The Magyar Venus

CHAPTERFOUR

September 10

"HELLO, LILY," MORGAN SAID, AS THE DOOR OPENED. "I hope we haven't caught you at a bad time. We were just driving by, and I thought I'd see if you were in. This is my friend Lara McClintoch. She and I were at college together, and she's an antique dealer. We're on our way to lunch."

"Morgan! How nice," Lily said. "Come in. We'll have a drink. You aren't supposed to drink alone. At least that's what they tell you. I'm always glad when someone comes to call. A gin and tonic, perhaps? Or a nice glass of sherry? The sun is over the yard arm, isn't it? Come and sit down."

She led us into the living room of her home, a rather unprepossessing ranch-style bungalow in one of the wealthier Toronto suburbs. I looked around the room. It did not look like a collector's home to me. The art, by which I mean one painting over the fireplace, was traditional and not particularly good. There were a couple of Royal Doulton figurines, and that's about it. Not that that necessarily meant anything, but I had a pretty good idea which way this was going to go.

"What will you have to drink?" she said, turning to me. "What did you say your name was again, dear?"

"It's Lara," I said, as Morgan and I sat side by side on the pink sofa. "But no drink, thank you." Lily looked very sad. Morgan nudged me.

"Okay, perhaps just a little sherry," I said. Lily's eyes brightened.

"We'll all just have a drop," she said, pouring an enormous amount of sherry and handing it to me.

"I just wanted to stop by and personally say thank you for donating the Venus," Morgan said, taking a tiny sip from an equally large container. "We are all so thrilled. This really will put the museum on the map. It was just so generous of you, and I wanted to tell you that in person. I felt badly that I didn't get a chance the other night, what with the crowds."

"Wasn't that a marvelous evening?" Lily said. "I had seen the Venus before everyone else, of course. Karoly saw to it that I had a special private showing, but still, I wanted to see what the reaction would be."

"You mean Karoly let you see how it was going to be displayed," Morgan said.

"That too," she said.

Morgan glanced over at me. She looked rather perplexed. From my perspective it was playing out pretty much the way I'd expected when I first entered the room. Sometimes in this business checking provenance is a slam dunk. Sometimes it isn't.

"When did you get to see it for the first time?" I said. "That must have been exciting."

"Oh, it was!" she said. "It was just that afternoon. It was supposed to come back from the restorer, or whatever you call those people, a week before it was displayed, but it didn't get there until that day. Karoly was so nervous it wouldn't be ready, it was quite funny. He is such a dear. He looks so confident and everything, but underneath, he's really quite sweet and rather shy. Intelligent, too—he has his PhD, you know—and so polite. If I had a son, I would have wanted him to be just like Karoly. I was sure the Venus would get there in time, but the suspense was quite something."

"Are you saying… ?" Morgan said, then hesitated. "How long have you owned it. Was it in your family for some years?"

"You are not listening, dear," she said, taking a large gulp of her sherry. "I never saw the Venus before the day it was unveiled." Morgan's jaw dropped. "That's an interesting question about my family, though," Lily said. "Karoly thought I might be related to the man that found it in the first place—C. J. Piper. My maiden name is Piper. I've made a stab at tracing it back, but no luck so far. I'm told you can do that kind of thing on the Internet, but I don't like computers. People have such bad handwriting nowadays. They've lost the skill. I used to be complimented on my handwriting. When I was young people wrote the loveliest letters, and diaries, of course. You sent off a letter and waited for the reply with such anticipation. Now it's all instantaneous, and with complete strangers, too. Karoly agrees with me, you know. He said when he had a minute he'd help me trace my ancestors, give me some addresses I could write to."

"I'm sure that was a very generous donation that you made so that Karoly could acquire the Venus," I said.

She hooted. "Reg would turn over in his grave if he knew I'd spent all that money on that little thing. He'd have a fit if he were alive. I gave Karoly a million dollars of Reg's money," she giggled. "I still have lots," she added. "Enough, anyway. Auto parts."

"Auto parts?" Morgan said.

"That's how Reg made his money. Pots of it. I wasn't quite sure what to do with it all when he died. We didn't have children. Then I met Karoly, and he had such a good idea. I like the Cottingham. After Reg died I decided to do some volunteer work, and that was the place I chose. The people there are lovely—I rather like your Woodward, Morgan—and it's nice when people like you come to visit. Karoly comes to visit quite often."

"Where did Karoly find the Venus?" I said.

"I don't know," she said. "Wherever people like him find things like that. Have some more sherry, will you?"

"No, thanks," we said in unison.

