The Goldfinch

He was trying to cheer me up but I still felt too shaken to talk. For a while we both walked with heads down and there was no noise except the two of us clicking along the park path in darkness, our footsteps seeming to echo forever and beyond the city night enormous around us, car horns and sirens sounding like they were coming from half a mile away.

“Well,” said Boris presently, throwing me another sideways glance, “at least I’ve got it figured out now, eh?”

“What?” I said, startled. My mind was still on the boy and my own near misses: blacking out in the bathroom upstairs at Hobie’s, head bloody where I’d hit it on the edge of the sink; waking up on the kitchen floor at Carole Lombard’s with Carole shaking me and screaming, lucky it was four minutes, I was calling 911 if you didn’t come to in five.

“Pretty sure of it. It was Sascha took the picture.”

“Who?”

Boris glowered. “Ulrika’s brother, fu

“No.”

“Well, Horst thinks Sascha’s word is gold but I am not so sure. And I do not think the picture is in Ireland, either. Even Niall, the Irish, does not think it. I hate that she is back, Ulrika—I can’t say plainly what I think. Because—” hands deep in pockets—“I’m a little surprised Sascha would dare this, and I dare not say it to Horst, but I think no other explanation—I think whole bad deal, arrest, blow-up with the cops, all that, was excuse for Sascha to make off with painting. Horst has dozens of people living off him—he is far too gentle and trusting—mild in his soul, you know, believes the best of people—well, he can let Sascha and Ulrika steal from him, fine, but I will not let them steal from me.”

“Mmn.” I hadn’t seen very much of Horst but he hadn’t seemed particularly mild in his soul to me.

Boris scowled, kicking at the puddles. “Only problem, though? Sascha’s guy? The one he set me up with? Real name—? No clue. He called himself ‘Terry’ which was not right—I don’t use my own name either but ‘Terry,’ Canadian, give me a fucking break! He was from Czech Republic, no more ‘Terry White’ than I am! I think he is street criminal—fresh out of jail—know-nothing, uneducated—plain brute. I think Sascha picked him up somewhere, to use for shill, and gave him cut in exchange for throwing the deal—peanuts kind of cut, probably. But I know what ‘Terry’ looks like and I know he has co

“Cherry?”

“Yes—is my boy Victor’s kliytchka, we call him that because his nose is red, but also because his Russian name, Vitya, is close to Russian word for cherry. Also, there is famous soap opera in Russia, Winter Cherry—well, hard to explain. I tease Vitya about this programme, it makes him very a

“What do you mean, ‘sort it out’—?”

Boris made an exasperated noise. “Because this is closed circle, you understand? Horst is right on the money about that. No one is going to buy this painting. Impossible to sell. But—black market, barter currency? Can be traded back and forth forever! Valuable, portable. Hotel rooms—going back and forth. Drugs, arms, girls, cash—whatever you like.”

“Girls?”

“Girls, boys, what have you. Look look,” he said, holding up a hand, “I am not involved in anything like that. I was too close to being sold myself as a boy—these snakes are all over Ukraine, or used to be, every corner and railway station, and I can tell you if you are young and unhappy enough it seems like good deal. Normal-seeming guy promises restaurant job in London or some such, supplies air ticket and passport—ha. Next thing you know you are waking up chained by the wrist in some basement. Would never be involved with any such. It is wrong. But it happens. And once painting is out of my hands, and Horst’s—who knows what it is being traded for? This group holds it, that group holds it. Point being—” upheld forefinger—“your picture is not going to disappear in collection of oligarch art freak. It is too too famous. No one wants to buy it. Why would they? What can they do with it? Nothing. Unless cops find it—and they have not found it, this we know—”

“I want the cops to find it.”

“Well—” Boris rubbed his nose briskly—“yes, all very noble. But for now, what I do know is that it will move, and only move in relatively small network. And Victor Cherry is great friend, and owes me big. So, cheer up!” he said, grasping my arm. “Don’t look so white and ill! And we will talk soon again, I promise.”

xviii.

STANDING UNDER A STREETLAMP where Boris had left me (“ca

I was so distracted that a man coming fast round the corner whacked straight into me: “Watch it!”

“Sorry,” I said, shaking myself. Even though the accident had been the other guy’s fault—too busy honking and yakking away on his cell phone to look where he was going—several people on the sidewalk had directed their disapproving looks at me. Feeling short-winded and confused, I tried to think what to do. I could catch the subway down to Hobie’s, if I felt like catching the subway, but Kitsey’s apartment was closer. She and her roommates Francie and Em would all be out on their Girls’ Night (no point texting or calling, as I knew from experience; they usually went to a movie), but I had a key and I could let myself in and make myself a drink and lie down while I waited for her to come home.

The weather had cleared, wintry moon crisp through a gap in the storm clouds, and I began to walk east again, pausing every now and then to try and hail a cab. I wasn’t in the habit of stopping by Kitsey’s without phoning, mainly because I didn’t care much for her roommates nor they for me. Yet despite Francie and Em and our stilted pleasantries in the kitchen, Kitsey’s apartment was one of the few places I felt truly safe in New York. No one knew how to reach me at Kitsey’s. There was always the sense that it was temporary; she didn’t keep many clothes there and lived mostly out of a suitcase on a luggage rack at the foot of her bed; and for reasons inexplicable I liked the empty, restful anonymity of the flat, which was cheerfully but sparsely decorated with abstract-patterned rugs and modern furnishings from an affordable design store. Her bed was comfortable, the reading light was good, she had a big-screen plasma television so we could lie around and watch movies in bed if we felt like it; and the stainless-steel fridge was always well-stocked with Girl Food: hummus and olives, cake and champagne, lots of silly take-out vegetarian salads and half a dozen kinds of ice cream.