The Quality of Her Tears

"Je suis désolée, Jean-Luc," I sobbed. "I am so sorry. But I was lonely..." His laugh was cruel.

"You are a slave, chérie. Slaves are lonely," he said. "Didn't you learn anything? Slaves are used to waiting; at least good slaves are." His implicit criticism hurt me. Once more my voice refused to answer.

"Now go back to your good husband and at last be that perfect slave you promised to be. Zut alors! Now go and wait like the miserable nobody you are," he said and killed the connection.

If I had been the old Mia, I would have asked him why he'd left me alone in America for so long, not calling me, not to be reached. I would also have wanted to know what the use of my exile was, now that the forgers didn't visit anymore. I would have asked a lot, but I wasn't that Mia anymore. I was Jean-Luc's brain dead and devoted little slave, so I grabbed my bag and went to De Gaulle, taking a plane back to my sad existence as the wife of Carl Lundgren.

***

It was a few weeks later that the first seeds of a crazy plan germinated in the darkness of my despair. Paris, Jean-Luc and the satisfaction of my warped desires were further away than ever – leaving me alone with the feeble remnants of my mind. They created rebellious thoughts in my vacant brain, like considering myself abandoned, even betrayed. I felt the frustrated yearnings of a moth circling a flame that got more distant with every round I completed.

I called John, Carl's brother. We met at an anonymous hotel on Manhattan. I slipped the bellboy a hundred to take pictures as we went into the elevator.

John was bigger than Carl. He also was more adventurous, so our time wasn't wasted. But even though he cheated he had the same gentlemen's genes his brother had – he was respectful and he didn't brag, even after I saw him at two more occasions.

Later on I fucked a member of Carl's golf club and promised him more if he'd slip one of the elevator-pictures into Carl's bag. I also gave him a note with the number and name of a local detective agency.

Carl's reaction was an immediate failure of erectile functioning. I felt upset, offended, and wondered why. It surely couldn't be guilt? He was a wimp, for crying out loud, a soft, boring nobody – a despicable cuckold, a pawn of my Master and not at all entitled to have my sympathy, I reasoned. So I had to find a better clue, and I found one. He was a male with a penis, wasn't he? Its failing was my fault. Hadn't I been trained to know that? His pain was obvious, and I was its cause. I did feel guilt, but to my relief it couldn't be for him – it was because I'd failed my Master. I'd forsaken my sacred promise, betrayed his trust. I'd betrayed Jean-Luc.

The impact shocked me. I needed to confess to him and have him set me straight, or even Papa; but they were far away and as inaccessible as ever. So yes, my silly little slave's heart decided that I had to go and get their attention anyway I could – out of honest shame.

During the following weeks I met with quite a few men, counting on the professional detecting abilities of the agency I had selected.

Carl chose high drama for our confrontation – the celebration of our second anniversary. I wore his jewels and the two thousand dollar silk dress I'd bought to surprise Jean-Luc with on my ill-fated trip to Paris.

There was a limousine to take us to a three star restaurant of the kind that needs to be booked two months in advance. I have no idea why I still thought the black gift box might hold more jewelry for me.

Yes, he had prepared for maximum impact, and he succeeded. I don't know what he read in my tears when he opened the gift box. I could not prevent them to well up from my eyes and run down my cheeks.

They must have confused him; they sure surprised me. I saw the struggle in his eyes. But then they hardened. I should have been elated – my silly plan succeeded. But all I felt was failure.

I guess that was exactly what it was.

The next day I left for Paris; this time with good reason, I told myself. My husband kicked me out; I'd had no say in it. I was innocent. I took nothing with me but the clothes on my back. I dumped my 'fake journalist' laptop and every other item I had used to ensure my cover. I didn't even take my beauty case.

When I arrived at Charles de Gaulle I saw a man holding up a white piece of carton with my name. He wasn't friendly; his hand bruised my upper arm when he led me to the car. It was the first tiny drop of pain in a deluge that would last for weeks.

I knew I deserved every second of it.

Carl.

There were three men around the table. One was a white haired, fatter version of Maynard, I guessed his father. There also was a blond British schoolboy-type who proved to be English indeed; and an olive-skinned Arab, tall, long nosed and with a pencil-thin moustache. I hate pencil-thin moustaches.