"Don't mind if I do," she said, refilling her glass. "I'm not sure I was supposed to tell anybody about the money," she said.

"Oh, we won't tell anybody," Morgan said. "Will we, Lara?"

"No," I said. "Not if you don't want us to. But why wouldn't you tell people? It's a very generous donation, and it might encourage others to do the same."

"I don't think Karoly wanted me to," she said. "That's why."

Morgan looked a little like the Cheshire cat. "Well, Lily, we'd better get on our way," she said. "We don't want to take up too much of your time."

"Oh, it's no bother," she said. "I don't suppose you'd come again?"

"Of course I will," Morgan said.

"You come too, Lara," she said. "Soon."

"Isn't that something?" Morgan said as we reached her car. "The woman saw the Venus practically the same time we did. And that creep Karoly lied about it. I can't wait to tell the Divas."

"Hold on a minute," I said. "I can't remember Karoly's exact words, but she did donate the Venus in a way. She gave him the money to acquire it, and the Cottingham would never have managed to acquire it without her. I think he simply said that she had made a very generous donation. He may have been a little vague on the form that donation took, that's all. We could fault him on sins of omission, I suppose, in that he didn't actually mention the check. But this proves nothing."

"Whose side are you on?" she said.

"I'm on the side of intellectual honesty," I said. "You and the others have decided the Venus is a fake and Karoly is a fraud, but we have proved no such thing, nor have we proved otherwise. All we've done is confirm that the Venus was never in her possession. Given her maiden name, it would have been interesting if the Venus had been in her family for some time. This just makes it a little harder, that's all."

"Intellectual honesty? You are beginning to sound almost as pompous as he does. I suppose you're still in love with him," she said. "Admit it."

"Don't be ridiculous. It was twenty years ago, and he doesn't even remember me."

"So you've mentioned," she said. "I'm not sure I believe you, but," she said, her voice softening, "I can understand it in a way. But you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking maybe he's the one behind the attempted break-in. He knows the Venus won't stand up to the intense scrutiny of the scientific establishment, so unveils it, gets all the credit, then tries to steal it so no one who knows anything can get a close look at it."

"I would have thought that if that was his intention, to steal the Venus, I mean, he'd have done a better job of it, knowing all he does about the security systems."

"Hmm," she said. "I suppose you're right. What next, then?"

"I'll have to think about that. I should just ask Charles, but given I didn't use the opportunity the other night at the Cottingham to get reacquainted, I'll have to figure out how to approach him," I said. "Would you…?"

"Don't look at me," she said. "Charles and I do not get along."

So much for that idea. I suppose I could have predicted it based on the conversation I'd overheard at the Cottingham. "Then I'll have to think about how to approach this," I said.

As it turned out, I didn't have to work at it at all. Within a few hours, my telephone rang.

"Lara McClintoch, please," a man said, and my heart leapt. I would have known that voice anywhere.

"Speaking," I said, a little breathlessly.

"Will you forgive me for not recognizing you the other night?" the voice said.

"I'm not sure," I said. I should have said "Who is speaking, please?"

"Will you have dinner with me so I can persuade you?"

"I don't know," I said. My conversational skills, such as they were, seemed to have deserted me.

"Browne's Bistro in an hour?" the voice said.

"Browne's in an hour," I replied.

"Please don't stand me up, even if I deserve it," the voice said.

Thereupon followed an incredible forty-five minutes of trying on various outfits and almost screaming with frustration when my favorite suit had a mark on the lapel. I finally settled for what I thought was a sophisticated black light wool crepe pant suit, black silk pumps, and a silk shirt in what I hoped was a flattering shade, seafoam green, a color that Rob used to tell me matched my eyes. Did I care the suit was a little too warm for these early autumn days? No, I did not. It made me look thinner, didn't it? Needless to say, I was late.

He stood up the minute I walked through the door. He was dressed in an expensive gray suit that matched the touch of gray at his temples—and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.

He took my hand and kissed it. It should have been a nice gesture, but it reminded me of his speech the other evening and his rather patronizing comments, I thought, about women, or rather ladies, to use his term, and his harsh tone with one or two of our fellow classmates. "So now I see what I missed by being too vain to wear my glasses," he said. "It serves me right. You look absolutely wonderful." He pulled out my chair, still holding my hand. Indeed he didn't let go of it for some time.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," he said. "I've been sitting here in agony." In an instant, I forgave him everything.

"How could I resist seeing the fabulous Charles Miller again?" I said. "Also known as Karoly Molnar, the man of the hour in the Toronto arts scene."

"You're teasing me," he said. "Here, please sit down. I have ordered a bottle of champagne. May I?" he said, lifting the bottle and a flute.

