mart crossed his fingers in an old childhood habit as the lie rolled off his tongue.

 “One moment, please.” Mart listened to the hold music for what seemed like an eternity before the assistant came back on the line. “Mr. Belden, Monsieur Fournier can spare you twenty minutes today at 11:15.”

“Merci! I will be there.”

At 11:00 a.m., he hurried toward the wing of the museum that housed the administrative offices. Again a uniformed security guard stopped him, but this time, after the guard confirmed his appointment, he was allowed to advance. Mart followed the guard and they soon reached the offices of the Curator Directoire of the Louvre. Entering the outer office, he spied a lovely brunette sitting behind a desk. She looked up as he entered and smiled.

“Bonjour. Je suis Mart Belden. J’ai un rendez-vous avec Monsieur Fournier,” Mart introduced himself.

The assistant giggled over Mart’s ghastly accent. “Ah, yes, the American who wished to write about a Frenchman’s love for baseball. Please have a seat. I will let Monsieur Fournier know you are here.”

Mart waited only a couple of minutes before she returned to usher him into Jean-Luc’s cramped office. The curator sat behind a large desk of rich mahogany. The distinguished-looking bald man rose as Mart entered the room.

“Ah, Monsieur Belden, please come in and have a seat. I understand you wish to speak to me about baseball?” Jean-Luc flashed a charming smile, his silvery blue eyes twinkling as he shook Mart’s hand.

“Well, yes, I am interested in how you became a fan. I’m a big fan of the Mets myself. But please, call me Mart.”

“It is a simple story, really, and not very interesting I’m afraid.” The curator’s English held only a trace of a French accent. “Part of the training to become a curator at the Louvre requires an internship abroad. I completed my assignment at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.  While I was there, some of my colleagues took me to see a Mets game. Not quite cricket, but close enough for my tastes. I often went to the games, and although it took some time to understand all of the intricacies of the rules, I found a great appreciation for the sport. There is nothing like playing hooky from work to go to the ballpark. It is magical, no?”

“I agree. There’s nothing like enjoying a hot dog and peanuts at the ballpark.” Mart smiled. “I catch as many games as I can when I’m at home in Sleepyside. Do you enjoy traditional French sports as well, Monsieur Fournier?”

“Oh, but please, I must insist you call me Jean-Luc. You are from Sleepyside in New York?” At Mart’s nod, he continued, “Then it is possible you know a friend of mine. A Miss Diana Lynch?”

Mart paused momentarily at the mention of her name. “Why, yes. Diana and I are old friends. She and my sister were in the same grade level. Her family lives not too far from where I grew up. In fact, Diana belonged to a club with my siblings and me and three of our other neighbors.”

“Ah, this must be the Bob-Whites that Diana has spoken of. It is a small world, is it not? Have you seen Diana recently?”

“I haven’t seen her in some time. Our schedules for work seem to always have us visiting home at opposite times. My sister, Trixie, keeps in touch with her and I keep track that way. I hope to catch up with her soon. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a chance to talk.”

“Well, to get back to your question, I do enjoy many sports, both French and American.” The curator shot Mart an appraising glance before continuing, “However, I do not think you came here to talk about baseball or the Mets. So tell me, Mart, what is it that you do wish to discuss with me?”

Mart felt a flush creeping up his neck. Deciding to go all in, he replied, “I know Di confirmed the Rembrandt is a fake and that there is a man who claims to have the original hidden somewhere.”

“Hmmm, I thought you have not spoken to Mademoiselle Lynch in some time. Why would you think she has concluded the Rembrandt is a forgery?” Jean-Luc’s sonorous tone had chilled considerably.

“I haven’t seen or talked to Di in many years. I can’t reveal my sources, but I have it on very good authority that the Rembrandt is counterfeit. That isn’t the story that interests me,” Mart interjected, “but if it’s all I can get, I will write a very good article about it. I’m more interested in the story of the original and how it came to be hidden. I’m asking you to help me by giving me the information you have on the man who claims to have the original.”

Jean-Luc remained quiet for a long time, considering his words. The curator’s stillness and the deafening silence almost caused Mart to squirm; however, after years of eliciting information from reluctant sources, he’d learned not to give in to the impulse to fill the void with noise. Finally, Jean-Luc reached a decision and with a firm nod of his head, he told Mart, “Very well. If you give me your word that you will not report that the Rembrandt is a forgery, I will tell you what I can. I do this only because you are a friend of Diana’s, and I trust you will keep your word once it is given.”

“You have my word.”

