Angels and Thieves

Chapter Four Michel

MICHEL LA ROCHE had dreamed of baby angels since the first Sunday of Advent.

"What's the Italian word for baby angels?" He and André lounged in the window seat of a café across the street from an exclusive shop selling infant clothing.

"Angels?" André's eyes wavered between the shop door and him.

"Baby angels in paintings."

"Putto? Putti?" André asked. "Give me context."

"Give you context? You're cerebral."

"Cerebral?"

"Just out of it. I'm talking about baby angels. Cherubs. That's it. I've been dreaming of cherubs."

"What kind of cherubs?" André asked, but he was watching the doorway of Le Bébé.

"Baby ones." Under the table, Michel kicked André's leg. "Anne knows we're here."

"I'm sorry, our baby is due in two months. What if she slips?"

"Quit worrying. You'll make something happen. Let God worry."

André pulled his gaze from the street and looked at Michel. "If God exists."

"Exists? I know She exists."

"God is she?"

"God is everywhere. Everywhere is God."

André rolled his eyes. "There they are," André said, rising, "stay here, I'll meet them.

Michel shrugged. "You're a besotted mess." André hadn't heard, or he'd ignored Michel. He headed for the door.

André hurried across the street, kissed the gloriously pregnant Anne, air-kissed Violetta's cheeks and escorted the women across the street to the café.

"What did you buy?" Michel asked. Anne rummaged through her sack and pulled out a minuscule romper imprinted with yellow baby ducks.

"Boy or girl?" Michel hadn't elicited the baby's sex from André, yet. Perhaps Anne?

"We'll be happy with either," Anne said. André was touching her, hand flitting from her hair to her hand, to her leg. "André," she stroked his chin, "I'm fine."

André took his hand off her knee and pulled his chair closer. "We'll order lunch. This café is well-known for creative salads."

"I'm craving French fries," Anne looked sideways at André, "and salad."

Michel and Violetta ordered the Roasted Beet, Mozzarella, and Coconut Chicken with mixed greens, seeds, and nuts.

"I'll have the same," Anne said.

"The same," André said, "with French fries."

The server's brows lifted. "French fries?"

"That's right."

Michel's rolled his eyes. André was besotted, doting on Anne more than was healthy, ruminating through a series of what-ifs scenarios that wouldn't happen. Wasting time.

Michel considered worrying a lack of faith.

LAST NIGHT'S DREAM had been vivid. He saw two chubby young male angels with scraggly hair appearing mischievous—or bored. Definitely not babies. He awoke when the pair flew out of a framed painting, directly at him. Catholic to the core with a hint of new-age skepticism, someone was trying to tell him something.

Michel wasn't well-versed in the nuances of art, although he had worked for the Gensonné family law firm for years. Since early in the twentieth century, the firm had dealt in the vagaries of art—acquisition, restoration, crime, insurance—anything involved with the legalities of the art industry. André would be the one to ask.

"Do you have time to talk?" Michel asked. They had gone back to their offices after lunch, leaving the women to shop. It had been hard to pull André away from Anne, but both had had appointments after lunch.

"My last meeting is at four o'clock. I'll be available after five."

"See you then." What would he say? His intuition said the recurring dream involved André, perhaps Anne and the baby. It had a negative connotation although he couldn't explain why. He had to warn him even if it scared the crap out of André.

ANDRÉ'S DOOR WAS open. Mobile pressed to his ear—face sappy-looking—he was talking to Anne. Did she feel overprotected? Or did she appreciate André's smothering?

That would drive Michel bananas. André waved him inside, said 'I love you' and ended the conversation.

"What's on your mind?"

"Baby Angels."

"Again?"

"Still."

André circled his desk, leaning against it with folded arms. "I'm listening."

"It started November twenty-ninth, the first Sunday of Advent."

"What started?"

"The dreams of angels. I told you at lunch; I've been dreaming of cherubs. You were watching for Anne, probably didn't hear me."

"Something about Italian angels."

Michel blew an exasperated sigh. "It's been about a week. I dream of baby angels, more like cherubs. Two goofy ones flew out of a frame last night. Woke me up."

"Goofy angels?"

"I've seen them before. I'm not an expert, but I've seen these, must be in a painting. They flew out of a frame."

André tossed his head. "It's a dream. Nothing else."

"Google it; these aren't ordinary angels." Michel sat at André's desk. "Put in your password."

Leaning over Michel, André clicked a few keys, then perched on his desk, fingers tapping his folded arms.

Michel found his angels in moments. They had been painted at the bottom of an altarpiece by Raphael Sanzio entitled the Sistine Madonna, one of Raphael's last and most famous Madonna paintings, finished in 1514.

The oil on canvas painting resided in the Old Masters Picture Gallery in Dresden, Germany. It had celebrated 500 years in 2014.

"They're in a painting of Mary holding Jesus," Michel said, his tone reverent. "Don't you see? They're telling us something. Anne is pregnant. The angels—."

"Mean nothing," André leaped from his desk, "you're making me paranoid."

"Sorry, André." Michel logged off. Paranoid, that's how Michel would characterize André's behavior over the last few months. He couldn't blame André. He'd had it rough the last couple of years. And the Parisian attacks had everyone on edge.

"Those angels are ubiquitous. They're on stationary, notecards, posters, high-quality prints. Everywhere. Did you see the cherubs somewhere?"

"In my dreams."

"Besides your dreams," André said. "You probably saw them on something."

Michel leaned back in Andre's office chair. "This is new; I wanted to . . . warn . . ."

"Let it go." André strode to his door, opened it and motioned Michel through. "I'm going home. Anne's waiting."

Michel nodded and brushed past, squeezing André's shoulder. He'd shut his office computer down, but he logged back on. The Sistine Madonna was considered an exemplary painting, even in Raphael's time.

The devout Michel learned two interesting facts about the painting. There were ghost-like baby images in the clouds, either angels or unborn children. And St. Sixtus (pointing out from the canvas, perhaps toward the viewer, probably toward the crucifix) had six fingers: five fingers and a thumb.

Raphael Sanzio was born on April 6, 1483, and died on his birthday April 6, 1520—at only thirty-seven years old.

That was a lot of sixes.