Missing

Putting the 'art' into 'artifice'

Jul 14, 2023

This is a short tale inspired by a piece for ‘Art Every Day’ by

about the mystery surrounding the disappearance of ‘Yellow Poppy Flowers’ by Vincent van Gogh from the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum in Cairo:

“ … you can imagine that almost everyone at the museum, or even associated with it, would surely have been under suspicion too . . . because, to re iterate once again; how does such a renowned painting get cut from it’s own frame and stolen from it’s own room, with no camera able to identify the thieves, no witnesses, no alarms, and no-one knowing anything at all about what happened to the thieves after they walked out of the museum in broad daylight? …”

*‘Yellow Poppy Flowers’* - **Vincent van Gogh**

There was a flash of movement before the gecko disappeared behind the bookcase.

He was used to seeing them as he went about his work. This one had been happy enough, sitting where the wall meets the marbled floor. A shaft of light from the long narrow window near the ceiling created the warmth it had been drawn to. He had watched the lizard. Anything to relieve the boredom. But they are easily startled and now there was just the polished surface of the corridor to stare at. He admired the shine. Cleaning is an underrated art and there was plenty of that in the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum. He should know. He spent enough time here.

The silence exaggerated the sound of the relic from colonial days. He examined the face again. Nothing had changed from his inspection precisely one hour before. The words ‘Townsend’ and ‘Knightsbridge’ nodded to an era long past, one that his grandfather had spoken of in reverential terms. Tick followed tock. He smiled to himself, remembering his grandfather’s insistence that he needed to learn ‘the Queen’s English’. He grinned as he wrestled with the spelling of the word.

on-o-mat-o {wait for it} poeia.

(he said it under his breath) Onomatopoeia.

He loved the sound of the word. Maybe that’s what made him smile. The sound of the word. A word about the sound of words. He adored the connection it gave him with his grandfather and the understanding of language he imparted to him. He missed him so. But the lessons he had been offered and the appreciation they gave of literature, music, and art were lifelong gifts from the man who had done the most to shape him. Oh, but if only life had been as kind. Had it but offered him hope along the way. But life had taken from him as it had been taken from his one true love. What followed was the burden of suffering, the scratched existence of an outcast.

He had arrived in Cairo craving anonymity. The loss of love, of his love, forbidden though it had been, crushed all hope of happiness. He lost himself in the shadows. No one noticed those at the bottom of the pile. Poverty and menial labour were the perfect smoke and mirrors, the street entertainer’s sleight of hand. He remained out of sight. Unseen and disregarded. It suited him well. The librarians at the Maadi Public Library had become used to the simply dressed, quiet man who lost himself among the art books and the English texts. No one ever thought to get to know him better.

Work was an even better hiding place. The galleries were hushed, the soft swish of the broad floor duster barely raising a glance. He was careful to stay in the background. Later in the day when the guides started to gather in anticipation of their emergence into the heat and dust of the city, he found time to linger, private moments to gaze upon his favourites. Any click of footsteps on marble nudged him back into movement, his head lowered deferentially.

As he sat there now, waiting for the call, he kept his eyes lowered, his posture shrinking him deep into the fabric of the place. He belonged there but his presence was ignored. He was nothing. They barely knew his name, let alone anything of his past. His life outside the museum was a mystery to them, and nobody thought to enquire. He liked it that way. No one needed to know. They would have been surprised to learn of the small apartment bequeathed to him in his grandfather’s will and the modest stipend that fuelled his passion for art books and cognac. No one asked, so no one knew.

The bench was hard but his resolve had become hardened by necessity.

He watched them come and go. Ashen-faced managers and supervisors who had been made to feel guilty by the questioning. One after another. One in, one out. The clock ticked and the brutish-looking policeman ushered another in. It tocked and another underling scurried away. Finally, the imposing figure of the Director swept in, emerging much later, wholly diminished, a shadow of himself.

Twenty minutes later, the two police investigators left the room they had commandeered for the interrogations. They were indiscreetly discussing the Director. “Slimy toad”, the younger man exclaimed. It was only when he coughed that the detectives noticed he was there. “What do you want?”.

He adopted his most obsequious tone, wringing his hands for effect. “Sirs, most honourable police officers, I am here to be investigated too”. A man less inclined to the shadows would have been hurt by their dismissive laughs. But he ignored them even as they openly insulted him, deriding both his intelligence and potential as a criminal mastermind. Their laughter echoed down the corridor as he hobbled away, leaning heavily on the hollowed-out crutch. They would not question the crippled young man who spent his days cleaning the galleries at the Mohamed Mahmoud Khalil Museum. He was summarily dismissed, unworthy of their attention.

Later, much later, when the dust had settled and a cooler edge had seeped into the evening air, he would reflect on that.

Later still, the cognac swirling in the bowl of the crystal glass he had found among his grandfather’s belongings, he would feel the surge of joy. He had positioned the high-backed leather chair perfectly. As he sipped at the brandy, his eyes never left the painting. The yellow poppies had a way of lightening even the most difficult of days.