"Just a little," I said. "It's good to see you, but in order to be forgiven, you are going to have to explain this Charles Karoly business right away. And then I want the whole scoop on the Magyar Venus. How you got her. Everything. But start with the name." I didn't want him to get the impression I was only there for the Venus. And maybe I wasn't.

"I was born in Hungary," he said, as we clinked glasses. "I expect I never told you that. Karoly Molnar is my real name. My parents, Imre and Magdolna, fled the country during the 1956 uprising, when I was three years old. I believe I have just revealed my age. I'm older than you are."

"I know that," I replied. "That was part of your appeal in college."

"Was it?" he smiled. "The sophisticated older man. I wasn't really very sophisticated, now was I?"

"I thought you were," I said.

"No, you didn't. I'm sure a whiff of my humble beginnings must have crept through, no matter how hard I tried."

"I remember nothing of the sort. I can't recall meeting your family, though, now that you mention it. You told me they were in Europe, didn't you? Was it London?"

"It was London, all right. London, Ontario, actually, but I didn't specify. I was too embarrassed to introduce them to you. You were so worldly. Father in diplomatic corps, lived all over the world. I remember you invited me to your home for dinner. Such charming parents, fabulous conversation, lovely food! I came from a decidedly working-class family. If you'd come to my place, you'd have eaten paprikas csirke, chicken paprika, at the kitchen table. I didn't speak English until I went to school, and never at home. My mother never learned enough English that she would speak it at home. My father was a factory worker, and my mother worked in a bakery. She made Hungarian cakes—dobos torte and the like, and they served her gulyas at lunch time. It was a hard life for both of them, and frankly at some point they just embarrassed me, I regret to say."

"You would hardly be the only or even the first kid to be embarrassed by his or her parents," I said.

"Perhaps, but not all of them deluded themselves that their parents didn't exist. I don't know if you remember, but I didn't attend our graduation ceremony, because I didn't want to have my name—my real name—read out."

"I remember you weren't there. It was a big disappointment for me, but I thought you had a job interview in Paris, or something like that."

"I know. As for your recollection I was in Paris, that's probably what I said. When I went to university, I created this whole new persona—I changed my name, although not legally, and just pretended I was someone else. Part of me just got tired of always having to correct the pronunciation of my name everywhere I went. I always got Carollee. That sounds like a line of frozen cakes, if you ask me. 'Karroy,' I was always saying. 'It's pronounced Karroy Molenar, emphasis almost always on the first syllable in Hungarian.' I got really tired of saying that."

"I can understand that. I don't much like Lera, either. It sounds like a video game. It's Lahra. I'm named for the character in Dr. Zbivago, the one played by Julie Christie in the movie. My mother was reading the book while she waited for my arrival. I never did understand why I don't look like Julie Christie, with a name like that."

"You have just proved my point," he said. "Your parents read Boris Pasternak. Mine didn't. I wanted parents who read things like that. I'd have settled for parents who knew who Boris Pasternak was!"

"I don't know what you're going on about," I said. "My parents claim to this day that it was the Hungarians that made Toronto the cosmopolitan city it is. There wasn't a coffee house in Toronto before 1956 when so many Hungarians fled the country during the revolution. They brought the first whiff of European sophistication the city had ever seen. Budapest was one of the most cultured cities in Europe at one time, maybe it still is, for all I know. My father was there, in Austria, I mean. It was his first foreign posting. He was there in 1956. He told me often how some time in 1956 the people rose up to throw off their Communist oppressors, and—"

"October twenty-third," Charles said.

"October twenty-third, then. He said that for several days the country was united against the Communists, and for a few wonderful days, it seemed as if the country would be free. But then the Communists came back."

"The night of November third," he said. "The Communist tanks which had circled the city of Budapest moved in. I can remember my mother telling me there was a tank in Pannonia utca, Pannonia Street, at Szent Istvan koriit, which was very close to where we lived, and how frightened she was."

"Yes. And then people found whatever transport they could—buses, trucks, cars, and they headed for the border. And when they couldn't get any further, they got out and walked, streamed across the border into Austria. My dad was there. Maybe he met your parents! Western countries had set up kind of mini-consulates in tents just across the border in Austria, and my father was a low-level cultural attache working in the Canadian tent. They worked day and night to process the applications. He was very proud that so many Hungarians—tens of thousands of them!—chose Canada."

"They emptied the jails you know, in those heady days when they rather naively thought the Communists would allow them their freedom. There were lots of political prisoners, certainly, but there were also common criminals who went free. No doubt some of those streamed across the border, to use your term, and hence to Canada too."

