The Art of Not Letting Go
Paris, 1935.
The two men sat at Café Angelina, in the north wing of the Luxembourg Gardens, speaking lower and closer than anyone else in the room.
One of them was trying not to laugh. The other was a bundle of nerves.
The nervous one slammed a quiet fist on the table.
— Jean-Édouard. Stop laughing. This is serious. You’re going to kill me.
The other covered his mouth, let half a laugh escape through his nose, and tried to compose himself.
— You know you’re crazy. You know I’m only helping you because this is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. But if they catch you, that’s entirely your problem.
— I know, I know. Look — it’s almost one o’clock. The guard changes soon. We have to go.
Jean-Édouard reached into his pocket, left a few coins on the table, and they both walked out.
Between the two of them they had nearly a hundred and forty years. Anyone watching them on the street would have said they were the best friends in the world.
They were.
They stopped a few meters ahead, at the entrance of the Musée du Luxembourg. A poster welcomed visitors:
Second period of Cézanne. Itinerant exhibition of Pierre Bonnard. Retrospective of Henri Matisse.
They shared one last look before separating.
One of them walked toward the security post.
The guards saw an elderly gentleman approach, mumble something incoherent while clutching his chest, and collapse in what appeared to be an epileptic episode.
They didn’t notice the other man slipping inside at a brisk pace.
Once in, he went straight to the last gallery. The furthest one.
The Bonnard room.
The room was nearly empty. He turned his back to the only couple present, opened his heavy overcoat, and revealed the tools he had brought to carry out the attack he had planned.
A small vial of turpentine. Two brushes. A palette with several carefully mixed flesh tones.
His pulse was shaking.
He waited for the couple to leave, dried his hands on his coat, loaded a brush, and touched it to the canvas in front of him.
The strokes came fast and frantic. Sweat ran down his forehead with the same intensity as his movements. His conscience was screaming at him to stay alert, but he couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t feel anything except his arm correcting the painting.
Then voices. Then footsteps.
He froze.
A security guard walked past the end of the hall at full speed without looking at him — this man bent at an impossible angle, arm stretched toward two tubes of oil paint he’d dropped on the floor.
The footsteps faded.
He picked up the tubes, mixed frantically, loaded the brush again — and then:
— Monsieur! What are you doing!?
The same guard, back, walking toward him fast.
He dropped everything and tried to run the other direction. A stumble. A spectacular fall.
Hours later, at the police station, the officer asked for his name.