Against the wall was a painting on an easel; a female portrait. It was a Manet. I knew it well. The white-haired man rose and shook my hand, smiling. "Maynard," he said. He introduced me to his guests. Then he gestured to sit down and asked me what I'd drink. I remained standing, looking around.

"Why am I here?" I asked instead.

"Ah, bon," he said, chuckling. "You are a business man. Time is money, good, good! But please sit down; we won't waste your time, believe me." His accent was ridiculous. I sat down.

"We want to make you a proposition, monsieur Lundgren," he went on. The younger Maynard took a seat across of me. He smiled, nodding.

"Let me guess," I answered, sounding way smugger than I felt. "After my wife you want to fuck me too." The men chuckled shamelessly. Papa smiled.

"Mais non," he said. "But don't take it personaly: she spoiled us greatly in that department." The chuckling turned into all-out laughter. I started to rise.

"I don't think I should stay any longer," I said.

"Sit down," the old man said. All joviality had left his voice and so had most of his French accent. After seconds of hesitation I sat down.

"Good," the asshole said. "Jean-Luc, tell him."

The younger Maynard rose and walked to the painting, pointing while he talked.

"You researched this painting, what? Five years ago? You signed a report supporting its authenticity and caused a wealthy gentleman to pay almost eighteen million dollars for it."

I looked at him, puzzled where he might be going.

"I signed for the real one," I said. "This must be a fake." He didn't respond.

"You want me to make it real?" I asked.

"Oh no, Monsieur," he hastened to say. "What good would two real, identical twin Manets do?"

"And anyway, who would believe you?" said the English schoolboy, cackling with glee. It earned him an angry stare from the younger Maynard, who sat down on the table's edge, posing casually as he bent towards me.

"We just want you to admit that you made a mistake, five years ago. By now you are very credible at that. Let's call it your new expertise." The other men chuckled. I felt a new anger form.

"Forget it," I said, rising. A big hand pushed me down.

"I don't think so," said the older Maynard. "And with me half a million dollars don't think so either."

Dizziness nagged at the back of my eyes. It created the well-known fluttering halos of an oncoming headache. Hell of a timing, I thought.

"How would you profit from a genuine Manet you declare a fake?" I wondered. "And wouldn't a simple counter-expertise make it real again?" The younger Maynard smiled a very frustrating smile.

"Of course," he admitted. "But the funny thing will be that the counter-expert will agree with you that it is a forgery. As will any following expert, to the heart-rending misery of one formerly proud owner."

I didn't have to say they lost me. I guess my face told it all. The younger Maynard grinned like the proverbial cat.

"We'll introduce you to the owner," he said. "As a matter of fact, we already did that. You have an appointment at his, well, summer residence in the south of France. And what you'll find there is a perfectly forged Manet. You'll get a few days to do your thing. Would that be enough?" His grin expanded.

"How did you...?"

"None of your business. You just go there and declare a fake Manet a fake Manet. Then you return home and watch your bank account swell with half a million dollars."

He extended his hand for me to shake. I ignored it, keeping my head still at the center of a raging storm.

"I have to... think," I said, holding on to the edge of the table.

"You've got two minutes." It was Papa's voice.

"You'll never get away with this," I said. He disagreed.

"We will," he insisted. "I am even sure of that, because we did it before." He grinned at my surprise.

"Boudestein," he said. "Remember him?"

Of course I did. The old expert on Dutch masters had been one of my mentors. He'd suddenly disappeared, a few years back. There had been all kinds of rumors.

Papa shrugged and raised his hands, palms up.

"He decided not to co-operate." The movement of his hands drew my attention to the object in front of him. It was a gun.

As I stared at the weapon, stunned by the implications, the Arab whispered into Papa's ear. He nodded. His hands made a pacifying gesture.

"Sorry," he said. "My well-meaning partners here grow a bit impatient. Their time is money too, and a lot more than ours. So let's get this behind us. Mister Lundgren, we know that there are several paintings hanging around whose multi-million value depend mainly on your signature." He nodded slowly and smiled.

"We also know that you have been a busy man, lately," he went on, "considering you signed far more reports than you actually did."

His smile became more irritating with each word he said – so did the swirling mayhem behind my eyes. What did he aim at?

"Are you threatening me?" I asked. They laughed. The elder Maynard touched the gun.

"Of course we are, Monsieur Lundgren," he said. "We know of at least three forged paintings that have been bought for a total of sixty million dollars because you assured the buyers they were real. They'd sue you in a heartbeat."

