The Book of Lost Fragrances

Fifty-two

SATURDAY, MAY 28, 9:40 A.M.

Xie could hear snippets of conversation echoing from under umbrellas. English, German, and Spanish. Art lovers and tourists waiting outside in the rain for the Orangerie to open. Most of them, he guessed, were there to see Monet’s famous Nymphéas-the eight water-lily murals the painter had created at the end of his life. They would stumble on the exhibit of calligraphy only if they went downstairs.

Last night the Monet rooms had been closed, and everyone in the museum was there for the reception. Lan had said it was the most exciting night of her life-to have her work shown in Paris. In the Orangerie. Fifteen feet below masterworks of Impressionism.

Xie had agreed. Even though his stomach had churned and sweat dripped down the back of his neck. Even though he’d spent most of his time concentrating on his surroundings. For him, the reception was a dress rehearsal for today. He’d memorized the security checkpoint, the exits, the windows, the restrooms, the doors, the elevators, and the stairs. He studied the traffic flow through the galleries. Paying attention to everything he saw as if his life depended on it. Because it did.

This morning at breakfast, Professor Wu had suggested they return to the gallery.

“It can be helpful to see how people react to your work when they aren’t aware of your identity,” he’d said. “It gives you perspective.”

Now they waited with the rest of the crowd. Xie looked at the other students. At Lan. At Ru Shan. At the tourists. No one here has any idea about what is planned to happen here today, he thought. At least he hoped not.

When it was their turn at the security desk, Xie stepped up and held out his hands. He wasn’t carrying anything. Without a briefcase or knapsack, he was able to walk though. Unlike at the airport, there was no metal detector. Xie could have a knife or a gun or plastique explosives on him, and no one would know.

That meant Ru could have a weapon on him.

A wave of nausea rippled through Xie. He was an artist. The most dangerous things he had ever done were hiding messages in infinitely small print in his artwork and asking Cali to send cryptic messages over the internet. How could he carry this off?

“I didn’t get a chance to visit with Monet’s famous Water Lilies,” Wu said to Xie, Lan, and the other eight artists assembled in a tight band. “Would any of you care to join me?”

The whole group followed Wu into the first oval gallery.

“He was going blind when he painted these,” Wu explained, gesturing to large murals gracing the walls. “He deeded them to Paris-in exchange for their promise to build a museum for them.”

Despite Xie’s acute awareness of why he was here and what lay ahead of him, the power of Monet’s work stunned him. Two of the murals were at least six feet tall and over thirty feet long. The other two were as tall but half as long. Standing in the middle of the oval room, the paintings curving around him, Xie felt as if he were lost in the master’s garden. The other people in the gallery disappeared. Cool blues and greens, lavenders and warm pinks were all he saw. The abstracted ponds and sky, flowers, trees, and their reflections filled Xie with a beauty that made him stand still. Hold his breath with wonder. For the second time since he’d come to Paris, he felt tears welling up inside of him. These paintings were pure and perfect expressions of the beauty of nature. The communication he was having with an artist who had been dead for almost ninety years was as profound as anything Xie had ever felt.

Xie knew he had a job to do as Panchen Lama. And if he was lucky, he would be given a chance to fulfill his destiny. But he had to find a way to incorporate art into his new life. Yes, his calligraphy was unimportant compared to Monet’s work, but competing wasn’t the reason to be an artist. Cali had told him that. She said it was the energy you gave to the universe when you were creating that was all that mattered. The positive, powerful energy that replenished the earth.

Ah, Cali. How she would love to see these murals. How moved she would be. How he would miss her. Was it all worth it? Forsaking her and his professor and his work?

“We’re going in the next room,” Lan said. “You coming?”

“I’ll catch up.”

Lan walked ahead, leaving Xie alone with a crowd of strangers. Or so he thought at first. Then Xie spotted Ru on the other side of the room. The Beijing student seemed as lost in the paintings as Xie felt.

But Xie doubted Ru was lost. He doubted Ru was even looking at the paintings. He was sure he was just watching him.