Ben walked through the exhibition, finally understanding all the buzz. Recovered art always felt more exciting. Even Ben, who’d spent countless hours in museums and galleries around the world, felt his pulse pick up as he wandered. The room had filled with chattering clutches of excited admirers whispering over each painting. Photographs were strictly prohibited, but he saw a few respectable folks grabbing cell phone pictures behind their wineglasses. The energy in the room was palpable.
But then there was the woman.
She sat on a bench in the center of the room, back straight, eyes going back and forth between two canvases that sat side by side on the longest wall. Crowds blocked Ben’s view of the paintings, but the young woman didn’t seem to see the people. She stared through them, her gaze distant.
She’d been crying.
Ben felt someone bump his arm.
“I see you found the best room,” Chloe said. “Isn’t Samson’s work amazing? This is so cool.”
“She doesn’t seem to think so.” Ben nodded at the crying woman.
“Hmmm.” Chloe narrowed her eyes. “How do you manage to find a damsel in distress even at an art museum?”
“It’s a talent.”
“It’s something.”
The woman appeared to be around Ben’s age or a little younger. Early twenties. Her skin was a pale cream and her hair the color of bittersweet chocolate, sleek and twisted in a knot at the base of her skull. Her face was a Botticelli Madonna, but her eyes were red. Her cheeks and lips were flushed.
“Well,” Chloe whispered, “I have to say that is the prettiest crying woman I’ve ever seen.”
Ben bit his lip to keep from smiling. “Don’t be a brat. She’s genuinely upset.”
“I can tell. But when I’m upset, my nose gets swollen and snotty and my face turns red. It’s not very pretty.”
“I know. I remember.”
Chloe’s elbow landed in his side. It hadn’t gotten any softer over the years.
“Moved by art or tragedy?” Ben said.
“Can it be both? The painter was killed by the Nazis because he was Jewish. Most of his work and his family were destroyed. It’s a tragic story even if you’re not a fan of his paintings.”
“True.”
“Are you going to talk to her?” Chloe said.
“I think so.” He cocked his head. “Italian?”
“You and your weird thing about nationalities.”
“It’s languages more than nationalities.” He glanced at Chloe. “Should I try Italian? It might be charmingly disarming.”
Chloe examined the woman again. “French. No one wears scarves like French women.”
“Oh, good eye,” he said. “You may be on to something there.”
Chloe patted his arm. “Go and comfort her, Romeo. Make sure you get her number. If you give her yours, she’s too emotionally distraught to keep it.”
“Good call.” Ben started to walk away, then he turned. “Is this weird?”
“Me giving you advice about picking up crying women?” Chloe scrunched up her face in that way he found adorable. “Kind of? But not really. Just don’t be a toad. If she wants to be left alone, leave her alone.”
“Okay.” He nodded. She was right. It was weird. But his whole life was weird, so that bit didn’t bother him much.
Casually, Ben walked over to the bench and sat next to the woman, staring at the two paintings on the main wall as he relaxed for a moment. He glanced at her, saw her looking before she looked away. He smiled and crossed his arms, bringing his hand up to his chin and idly stroking his thumb over his lower lip.
The woman sniffed delicately, and Ben saw his opening.
Reaching for the linen handkerchief he kept in his pocket, he held it out to her. “Mademoiselle, un mouchoir?”
A faint smile through her tears. “Merci.” She reached for it and dabbed her eyes. “How did you know I was French?”
“Just a feeling.” She didn’t have much of an accent, but Chloe was right. Definitely French. “My name is Ben. Are you feeling all right? Can I help you?”
“I am fine, I assure you. I’m…” She shook her head and motioned around the gallery. “Emotional, I suppose. A bit overwhelmed by all this.”
“You’re a passionate lover of Samson’s art then?”
“I am.” She smiled. “I’m very passionate about his art.”
He smiled back and angled his legs toward her. “But that’s not the whole story, is it?”
She offered Ben her hand. “I’m sorry. You told me your name was Ben, but I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Emilie.”
“Nice to meet you, Emilie. That’s a beautiful name.”
“Thank you. I was named for my great-grandmother’s twin brother, Emil Samson.”
“So your family, is it involved in the exhibition?” Ben had recovered from the shock and moved closer to Emilie on the bench. She wasn’t leaning away from him.
“I’m afraid not.”
“That’s surprising. You’d think they’d ask the artist’s surviving family for—”
“Some of his paintings?”
“Maybe. Or sketches. Family pictures. Things like that.”
“I doubt they even know we exist. And it wouldn’t matter if they did. We have nothing.” Emilie gestured around the room. “These all come from private collections.”
“Samson left no paintings with his family?”
“He did,” Emilie said. “Of course he did. But Emil wasn’t the only one arrested. My great-grandmother, Emil’s sister, was taken to the camps with most of the family. Her daughter, my grandmother, was sent to a convent to be raised in secret. My great-grandmother did survive, but when she returned there was nothing left. Everything had been stolen or destroyed.”
Ben frowned. “That’s horrible. Surely there’s some recourse for her. She has birth records?”
“She does, but…” Emilie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. Emil sold much of his work—he was quite well-known—so these could easily have come from a legitimate collector who simply hid the paintings so the government could not destroy them. Perhaps an heir found them. Perhaps they simply felt the time was right. They remain in an anonymous collection, so it’s not for me to say.”
Ben glanced at the two paintings Emilie had been staring at. “These two, are they special?”
Her eyes went wide. “Are you saying you don’t know the story of the Labyrinth Trilogy?”
The majority of the crowd had drifted to the front gallery where a string quartet was playing and wine was being served. Ben remained with Emilie, enjoying the quiet of the Samson room. He sat with his arm along the back of the bench, casually letting his fingers brush against her shoulders.
She was beautiful, interesting… and she was a mystery. He wouldn’t have left unless he was dragged.
“The Labyrinth Trilogy?” He shook his head. “No.”
Her face lit up. “There were three paintings Emil worked on from 1930 to 1933. He did do some other, smaller pieces in that time, but the majority of those years was spent on the Labyrinth. He considered them a single work. They were his masterpiece. Fascism was rising in Europe. Anti-Semitism was becoming more and more virulent, even among the artistic community. My grandmother said that Emil wrote to his sister, Adele—my great-grandmother—many times during that period. He’d been tormented by dreams of being caught in a labyrinth, unable to find his way out.”