The Hypnotist

TWO

The Present

The building on Fortieth Street and Third Avenue was a series of cantilevered glass boxes. Upstairs on the sixteenth floor, in an opulent office inconsistent with the modern structure, three men were on a conference call with a fourth via a secure phone line. It was an unnecessary precaution. When the mission of Iran to the UN had rented this space, they’d torn down the walls so they could properly insulate against long-range distance microphones. But one could never be too cautious, especially on foreign soil.

A fog of smoke hung over the windowless conference room table and the odor of heavy tobacco overwhelmed Ali Samimi. He hated the stink of the Cuban cigars but he wasn’t in charge here and couldn’t complain. He coughed. Coughed again. It was so like his boss to blow the smoke in his direction, despite knowing he was sensitive to it. Farid Taghinia was one mean motherfucking son of a bitch. Samimi stifled the smile that just thinking the American curse words brought to his lips.

“We have no trouble working with the British, the French or the Austrians. Only with the Americans do complications and conflict continue to arise. Haven’t I been generous in offering to allow the museum to keep the sculpture for the opening of their new wing? Haven’t they seen the documents we provided proving the sculpture was stolen? Why are they still hesitating?” Even though his voice was traveling six thousand miles, from Tehran to Manhattan, Hicham Nassir’s puzzlement was perceptible.

“Because I haven’t shown them the documents,” said Vartan Reza, a craggy-faced, Iranian-born American lawyer who specialized in cultural heritage cases. It had been almost two years since the mission had hired Reza to orchestrate the return of a piece of sculpture currently owned by the Metropolitan Museum of Art on the basis that it had been illegally taken out of Iran over a hundred years before. The lawyer had hesitated in accepting the case until Taghinia had made it clear that a generous fee would not be the lawyer’s only recompense. The members of Reza’s family still living in Tehran would be well provided for, too.

If Samimi had respected Taghinia at all, he would have been impressed by his boss’s cunning-offering a generous bonus wrapped around a threat. Instead it made him all the more nervous about watching his own back.

“Didn’t show them the papers? Why is that?” demanded Taghinia from the opposite end of the table as he put the Cuban up to his mouth and inhaled again.

“I have some questions about their authenticity,” Reza explained. “And I don’t want to turn anything over to the museum’s attorneys that might prove embarrassing and hurt our case.”

Taghinia picked a piece of tobacco off his thick lips, blinked his lizard-brown eyes and started tapping his foot on the carpet. “Questions?” Tap, tap. “Questions at this point are not a good thing, Mr. Reza.” Tap, tap. “Our government is losing patience.”

“Regardless, it’s not in your best interest to have me proceed rashly.”

Taghinia glared at Samimi as if this was somehow the underling’s fault. The only real civility and cooperation between Iran and America was in the cultural arena, and if this issue dragged on and became an international incident it wouldn’t help either country’s already strained diplomatic efforts.

“Were you aware of this?” he asked.

“I don’t care if Samimi knew about it or not. I want to know what’s wrong with the documents.” Nassir’s voice drew everyone’s attention back to the squawk box in the middle of the highly polished ebony table.

“I don’t believe they’re authentic,” Reza said.

“What?” Taghinia’s face flushed with an emotion that read as outrage but that Samimi suspected was guilt.

“That’s impossible,” said Nassir. “Reza, do you understand? That’s impossible.”

Samimi had never heard the minister of culture so upset. Nassir had studied art history at Oxford and had published two books on Islamic art that had each been translated into more than twenty languages. Nassir had once said that he believed every piece in Iran’s museum was a member of his family and it was up to him to safeguard them all.

“The partage agreement that details the fate of the objects found at the Susa excavations is dated 1885,” Reza said.

“Yes?” Nassir asked.

“The paper it’s written on was manufactured in 1910,” Reza explained.

“Impossible.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve had two experts test it.”

“But there are corroborating records,” the minister argued.

“None that mention this piece by name or description, Mr. Nassir. For the past eighteen months, we’ve been operating on the assumption that these papers were authentic. We’ve built our whole case on them. This is a serious setback.”

At the heart of Iran’s request was an eight-foot-tall chryselephantine statue of the Greek god Hypnos, the god of sleep, which neither Samimi nor anyone else on the phone call had ever seen. According to art historians, some of the best chryselephantine sculpture came from the city of Delphi, which had been looted by the Phokians in the mid-fourth century BCE. The Phokians had sold some of the treasures to raise money and pay troops; others they melted to make coins. It was believed that a Persian satrap or king in Susa had bought Hypnos when the Phokians reached the east and that, at some point after that, the statue had been buried. It might have been hidden during an attack to save it from more looters because of the amount of gold, ivory and precious stones that decorated it, or stolen again and hidden by the thief. No one knew, but the result was that it had survived practically intact until the 1880s.

