through today.”
“No, it didn’t. It’s true that art is at the center of his universe, but it seems to be at the center of ours as well.” I swiveled my head around the room. “I’ll be back,” I said, rising from my stool.
I wished P.P. had never brought that head into the museum. Or that Philen wasn’t always lurking. As I passed Caleb’s office, he called me in. Philen was standing in front of his desk.
“We’ll take the head with us to Cambodia and—”
“No, Arthur,” I said. “We are not taking the head with us. We are not going to return the head to the Cambodian government until we know what we have. I’m not certain if it’s authentic, and Tyler isn’t either.” My voice rose as I spoke. I took a seat beside Philen, who remained standing.
“I’ve already issued a press release that—”
“Prematurely, to say the least.” I couldn’t restrain myself.
Philen’s voice rose to match mine. “When I came into the conservation lab, you and P.P. were discussing a stolen head. Something needed to be done about it.”
“And if you’d continued listening to us, you would have heard me say that we needed to authenticate it before we did anything.”
“You’ve had almost a month.” He straightened his tie.
“The fact remains, we haven’t been able to agree on whether it’s fake or real. Now you’ve put P.P.’s name out there as a collector, possibly of fakes, and by sending out the press release, you’ve associated us with the head. Which is bad for us. Of course, that might turn out to be good for P.P. if it takes him out of the picture. You’d best hope it does if you want him to stay associated with the museum. He doesn’t want everyone knowing he’s a collector.”
“Well, everyone already knows that,” he said prissily.
“Only a small circle of people. Every gift he’s given to the museum says “Anonymous” on the credit line. If he wanted to advertise his interest in Asian art, he’d allow articles in art magazines, or put his name on pieces of his that are borrowed for exhibitions. He’s not a self-promoter.”
Philen ignored me. “I can’t believe he came to you, Caleb, and told you to fire me. Just because he has access to you, because he’s a trustee.”
Caleb evidently had no intention of inserting a single word. “Caleb?” I prompted him.
“Yes. He’s extremely angry. Rightly so, as you acted precipitously, Arthur.”
It was the most direct attack Caleb had ever made on a member of staff. In my hearing, at any rate. Philen took a step back, as if experiencing it physically.
Caleb softened the blow by saying, “I understand your worry, Arthur. If it belonged to us, I would be very concerned. But it really wasn’t your place to send out that press release.”
Subtle, I thought. He attacks, then appears to take Philen’s side, while simultaneously withdrawing his allegiance to him by saying, “If it belonged to us,” a phrase he knew Philen probably wouldn’t hear. I said, “How are we going to put out the fire? Someone from the New York Times called this morning. There’s a message from the Guardian as well. The news of the head has already made it to London.” I didn’t add that my unopened emails from friends at the Met and the British Museum told me the news had reached the museum world.
“Arthur, what do you plan to do?”
My jaw dropped. Caleb was going to leave it to Philen to extricate us from this fiasco?
“Well, I don’t know . . .” Philen said. I waited, looking up at him. Caleb swung his chair back down, picked up a paper clip, and bent it open into a straight piece of wire. Finally Philen said, “We’ll just have to wait for it to blow over.”
“We need to do more than that, Arthur. You’ve made the museum look bad, and P.P. as well. Add to that the fact you’ll be traveling with P.P. in just a few weeks. You’ll be together for two weeks, day in and day out. Unless you resolve the situation before you depart, that’s going to be rather uncomfortable.”
Philen puffed up. “Well, that’s what I was saying before Jenna interrupted me. If we take the head back to Cambodia, then it will be out of our hands.”
I jumped up and leaned so close to him that I could tell he’d had bacon for breakfast. “That’s not a solution,” I said, my voice rising, “that’s a slither out of the problem.” I stepped back. “If we do that, we’ll never get any information on whether the head is authentic or not. What people will remember is that we bought a Khmer sculpture that was a fake. The museum will look bad. And I will look bad because I’m the curator in charge of Asian art.” As I spoke, I realized that the problem wasn’t so much P.P.’s now as it was ours. Damn Philen.
Caleb gave me a look. “Jenna’s correct. It isn’t a solution.” He tapped the straightened paper clip on his desk. “Arthur, I want you to issue another press release saying that the head is presently being authenticated and that you were precipitous in issuing the first release.” With a final tap of the paper clip before he threw it down, he said, “I want you to put your name to it.”
Philen paled. He’d expected to be in the news, but as the hero returning a stolen object.
“I have a conference call in about five minutes,” Caleb said, “and I need to prepare for it. Arthur, let me see the text before you send it out. That will be a new policy, that all press releases cross my desk before distribution.”
Philen was out the door before I could blink. “I’m not looking forward to traveling with the two of them. Do you think you can dissuade Philen from going?”
“I doubt it.” Caleb already had his nose in a file. Clearly this much conflict was enough for one day. I suspected he’d go out of town on an unscheduled trip to recover.
7
“I don’t know where Eric is,” my mother said. “You know he’s often late.”
I looked at the kitchen clock. “It’s 7:30. He’s not usually this late. We need to eat. I need to eat. I have more work to do tonight.”
“It’s Sunday night.” She wiped the countertop, hopeful that I wouldn’t insist if I saw that she was busy.
“It’s Sunday night and I was at the museum all day yesterday and again this morning.”
“What were you doing?”
“Preparing my talk for the opening, trying to catch up on all the things that have fallen by the wayside as we install the exhibition. The usual.” I ran my finger over scars on the kitchen table, skirting the placemats that she’d laid out before I arrived.
“Didn’t you ride?” She bundled her hair into a ponytail that she wrapped and then tied into a knot. When my hair was long, I’d done the same.
I am my mother’s double. Our height, our auburn hair, our turquoise eyes, wide brow, and small but mobile mouth. Our differences result from gravity, which hasn’t yet affected me, and the lines that shoot
