Forgetfulness by Ward Just Page A

lark, some jobs more larkish than others, but definitely the small change of espionage. His work was such a solitary business that he often felt the urge to break out, as a bank teller might take up polo or high-stakes poker, anything to escape the routine, something with the potential of danger, an experience useful in the studio—in other words, a second life hidden from the first life. Of course you were an impostor fashioning a bogus alternate destiny but there was something exhilarating about it, pulling on a false face and stepping into the unknown. And in his own case it would be a fulfillment of all those civics lessons at the grade school in LaBarre, the class that was the first of the day, the one that met after the Pledge of Allegiance. When your job was done you returned to your solitary business.
    They were having drinks at a hotel bar in Paris, Bernhard and Russ having returned from unspecified business somewhere south. The times were fraught. Nixon was president.
    You could help us out, Thomas. We can use your help.
    There's a man we'd like you to meet.
    We'd like to know more about him. What he does, who he sees, how he lives. When he's home and when he's away, dates and times. Nice fellow, harmless.
    You have a way in, Thomas. He's an art collector. Fine collection, we're told.
    Also, he likes portraits. Portraits of himself. Picasso did one. Braque did another.
    We can arrange a commission, Thomas. He pays top dollar, by the way.
    And he knows your work. Admires it.
    That's all you need to know. Keep your eyes open, make his portrait.
    Befriend the poor bastard. He doesn't have many friends, except a few we'd like to know more about. It's a bagatelle, Bernhard said.
    A lark, Thomas said.
    If you like, Bernhard said.
    In the early days they had given him a revolver, a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .32, all the while assuring him that he would never have occasion to use it, though they sent him to an instructor to learn how. The work he would be asked to do was not intended to bring him into that sort of danger but the book said to take every precaution. When Thomas tried to refuse the gun, they said, No, no, the world was never ideal or predictable. The world was untidy and one could never predict what might happen. A man had an obligation to protect himself against the unforeseen. As soon as he decently could, Thomas disposed of the gun, dropped it off the Pont Neuf late one night. And soon enough Bernhard arrived unannounced with a heavy coffee table fabricated in Grand Rapids, the table ingeniously equipped with compartments that opened at the touch of a button that operated a hidden spring. Inside one compartment were half a dozen passports in half a dozen names from half a dozen countries. A second contained currency, American dollars, British pounds, Swiss francs. A third had room for legal-sized files. A fourth had precision fittings for the Smith & Wesson, and Bernhard snapped one into place—since, he said, I understand you lost the original.
    I didn't lose it. I threw it away.
    I know, Thomas. I know. Don't do it again.
    Why do I need all this gear?
    We take care of our people. We let them know they're valued.
    I'm not your people, Thomas said. I have no need for this stuff.
    You never know, Thomas.
    And by the way, Bernhard went on, you have a commission with our friend. He expects you tomorrow, ten sharp.
    Russ said, This is important, Thomas. Our art collector has some extremely interesting friends. It's the friends we want, not him. Our art collector wants the gift of friendship but he's a naif. You'll like him.
    Thomas laughed out loud at the presumption of it but Bernhard
only smiled and turned his attention to the table, of which he was tremendously proud. American cabinetmakers had not lost their old-world skills. You had only to give them the specs and pay in advance. The Grand Rapids table was still in Thomas's possession, the currency long since spent, the passports returned to the