“What about the treaty?” Nassir asked.

Samimi had also given Reza a copy of a treaty dated April 12, 1885, that granted France the exclusive right to excavate the area of Shush, which was on the ancient site of Susa. “That’s authentic, but since we have no proof of when Hypnos was found, only when it was shipped out of the country, it’s useless.”

“It was discovered prior to April. The American collector bought looted art,” Taghinia insisted. He turned and looked at Samimi, then blew out more of the toxic smoke.

Samimi knew he couldn’t logically be blamed for this latest snafu. Nassir had sent the documents in question to America via the diplomatic pouch. But Taghinia was going to need someone to blame and the case had been Samimi’s responsibility for the past year and a half. He knew more about the history of the hypnotist than anyone here but Reza.

When the American collector who’d bought the sculpture died in 1888 he left it, along with the rest of his vast collection, to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. At that time New York’s fledgling museum, which had recently moved from Fourteenth Street up to Eighty-First Street and Fifth Avenue, had already outgrown its new space, and its director, General Luigi Palma di Cesnola, was using all available funds for expansions. When he saw how much conservation Hypnos needed he put the sculpture in storage in the cavernous tunnel under Central Park until he had the money to tend to it. In 1908 a young curator mislabeled it and for almost an entire century after that, it remained lost. Then, in the winter of 2007, another curator, searching for a Roman bronze, discovered the mislabeled crate. A few months later, the Met announced its find. Hypnos, they said, would be getting the conservation it needed before being installed in a special exhibition space linking the Greek and Roman wings with the new Islamic wing when it opened in 2011.

Five months later, Vartan Reza formally made a request on behalf of the Iranian government that Hypnos be returned, claiming it had been illegally smuggled out of the country by a French archaeologist.

Once the international press reported the story, the Greek government filed a similar claim, requesting that the sculpture be returned to them since, even though the piece had been found in the Middle East, it was clearly of Greek origin and a national treasure.

It was no surprise that the single surviving piece of chryselephantine sculpture in the world was a prize to fight over, but the Met refused to even get into the ring.

In a New York Times op-ed, the museum director wrote about the cultural heritage issue at the heart of the battle:

There is no case here. Frederick L. Lennox, who bequeathed the sculpture to us, did not engage in buying contraband. Partage was a common and legitimate system in the nineteenth century, and this treasure was part of that fair exchange-expertise traded for a percentage of what was found. It wasn’t illegal activity then and can’t be looked at as illegal activity now.

Hypnos has been at the Met for over one hundred and twenty years. This is his home, and with us he is safe in a way that he might not be in his homeland. We’ll continue to protect him and prepare him to be shown unless and until we have irrefutable proof that he’s here illegally.

All over the world, museums engaged in similar battles were watching what happened in New York. When accused of harboring looted treasures, most of them took it upon themselves to do the research necessary to prove the legality of their ownership. Not the Met. The director insisted the burden of that proof was on the claimant. The Metropolitan, he said, was under no obligation to prove the opposite. The last will and testament of Frederick L. Lennox had been verified when it was executed over a hundred years before.

Reza had countered by getting a subpoena requiring the museum to turn over Lennox’s bequest and any other pertinent paperwork. When that request was refused, Reza filed with the Manhattan district attorney, asking to be allowed to review the Met’s documents and study the detailed history of the object’s journey to the museum in order to prove it was there illegally. The district attorney was quoted as saying, “A museum must recognize its obligation to return looted objects of art to their country of origin. That’s in the public interest.” But, stopping short of penalizing the Metropolitan, he added, “It is, though, incumbent on Iran to first present some proof that the sculpture was removed illegally.”

A new fit of coughing overtook Samimi, who hated giving his boss the satisfaction of knowing he was affecting him.

“This situation is taking far too long to resolve,” Nassir said. “I’m afraid that this isn’t acceptable.”

“Cultural heritage issues are never resolved quickly. The result is what matters here, not how long it takes to achieve it,” Reza argued.

“But will we ever achieve it? We’ve been involved in tiresome negotiations for more than a year and a half and have managed only to engage a rival country in our battle. We could wind up doing all the work, only to have the Greeks get custody.”

“The sculpture was created there. It’s difficult to imagine that the Greeks wouldn’t stake a claim once it was reported that-” Reza started.

“You should have anticipated that and found a way to keep our request out of the press,” Nassir interrupted, something else he’d never done before today.

