Secrets of Paris_ A Novel - Luanne Rice [22]
Now, sitting opposite Charles in his third-floor office, Michael was on guard. Charles believed in his own charm. Even while sabotaging Michael every step of the way, he managed to keep a smile on his handsome, tan face.
“Your plans are marvelous,” Charles said.
“That’s all they are—plans,” Michael said. “When can I start construction?”
Charles shrugged; as he did, he noticed a white thread dangling from his right shirt cuff. He frowned. He grabbed it with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Then, holding the thread, he used his right hand to open his desk drawer. He extracted a pair of tiny gold scissors. Carefully resting his right hand on his leather blotter, he snipped the thread. He placed it in his crystal pencil tray for later disposal.
Michael watched the operation, growing hotter and hotter. Fop, he thought again. “Well?” he said. “Can you explain to me why it’s taking so long?”
“The Louvre is a museum of many departments, each with its own methods of operation. Additionally, it is an institution of the government of France. No less than the Assemblée Nationale or the Elysée Palace. You cannot expect to impose your plans on such a place without appropriate scrutiny and discussion.” Charles said this with an air of national pride that tightened his nostrils and turned down the corners of his mouth.
“Who’s doing the scrutinizing and discussing?” Michael asked.
“I, as curator of seventeenth-century paintings, and as your liaison officer, play a role,” Charles said. “The Minister of Culture, of course. Even the Prime Minister. You should be honored that the Prime Minister is considering your plans.”
“Why can’t I hire the people I need? That way, when the approval is given, they’ll be ready to go. I’d like to get a team together.”
“Because, Michael,” Charles said patiently, as if Michael were an idiot, “you would have to pay these people. Even if your plans are never approved, the members of your team would be on the payroll of the French government. And it would be impossible to ever get them off.”
“Okay,” Michael said. “I won’t actually engage anyone. But I’ve talked to masons and painters, and I’d like to—in a tentative way—ask them to set time aside for me. Just in case I’m told I can proceed.”
Charles shrugged. “I cannot stop you. But I cannot permit you to do this in the name of France and the Louvre. You will have to do it in the name of Michael McBride which, without intending offense, may not be enough to persuade artisans to pass up other, certain, projects.”
“That’s fair,” Michael said, wanting to draw Charles’s significant tie into a tighter and tighter knot and choke the smug smile off his thin lips. “I have another question for you. Why are you holding up the Poussin?”
“Pierre Dauphin will not give it up. If it were up to me …”
“I’ve been told it is up to you. You’re the curator of the seventeenth century.”
“Yes, but it hangs in Pierre’s gallery. He is the curator of the Salle Hubert.”
What a racket, Michael thought. One guy was curator of the walls, another was curator of the paintings that hung on the walls. George Reed believed that Charles had ultimate control, but he was not certain because none of the French authorities were positive themselves. One minister had told George that if he wanted to be sure, he would have to read Louis XIV’s original charter.
“I’ve heard you have more clout than Pierre,” Michael said. “You can give me that Poussin if you want to.”
“And where will you hang it?” Charles asked, leaning forward.
“Good point,” Michael said, feeling he’d just been beaten in chess. “But when the time comes, will you give it to me?”
“You’ll have to take that up with Pierre,” Charles said, closing the subject. Michael stood to leave. “You’ve been enjoying your time in Paris?” Charles asked.
“It’s been swell,” Michael said. He shook Charles’s hand and left.
Michael had had his share of professional disappointments and setbacks, but nothing had prepared him for this bureaucratic stonewalling.