"I'm sure some of them did. You could say the same thing about Castro letting people leave Cuba. The criminal element came with them. But, on balance we have been enriched by the people who came, their art, their culture, their food."

"Maybe," he said. "You are obviously the kind of person who sees the cup as half-full."

"I think that's probably true. I tend to be optimistic more often that not." Not that I was feeling particularly optimistic these days, but why bother to mention it?

"I, I'm afraid, am a cup-half-empty kind of guy. All I'm saying is that people had many reasons for leaving Hungary in 1956, not all of them positive. I must tell you, though, that I owe my life here to a goose. Don't laugh. It's true. The way my mother told the story, they had a wonderful apartment in Budapest. You'll understand that was an accomplishment during that time. Still, when the revolution came, my mother and father wanted to leave Budapest while they could, while my grandmother, who was living with them, didn't. They were very hungry. The Soviet forces had surrounded the city and cut off the supply of food. My grandmother, according to my parents, was a wizard at finding stuff on the black market. She said she knew where to find a goose. My father said he was going to get a truck to carry us to the border. It was agreed that if my grandmother got the goose, they'd stay. If not, they'd take the truck and make a run for it. My grandmother lined up for the goose, but they ran out of them just two people ahead of her in line. So here I am. I have always thought of that as a metaphor for my life, the role that fate seems to play in it from time to time, but also there's something about it all hinging on a goose, a certain farcical element that dogs my steps."

I laughed. "So why go back now, then, to your real name?" I asked. "My mother thought you were absolutely divine, by the way, when she met you."

"Thank your mother for me. She's well, is she? Yes? Good. I guess I just acquired enough credentials—I got my doctorate in fine arts as you may know, and a fancy wife and job, enough polish, maybe, that it didn't matter anymore. Or maybe I just couldn't go on the way I was. It catches up to you. You can't maintain the facade, at least I couldn't. And, to be perfectly honest, there was some advantage in it. I was only one of hundreds, thousands of curators in Britain, but after the fall of Communism, there was a great deal of interest in seeing what kind of art exhibits one might put together with the new regimes in Eastern Europe. I volunteered that I could speak Hungarian, so they sent me off to Budapest. I made contacts reasonably easily, given I could speak the language, although Hungarians do say I speak it very well for someone who wasn't born there—I remained silent on the fact that I was born there—and I got to curate a very popular exhibit on the hidden treasures of Eastern Europe. Moved right up the hierarchy with that one."

"And the fancy wife?" I wasn't going to ask that question, but somehow it just popped out of my mouth.

"Still in England. We are legally separated, and not particularly amicably, I'm afraid. I'm sure that even as we speak she is telling her lawyer what he has to do to make my life a misery."

"Perhaps not right this minute," I smiled. "It's the middle of the night in England."

"If I told you that she now sleeps with her lawyer, would you believe me? I gather that relationship was going on a lot longer than I knew," he said ruefully. "But never mind. I have recreated myself anew, as the suave, debonair eligible bachelor. Lady's man, even," he laughed. "I'm thinking about having laser surgery on my eyes, so what happened that night at the museum won't happen again. What do you think? Foolish to be a lady's man who can't see the beautiful ladies, isn't it?"

"I suppose," I said. "But speaking about being a lady's man, what was all that garbage the other night about being in love with a much younger woman, and the little Venus who wouldn't reveal her age and everything," I said. "That was a bit over the top." My tone was light, but I was really interested to hear what he'd say.

"Wasn't that awful?" he said. "The things I have to do."

"It was rather…"

"Sexist? Insincere? I hate to think of the impression I must have made on you, but I am required to look at it a different way. My job is to flatter. Do you know how many people that evening wrote a check to the museum, how many people became members? Forty-five. We got almost $60,000 in pledges that one evening alone, and a well-known art collector told me he wants to come and talk to me about donating his collection of Shang bronzes. A rather fabulous collection it is, too. Look at the audience. They were, by and large, older and rich. My job is to help them part with a tiny bit of their money. God knows we need it. Cottingham donated his collection and built the place, but like so many people who build these monuments to ego, he didn't give anything to keep it operating. Lillian is a real dear, a very generous woman, and she loved it. For me, that is what counted. I adore her. Have you met her, by the way?" He looked right at me as he said that, and I had the distinct feeling he knew the answer. I was lobbing questions at him that I hoped would reveal something I needed to know about him, and he was doing exactly the same thing to me.

"I just met her today," I said. "Morgan, you know, Vesta, and I were planning to meet for lunch and she suggested I come along with her when she went to visit to thank her for the donation."