Samimi paid strict attention to the volley, looking from the squawk box to the lawyer and then to his boss, who was staring at the burning ember of his cigar.

“Keeping something out of the press is simply not possible in America,” Reza countered.

“Really? Don’t they say anything is possible in America?” Nassir asked.

“Mr. Nassir, we’re arguing about something that happened over a year ago,” the lawyer said. “We have a new problem now and need to deal with that. I can’t take a chance-”

“Thank you, Mr. Reza,” Nassir cut him off again. “Let me look into what you’ve told me and find out where this phony document originated and where the real one is. Because there is a real one, I assure you. Someone is trying to embarrass us. Can you give the papers back to Samimi… Samimi, are you there?”

“Yes, Minister.” He sat up straighter in his chair as if the speakerphone had eyes that had suddenly been turned on him.

“Please show Mr. Reza out and then come back. We have other issues we need to discuss that don’t relate to Hypnos.”

Reza stood and walked to the door without waiting for Samimi, who rushed to catch up and then escorted the lawyer into the reception area. The mission didn’t allow visitors to roam through the offices unescorted.

In the lobby, two uniformed security guards stepped aside to let the men through to the outer hallway where the elevators were.

“I hope you can explain to your boss that we can’t untangle in so short a time what it has taken centuries to tangle.”

“I will, Mr. Reza. At least, I will try,” Samimi said diffidently as he looked up at the lawyer, who had a good three inches on him. “We appreciate your efforts and so does the minister, even if he seemed impatient today.” He pressed the elevator button.

“Seemed?”

For the first time since Samimi had met him, Reza looked worried. Trying to be reassuring, the junior attaché smiled. “It was just the shock of finding this out on the heels of discovering how unsympathetic the museum’s new director is to our cause.” He shrugged. “If I were Tyler Weil, a cultural disaster wouldn’t be the way I’d want to begin my tenure.”

“Or it would be exactly how you’d want to begin it. By making a strong statement cementing your position.”

“Yes, I see your point,” Samimi said. He hadn’t thought of it that way.

The elevator arrived. Reza stepped inside, put his hand out to hold the door open and said, “Let me know as soon as you have any news.”

Samimi noticed the high polish on Reza’s oxfords as the door slid shut and then looked down at his own shining shoes. He’d been paying close attention to everything about the lawyer. It was all part of what he called “the education of Ali Samimi,” a self-styled course designed to help him fit in the way Reza did, despite the man’s skin color and dark hair. Samimi wasn’t just impressed with the American Iranian, he was envious of him: Reza was a US citizen who called New York home and didn’t worry about being shipped back to Iran on someone’s whim.

Returning to the stinking conference room and the call still in progress, Samimi didn’t wonder what he’d missed. He’d find out later when he played back the clandestine recording he hoped his boss had no idea he was making.

The only way to play with wolves, his grandfather had taught him, was to be a wolf. And he was certainly playing with wolves. The minute he’d met Taghinia, Samimi had known that he couldn’t trust him. Taghinia, with his flatulence and his teeth yellowed from the constant cigars, who flaunted his superiority over Samimi and tried to humiliate the younger man at every opportunity. He’d piled more and more work on him, so that now Samimi was doing the lion’s share of his boss’s job as well as his own. The only thing that kept him from complaining was his long-term goal, to find a way to stay in America.

At thirty-five, he’d arrived in New York and felt true passion for the first time in his life. He loved everything about his adopted city: its restaurants, culture, nightlife, energetic pace, its architecture and especially its women. Samimi felt as if he’d merely been alive before; now he was living. Complaining would only ensure his return to Tehran, so he put up with this fifty-two-year-old man who, among his other sins, was immune to the temptations of his adopted home. How was that possible? Taghinia lived three blocks away from the office and never strayed from the neighborhood for anything other than necessities, actually boasting that he’d never seen Central Park, Broadway at night, the Upper East Side or the inside of a restaurant other than Ravagh, the Persian eatery less than ten blocks away. Taghinia often said that he would gladly die for his country and living in New York was halfway to dying. Despising the city for its excesses, he focused on the day when his homeland’s recognition as a superpower would be restored. He repeatedly told Samimi that on the day Islam’s universal dominance was reestablished he would rest, but not before.

Not me, Samimi thought as he sat back down at the conference-room table. Not me. Dying for a principle was a lofty ideal, but not when there was so much to live for-Laurie Yardley being a perfect example of how much. He’d left her apartment that morning while she was still lying naked in her bed, a wanton look on her face as she listed what would be waiting for him when he returned that night. And she was just one of the women Samimi was seeing. He sat down, just in time to hide the bulge in his pants.