"Which pieces," I asked, rising from my chair. "The fucking Alma-Tadema? What else?"

Maynard pouted and made pacifying gestures.

"Please sit down," he said. "Let's just agree that you are in a tight spot, Monsieur. And that we are more than willing to help you out of it." The exasperating smiles ran around the table again.

My headache receded for just a minute, clearing my thoughts. I concentrated on the gun.

"How many?" I asked. He understood what I meant.

"Let's start with this one."

I didn't respond. My headache crashed back in. Maynard's face started to dance in front of me, as did the others'. A crazy thought popped up in a swirling soup of dizziness. It must have been part headache, part lunacy. In hindsight I prefer to call it intuition.

"I want Mia," I said. "Before you give her back to me, I won't do a thing." When I said it, my eyes were on the Maynards. The older one jerked his head with annoyed irritation; the younger one paled. Papa raised his hands theatrically, but his son's emotions seemed real.

"What is she to you?" The question came from the younger Maynard. I thought his nervousness had grown during our absurd conversation. Why? He had been cool, almost slick all the way through our bizarre negotiations. But now he fidgeted. His smile had gone and there seemed to be sweat on his upper lip. When did this start? Even in my confused state I knew it was important that I know.

"Enough, Monsieur Lundgren!" I turned to Papa's impatient voice, but it was muffled by all the new and crazy thoughts that seemed to rise around me.

"We all love to fuck her," the man went on. "But one day we'll wake up and see a used up, pregnant whore. So why keep her? You want her? Okay, let's throw her into the bargain. Instead of the half a million."

I was stunned by his off-handed gesture. So was the younger Maynard, I saw. He looked as if the offer was as new to him as it was to me. I pushed myself away from the table, swimming through a sea of nausea – trying to hold on to a hunch.

"That's silly," I said. "Why would I throw away so much money? She betrayed me. And as you said, she is a used up, pregnant whore, maybe sick or even dying. Besides, at this table I might be the only one who is certainly not the father." Did I see relief on the young Maynard's face, or was it my fever? Papa smiled.

"We don't care either way, Mr. Lundgren," he said. "But for fuck's sake answer my question!" He touched the gun in front of him. He'd bellowed the last words, his face turning red.

Then the doors opened and Mia walked in.

She looked like a pervert's dream. Her bob-cut, silvery hair shone around a face that was a study in live marble. Her eyes sparkled from pits of black shadow; her mouth was a slash of red. The head balanced on a slender neck that spread out into the immaculate expanse of her décolleté. She was naked under a flowing shirt-dress that hung off her bony left shoulder and gapped, exposing her armpit and one side of her swollen tit. Whenever she moved, pierced nipples pressed into the white, sheer material – appearing and disappearing with her free-swinging tits. Her round, protruding belly added a sick eroticism to her appearance. I had to look and couldn't; I was aroused and ashamed at once.

She sashayed on bare feet up to our company; her hidden kinky jewelry jangled to the rhythm. She at once sought out the younger Maynard and walked towards him. He had risen from his chair, as had the rest of us. She pushed her body into his, caressing his chest as she looked into his eyes.

Papa's rude voice broke the spell.

"Your answer, Monsieur Lundgren," he said. I kept my eyes on his son, swallowing down my nausea. My vision tightened until it only held his face.

"I'll take her with me," I said, knowing it wasn't what the old man wanted to hear. The young man winced, holding Mia tighter. She didn't seem to have heard me, but his father exploded. He took two steps in my direction, his face turning even darker. The gun was in his hand.

"Fuck you and your slut, Lundgren!" he growled. "We are not here to discuss your wimpy love life. Either you work for us, or I'll blow your head off!" He pointed the gun at me. It was the Arab who took his hand and lowered the weapon.

"Excuse us, Lundgren," he said in guttural English. "I guess Monsieur Maynard gets a bit nervous and so do we. I'm sure you know you don't have a choice, so please stop teasing us."

I trembled, feeling even sicker. To the one side there was the overwhelming amount of threats – the violence and the blackmail. On the other hand there just was this one straw to cling to – the paleness of a man's face, the pain in an eye, the tightness of a hug.

To cover up my confusion I walked over to the Manet. It took me a while to shake off the panic. Concentrating on the painting helped, as always. I recalled every brush-stroke, every shade and color, even the folds and nails where the canvas had been attached to the frame. I didn't know about lab tests, but my gut feeling told me this was the exact same painting I studied five years ago.

