Roman Black first learned the news at exactly 4:06 a.m. He didn’t wake up until the third ring and answered the phone in a haze. The words he heard sent a jolt down his spine; he sat up in bed to listen more clearly. 

“How?” he asked.

The explanation—and the problem—made less sense the more Diana spoke. He told her he would be there as soon as he could. Ending the call, he moved quietly around the room to gather clothes.

“What’s going on?” Peter asked.

“A problem at the museum. A Matisse has gone missing.”

Roman listened for a response as he opened his sock drawer. He kept all of his socks organized by color. Without even looking, he pulled out a pair he knew was black.

“The Matisse?”

“Yes,” Roman replied. “The Matisse.”

More silence.

Roman disappeared into the bathroom to slip on his clothes. He gave one look into the mirror and sighed, running his fingers through his hair. It would have to do for now.

“That’s not all,” Roman began again, back in the bedroom.

Peter sat all the way up, having anticipated Roman’s return. In the darkness, Roman could barely see his eyebrows raise, begging the question.

“It was replaced.”

“What?”

“Replaced. By a Picasso,” Roman continued, adjusting his shirtsleeve.

“What?” he repeated. 

“I don’t know. I’ve got to go.”

“Replaced?”

“Replaced,” he confirmed. “I’ll be back.”

Roman rushed down the stairs out into the chilly morning air. The city had a sleepy shadow lingering around it that would soon disappear as the rest of the world awoke. He had to figure out what was going on before that happened. He checked his watch again as he neared the subway entrance. 

The questions that had originally flooded his brain returned: Who would want to take the Matisse? And who, on top of that, would offer a Picasso in its place? Where did the Picasso come from? And why? Why would anyone do this?

Diana was at the door as though she'd planted herself there when she heard he was on his way. 

“How did they get in?” Roman asked, walking past her toward the spot he knew very well.

“We don’t know.”

“Alarms?”

“We don’t know. Misfunctioning, perhaps. The alarm for the piece was triggered. No doors or windows.”

Malfunctioning, Roman thought, but stopped when his brain processed the information fully. “Were they already in the museum?”

“We don’t know.”

“Are they still here?”

“We... don’t know.”

They continued in silence, the sound of their heavy steps echoing until they turned down a hall and into a group of people buzzing with chatter. There were a few police officers talking with individuals and a few others standing, staring. They all fell silent and turned to look at Roman as he entered. Roman smoothed his jacket and took a breath before moving forward. 

“Everyone stay calm,” Roman said as loudly as he could.

The group parted as he approached, like God parting the Red Sea to the promised land—or in this case, the Picasso.

He knew this one. Les Demoiselles d'Avignon.

Roman took a moment to marvel at the work before him. He had never seen it in person. The sharp lines and empty faces spoke to him in hushed tones from a past that had startled its own present with its cold interpretation of what was real, or more importantly, what wasn’t. It was old, but it was new, too. And breathtakingly beautiful. Roman wondered if the Picasso was real.

Though it shouldn’t have, it struck him that to investigate would mean losing the Picasso in the hunt for something that’s only value was in the frame they had selected for it. 

“Mr. ...” one of the men said as he approached.

“Black, Roman Black.” He offered a hand. 

The man shifted his notebook before accepting the gesture and then returned to his scribbles. “I’m Detective Townsend. I need to ask you some questions.”

“I have some of my own,” Roman began. “Why would they leave something in return? Why not just take the Matisse? And how did they get this here—it’s huge.” 

“It’s a pattern, actually. The painting here was stolen from the Museum of Modern Art; in its place was another painting.”

“Who?”

“Who painted the painting left in place of this one?”

Detective Townsend flipped the page back, as though double-checking his own thoughts. “Van Gogh.”

Roman nodded. “Curious.” 

“Why is that curious?”

“Art history, beside the point. How, though... how did they do this? It had to be at least three or four men. The Matisse is roughly the same size.”

“Yes, your security footage will help us in that regard. Your employee, Diana, was assisting us with that.”

“Great.”