"Ah," he said. "That was nice of her. Did our Lily offer you a drink?"

"Oh yes," I said. "It was a little early in the day, and it was the largest glass of sherry I have ever seen. I believe I could have arranged a large bunch of flowers in the container she handed to me. But like you, I know what is required. I sipped it very carefully."

"She does tipple a bit," he smiled. "Speaking of which, have some more champagne. You've hardly had any."

"I'm cutting back. It's a New Year's resolution."

"It's September," he said. "You're either too early or too late. Drink up. So what did our Lily have to say?" He was studiously casual. It was another of those questions.

"To tell you the truth," I said—always beware of statements that begin with "to tell you the truth"—"It was a little confusing. The sherry perhaps. It was hard to tell if she had donated the Venus or if she'd donated cash toward the purchase."

The ball was now back in his court. "Cash," he said. "A great deal of it. As I believe I mentioned, I adore her."

"That's nice. She said you come to visit her quite often."

"I do, perhaps to make up for the disgraceful way I treated my mother."

"Where are your parents now?" I said.

"Dead," he said. "And I never got to say I'm sorry."

"Oh, Charles!" I said. "That's… I don't know what to say."

"There is nothing you can say," he said. "But will you call me Karoly? I know it will be awkward at first, but it would mean a lot to me. I suppose it's my way of trying to make it up to them."

"Of course I will," I said.

"Thank you. And now, please, enough about my sordid past. It's your turn. I want to know everything you've done since we last saw each other. You aren't married, are you? You aren't wearing a ring."

"I was once, to a guy by the name of Clive Swain. I'm divorced."

"Do you ever see him?"

"Every day. We're in business together. We own an antique shop called McClintoch Swain."

"How, er, modern," he said. "What kind of relationship is it, if I may ask?"

"You may. It's business," I said. "Although I do see him socially as well, because he lives with my best friend, Moira. How modern is that?"

"Too much for me," he laughed. "I feel like a dinosaur. It's probably why I like antiquities. I can't even contemplate being in business with my soon-to-be ex. For that matter, I can't contemplate being in the same room with her ever again. But might there be someone else in your life? Given I've been so frank about my marital status, and given our common past, you'll notice I feel quite comfortable asking. Tell me if you'd prefer I just shut up."

"I don't mind answering. I too have just recently joined the ranks of the unattached. I was in a relationship for a few years, but it's over."

"You're not thinking of starting a business with him, are you?"

"Not a chance," I said. "He's a policeman."

"I see," he said. "Are you hurting, or anything?"

"Hurting?"

"I get the impression the breakup is very recent."

"I'm fine," I said for the thousandth time on that subject. "But let's not talk about our past love lives. Tell me about the Venus. Where you found her? What she cost? How you know she's authentic."

"I suppose you really are interested," he said. "Given you are in the antique business. I had an antique shop once, very briefly, a few years back. I didn't last long. I'll be interested to hear how you manage it. But how nice to talk to someone who would not only be interested, but would understand what I'm talking about!"

"Same here," I said, and he reached across the table and took my hand.

"Are you hungry?" he said.

"Starving," I said.

"Me too," he said, as we both looked at the menu. "Shall I order for us both?"

"No," I said. "I'll order for myself. You really are a dinosaur," I added.

He laughed. "Okay," he said. "Decide what you want, but don't tell me, and I'll tell you what I would have ordered for you."

"Okay," I said in a minute or two. "I'm ready."

"Green salad to start," he said. "Followed by the grilled salmon. And, for the middle of the table—you wouldn't have ordered this for yourself, which is why I'm doing it for you, because you really want it—a bowl offrites. How did I do?"

"You were just exactly right," I said. "Even about the French fries. Especially about the French fries."

"Ah ha!" he said. "I knew it! You'll be having that molten chocolate thing for dessert if you let me order." He turned to the waiter. "Did you get that?" he asked. "I'll have the same. And we'll have a bottle of the—"

"Oregon pinot noir," I said. "Did I get it right?"

He threw back his head and laughed. "You did. Have I mentioned how absolutely wonderful it is to see you again? Why didn't we stay in touch? Why did we both marry other people?"

"Oh, I don't know," I said. "But here we are. Now about the Venus. What a coup! You must have been just thrilled to get her. She is exquisite, by the way. I didn't quite know what to expect, and I suppose being in the business I might be a little jaded, but she almost took my breath away. Others thought so too, obviously. Didn't I hear someone broke into the Cottingham that night?"

