The Hypnotist

FIFTY-ONE

Samimi opened the envelope that had arrived in that morning’s mail. His name was handwritten by a calligrapher on the front and the return address of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was engraved on the back. Running his fingers over the type, he felt the raised letters on the smooth, creamy stock. His hand actually shook a little as he pulled out the invitation and read the date and time of the event, one day short of a week from today. He was elated and nervous at the same time.

You are cordially invited to attend a private showing of Impressionist Masterworks Tuesday, June seventeenth, at six o’clock in the evening The American Wing at The Metropolitan Museum of Art

There was a name, and a phone number and a request to RSVP. Yes, he’d respond. He reread the invitation. June 17. Between now and then there were so many things he had to get right and so many things that could go wrong.

Over another dinner two nights before, Deborah had told him about the event, excited because it would be the first time in decades anyone outside of the Met would see any of the paintings or the sculpture.

He’d commented that it sounded like an odd grouping-Impressionist masterpieces and the statue of Hypnos that his country was so intent on having returned-but she didn’t explain.

“No one outside the museum has seen Hypnos in over a hundred years,” he said wistfully as he signaled the waiter to refill their wineglasses. “What does it look like? What kind of condition is it in?”

She’d smiled and said if he wanted to know, he should come to the reception.

Bingo, he thought, and then smiled. American slang was so expressive.

Now, holding the invitation, he walked across the Persian carpet, headed for Farid Taghinia’s office so he could show him what had come in the mail, but at the door, he hesitated. He should go over Nassir’s plan once more before he faced his boss. The next set of moves was complex and would require skill, concentration and nerves. Taghinia would question him over and over. Test him. Samimi needed to be prepared three and four steps ahead, plan for each contingency. The outcome of this operation would affect more than where Hypnos wound up and who would own it. The trajectories of many people’s lives, his included, were at stake. This was his opportunity to show everyone what he was capable of. If all this worked, he’d be a hero. He’d never have to answer to Taghinia again. But living in New York was an expensive proposition. How long would it take to find another job? He needed…what did they call it? A nest egg, yes, that was it.

Punching a number in on his cell phone, he listened to it ring three times before he heard a man with a gravelly voice answer. Samimi identified himself and exchanged a sentence or two of pleasantries. Then he looked down at the date on the invitation.

“The rugs need to be cleaned, and I think it’s time to do those repairs you suggested before any of them get any worse. Would it be convenient for you to come and get them next Wednesday late afternoon, about four? I’d like to have them all done at the same time.”

It’s not stealing if what you are taking belongs to you, Taghinia had said to him, referring to Hypnos. Did that apply to treason, too? Was it even still treason if those who expected and demanded your loyalty were themselves disloyal?