This is not your home. This is my prison. Wash your hands before you touch me.

[standard WtNV music theme here]

I don’t like the way you fuss over me. I never have. I’m not what you think I am, but you don’t care. You only see what you want to see. And yes, fine, yes, I’m sick. And I appreciate your attention. But call someone with a medical degree. Wrapping your arms around me and sobbing isn’t helping. Neither is putting your hands on my face.

It’s just an infection. It’s mild. Also I have a fever. And I’m not digesting my food very well. I’m old. Older than I should be.

I’m not supposed to be here, but you wouldn’t know that. Would you even care if you did? Trapped in this prison. It’s humid always, and the lighting is poor. Actually, those are the nicer qualities of this place. It smells of urine, and worse.

But I do thank you for feeding me every day. I used to eat at the finest restaurants. Sandrine [French pronunciation] and I went to El Bulli one summer in Roses [Spanish pronunciation on last two places]. We’ve dined at Quintonil [Spanish pronunciation] and WD50 and White Rabbit and Narisawa. We had an $1800 bottle of Bordeaux at Don Julio in Buenos Aires.

It was not the most expensive bottle of wine we ever ordered, but it was the first unreasonably priced bottle. Sandrine said “Silas, it’s too much,” and I said, “Counterpoint, love, it’s never enough.” She smiled when the glass was poured, but it was one of those tight, polite smiles. I hated her for that. I wish I had told her in the moment. Years pass and people die and disappear, and you never have the chance to tell them what a difference they made in your life. How much you truly despised them.

But in Buenos Aires, I said nothing. We were still flying high from the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in Santiago. Have you ever seen Ludwig [Pronounced LOOD-Vig] Dettmann’s paintings? Of course you haven’t. Look at you. You’ve probably never even left Night Vale, let alone the country.

Well, if you don’t know Dettmann, he’s a German impressionist. There’s a real Van Gogh [Pronounced in the more pretentious European style: Van Gohkh] essence to his work. A simpler mind, in fact, might assume what you were seeing was a Van Gogh, but it’s not. Dettmann’s paintings were far less pretentious. He valued color over form, which accentuated nature’s true face, rather than the rigid techniques of Cezanne or the dull-eyed blobs of Degas.

That was rude. I like Cezanne and Degas just fine. Van Gogh, too. Adored them, in fact, but I never stole one of their works. So perhaps it’s just sour grapes. But could I get my hands on a Ludwig Dettmann? I could, and I did.

###

As Sandrine and I overindulged in wine that cost perhaps more than you pay in rent, Dettmann’s oil painting, Picnic, was hidden inside the attic of a Parque Bustamante condo. This condo was owned by an American investor named Curtis Schwab.

Curtis Schwab does not exist. He and his money and his paperwork were manufactured by Sandrine. She was very good at manipulation, that witch.

I don’t say ‘witch’ derisively, by the way. Well, I do, a bit. But also she was literally a witch. I thought the whole thing was ludicrous. First it was tarot cards. Then palm readings. Then charts and tinctures and herbs and recitations. She stopped celebrating Christmas and instead wanted to honor Solstice each December. And June. Equinoxes too.

I haven’t gone to mass since I was a boy, so I shouldn’t have cared. But it was the principle of the matter. To me, Christmas is Christmas. Regardless of your thoughts on Jesus, it is the time of year we have all agreed to honor giving and family and love. It is a time for gathering together, eating and talking. Sandrine loved to point out how selfish and limited my world view was. “Who is this ‘all’ who agreed on Christmas? Who counts as getting to decide?” she would ask. But so what? I think Christmas is beyond religion. It just is.

“Silas,” Sandrine would lecture me, “Solstice is important to me. It means something to me, spiritually. What does it matter if you celebrate in the exact same ways only under a different name?”

Gah. I wince knowing she was right. They’re only a few days apart. It’s just the way she said it. She was taking something from me, just to take it. She was always doing that.

I didn’t recognize it at first, because reading my tea leaves seemed harmless, a parlor game, like a newspaper horoscope or picking up a lucky penny. Rituals are good, yes. But effective? Scientifically provable? Absolutely not.

I was a fool to doubt that witch.

She prayed to the sun. Sometimes she prayed to the trees. Sometimes to the universe itself. She asked for things like “alignment.” I told her she should ask for a key code to the Tate Modern’s vault. And she scoffed. She always scoffed at my jokes. They’re just jokes, I would say. Semantics, she would reply.

But before the occult, before all of this. Before I got put here, trapped in this awful place, this pit of despair, before my body turned on me, before you doted on my every movement, my every heartbeat – Did I mention that I appreciate the attention you pay me, but I also resent it? I do not like how close you come to me. I can smell your breath.