“I cannot give you information about the man who claims to have the original. I have an obligation to keep this information private out of respect to him. I will confirm to you that the Rembrandt we are in possession of is not an original, but a brilliant, masterful copy of Rembrandt’s work. This is all the information I have right now. I know it is not a tremendous amount, and it does not satisfy you; however, I promise that if the original is recovered, you will get the exclusive story. This is the best I can do.”

Mart started to argue, but the expression on the curator’s face told him that he would get no further today, and he knew when to back off and try again later. Of course, Jean-Luc had no idea Mart already had a name.

He stood and shook Jean-Luc’s hand. “Thank you for your time, monsieur. I will keep in touch.”

Mart left Jean-Luc’s office and wandered about the museum for a bit to think. While he wandered, he contemplated what he knew so far, which was very little. He knew the painting was a forgery and Max Emmerich’s grandfather claimed to have the original. His brain focused on the other thing he knew - Diana Lynch might be in Paris at this very moment.

Angry at himself for letting thoughts of Diana interfere with his work, Mart decided the time for waiting was over; it was time to kick some butt. Vowing to find Max Emmerich if he had to call every person in the phone book, he stalked out of the museum.

He raced the few blocks to his hotel in record time. Flinging open the door to his room, Mart rushed in and hit the power button on his laptop. He cursed himself when he spied his cell phone lying on the desk beside his computer. How could he have forgotten to take it with him - especially since he was expecting a call from Bree? He had a sinking feeling in his stomach when he saw that the phone indicated several missed calls from her. Berating himself for lingering at the museum, Mart reasoned that it was still well before noon in New York so he could probably catch her at the office. When he got her voicemail, he sighed in frustration and left a message urging her to return his call as soon as possible.

Mart had just opened his browser and was clicking on the link to his favorite search engine when his cell phone chirped.

“Mart Belden.”

“Belden, it’s about time you answered your damn phone!” Bree chided him.

“Sorry, I forgot my cell phone this morning.” Not wanting to waste time on idle chit-chat, Mart got straight to the point. “So do you have anything for me?”

“Who always comes through for you?” Sabrina taunted.

“Come on, Bree, don’t be mean. What did you find out? Anything that will help locate Max?”

“Will an address work?” She rattled off the address to him.

“You’re kidding! How did you get that?” Mart demanded.

“A reporter can’t reveal her sources, but you owe me one. Our mysterious Max lives with his grandfather, Klaus Emmerich. Now get over there and nail the story!”

Clicking off his phone, Mart deliberated on his next move. It was still early afternoon, so it wasn’t unreasonable to pay a visit to Mr. Emmerich. He shoved his arms into his coat and stuffed his notepad into a pocket. Hailing a cab, he repeated the address Bree had given him. Within a few minutes, the cab arrived at an older apartment building in a quiet residential area. Mart pressed the buzzer for the apartment impatiently but received no answer. Giving it a few moments, he tried again. Just then a middle-aged woman carrying a shopping bag approached the building. She eyed him warily and clutched her bag closer to her.

Mart smiled and greeted her in French, “Bonjour, do you live in this building?”

The woman was still looking at him suspiciously. “Oui.”

“Perhaps you can assist me. I am looking for Monsieur Emmerich. This is the address I was given, but no one is answering when I ring.”

Immediately the woman’s large brown eyes filled with tears. “You are a friend of the Emmerichs, no? It is such a sad story. The elder gentleman suffered a stroke several days ago and has been in the hospital. The grandson, young Max, he is so devoted to his grandfather and stays by his side. Today is the housekeeper’s day off. This is why no one is answering you.”

Mart nearly groaned in frustration. Nothing seemed to be going right so far on this entire trip to Paris.

“I am very sorry to hear that. Perhaps I will try to visit the hospital. Do you know which one he is in?”

“I am sure Max told me, but I do not recall. I did just speak to him this morning, though. He and his girlfriend were on their way to visit Klaus. Max was optimistic that his grandfather will be allowed to come home soon. In fact, Max told me that his grandfather is much stronger and might be able to come home tomorrow as long as a private nurse can be arranged.”

“Thank you very much, Madame…”

“Dubois. Brigitte Dubois.”

“Madame Dubois. I am in your debt.”

The woman laughed prettily. “Nonsense, young man. I am glad to help a friend of Max’s.”

Mart didn’t correct her assumption as he bid her adieu. He strolled back to his hotel, enjoying the cool spring air, debating his options. He could spend the evening calling area hospitals trying to locate Klaus Emmerich, or he could enjoy an evening in Paris and return to the apartment early in the morning and try to catch Max before he left for the hospital. He opted for the latter and got ready for a night on the town.