"You are dodging my question. No doubt I am going too fast. So, as to your question: the police think it was a break-in. I think it was a drunk who just didn't notice he was off the road and that there was a glass wall in front of him. In fact there was very little damage, just one of the large glass panels. It could have been accomplished with a hammer, I think. But there are car tracks. I don't mind the break-in story though. The Cottingham can use the publicity, and the idea that someone would make a grab for it the night it is unveiled can't hurt the mystique."

"So where did you get her?" I said. "I confess I haven't had a chance to start your book about Piper, but I will soon. I'm looking forward to it."

"That's nice of you. But as to how I found the Venus, I found the diaries first. As I think I mentioned, I had an antique store. It was in Budapest. I rather glossed over my stay in Budapest. My parents died within six months of each other. I suffered a little crisis at the time. That's a nice way of putting it. I completely fell apart. I took a leave from the Bramley Museum and went to Hungary to—what?—try to find my roots? Atone for my sins? I don't know. But it was 1990, and these were very interesting times in Budapest. A lot of Hungarian emigres went back. People thought there were unusual and attractive business opportunities, and there were. After the Communists were tossed out, people were given the opportunity to buy back businesses that had been confiscated by the regime. I found a man by the name of Bela Szilagyi whose family had owned an antique business, and I got the capital for him to repurchase it. I ran it for him. At least that's what we said, because he was supposed to be the one that owned it. What I did was pay him a small share of the proceeds. For awhile we both did reasonably well.

"There were fabulous things to be found. A lot of art was confiscated during those terrible years and redistributed—I suppose that's the word—to people deemed worthy by the regime. With the Communists gone, and capitalism restored, there were suddenly a lot of people rather badly off, and selling their art was one way of getting cash. Budapest was, at the turn of the last century, a very cosmopolitan city, certainly the equal of Vienna, for example, and it may even have put London to shame. People were well educated, and cultured. So yes, there was a lot of art to stock my shop, but it was perhaps best not to ask too much about where it came from. People simply walked in with it. There are government-controlled antique shops, but also private ones. I was on Falk Miksa. Do you know Budapest at all?"

"No. I've never been there."

"Falk Miksa is a relatively short street at the Pest side of the Margit Bridge. You know that Pest is on one side of the Danube, and Buda on the other? Yes? The street is very near the Parliament Buildings. And it is just lined with antique stores. So it was a good place for the shop, and it was where Szilagyi's family had theirs before it was taken over by the state. My wife hated Budapest. She couldn't speak the language. It was the beginning of the end of our marriage. I suspect now that she took up with a Hungarian. Women find Hungarian men very attractive."

"You are a Hungarian man," I said.

He laughed. "You're right. I never thought of it that way. I loved being in Budapest. The cafes, the opera, the theater. It was ridiculous of me to think, though, that my wife, sitting in our apartment just off Andrassy ut, nice as it was, would be having a good time all by herself."

"But the diaries?"

"Right. The diaries. An elderly Hungarian woman walked in one day with a box of stuff that she said had belonged to her father. I took a look through it. There were letters and, as it turned out, several pages from a diary, as well as some sketches that were obviously part of it. It was in English. I felt sorry for the woman, and bought the whole box of stuff, although there was nothing, I thought, of interest. Shortly after that, my wife put her foot down and demanded we go back to England. I finished up my other freelance work, which was the touring exhibit I mentioned, sold my interest in the shop, and we moved back to England. I took the box with me. I have no idea why. Fate, I guess. There seemed no reason to leave it in the shop because there was nothing of value there.

"One day—I was back at the Bramley Museum, forgiven, and in fact promoted to chief curator, because I'd done that exhibit—I was going through a collection of papers belonging to C. J. Piper. He'd held the same position I did, and all his documents came to the Bramley when he died. In any event, as I was going through the papers, I found a record of a presentation he had made to a group of men that apparently met monthly in a private room in a pub just off Piccadilly. Some of these men were doctors, several worked at the Bramley, including Piper, and others were just some interested citizens. They all apparently had an interest in paleontology. This particular presentation was about the discovery of a grave in the Biikk Mountains in Hungary, and there were drawings that accompanied it. I knew there was something familiar about the drawings, and several days later it came to me. They were more formal renderings of the sketches I'd seen in the diaries I'd purchased in Hungary. You can imagine my excitement. I went back through the diaries, and found the story of the expedition that had found a burial in the Biikk. How they became separated, I don't know, and why the diaries were back in Budapest, when the work had been presented in London, I'm not sure either. I'm making a rather long tale out of this, aren't I?"

"I'm enjoying this," I said.

"You're in the business. You have some idea how I felt, particularly when I got to the part about finding a skeleton in a cave with a lot of beads and a carving of the head and torso of a woman. There and then began my search for the Venus."