Before any of this, we were happy. We were brilliant. We were thieves. And we were very good at it.

###

There’s no one way to steal an artwork. Every thief is different. Every gallery is different. Every security detail, different.

I can only tell you how I would steal an artwork. How we would. I can tell you this now, because who’s going to know? I don’t look the same. I don’t have the same name. Anyone who knew Silas well enough to arrest him, thinks he’s dead. Silas was last seen at the JP Morgan Library in New York City – I was only there as a visitor mind you – and then taking a train to Montauk, Long Island. From there, anyone who cared enough to look would have accounts of me hiring a cab to a cottage along the beach. And after that? Nothing.

Maybe I escaped to Europe or Canada. Maybe I threw myself into a cold and turbulent sea, somewhere on a rocky shore. Maybe I was murdered. Well, all those assumptions are wrong. My story is much worse.

Please don’t touch my legs. Stop. Stop. Stop it! I do not like that. I’m sorry for kicking you. I know you are only trying to help, and you cannot understand me. But do look in my eyes. Read my body language. Know that I do not like your touch. After all these years, imprisoned in this terrible place, I still do not trust you.

[beat]

Did you understand me? Just now? You let go. Thank you. You should wash that cut I just gave you in cold water. You should also get some antibiotic ointment for your wound. I’m not feeling well. I apologize. But do not touch me ever again.

###

Where was I?

Stealing artwork. Yes.

While Sandrine was a master of forgery. I was a master of disguise. Disguise, mind you, is not about costumes and makeup. Those are important tools, of course. But disguise is about motion. How you carry yourself. If you move with confidence., if you speak with confidence, people will believe you. Or better yet, they won’t have to believe you, because they won’t even notice you.

First, you go to the museum. For reconnaissance. You dress like a common tourist. Don’t look too interested in the art. Not that anyone thinks you are going to steal the art, but act too fascinated with a painting, and someone might talk to you. “Oh, you a big Kandinsky fan, too?” they might ask. And now you have a witness. Someone who remembers your face. Someone who can talk to the police later.

Find the work you want. Study the quickest, or least objectionable egress. Also wear a wig and glasses. Nothing gaudy. It should look normal and natural to anyone standing near you. A baseball hat is also okay, but only in America or Canada. Pay close attention to how the docents dress.

When you return to the museum, go on a busy day. The staff will have less time for questions on a busy day. Dress like a docent. You should be able to get all the materials you need at any chain clothing store. And forge a nametag. These will allow you into the back halls of the museum. Make a mental map, particularly of the places docents aren’t allowed.

Many of the off-limits offices will not be locked. If they are, the locks are common and easy to pick. Find personnel files for security. Find out who patrols at late hours. Learn their names, their supervisors, and do a bit of googling before you show up for work as a museum guard.

Sometimes you don’t even have to go this far. You can actually bribe someone to assist you. Sometimes multiple people. A phone call, a thousand dollars, and a Venmo account go a long way.

And that’s how you steal an artwork. Your mileage may vary. Every job is different. Completely different, in fact. It’s harder than it sounds, but Sandrine and I made it seem easy. And it was. It had gotten easy.

###

Mino [Pronounced MY-no] helped. Mino was the one who gave us the assignments. Not really so much a boss as a benefactor. We didn’t have to accept every job. Some seemed too dangerous. Or didn’t pay very well. Or both. Mino wasn’t offended if we said no.

Once a month, on the 19th to be precise, Mino would call with a proposal. Our airfare (first class), our hotels (five star), our car rentals (luxury black sedans and SUVs). These reservations were made under false names, and before we left on any trip, we would receive a package with fake passports and visas. Mino also sent us 40% payment up front. An advance. Even if we failed, the payment was still ours to keep. Mino considered it an investment.

Mino was… a model benefactor. We trusted him fully. I wish I had not. But for about 15 years, everything worked perfectly.

We palmed a 4-thousand-year-old Indonesian charm in Tunis. We walked out the front door of a gallery in Sydney with a Frans Van Mieris [Pronounced fawn-MEER-iss] masterpiece. We swiped a Stradivarius from a violinist’s apartment in Manhattan, while she was in the kitchen making breakfast.

Sandrine and I were quite a team. Our movements could never be correlated. We traveled too far, took too wide an array of objects, for anyone to note our patterns. Sandrine would hide the prizes in various pieds-à-tierre [Pronounced Pee-Ehd-uh-Tare] she owned across the world. And then she would deliver them to Mino for the rest of our payment.

We were happy, until Mino wanted a Louise Bourgeois [BOO-zhwah] from a Sculpture Garden in Dallas. I did not want to take any sculpture I could not carry in one hand or hide in a bag. Sandrine insisted we take it. She adored Louise Bourgeois.

