Rebecca Raisin - The Little Antique Shop Under The Eiffel Tower

A smile crept across my face. I could still feel the American’s gaze like a laser on me. To Raphe, I said, “Très bien.” Very good. I opened the program and pretended to study the lots, though I had them memorized from my earlier visits, and knew the story behind each one.

The auctioneer stepped up to the podium, and grappled with the microphone before introducing himself. I zoned out, fanning myself with the program, unable to switch off my worry that Monsieur Black was going to bid against me. The scroll and the profit I’d make on selling it would help me immensely, and I wouldn’t let some stranger take it from me.

The first lot was called, and the bidding commenced for an Asian xylophone. It was exquisite, bowed like a boat, its wood intricately carved with roaring dragons breathing fire. It wasn’t my specialty so I subtly studied the people to the left of me, studiously avoiding the American who sat on my right. I watched them tense when someone bid them up, or feign disinterest as they gave the auctioneer the tiniest, almost imperceptible, finger raise.

We were all given numbered paddles to bid with, but most of us used them only once we’d won, so they could record our number to process our payment. They were too obvious, bright white, and showed the competition who was bidding. If you had a reputation for quality buys then there was a chance attendees would bid against you, without having to do their own research on a piece. It was better to be as invisible as possible when you bid.

Thirty minutes later the French cello was introduced. The auctioneer gave a short spiel about its origins. He rhapsodized Mollier, and the maestro’s many accomplishments, drawing sighs of longing around the room.

The bidding commenced slowly at first. I was surprised to feel a rush of cool air, as Monsieur Black left his seat for another elsewhere. Good.

From the corner of my eye I could see the gnarly hand of a painter known only as Ombre raise up. My heart lifted. Ombre’s modus operandi was a few early bids before bowing out to resume drinking the free champagne, and chat to anyone lingering by the bar in the hopes of selling his surrealist artwork. So far the stranger hadn’t bid. Was he toying with me?

A few collectors joined in, heartily bidding, until one of them pulled out with a shake of the head.

I made an effort to act disinterested while waiting for the auctioneer to call it, and on the third count caught his eye and raised an eyebrow in my signature move. A subtle way to bid without anyone knowing it was me. I took the bid up to ten thousand Euros – it was affordable, a downright bargain for such a piece, and what I’d envisaged spending.

“Last bid at ten thousand Euros? Going once, going twice… Eleven thousand next bid.”

I stiffened in response, but raised an eyebrow. There was no need to ponder who was bidding against me; it must have been the American! Typically here to splash his cash and draw attention.

“Twelve,” the auctioneer said taking my next bid. “Thirteen, away from you.”

To the auctioneer, I mouthed, “Fifteen.” If I had to bid him up, I would, and hope he’d stop.

“Twenty, against you.”

Twenty ! I’d expected to buy it for ten thousand! Though it was worth every cent of twenty thousand Euros, sadly my funds were limited and I had to be cautious. I couldn’t let Andre down, and I’d all but secured a buyer for the scroll. Time to let him know I meant business!

“Twenty-one,” I called high and loud, drawing the attention from the crowd. What was he doing to me? My emotions were usually kept under wraps, but with him goading me, my rules vanished.

“Twenty-two, away from you,” the auctioneer called. I wanted to spin on my seat and face my opponent, but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing my face fall when I had to bow out.

I did some quick calculations and knew it was well beyond my savings. But he was American! Another beloved piece of French history would be freighted to some fancy summer home on a coast far from here to collect dust.

And poor Andre would wander those cavernous halls, a shadow of bad memories in his wake.

My face reddened. “Twenty-three!” Anxiety gnawed at me – my stomach roiled. I’d send myself bankrupt being caught in a bidding war. It was his flippancy that galled me. Just because he could afford the cello didn’t mean he deserved it.

“Twenty-four, away from you.”

Damn him to hell! Anger coursed through me, my hands shook, so I planted them under my legs. The auctioneer called it, and looked past me, and then back, waiting in case I bid once more. I worried my bottom lip, clamping down hard, as conflicted emotions tore through me. I hated letting people down, really despised it, especially in business, but going higher than twenty-four would be making a bad choice. It was a little more than I had in the coffers in case I got stuck with the scroll for a while. I slowly shook my head no.

He picked up his gavel. “Last call, for the Mollier cello, a magnificent instrument played by the maestro himself…”

A sob rose in my throat but I swallowed it down.

“Une fois, deux fois, trois fois,” Once, twice, three times , the auctioneer closed the bidding. With a bang of the gavel the cello was lost to me. And I would have to explain to Andre that the deal was off. This wasn’t my year, that was for sure. It went to show you could never be complacent in business.

Time slowed, as the other lots were called. I stayed riveted to my seat, until finally , it was over. With as much poise as I could muster I made my way out of the auction room, tugging my skirt straight, wondering who my new nemesis really was, and how I’d go about finding out. The melancholy notes of the cello would drift up under a different sky, if it ever got played again. Of course, he couldn’t let his win go unnoticed. With his hands deep in his suit pockets he sauntered over to me.

“Who were you going to sell it to?” he asked.

I scoffed. “As if I’d tell a stranger my business.”

“But I’m not a stranger, I’m a friend, a fellow antique aficionado.” He was goading me, and I just couldn’t understand why. For fun? His way of flirting? A way to ease his boredom? Whatever it was, it rankled. This was my lifeblood, and he had bid against me on purpose.

“You are a stranger, Monsieur Black –”

“Tristan,” he said.

I sighed and continued: “Monsieur Black –”

“Just call me Tristan; we don’t need to be so formal, do we?”

Now he was telling me the rules? “Do you make a habit of interrupting every time a person tries to speak?”

He reared back, and laughed. “Are you angry with me for some reason, mademoiselle?”

“Are you dense? You knew I wanted that cello. You don’t need it. America has some fine objets d’art … Why don’t you hop back on your private jet and go hunt in your own country.”

His lips curved into a wide smile. “My private jet?”

For years, I’d heard men identical to him harp on about custom leather seats, and dinner degustation menus aboard their private planes. Memory-foam pillows, and round beds, and any number of things they boasted about to one-up each other with their vast wealth. Why couldn’t they fly on a domestic plane like everyone else? Their carbon footprints were yeti-sized. “Yes, fly it to America or somewhere else, and leave France alone.”

“I’ve just been to Italy,” he said. “And nothing there compares to what I’ve seen here today… The quality is breathtaking.” He flicked me a loaded stare. Was he flirting with me? Did he think I was a fool?

Women veering past did a double take when they saw him. I wrinkled my nose in disgust. If they’d spent two minutes talking to him they’d know he had no substance. He was an empty shell with a few dollars to his stupid name. Mr. Black ? Honestly, it sounded like a pseudonym to me.