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a bank of telephones. Matilda had told me there’d be some buyers calling in from around the world,
the phones manned by their local bankers.
Be cool, Dauphine. You’re just here to sign some papers. I nervously patted my chignon, relieved
I’d chosen kitten heels with the snug dress. My designated seat on the aisle of the last row was the
best vantage point from which to watch the bidding before me. I leaned back to take in the sepiastained
frescos that circled a chandelier as big as the sun.
I eyed the buyers, mostly women. Money from the sale of the painting would fund S.E.C.R.E.T.’s
rather unorthodox pursuits, as Matilda had explained. She didn’t want it coming from people or
groups that might pry too far into S.E.C.R.E.T.’s true mandate, or whose values didn’t dovetail with
our own.
Dante stood vigil to my right, like a handsome guard dog.
“It’s … lindísima,” I said, regarding the venue.
“Yes. It’s spectacular,” he whispered, leaning towards me. “It’s been completely restored over the
last few years. That dress is spectacular too, by the way.”
So he spoke English! And with an American accent—no—a Southern accent! That was the final
alarm bell.
“Who are you? Where are you from?”
A sweet smile crossed his lips just as a hammer hit a gavel and a curtain rose on Red Rage,
gorgeously lit and perched on a matte black stand, its modernist style in stark contrast to the lush
concert hall. Oohs and ahhs filled the room, and vigorous applause seemed to be Dante’s cue to take a
seat high in the empty part of the theater behind me.
The auctioneer took the stage and greeted the guests. After a brief preamble about the painting’s
history, he called on the room to acknowledge a representative sent to authenticate the transfer of
ownership.
“Please welcome Señorita Mason, who accompanied Red Rage all the way from New Orleans on
behalf of its anonymous owner.”
I felt the blood drain out of my face. Without standing, I floated a hand in the air and quickly
dropped it back down, sinking with it.
“We wish you great luck today, Señorita Mason. The auction will be in English. Headphones have
been provided for translation. Let us begin.”
Whack. Bidding opened at 2.3 million dollars American. Matilda hoped to double that. The
auctioneer began navigating a forest of arms from both sides of the aisle. He was responding so
quickly, he looked like he was doing a breaststroke. Anonymous telephone bids were also flooding
in, and the blonde who had arrived later than me sat at the end of a bank of phones, her leg bouncing
nervously.
“Do I hear two point four million? Two point four? Now two point six it is. That’s two point six
from the back. Three million over here. I hear three million up front …”
My head whipped back and forth to keep up with the fast climb.
“We have four million, four point two, we have four point two. Four point eight and now five,
ladies and gentleman …”
At that price, a few of the bidders’ representatives hung up their phones. By six million, half the
room had stilled as I sat upright, literally on the edge of my seat. At seven million, most everyone else
in the theater dropped out. But two remained: a stout woman in thick glasses competing against a
particularly enthusiastic phone bidder, represented by the blonde, whose arm remained in the air, her
finger registering “yes” to every uptick in the price.