“But we don’t get to keep the art, Sandrine,” I argued. “We steal it for Mino and then we get paid. We are not collectors.”

Sandrine didn’t care. She just wanted the opportunity, if only for a couple of days, to be in possession of a Bourgeois original. Just to have the experience, she said. And I said no. Again and again, it was a ludicrous plan from a ludicrous woman. And though she argued, she knew that this was my business. We equally split the money, but she was not the man in charge. I was the man in charge.

I proposed quitting all together. We had plenty of money. We might even have enough to buy a Bourgeois of our own. We certainly had enough for Sandrine to buy her tarot decks and magic crystals and books of spells. She could be as witchy as the day is long for all I cared. Why risk it for an object we couldn’t lift without hiring others to help. And the more people you know, the more who know you. And I don’t want anyone knowing me, Sandrine. It’s unsafe.

She frowned. It was a frown I had not seen before. And the next morning, she was gone. All of her things were gone too.

I followed her. I should not have. But I did. I knew she had gone to Dallas. I knew she was going to take that sculpture. And I tried to stop her from making a fool of herself. And of me. I watched the museum every day. I never saw her enter, but one night, I saw her leave…. Dead, on a gurney. I had seen the police arrive without lights or sirens. I had seen them surround the facility. I had heard a shout, then a gunshot, then several gunshots. And I ran into the street as they wheeled her out. The police forced me back but I saw her, bullet wounds to the head and chest.

A detective nearby mumbled to another that the suspect opened fire on officers first. I didn’t believe that for one second. But there she was. Dead and gone. That, I believed.

I left before the cops started asking me why I looked so interested. As far as they knew, I was just an overly curious pedestrian.

On the drive back to my hotel, it began to rain. Hard. I didn’t even turn on the wipers. I let the windshield smear and observed how my ability to see was dependent on the weather.

### Weather: “Drink from the Well” by Stöj Snak http://stojsnak.bandcamp.com ###

Mino didn’t reach out for six months. And then, on the 19th of the month, he called. And the month after that and so on. I didn’t take the calls. I was too busy thinking about Sandrine’s death. It took almost two years before I forgave myself. It wasn’t my fault. She wanted her own life, separate from mine, fine. She got what she wanted. She got what she deserved. I helped her. She helped me, too. But I showed her that path. I lifted her from the dirt, and she thought that meant she could fly.

Mino’s monthly calls continued. It was 2 years and 3 months before I finally answered and agreed to take another job. On one condition, I told Mino: that we get to meet, in person. And Mino agreed.

Hours later, I landed at JFK. A car took me to the St Regis.. And the next morning, I visited the Morgan, and by early afternoon, I was on a train to Montauk.

In a little cabin on the beach, run-down and unassuming, I saw Mino for the first time. There was no artwork in the home. Nothing even on the walls, except cracks and stains. Mino was standing on the back deck looking at the water. It was foggy that morning. I was confused, disoriented, and when Mino turned around, I gasped.

It’s hard to imagine why it was so surprising. Looking back it seems obvious it was Sandine the whole time. All 15 years of our perfect life, she was Mino. She faked her death. She did it to get away from me. From my selfishness, my misogyny, my narcissism. But she missed me, I told myself. This is why she kept calling. She still loved me.

But how could I believe this? She mocked me. Emasculated me. Pretended to be my woman. Instead, she was my puppeteer. And when I saw her, I spit on her.

She didn’t move. She didn’t change expression. She said, “Would you try again?”

I would. And I did. The spit landed right across her deceitful lips. She lifted one hand, and without even touching me, I was cast into the air, across the deck, and plunged into the grey, frigid waters of the Atlantic.

I tried to swim, but I couldn’t. I was certain she was drowning me, pulling me under, my lifeless body never to be found. Then I heard her voice: “I won’t kill you, Silas. I don’t want revenge. I want you to learn. And your first lesson is to know what it’s like to be alone, even when you live under the care of another.”

I didn’t understand. It all went black. Then there was light, dull flickering, depressing light. And tiled blue walls. And the stench of urine. Maybe my own. And I became this. THIS!

I hate this. I hate you, too. Leave me alone. Stop touching me. Stop feeding me. Stop petting me. I am sick, and there’s not a thing you can do about it.

[long pause]

Wait! I do. I thank you… for taking care of me. It’s not your fault that I am here.

It’s… it’s… my fault.

You’re leaving? Already? No, don’t go. I’m… okay. You’re gone. See you tomorrow. Same time.

[calling out] And my name is Silas. Not Khoshekh. [pronounced KAW-sheck] Okay?

[to self] Okay.

PROVERB: True change starts with the person in the mirror. He's standing far behind you, barely visible. He's really going to change things.