"And you found her where?"

"I got her from a dealer in Europe. He'd been shopping her around. You get to hear these things. I tried to be pretty cool about it, but the dealer either knew what he had, or could sense my excitement, as much as I tried to hide it. He'd been trying to flog it to various museums, without more interest, but that may be because this was not a formal meeting of the Royal Geographic Society, or anything like that. This just seems to have been a group of men who got together once a month to hear someone talk on a subject that had to do with their interest in bones. It may simply have been an excuse to get out of the house and drink and smoke cigars for all I know."

"So where did Piper find the Venus? Did you not say we didn't know exactly where?"

"The diaries detail Piper's excavations in a cave in the Biikk Mountains of northern Hungary, not far from a place called Lillafured. But there are hundreds and hundreds of caves there, and we don't know exactly which one Piper found the skeleton and the Venus in. But there was enough evidence in the diaries, and a very detailed description of the Venus and I knew I'd found her. The dealer told me the asking price. I laughed. There was no way the Bramley would have purchased it. But then I ended up in Toronto for various reasons, and I managed to find a donor for it in Lily Larrington. I went back with Lily's lovely money and made the dealer an offer he couldn't refuse.

"I still had a few bad moments, you'll understand, while the tests were being done, but the Venus panned out. She's real, and she is, despite what you think of my male chauvinism, so beautiful she takes my breath away. If a man can be in love with an inanimate object, I am that man."

"I can't disagree with you," I said. "She is beautiful. There is something almost magical about her. Especially when you think how old she is. And now what are your plans? This will surely make your reputation. You could go and work anywhere you want, couldn't you?"

"I don't know whether that is true or not, but at this point, I am very happy to be here. I like the Cottingham very much, and I think it has all kinds of potential. Major didn't have a clue about running a museum. He just wanted the tax receipt and the ego massage. There is much that can be done, and Courtney, bless her, is very amenable to the kinds of things I am proposing. You probably noticed that Major is more than a little out of it, so she is the person I deal with.

"I don't want you to think I'm enjoying a paid retirement, or anything. I work hard there, but I often think of Piper, who apparently felt his work in the Biikk was enough. When I was working on the book, I went and found his favorite haunts. I even know where he is buried. I found the graveyard in Devon. He was considered quite the expert, and was consulted widely on ancient man during his later years. I can't find any record of his having done much after the work in the Biikk. Perhaps it was enough that he could dine out on it indefinitely, lucky sod. I'm hoping to do the same now, of course, that the magic of the Venus will rub off on me." He smiled rather sheepishly.

"I'm sure it will," I said. One way or the other, I thought. We were both quiet for a minute or two.

"Do you remember your favorite antique purchase?" he said. "Or the first?"

"The first, for sure," I said. "And because it was first, it may even be my favorite. I have it in my den still. It was a carved daybed and side table, and I found it in a barn and restored it myself. I used it as a bed all through college. It was in my studio apartment on Dovercourt."

"God, it was uncomfortable," he said. "Not that I cared."

"It was just fine for one person," I said.

"Exactly my point," he laughed. "That was a slum, really, when you think about it. But those were wonderful days. What was it you called yourselves? The Dovercourt…"

"Divas," I said. "And I believe you dated all of us, more than one at the same time, if the revelations in the bar the other night are anything to go by."

"Mmmm," he said. "Did I?"

"I think so," I said. "Although, obviously I refused to admit it to myself at the time."

"I may have been dating more than one of you at first, but you are the one I was with exclusively for quite awhile. I was enamored, you know."

"Me, too," I said. "But that was a long time ago."

"I suppose it was," he said. "You called yourselves divas, in other words, goddesses. Now that I think about it, you all had goddess names. Diana, Roman goddess of wisdom and the chase. Anna, a very ancient goddess, Ana or Anu, Cybil is Cybele, an Asiatic fertility goddess, and in Rome, the consort of Attis, Vesta was the Roman goddess of the hearth. Vesta still has a goddess name, incidentally. Morgan is Celtic. As for Grace, not a real goddess, perhaps, but the three Graces, companions of the goddess of Love."

"All goddesses except me," I said.

"No, no, you too," he said. "You don't know about the Dea Muta?"

"I guess not," I said.

"Lara was a Nymph, one that was asked by Zeus to help him in his planned seduction, or should I say rape, of another Nymph. Lara not only refused, but she told Hera, Zeus's wife, about his plans. In revenge, Zeus ripped out her tongue and banished her to the Underworld. She became known as the Dea Muta, the Silent Goddess, because she could no longer speak. She is supposed to be the averter of malicious gossip. Some consider her a Muse. In Roman times, she became Tacita, from which we get words like taciturn. Appropriate name for you, I think. I have spilled my guts on my marriage and my parents, and my guilty conscience, and you have told me very little. That is perhaps because, like the male chauvinist I undoubtedly am, I have done all the talking."