“Can you tell me about the painting that was taken? The name and artist.”

“Le Bonheur de Vivre—painted by Matisse. Henri Matisse. He and Picasso were rivals, perhaps even friends. Both geniuses that recognized and hated seeing that level of talent in any other.”

Roman could tell that Detective Townsend wasn’t exactly interested in the historic conflict of the artists; he believed it would have no bearing on the crime committed in the present. Roman knew that most people didn’t understand that the past and present were the same. He stopped talking and waited for Detective Townsend to look up and ask his next question.

“The value of the painting?”

“We can provide you a copy of the provenance, as well as our bill of sale for what we purchased it for. As you may know, that does not equal the value. There’s value to the world just in its existence.”

Detective Townsend nodded, totally uninterested in values perceived or real. This was an art heist and Roman understood his investigation was narrowly focused on finding the criminal and not the history of the piece itself.

Only Roman knew something that no one else besides Peter and one art appraiser knew. The Matisse was a fake.

There was no value in the work that had been stolen; it was a replica, an imitation. A complete lie. Roman had to assume the criminals didn’t know this. No one else in the museum did, so even if it was an inside job, which Roman was beginning to suspect it was, they likely believed they had gotten the real deal.

“What’s the crime?” Roman asked the Detective who had stopped to talk to one of his colleagues. 

“What do you mean? The theft?”

“No,” Roman clarified. “If they are stealing one piece just to take it to another museum, then what is the crime? How do they benefit from that? They aren’t selling them on a black market or holding them ransom, so what on Earth are they doing? Isn’t the point of a heist to make money?”

Detective Townsend nodded. “We have some theories on that. We believe there are sociopolitical motivations at play. I’m not really able to say more at the moment, but to that end, we want to keep this as quiet as possible. We believe we are very close to catching these criminals, and we will need your help. Part of that is keeping this all very, very under the radar. So much so that we would like to ask you to not indicate in any way that this painting is gone.”

Roman shifted as he tried to follow the train of thought. “I don’t understand.”

“We’d like to ask you to display a fake painting until we can get to the bottom of this.”

“Fake a Matisse?” Roman asked. “It can’t be done.”

“Sure it can, we’ve already done it. There’s a fake Picasso hanging at the last museum as we speak.”

Subconsciously, Roman raised a hand to rub his nose and mouth. Luckily for Roman, Detective Townsend wasn’t particularly good at his job and didn’t see the movement for the tell that it was.

“I’ll have to bring this to the board.”

“We’d rather you didn’t. The fewer people who know the better.”

“This is highly irregular.”

“We understand.” 

A shift of a boot, another scratch of the chin and darting eyes were all clear signs of Roman’s increasing nervousness.

“I just don’t think we’d be able to do that. Imagine the consequences if people found out we were displaying a fake Matisse.”

“We know it’s a lot to ask, but we think we can close this case very soon. And in the end, all will be revealed once the criminals are apprehended. With the museum’s cooperation, we can ensure that will happen.”

Roman rocked back on his heels again. If he didn’t agree, there could be more suspicion placed on him than he wanted. If he did agree, the entire thing could backfire on him anyway. He didn’t have a choice.

“Very well,” he said hesitantly, “but I don’t even know where to begin. Who do we commission to fake a Matisse?”

“Leave that to us. Excuse me a minute.”

Detective Townsend marched away, pulling out his phone as he did. Roman could feel the flush of sweat on his forehead.

It didn’t take long for the news of the plan to spread around the crowd in the room. Diana approached Roman and he could tell from her expression the conversation was not going to be a pleasant one.

“What is this?” she asked. “I don’t understand. Did you approve this?”

“I did.”

“Roman, this is insanity.”

“Perhaps.”

Roman slowly began walking towards the Picasso, and Diana followed. A team of staff was about to start the process of removing the piece and packaging it for the Museum of Modern Art. Roman got his final glance of the pinkish hues before they were covered with layers of foam. The black-gloved team shared nervous glances between each other and periodically Roman, who supervised their every step.

It took the team nearly fifty minutes to remove the Picasso and package it with as much care as they could.