“The longer you let this go the more damage can be done. These antique rugs need to be mended as soon as they start to unravel,” Nassir was saying over the speakerphone. “Do you understand? The time to take care of this is now.”

Samimi glanced down at his polished shoes on the brilliant sapphire-and-ruby rug. There were five other Persians of this quality in the office. Each was worth more than most people, even in America, made in a year. It was a travesty. These rugs belonged in museums, or at least hanging on the walls. Nonetheless, the minister’s suggestion didn’t make sense. Regardless of how much traffic the rugs bore, or how much ash his boss dropped on the seventeenth-century masterpieces, none of them needed repairs. Taghinia and the minister were talking in a code Samimi didn’t officially know about but one he’d deciphered months ago.

“We’ll stay on top of it,” Taghinia said.

“I think it’s time to let Samimi be responsible for the rugs,” the minister said.

Taghinia looked over at Samimi, his thick eyebrows raised as if to suggest he was impressed. “Yes, of course, Minister.”

A shiver fishtailed down the younger man’s spine.

“Samimi, are you there?”

“Yes, Minister.”

“I’m counting on you.”

“Yes, Minister.”

“Taghinia will explain.”

Samimi tried to quash the panic down deep in his gut. “Yes, Minister,” he said, hoping that Nassir couldn’t hear how dry his voice had suddenly become.

“Excellent,” he said, and hung up.

“Repairs? What is he talking about?” Samimi asked.

Taghinia waved off the question. “We’re not talking about rugs, you fool.”

“It was a code?” Samimi hoped his acting would pass muster.

“Of course it was a code. The minister was telling me he wants us to get Hypnos home.”

“We have Reza working on that for us.”

“There is too much bureaucracy in this country. Too many regulatory commissions. Too many layers to deal with. We can do it much more quickly bypassing those formalities. We have to move the sculpture out ourselves.”

“We can’t take Hypnos out of the Met illegally.”

“We have men in place in the museum, don’t we?”

“Just two.”

“What’s to stop us from putting in a few more? Get five or six in there.”

“We put them inside the museum to protect the sculpture.”

Taghinia said nothing.

“You said it was security,” Samimi insisted.

“And it was, but it can become something else.”

Samimi hadn’t heard anything about this on the tapes. What had he missed? He felt stupid and then sick as something occurred to him. Twice during the past eight months, Samimi had delivered small objets d’art to the associate curator of the museum’s Islamic art department from a wealthy Iranian who Taghinia had said wished to remain anonymous.

“What about the pieces I’ve given to Deborah Mitchell…is she part of this plan?”

“More insurance.” Taghinia nodded.

“Are the pieces bugged?”

“No.” Taghinia laughed. “They are quite legitimate. I wanted you to get to know someone inside the museum who was familiar with the Islamic art collection.”

Samimi looked down at his fingers, splayed on the table. He had thought he’d outsmarted his boss, but he’d missed some important communiqués. “The Met is one of the most secure institutions in the world.”

“Your point?”

“It’s impenetrable.”

“You sound in awe of this museum. Are you? This Deborah Mitchell…does she mean something to you?”

From the first day that Samimi had walked into the great front hall of the Metropolitan Museum he’d been captivated by the marble and stone, the cool air perfumed by the gigantic arrangements of flowers tucked into alcoves, by the classical Beaux Arts architecture and the endless galleries leading to more endless galleries that offered up the artistic accomplishments of one great culture after another. It was hard for him to separate Deborah from where she worked. Of all the women he’d met in New York and was attracted to, she was the only one he’d refrained from trying to seduce. She was part of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“Of course not, but…what you are suggesting…it’s insane, Farid. You do realize that we are discussing an eight-foot-tall piece of sculpture. I know it’s an important artifact but…”

“Don’t be a fool. We’re talking about more than just a piece of sculpture.” He puffed on his cigar and his reptilian eyes narrowed. “In researching the records for Reza, our minister found a set of documents that he hasn’t shared with the lawyer, or anyone else. It appears that Hypnos could be a map of sorts that holds the secret to how man can access his inner realms and higher consciousness, making visions, clairvoyance, pre-cognition and out-of-body experiences all possible. If tapped, this power would allow man to use his imagination to affect reality. You’d just imagine murdering someone and your imagination would make it happen.”

“You can’t believe that.”

“For all the time you’ve spent in America you still haven’t learned her lessons, have you? Is there anything more valuable than potential, Ali? Than possibility? Than a promise or a threat? Hypnos and his secrets are rightfully ours. We want them back.” He flicked a half inch of dead ash into a crystal ashtray. “Whatever the cost.”