Free Web NovelI doubled the current bid in a single stroke.
“Th—th... thirty million dollars!”
Peterson stumbled over his words in surprise at the sudden doubling of the price.
A murmur rippled through the auction hall.
“Thirty million dollars! From here on, increments of three million! Are there any further bids?”
The seasoned Peterson quickly regained his composure and carried on with the auction.
But no one called out a higher amount than the one I had bid.
“Sold to the customer in Room Three for thirty million dollars.”
Peterson brought the gavel down, announcing my winning bid.
Sixteen million dollars—no, even if someone had kept following, it was an item that could have been won for twenty million.
If someone had challenged me, I could have raised it further, but since no one outbid my statue, there was no need.
Instead, I deliberately doubled the price in one move, raising the statue’s value to thirty million dollars.
I didn’t like how low the price was for a Korean national-treasure-class artifact.
That, too, was part of the fun of an auction.
The fact that the ◈ Nоvеlіgһт ◈ (Continue reading) price I called became the price of the item was quite exhilarating.
“Interesting.”
Peterson hadn’t procured that item just to coax me into participating.
After bidding myself, I could understand why people became obsessed with auctions.
That sensation of overpowering others with money wasn’t something you could easily feel outside of high-end auctions.
It was also why the upper class had turned auction houses into social arenas.
Even among the elite, it was a place where you could feel the hierarchy between them.
“And now, the seventh item up for auction is...”
Unfortunately, after the statue, no more Korean national-treasure-class artifacts appeared.
The seventh auction passed, then the eighth.
At last, it was time for the paintings I had consigned.
“Now, this is where the real auction begins! Only two works remain. Even those of you who haven’t bid yet will find yourselves bidding before you know it once you see these.”
As Peterson drew things out, two attendants brought out a painting covered with cloth.
“The ninth lot is Claude Monet’s Water Lilies.”
When the cloth was lifted, a framed painting was revealed.
“It’s such a famous work that it hardly needs explanation. Still, it would be a shame to pass over it entirely. Monet left behind quite a number of Water Lilies paintings. However, most are held by museums around the world, so it’s rare for one to appear at auction.”
In his later years, Claude Monet settled in Giverny and spent the rest of his life there.
He cultivated his own garden there—the famous Monet’s Garden.
The Water Lilies series, depicting that dazzling garden awash with mixed colors, was his signature body of work.
“This piece is one of the Water Lilies believed to have been painted in 1919. In the very year it was painted—”
Peterson spun the story of the Monet piece, even fabricating its provenance as he presented it to the audience.
“The starting price is twenty million dollars. Increments of one million.”
The heat was clearly different from earlier auctions.
The bids rose so fast I couldn’t keep track, and it took less than five minutes to surpass fifty million dollars.
“Fifty million! From here on, increments of two million.”
Even as the bids climbed rapidly, the bidding didn’t stop.
It was expected to be the highest hammer price of the day.
“Sixty million!”
“Seventy million!”
“Eighty million!”
In an instant, it soared past eighty million dollars.
“Wow. Once competition kicks in, the price really skyrockets.”
“Yes, Boss. It looks like it’ll sell for far more than we expected.”
Peterson had estimated the Water Lilies would fetch around fifty million dollars.
Only after it climbed well past eighty million did the pace noticeably slow.
“Eighty-two million! Eighty-two million! Any more?”
The hall fell silent.
Just as Peterson grasped the gavel, a staff member representing telephone bids raised a paddle.
“Eighty-four million! Eighty-four million!”
Another telephone bidder joined in.
“Eighty-six million!”
A battle between phone bidders had begun.
“Ninety-two million!”
“Ninety-six million!”
“One hundred million dollars! From here on, increments of five million!”
It had already exceeded twice the estimate.
Once it crossed one hundred million, no one bid further.
“One hundred million dollars! One hundred million!”
Peterson brought the gavel down with a crisp strike.
“Claude Monet’s Water Lilies! Sold for one hundred million dollars!”
Peterson was visibly excited as well.
“The energy is incredible. But we’re not done yet. The final piece—the climax of today’s auction—still remains.”
The sold Water Lilies was covered again and removed from the podium, and a new work was brought up.
“It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say this auction was held for this piece. In my thirty-year career as an auctioneer, I can confidently say I’ve never seen a better work.”
Peterson worked the room, drawing out the moment.
“Do you remember Boy with a Pipe, which set Sotheby’s record price a few months ago? While today’s ninth lot sold for a similar amount, that record still stands.”
Picasso’s Boy with a Pipe, which held Sotheby’s auction record, had sold for one hundred and four million dollars.
“As you all know, Picasso left behind a vast number of works. But I stake my auctioneer’s life on this—there is no better Picasso than this.”
Peterson signaled the attendants with his eyes. At last, the cloth was lifted, revealing the work.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Do you recognize this painting?”
A live close-up of the piece was displayed on the large screen behind Peterson.
Recognizing it, the audience murmured.
“Yes, that’s right! Dove with Green Peas.”
With a triumphant expression, Peterson continued.
“Picasso worked in many different styles. This piece was painted in 1911—during his Cubist period. The last time it was publicly shown was at an exhibition in Paris in 1939. Since then, where it went and who possessed it were completely unknown. But I personally tracked down the owner with great difficulty and persuaded them to consign it for this auction.”
Peterson did everything he could to embellish the story and make the work shine.