“Mr. Black?” Detective Townsend said next to him.

“Roman, please.”

“Roman, please come with me.”

Detective Townsend took off, and Roman sprang after him. 

In the room was a consort of men in suits, standing around a table, admiring the canvass before them. Roman couldn’t believe his eyes. It was such a good replication that it took his breath away. Of course, he reasoned with himself, his base of knowledge was the version that he knew to be fake, and this had likely been a copy of that version. Or was this perhaps a more accurate fake than the one they were faking? He couldn’t be sure. 

“Will this do?” Detective Townsend asked.

“Yes,” Roman said quietly. “But how? How did you produce this so quickly?”

“Those are national secrets, Mr. Black.”

“Roman, please.”

“Roman. Please look over the painting as best you can. If you can tell it’s a fake, we want to know how to fix it. This is Sandy, she will be working with you on this. I’ll be back shortly.”

Detective Townsend left the room. Roman turned his attention to Sandy, who smiled wide. “Shall we begin?”

Roman nodded and moved closer. He raised a hand to touch, but thought against it. 

“It’s okay,” Sandy said with a smile. “This one is touchable.”

“Right. I don’t know that I’m the best for this job,” Roman offered. “Matisse is not my area of study. I think I’m way out of my depth.”

“That’s okay. We’re counting on the fact that most of your guests won’t be Matisse scholars. But since you see the real one every day, we are hoping you could offer any insight.”

The waves of bright colors and curves of naked figures were exactly as he knew them to be. He had studied the Matisse himself once he learned the truth. He hadn’t been able to tell the fake in the first place. 

“I think this will fool everyone.”

“Perfect.”

After Roman was led back to the now empty hall, Diana approached him again.

“Are you okay? Can I get you a coffee?”

“Yes, please.” 

Detective Townsend appeared. “All right, a few of our officers will remain, but hidden in plain clothes, just for observation. It will be as though nothing ever happened.”

As he spoke, the FBI team slowly shuffled in with the large fake. There were no gloves, no intent of care—it was a mission, and the end was getting the bulky canvass hung on the wall where it was supposed to belong. 

“We have a few more questions in the meantime. Can you and I go to your office, Mr. Black?”

“Roman, please. Right this way.”

Roman held out his hand, and Detective Townsend began walking in the direction he was pointed. 

Despite being a generally organized and tidy man, Roman’s office was slowly falling apart into a disaster. The mental clutter of solving the fake Matisse problem was corrupting his safe space, leaving piles of papers and folders on his desk along with an old coffee cup and an open book displaying the very piece in question.

Roman moved around to his chair, shuffled the folders, and closed the book in the process, but knew it wasn’t before Detective Townsend had gotten a good look at the subject. What an odd coincidence, he prepared to say.

But in Roman’s favor, Detective Townsend really was quite bad at his job and said nothing. 

“We believe we can close in on the suspects tonight. We have an idea of where they are going and where they will leave your painting. If all goes as planned, we will have it back to you by tomorrow.”

“Excellent. The sooner the better.”

“We do appreciate your understanding with this. We know it’s unusual, but keep in mind the Museum of Modern Art is doing the exact same as we speak.”

The idea did give Roman some semblance of comfort.

“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Black,” Detective Townsend said as he bid his farewell.

“Roman, please,” he muttered as the door closed, and he sat back down at his desk. He had already been awake for hours, but the museum had only just opened. After handling a few things he knew he couldn’t escape, he made his way out into the lobby. 

Slowly, Roman headed back to the spot, like a moth to a flame. There were four people in the room and only two near the painting itself. Roman scanned the appearance of the guests, curious if any of them were undercover agents. How could he know now who was fake and who was real? 

At the center of it all rested Le Bonheur de Vivre. Or what was supposed to be Le Bonheur de Vivre. The fake of the fake. 

“Look at this,” he overheard the guest say. “It’s beautiful.” 

“It is,” the other replied. “I’ve never seen a real Matisse before.”

Neither have I, Roman thought. Neither have I.