So if this was the real thing, all they asked of me was to admit that the other one was a fake, and as it was a forgery, I wouldn't be lying, would I? But could I do it? Could I go out and declare a painting forged that I had supposedly authenticated five years before? I almost chuckled at the absurdity of my thoughts. Could I – would I? The fucker was going to blow my head off.

I turned back to the room.

The first thing I saw was Mia, kneeling on the floor. Her hands lay in her swollen lap, her eyes were down. The steel muzzle of a gun rested against her temple. Papa held it.

"Your answer, Lundren," he hissed. "Now." All vaudeville had left his English.

Mia looked up. She didn't tremble, she didn't even seem nervous at all. Was it a game? Or had her brain shut down – had it been washed so thoroughly that she accepted death? Did she even know what was going on? He studied her face. There was a sparkle on her cheek, right below her left eye.

Her mouth worked. She mimed 'I'm sorry,' or did she? The insane irony struck me. It was an irrelevant thought and a crazy moment to even have it at all, but I did. The thought that she'd proven herself the epitome of falseness: a liar, an actress – a programmed robot. And that I, the authority on truth and falseness, had proven myself to be a lousy amateur, hadn't I?

I watched the tear roll down her face, leaving a trace of mascara. Her lips moved again. The headache pulsed behind my eyes. Why should I care if she lived anyway?

"I'll do it!" I said.

Mia.

The steel muzzle left my skull and I shivered. I wondered why I had been so calm. Jean-Luc hadn't told me what to expect. Was it supposed to be a threat, a game?

I looked up to find Papa's face. He smiled one of his cold, disinterested smiles. They usually stir my blood; not this time. I turned on my knees to find Jean-Luc and his reassurance. But something was terribly wrong. He looked cold and shook his head no. Then he nodded towards my phony husband and Papa's words hit me. "You are no longer Jean-Luc's whore. He sold you."

The shock made my ears ring. My eyes sought out Jean-Luc's, but now he had completely turned away. I wailed in agony, shaking my head and murmuring 'no, no.' That was when Papa slapped me. He did so twice, three times before I returned to reality. His hand grabbed my hair and pulled me up. Our faces almost touched. His breath smelled of mint and garlic.

"Oublie-le, salope. Forget him. You are not his anymore," he said, grabbing my shirt. He pulled it down, making a tit spill out. "Il t'a vendue," he went on. "He sold you, whore; be sweet to your new master."

I saw Jean-Luc walk away. Realization fell like darkness on me. I groaned, shaking my head. Focusing on the room I slowly felt my conditioning return. There was the Arab and, like a perverted bookkeeper I checked his statistics: long cock, fat and curved; touches my deep spot. I did the same with the British schoolboy – small little wiener, quick comer. Papa's face swam back in – dark fat sausage, incredible stamina. He nodded, indicating Carl. I groaned again, shaking the lingering doom from my mind. Carl... average size, average performance, average everything.

I forced my face into its programmed smile and knee-walked the few steps to bridge the distance. My torn shirt hung open, exposing my piercings. My mouth found the expcted words.

"I am yours," I said, spreading my thighs. My voice was thick. I swallowed and coughed to clear it. "How do you want me to pleasure you?"

He looked embarrassed. Of course he would. He shrank away from me. His eyes were big; he didn't answer my question.

"Mia," he said in a constricted voice. "It is me, Carl. Let's go home." I ignored his suggestion.

"Should I suck your cock?" I said. "Or would you prefer my cunt; my ass?" I framed my open pussy with my fingers. I knew the desired smile was on my lips.

Rude comments came from the room behind me.

"You lucky bastard." It was the Brit's voice, snotty as always. "Let her suck your dick like the whore she is. She's so much better now that she doesn't have to act like your prim little wife anymore." He came up to me. I heard him chuckle. Two hard fingers pushed into my mouth. I automatically sucked them in.

"Get up, please Mia," Carl said, pushing the Brit aside. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up. The smooth lining of his jacket made me shiver as it slid down my bare shoulders. His chivalry was ridiculous. It also touched me in a long-forgotten way. "Get us a cab," he said to Jean-Luc, as he led me out of the room. I resisted his urging, stopping in front of my lover. He averted his eyes and all resistance left me.