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ONE
In my opinion I owe the breathing legions of humanity no explanations of any of my affairs, no apologies
for any chapter of my life. And I consider this judgement to apply with particular force to my role in the
events surrounding the recent and much-publicized disappearance of one of the world's noblest works of
art. Let those breathing folk who in financial anguish claim rights to the painting recover it if they are able,
or get along without it if they are not. Nor do I consider that it is up to me to interpret for them those
strange and violent events, mystifying to so many, which like red parentheses enclose the painting's
vanishment. By the standard of objective justice it is rather I who deserve an accounting from the
breathing world, I who am entitled to some reparations . . .
Bah. At my age I should know better. And in fact I do. I press no formal claim.
Only this much do I insist upon: you will understand that almost my sole purpose in setting down this
history is to please myself.Almost, be it noted. Mina, my true great love, my delight now for almost a
century, accept these pages from me as my humble effort to explain some things you must have
wondered at; and be assured, my dear, that none of the breathing women mentioned here could ever
begin to mean as much to me as one look from your eyes, one touch from your sweet hand. In addition, I
would like to think there are a few other readers who will be able to appreciate the story, as a story, as I
tell it on my own terms, in my own way. And part of my pleasure shall be to use my informed imagination
to create for those discerning readers some scenes at which I was not present and could play no role. I
warn you if it is not already too late that in these scenes it amuses me sometimes to be accurate and
deceptive at the same time. You may accept those portions of the story or not, just as you choose.
Indeed do I need to say it? you may think what you like about the whole business.
It is my decision to begin upon a certain warm spring night, not long ago. It was a night through which
the smell of orange blossoms spread, to bless the Arizona air. More than five hundred years had passed
between that night, and the last time I had seen my treasure. Time had marked my long-sought
masterpiece, and I too was changed . . . very much changed. And yet, merely seeing it again awoke in
me such things . . . one look and I was back in the City of Flowers, where winters are too cold to
tolerate orange trees and palms but where nevertheless the pungent summer atmosphere bore and still
bears the blended fragrance of a thousand blooms . . .
This is she, Signore Ladislao. An excellent likeness, if that is what you wish. From this you may
know her. Pray Jesus and San Lorenzo that you may bring her safely out . . .
An excellent likeness; oh yes indeed. When at last I stood before that panel of polychromed wood again
in Arizona, I could feel its craquelure of centuries like a net of painful scars on my own skin. I thought for
a moment that my eyes were going to fill with tears. And who will believe that of me, now, no matter how
solemnly I write it down?
But this history is so far getting off to a very rambling start.
Consider Phoenix, Arizona. Consider wealthy suburban Scottsdale, to be precise, as it was upon that
recent warm spring night. Palm trees of all sizes and several varieties mingled everywhere with the
ubiquitous orange. At dusk the streets were busy, in part because of the natives' habit, bred into them by
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their summer temperatures, of putting off, as much as possible, business and pleasure both till after
sundown. One tourist who was present on the evening we are talking about found himself in particularly
hearty agreement with this practice. He was registered at his downtown Phoenix hotel as Mr. Jonathan
Thorn, permanent address listed as Oak Tree, Illinois.
At sunset a taxi took Mr. Thorn from Phoenix to Scottsdale. The street where he debarked from his taxi
was wide, not too busy, and lined on both sides with expensive shops. The shops' signs were all small,
discreet. Rows of expensive vehicles were parked diagonally in front of the low buildings. The plank
sidewalks, partially blocked from the street by imitation hitching posts made of real, weathered wood,
were roofed with more planks against the summer sun. Beyond these wooden cloisters, the low-built
expensive shops were modern, though constructed in part of real adobe brick.
The building that Mr. Thorn approached was typical, being grilled on all its doors and windows with
thick bars of black wrought iron. The front door was intermittently open to the plank sidewalk, admitting
a trickle of people in elegant but open-throated warm weather attire. As he passed the hitching post in
front, Mr. Thorn took note of an incongruous old Ford sedan, inscrutably battered and unrepaired,
waiting there between a Mercedes and a new luxury model Jeep. He took note, I say, but only barely; at
that moment he had other things to think about.
Just inside the door, a security guard in business suit and tie took note of Mr. Thorn, classified him as
acceptable, and offered him a light smile and a nod. Thorn found himself in a moderately large, efficiently
cooled room where a dozen or so folk, mostly middle-aged and prosperous, to judge by appearances,
milled slowly about or sat in folding chairs. Under bright lights at the front of the room, high wooden
tables already held some of the lesser items from the Delaunay Seabright collection on display. The
overall decor was determinedly Southwestern, with the massive, rough-hewn ceiling beams exposed and
Navajo rugs hung on the white, rough-plastered walls. Set up to face the front of the room were many
more folding chairs than seemed likely to be necessary. In theory this pre-auction viewing was open to
the public, but it appeared that few of the public were going to intrude upon what was in fact a pasttime
of the rich. A month earlier, and the notoriety attendant upon the killings of Delaunay Seabright and his
stepdaughter would probably still have drawn something of a crowd. But the auction had been well
timed. By that spring night, the spectacular murder-kidnapping was already fading from the popular
memory.
There were only two people present, a couple, who looked as if they might be thrill-seekers. Quite
proletarian in appearance, they were being watched with vague, discreet apprehension by the
auctioneers, smooth men in business suits who looked as if they might just have flown in from New York.
Mr. Thorn, catching a little of that watchfulness, observed the couple too.
At one end of the rear rank of folding chairs sat Mary Rogers. (Thorn was not to learn her name until a
little later.) Mary's long hair was sand-colored, somewhat curly, and usually disheveled. Her age was
twenty-one, her face freckled and attractive, her disposition choleric. Her body was all shapely strength,
superbly suitable for work and childbearing, and would have made an ideal model for some artist's
healthy peasant though Mary would not have made a very good peasant, or peasant's wife, or, for that
matter, a very good artist's model either. She planned to use her strength in different ways, in a dedicated
lifelong selfless service of humanity. She always visualized humanity as young, I am quite sure, and as
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