Free The Imperial Wife by Irina Reyn

reputation might be ruined, not to mention that Medovsky’s wrath, like so many of my clients, carries in it real mortal dangers.
    I swallow and repeat, “It’s not fake. Why don’t I get you drinks. Champagne?”
    A man standing behind us moves closer to the sheet of glass so his face recedes and refracts between the panels. “Such an incredible, incredible piece.
    â€œâ€˜The Order was gifted during the Imperial era to what Peter the Great originally referred to as extraordinary persons of the feminine sex.’” He’s quoting the words of my catalogue copy in a Russian accent and, indeed, the tome rests in his hand, one finger thrust deep into its spine. My mother flickers to the man’s bare ring finger, then back to his face, and I realize that all my peppy evasions—Carl’s swamped in midterms, he’s on major deadline—have not been entirely convincing.
    The man is astoundingly tall and tan and attractive, three uncharacteristic traits for your standard Russian male. “I see you estimate it at seven million.”
    I feel a faint sensation of recognition. Have I worked with him before? Have I seen him around the galleries? “Depending on interest, it may go for a lot more. One never knows at auction.”
    â€œI can imagine. Still, it is a Russian treasure, isn’t it?” His finger, ringless, dappled with curly, black hairs, leaves prints on the glass.
    â€œYou know then that it belonged to Catherine the Great.”
    â€œOf course, that is precisely what interests me. Nostalgia for the Romanovs has never been my thing, but Catherine was different, wasn’t she? She was a very special kind of monarch. A special kind of woman.” My parents, having long ago lost interest in the conversation, move to the Grigoriev, a risky gouache and watercolor that will probably never make estimate when oligarchs prefer oils.
    I switch to Russian. “Will you be bidding?”
    â€œPosmotrim.” We’ll see. He exudes a Mediterranean ease, his skin tanned, his body lanky, deceptively athletic, that of a basketball player. So different from the delicate sensitivity of my Carl, but then they all are, hailing from a land where men are men, women are women, everyone slotted in their proper place. Once I resented that old-world patriarchal division of roles but a few years of marriage to Carl have made me rethink its shortcomings from time to time.
    So this particular man is a somebody then. For a minute, I allow myself to hope that this one’s here to repatriate Russia’s art, to do more with it than embellish his own power. “Wonderful. Why don’t we take down your information so you’re in our system.”
    â€œI would rather it be over lunch. Four Seasons?”
    â€œMonday?”
    â€œPerfect. I fly back Monday night. I don’t suppose you can bring the Order with you? I would like to examine it.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to, but here in our offices. The consignor’s clause states it cannot leave the premises without prior consignor agreement.”
    â€œI thought in my case, you might make an exception. But by all means, vet away.”
    Yet another loopholer who thinks himself an exception. Still, is he flirting? They do that, my clients, their arms sinewing around my waist at these functions, complimenting me on my curvaceous figure, volunteering their hotel rooms after lunches, offering to fly me to their homes in the south of France. At thirty-two, I know I’m way too old for them, their mistresses twenty, twenty-three tops, but they insist they’re enamored with my exoticism. The Russian who is not quite Russian. The Jew who left the Motherland, who can spot a fake in seconds.
    â€œI’m afraid we cannot make exceptions.”
    â€œUntil Monday then.” He places his untouched glass on a tray and disappears inside one of the elevators.
    â€œNice looking.” My mother sidles