“Boy with a Pipe is undoubtedly considered a masterpiece among Picasso’s works. But when you think of Picasso, isn’t it the dove? He produced countless works featuring doves, but there is none finer than this.”
Whether because it was the final lot or to heighten anticipation, Peterson’s explanation ran long.
“Many of you may doubt whether this piece is authentic. But if you knew who the owner was, you’d be convinced at once. Unfortunately, they wish to remain anonymous, so I can’t reveal it...”
Peterson trailed off, sweeping his gaze across the audience.
“All I can say is that it’s someone everyone here knows.”
I snorted quietly at his words.
“You’d be great at selling snake oil.”
Peterson’s explanation wasn’t wrong.
After all, no one here would be unfamiliar with Saddam Hussein, the Iraqi dictator.
“My explanation ran a bit long.”
Having gathered everyone’s attention, Peterson reset the mood and returned to his place.
Just as he intended, a subtle heat filled the auction hall.
“Let’s begin the bidding. Starting price is fifty million dollars, with increments of one million.”
At last, the auction began.
I lifted the coffee cup in front of me and watched human desire on display.
“To spend hundreds of millions over a single painting—what is it about art? The more I learn, the less I understand.”
By my standards, the statue I’d purchased today was far more valuable than that painting.
“It’s nothing more, nothing less, than something to show off to others.”
Everyone was busy raising bids with fire in their eyes.
I looked up at the large screen. Not a painting as art, but a painting as an object of desire filled my vision.
If it were simply about appreciating art, museums would suffice. There were more than enough museums displaying famous artists’ works.
But the monster called desire that ruled them couldn’t be satisfied by mere viewing.
The desire to add a famous painting to one’s collection, the desire to flaunt wealth and power by acquiring rare works, the desire to be labeled a lover of art rather than a vulgar businessman obsessed only with money.
All kinds of sordid desires gathered together, inflating the bubble of the art market ever further.
“One hundred million dollars! From here on, increments of five million!”
Just five minutes after bidding began, it surpassed one hundred million.
Would it end here, or climb even higher? My curiosity was piqued.
“One hundred and five million.”
“One hundred and ten million.”
Though slower than before, the numbers continued to rise.
“One hundred and twenty-five million.”
The bids, creeping upward, finally stalled at one hundred and twenty-five million.
“One hundred and twenty-five million! Sold to the guest in Room Seven for one hundred and twenty-five million dollars.”
One hundred and twenty-five million.
A hollow laugh escaped me. From the two works I’d consigned today, I’d earned more than the two hundred million dollars I’d promised Hussein.
“It seems I received a much bigger gift from Hussein than I expected.” frёeweɓηovel.coɱ
Of course, Hussein had likely made the offer knowing full well what would happen.
He had no other choice. Handing his collection over to the United States or some other invader?
That would’ve been a nightmare.
By fortunate timing, I’d found him, and having heard rumors about me, he’d made me the proposal—making today’s auction possible.
Small, coincidental events had converged into a major flow. What result it would ultimately bring, even I was now curious to see.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the auction we prepared has finally concluded. Next time, we’ll send you invitations with even finer works and even better items. You may look forward to it.”
Listening to Peterson, a thought suddenly occurred to me.
If I entrusted that man—who could fabricate stories out of thin air—with auctioning the egg, how much would it sell for?
“Thank you all for attending.”
Peterson bowed, and at last, the auction came to an end.
People began to stand and file out of the hall.
At the same time, the telephone in front of me rang.
—Customer in Room Three. How would you like to receive the item you won? We can arrange delivery to your residence.
“No. I’ll take possession here. Have Auctioneer Peterson bring it personally.”
—Director Peterson is...
“Just tell him Room Three asked for him to bring it directly. He’ll understand.”
—Ah, understood. I’ll relay the message.
After ending the call, I looked down at the auction hall.
As if it had all been a lie, most of the seats that had been packed moments ago were now empty.
“I wonder who won it.” freewebnσvel.cѳm
“Shall we try finding out through Black Bear, Boss?”
“It’ll be difficult, but... yes. At least look into it.”
With private rooms for VVIPs, security was tight. It would be hard even to learn who had been in which room.
Still, I wanted to know who had paid such an astronomical sum for the painting.
As I spoke with Manager Ma, someone knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
Peterson entered, carrying a wooden box himself.
“My apologies. I’m late.”
Still flushed with excitement from the auction, Peterson bowed slightly. After all, he’d just set a new record price.
“No, it’s fine. Thanks to you, I had an enjoyable experience.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
It wasn’t mere politeness—it truly had been a novel experience. I’d even want to attend another auction if given the chance.
“At Sotheby’s, we charge a sales commission of two percent on works sold for over five million dollars.”
Two percent of two hundred and twenty-five million dollars—just how much was that? Reading my expression, Peterson quickly added,
“However, using my authority, I reached an agreement with management to reduce it to one percent.”
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“No. It’s a small gesture, asking that you continue doing business through me next time.”
“Then let’s do that.”
Smiling gently, Peterson placed the wooden box on the table.
“Please, take a look.”
At my nod, Manager Ma opened the box.
Resting atop luxurious velvet lining was the gilt-bronze Avalokiteshvara statue I’d won.
Seeing it up close, the weight of time clung to it unmistakably.
Keeping my eyes fixed on the statue, I asked Peterson,
“Peterson. You put this up as an auction lot because you wanted to sell it to me, didn’t you?”
