Leonardo's Lost Princess Read Free Page B

first time—not again.”
    I glanced over to where Kate Ganz was chatting with a customer. I knew I must not appear to be too excited or she’d guess I was onto something. Finally, I murmured, “Here goes,” to Kathy and beckoned the dealer over.
    Ganz is an attractive woman in her early sixties, with a dynamic personality and a sharp edge that could sometimes make her seem insensitive and caustic. She is one of half a dozen highly respected dealers of works on paper. She also has an impressive professional pedigree. Her parents, Victor and Sally Ganz, were acclaimed collectors of twentieth-century art, and her father was a vice president and trustee of the Whitney Museum.
    I guessed that she must have shown the drawing to some of her contacts, which included top curators and others in the museum world. It’s what I would have done. It’s what any collector or dealer would have done. Apparently, none of them gave it a second glance. I thought about it and found it not so surprising. I had often seen a similar dynamic in evaluating art. The eye of the beholder could be clouded by the conventional wisdom about an artist’s modus operandi, the norms of an era, and the collective opinions of experts. In this case I suspected their eyes had betrayed them.
    Kate came over to where we were standing. “Peter, Kathy,” she greeted us coolly, kissing our cheeks. We chatted politely for a few minutes about our lives—Kate had recently remarried and now lived primarily in Los Angeles—and finally I asked, “Kate, how much for this portrait?”
    Kate consulted a price list and named a figure nearly identical to what she’d paid at Christie’s in 1998.
    I frowned deliberately, still contemplating the work. I rocked back and forth on my heels, mimicking indecision. “I don’t know,” I said carefully. I felt a moment of trepidation, fearing that accepting Kate’s price without haggling would make her suspicious. “Can you give me a discount?” I asked, worrying that I was already showing too much interest. Kate might see through me. After all, we’d known each other for nearly thirty years. But she wanted to sell the portrait, and after a bit of discussion, she finally agreed to 10 percent off the listed price, for a total of $19,000.
    It was customary to let collectors with long-standing reputations walk away with their purchases before paying, and I fully expected Kate to say, “Take it now and send me the money.”
    But in spite of having known me for so long, she suddenly became brusquely businesslike. “You know, I can’t let you have it until you pay me,” she said, surprising me. Maybe that was her way, or maybe she was already hedging, deliberately placing obstacles in my path because something was telling her not to sell.
    I felt a small clutch of panic. This was a crucial moment, and so much could go wrong. “Fine,” I said to Kate. “I am making the purchase on behalf of a wealthy collector, and I’m sure the arrangements will be no problem.” Kate walked away, and I pulled Kathy aside. “We have to have the money wired immediately,” I said urgently. “If I don’t seal the deal today, anything could happen. Another collector might express interest. Kate might get suspicious and call off the sale. I can’t walk out of here without the portrait.”
    It was agreed that Kathy would leave to make arrangements for the payment while I hung around the gallery, nibbling on bits of cheese, sipping wine, and trying not to look too obvious. I spent a terrifying hour that way, never straying far from the table that held my prize. Every time a visitor paused to look at the portrait, my stomach lurched.
    Finally, Kathy returned, having successfully managed the transaction.
    By the time we left the gallery with the wrapped portrait, we were feeling giddy from the adventure. “That drawing had your name on it, Peter!” Kathy exclaimed. We laughed excitedly, hardly noticing the cold.
    I held the painting to my