"I've told you all kinds of things!" I protested. "My shop, my marriage, my just-ended relationship."

"You have given me a chronology of events. I did this, I married him, I did that. You have not revealed your heart to me. I think there is something you are holding back, but that's an impression only. Perhaps I'm imagining it, or perhaps you are just reserved because it has been so many years, and you're not sure whether to trust me."

Sometimes inadvertently people say things that come just a little too close to the bone. Here I was flirting with this man, all the while trying to get information out of him so that I could help my former college mates destroy him, professionally speaking. At least I thought that was what I was doing. Or maybe not.

"I suppose this evening must come to an end," he said, when I didn't reply. "I'll get the bill."

"I'll split it with you," I said.

"No, you won't," he said. "In the first place, I invited you, and in the second, I have not done nearly enough groveling yet to make up for the other night. Excuse me for a minute, will you?"

So he was off to the men's room, leaving his glasses sitting on the table. How tempting it was to reach over and put them on, to see if his vision was anywhere near as bad as he implied it was. My hand reached out, but then I drew it back. Some things it's best not to know.

I looked about the restaurant and was surprised to see Morgan and Woodward Watson at a table on the far side, although I don't know why I should have been. It was a very popular neighborhood bistro. So engrossed had I been in my conversation with Karoly that I hadn't seen them come in. She quite obviously knew I was there. I gave her the slightest nod of the head, but she didn't acknowledge me, and her expression was unreadable. I turned my attention back to the glasses.

I was still looking at them when he returned. "Did you try them?" he said. If he'd seen Morgan he didn't mention it.

"Try what?" I said, as if I didn't know.

"My glasses. To see if my vision was sufficiently bad that I wouldn't recognize you."

"No," I replied. "I'll take your word for it."

"Maybe you shouldn't," he said.

"Okay, let me rephrase that, since you have accused me of holding back. I wasn't sure my fragile ego could cope with the truth. Is it time to go?" I said, in as casual a voice as I could muster.

"The truth?" he said sitting down and reaching across the table to take my hand. "Let me tell you about that evening. It should have been a triumph. I accepted the job at the Cottingham with no great expectations. My marriage to the British aristocracy was over. I hadn't got along well with many of the curators of the Bramley. I thought they were resistant to any kind of change, and certainly, museums do have to get more in touch with what the public wants or they will just molder away. They thought I was ignoring their advice, and running roughshod over good museum practice. Dumbing down, I think they called what I was trying to do, which was to get people in the door. I had the support of the board of governors, but I got tired of all the battles—both personal and professional. I just wanted to come home, and Toronto is the place I consider home, even after all these years. At that point in time I was prepared to stay, to lick my wounds, to languish forever in a small museum like the Cottingham.

"But through what some would call serendipity, others, less generous, dumb luck, I had happened upon an almost twenty-five-thousand-year-old Venus. It should have been one of the best nights of my life. But minutes before I walked to the podium I was told by our accountants that someone I'd hired, someone I'd known a long time, and had placed in a position of trust, had violated that trust. I fired the person that evening. It was unpleasant, no, way beyond unpleasant. It was ugly.

"If that wasn't enough, I'd been in a relationship—one's judgment immediately following a marriage breakup is, I'm sure, impaired. Bad idea, I know, taking up with someone on the rebound. Just how bad an idea it was became very clear to me that evening. I broke it off. So when I was sitting there signing books, Sophia Loren, Queen Elizabeth, Jennifer Lopez, you name it, could have shown up and I wouldn't have recognized her. All I can say is I'm sorry, please forgive me."

"Okay," I said.

"Okay?" he said. "Okay what?"

"Okay, I forgive you."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that," I said. He could not know that I'd been lurking outside his office and knew exactly what he was talking about. But I felt better somehow. It did explain rather a lot about what I'd seen that evening, enough that I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. Besides, it was very good to see him again.

"Did you drive?" he said.

"I took a taxi," I said. "My car is in for repairs for a couple of days."

"I'll take you home," he said.

He walked with me along the lane way that led to my house from the street, then past the white picket fence, right up to my door. There he kissed me lightly on the lips, before walking to the gate. He turned then, and looked back at me. For a moment or two I thought he was going to ask to come in, and I think I wanted him to.

"The Dea Muta," he said instead. "I wonder what it is you aren't telling me." Then he blew me a kiss and was gone.