"Don’t you know better than that by now, darling?”
Mona did know better than that by now. Smiling, she nodded, shifted forward onto her stomach, her knee up to leave her sex open to him. As she drifted off to sleep, she felt him enter her again. Surely she couldn’t sleep with his cock inside her. But the thrusts were long and slow and for once, quite gentle. They were steady and rhythmic and it was as if he was rocking her to sleep. And she fell asleep with him inside her, his warm breath on her naked shoulder, her name on his lips as he kissed her earlobe.
When she woke, sunlight streamed through the skylight over the bed and Malcolm was gone. Slowly she rolled up and pressed a hand to her forehead. The last thing she remembered was Malcolm taking the red rose from her hair and the velvet choker off her neck and penetrating her gently from behind.
If asked, she doubted she’d swear on a Bible that she trusted Malcolm, but this morning she awoke unharmed, not raped, nor mutilated or murdered. He’d fucked her, yes, consensually. How many times? She wasn’t sure if she should count her orgasms or his. And she couldn’t count his because he’d fucked her while she’d slept. Had he done it only the one time? Or several times throughout the night? The thought of him gently rutting on her unconscious body aroused her, though she wished it didn’t. She had to admit to herself she enjoyed being thoroughly used. It was new information about herself. It didn’t trouble her to make this realization. It only troubled her that it didn’t trouble her.
Mona laughed.
She laughed because Tou-Tou slept curled in a ball at the end of the bed and she wondered if Malcolm had picked the little cat up and put him there in the night. For in Manet’s Olympia, a black cat stands guard at the end of his mistress’s bed. The black cat symbolized prostitution. Mona had to wonder if the term "pussy” came into fashion before or after Olympia.
Tired as she was, Mona would have liked to stay in the bed all day. Unfortunately, the gallery doorbell buzzed. There was work to be done. Always more work.
"Just a moment.” Her voice was hoarse as she called out, but the buzzing stopped.
Her body ached in places she’d never ached before and her nipples were ringed with pale blue bruises from his mouth and hands. As quickly as she could, she pulled on her skirt and bra and shirt. Had it all been real? She looked at the bed, the sheets wildly askew and dotted with dried fluid stains. Oh, yes, it had been real. Every sore muscle in her body, especially the ones inside her, told her it was. She went to the side door in the office, the delivery door, unlocked and pushed it open.
"Yes? Can I help you?”
A woman stood across the threshold, dark skin with a white scarf in her hair. She was beautiful as a Raphael, and in her arms she cradled a bouquet overflowing with white roses and baby’s breath.
"Delivery for Mona St. James. Is that you, miss?” the woman said in an island accent Mona couldn’t place. Something lovely and Caribbean anyway. Had Malcolm found the prettiest woman in the whole city to bring her flowers? She wouldn’t put it past him.
"It’s me. Thank you,” Mona said, taking the flowers from the woman’s arms. She should have seen this coming. In Manet’s Olympia, a woman stands by the courtesan’s bed presenting her with white flowers. "Is there a card?”
"Not a card, miss,” the woman said. "But he told me to give you this.”
She handed Mona a clear glass bottle sealed with a cork.
Mona laughed to herself. Terrible man.
"If you’ll wait here, I’ll find some cash.”
"He tipped me well enough for ten men,” the woman said. "Enjoy your flowers. He said you’d more than earned them.”
The woman gave her a knowing smile and stepped away. Mona set the flowers on the desk. They smelled of summer, which it was today—June 21st, the summer solstice. A new summer full of promise. She pulled the cork from the bottle. There seemed to be a note inside. It took a little doing to ease the rolled parchment from the bottle’s mouth, but at last she worked it out.
Mona unrolled the paper and her eyes widened. She dropped down into her desk chair, heedless of the discomfort.
The paper wasn’t a note at all but a drawing. Not a drawing but a sketch—a sketch she recognized instantly. She knew those curves, those watery lines. A sketch of a dancer. Not any sort of dancer. A ballet dancer.
There was only one word on the entire page and one word was all she needed to know Malcolm had made good on his first payment for her services.
Degas.
The Slave Market
Mona called around to every gallery in town and was given the name and number for Sebastian Leon, a well-respected Degas historian. She took the sketch to him at his apartment on the West Side. When he opened the door to let her in, she was surprised by how young and handsome he was. He couldn’t have been more than thirty-five, and the energy with which he greeted her and the sketch was that of an eager schoolboy.
"I couldn’t sit still waiting for you,” Sebastian said as he pulled her into his apartment. It was a small, intimate sort of place, brick walls painted white with colored framed Degas prints and sketches hung everywhere she looked. He led her to his blue velvet sofa, gave her a glass of white wine, and he sat next to her so close their shoulders touched. "I’ve been pacing.”
He spoke with near childlike enthusiasm. A man who loved art. She liked him already.
"Here it is,” she said. "I need to know if it’s really his.”
Sebastian took the sketch from her, which she’d pressed flat into a leather portfolio. He put on white cloth gloves, opened the portfolio and said, "Ahh…” at the sight of it. "Beautiful.” He had curling dark hair, long enough to tuck behind his ears. The curls fell over his forehead as he bent to examine the sketch.
"Have you seen it before?” she asked, looking more at Sebastian than at the sketch.
"Other sketches like it, but not this one. It looks like his lines. Just like it,” Sebastian said. He picked up a magnifying glass and examined the signature. He sniffed the paper, explaining that forgeries often had a recognizable smell.
"What do you think?” she asked when he at last placed the sketch into the portfolio and closed it again reverently, like a monk closing his illuminated Bible.
"It’s real,” he said with a boyish grin. "It’s absolutely real. I have no doubt.”
"Wonderful,” she said. "How much?”
"If it were me—and I wish it was—I’d have it insured for sixty thousand at least.”
"I will. Thank you.” They clinked their wine glasses in a toast and drank in their happiness.
"I have to ask,” he said as she set his glass down on the table. "Where does it come from? You have the provenance?”
"A man gave it to me as a gift.”
"A man gave it to you? Simply gave it to you?”