After lunch, Donald’s art dealer, Regina Slabokoff, entered his office in a state of agitated grace.

Donald’s office had a style—a Mojo style—created by the great man himself. Mojo believed in comfort and security, and for Donald he had designed a desk in which his client could sit in its middle, as though in the center of a round doughnut. By pressing a button, foam panels rose and enveloped the sitter who then had the feeling of being back in the womb. It could also be used as a couch for afternoon siestas, thus eliminating the need for that bourgeois appointment.

“I have—how shall I say—rather distressing news, my dear,” Regina began.

Regina—which she pronounced Régina—was wearing an off-the-shoulder wool dress by Mme Grès which was trimmed in silver fox. It was a shade of grey that, on her, expressed ennui. Her muted black hair was styled every week by Maximillian. Regina called him Max, as Maximillian’s constant suspiration while he cut and styled her hair reminded Regina of her beloved cat Max, who purred while he sat on her lap. The lone piece of jewelry she wore for this meeting with Donald was a brooch created expressly for her by Cartier—a pair of love birds, the breast of one being a large oval-shaped Ceylonese red sapphire, and for the breast of its mate, a square-cut Russian tsavorite. Regina always wore a hat, usually with feathers from some eye-catching outlandish bird trailing down her back. Today, she carried an Hermès bag of shiny verdant green niloticus crocodile.

When not acting as an art dealer in Modern and Contemporary American artists, Regina Slabokoff was an ardent advocate for exotic animal rights.

“Can I offer you an espresso or cappuccino?” Donald asked.

“No thank you, my dear. I only drink Armagnac in the afternoon. If you have Marquis de Montesquiou Janneau 1904 I’ll take a snifter.” Regina adjusted the hem of her dress, and sat down on another Mojo original—a smaller version of the desk he had designed for Donald which, when Regina sat, its fur-lined panels rose to enclose her and made her feel secure.

“I’ll get right to the point. I requested the letter of authenticity for the Rothko you wish to sell.”

“Yes . . . yes, go on,” Donald urged, looking for that bottle of the stuff his art dealer had requested.

“After countless, tiresome calls—which took up the better part of a precious afternoon—the Rothko foundation has refused our request.”

“Why? Why did they refuse? Regina, you sold me that Rothko not more than five years ago,” Donald reminded his art dealer. Finding the Armagnac, he poured her a shot in one of his Saint Louis crystal snifters and handed it to her.

“Yes, my dear, but in those days. . . . ”

“Regina, let me remind you that five years isn’t that long ago,” Donald said.

“Well, my dear, in the art world five years is an age,” she drawled. Regina lifted the snifter, taking off her tortoiseshell lorgnette to inspect it for dust.

“Let me also remind you what I paid you for that painting.”

“You needn’t be petty, my dear. This glass is, how can I put it, dusty?” and handed it back to Donald. “I become so, shall we say, bored, when a client bickers over a price.” Regina looked ever so dismayed by the way the conversation was progressing.

“Have I ever haggled over the price of any of the pictures I’ve bought from you?” Donald picked up her sniffer and brought it back to where he kept his liquors. Turning his back to the art dealer he poured its contents into another of his Saint Louis snifters, and handed it to Regina.

“Well, merely asking the price is, to me, shall we say, bargaining.” The art dealer lifted the sniffer Donald had handed her, rolled its contents around a few times, then took a sip.

“Excuse me? Are you implying, Regina, that I have stooped so low as to question the price of any of the paintings you’ve sold me?” With force, Donald threw himself into the center of his desk, causing the panels to rise up and enclose him. There was noise while he struggled to find the button to lower the panels, as he had left his iPhone with its flashlight on top of the desk.

“Well, my dear, merely bringing up the subject is, to me, shall we say, lowering the bar. But what they said was, they are unable. . . . ”

“You mean, unwilling,” Donald corrected her, having restored his position—and his composure.

“Whateeeever. I won’t get into the semantics. They won’t give us the little letter,” she told him.

Regina lifted the snifter, tilted her classic head back—and downed its remaining contents.

“Which means?” Donald asked.

“Which means, my dear, that you won’t be able to sell it. No one will buy—today—any art made by a deceased artist without a letter of authentication from their estate. It’s as simple as that.”

Eric Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than one hundred animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, more than seventy of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.