Reginald Thackeray tweezes his eyebrows in the airport bathroom, waiting to get out of São Paulo. He has followed the instructions given to him over the phone by the man from Wisconsin (allegedly) -- he carries packets of salt in the pockets of his cheap charcoal suit, and has emptied several onto the green tiled floor in a loose circle around his feet.
Reginald has not been sleeping well -- not since he stole the painting. It has nothing to do with guilt, nothing to do with the millions of dollars in wrecked property and reputation that has fallen on the museum. Nothing to do with the fat curator out of a job, fired on the spot by an unfeeling board of directors horrified at the bad press. Reginald can't sleep because of the painting itself, haunted as it is rumoured to be. They say the paint itself is cursed -- that the violent reds are themselves the blood that trickled from Vincent Van Gogh's head shortly after he lost his ear.
He picked up the tweezers for fifty cents in an airport drug pavilion half an hour's block from here; the man on the other end of the phone was very clear that no transactions could be conducted with shoddy eyebrows or even the suggestion of a hangnail. The buyers were very particular people, he said. His voice displayed no traces of an accent and Reginald -- even now, even with his face jammed up against the mirror and the canvas rolled up in a carrying tube beside the sink -- Reginald can not help but try to place him, somewhere, geographically. He'd said "Wisconsin," but Reginald has heard midwestern folks before and the mystery accent seemed nowhere near.
"I see you followed my suggestion about the salt." The voice emerges from the mouth of the bathroom, the door, the strange man -- a strange man -- stands at the door. He wears a suit of higher quality, showed clearly that he could tie a tie with more accuracy. Pulling on latex gloves, he scratches his nostrils, leaving a large, red welt on the end of his nose. "An allergy to latex." He snaps the gloves as if to make a point and then smiles. "I appreciate the valiant effort at well-kept brows, Mister Thackeray. To a point."
Reginald tries to catch his breath. He steadies himself against the sink.
"Now," says the man, his voice still devoid of specific characteristics. He sets down a briefcase on the floor, opens it, beginning to examine the instruments held inside. "Shall we do business?"
(c) 2008 Ben Rawluk all rights reserved
(Look, all Monday nights can't be brilliant)