195 - Silas the Thief, Part 1

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This is not your home.

This is my prison.

Wash your hands before you touch me.

I don't like the way you fuss over me.

I never have.

I'm not what you think I am, but you don't care.

You only see what you want to see.

And yes, fine.

Yes, I'm sick.

And I appreciate your attention, but call someone with a medical degree.

Wrapping your arms around me and sobbing isn't helping.

Neither is putting your hands on my face.

It's just an infection.

It's mild.

Also, I have a fever.

And I'm not digesting my food very well.

I'm old.

Older than I should be.

I'm not supposed to be here, but you wouldn't know that.

Would you even care if you did?

Trapped in this prison, it's humid always.

And the lighting is poor.

Actually, those are the nicer qualities of this place.

It smells of urine and worse.

But

I do thank you for feeding me every day.

I used to eat at the finest restaurants.

Santrén and I went to El Buy one summer in Roses.

We've dined at Quintonil

and WD50 and White Rabbit and Narisawa.

We had an $1,800 bottle of Bordeaux at Don Julio in Buenos Aires.

It was not the most expensive bottle of wine we ever ordered, but it was the first unreasonably priced bottle.

Saint-Rene said, Silas, it's too much.

And I said, counterpoint, love, it's never enough.

She smiled when the glass was poured, but it was one of those tight, polite smiles.

I hated her for that.

I wish I had told her in the moment.

Years pass, and people die and disappear, and you never have the chance to tell them what a difference they made in your life.

How much you truly despised them.

But, in Buenos Aires, I said nothing.

We were still flying high from the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes in Santiago.

Have you ever seen Ludwig Detman's paintings?

Of course you haven't.

Look at you.

You've probably never even left Night Vale, let alone the country.

Well, if you don't know Detman, he's a German Impressionist.

There's a real van Gogh essence to his work.

A simpler mind, in fact, might assume that what you were seeing was a van Gogh, but it is not.

Detman's paintings were far less pretentious.

He valued color over form, which accentuated nature's true face, rather than the rigid techniques of Cézanne or the dull-eyed blobs of Degas.

That was rude.

I like Cézanne and Degas just fine.

Van Gogh, too.

Adored them, in fact, but I never stole one of their works.

So, perhaps it's just sour grapes.

But could I get my hands on a Ludwig Detman?

I could.

And I did.

As Santren and I overindulged in wine that cost perhaps more than you pay in rent, Detman's oil painting picnic was hidden inside the attic of a Parque Gustamante condo.

This condo was owned by an American investor named Curtis Schwab.

Curtis Schwab does not exist.

He and his money and his paperwork were manufactured by Santren.

She was very good at manipulation, that witch.

I don't say witch derisively, by the way.

Well, I do, a bit, but also she was literally a witch.

I thought the whole thing was ludicrous.

First, it was tarot cards.

Then, palm readings.

Then charts and tinctures and herbs and recitations.

She stopped celebrating Christmas and instead wanted to honor solstice each December.

And June.

Equinoxes too.

I haven't gone to Mass since I was a boy, so I shouldn't have cared, but it was the principle of the matter.

To me, Christmas is Christmas.

Regardless of your thoughts on Jesus, it is the time of year we have all agreed to honor giving and family and love.

It is a time for gathering together, eating, and talking.

Santrén loved to point out how selfish and limited my world view was.

Who is this all who agreed on Christmas?

Who counts as getting to decide?

She would ask.

But so what?

I think Christmas is beyond religion.

It just is.

Silas, Santran would lecture me.

Solstice is important to me.

It means something to me spiritually.

What does it matter if you celebrate in the exact same ways, only under a different name?

I wince, knowing she was right.

They're only a few days apart.

It's just the way she said it.

She was taking something from me just to take it.

She was always doing that.

I didn't recognize it at first because reading my tea leaves seemed harmless.

A parlor game, like a newspaper horoscope or picking up a lucky penny.

Rituals are good, yes, but effective?

Scientifically provable?

Absolutely not.

I was a fool to doubt that witch.

She prayed to the sun.

Sometimes she prayed to the trees, sometimes to the universe itself.

She asked for things like alignment.

I told her she should ask for a key code to the Tate Modern Zivault, and she scoffed.

She always scoffed at my jokes.

They're just jokes, I would say.

Semantics, she would reply.

But before the occult, before all of this, before I got put here, trapped in this awful place, this pit of despair, before my body turned on me, before you doted on my every movement, my every heartbeat.

Did I mention that I appreciate the attention you pay me, but I also resent it?

I do not like how close you come to me.

I can smell your breath.

Before any of this,

we were happy.

We were brilliant.

We were thieves.

And we were very good at it.

There's no one way to steal an artwork.

Every thief is different.

Every gallery is different.

Every security detail different.

I can only tell you how I would steal an artwork, how we would.

I can tell you this now because who's going to know?

I don't look the same.

I don't have the same name.

Anyone who knew Silas well enough to arrest him thinks he's dead.

Silas was last seen at the J.P.

Morgan Library in New York City.

I was only there as a visitor, mind you, and then taking a train to Montauk, Long Island.

From there, anyone who cared enough to look would have accounts of me hiring a cab to a cottage along the beach.

And after that,

nothing.

Maybe I escaped to Europe or Canada.

Maybe I threw myself into a cold and turbulent sea somewhere on a rocky shore.

Maybe I was murdered.

Well, all those assumptions are wrong.

My story is much

worse.

Please, don't touch my legs.

Stop.

Stop.

Stop it.

I do not like that.

I'm sorry for kicking you.

I know you are only trying to help and you cannot understand me, but do look in my eyes.

Read my body language.

Know that I do not like your touch.

And after all these years, imprisoned in this terrible place, I still do not trust you.

Did you understand me?

Just now,

you let go.

Thank you.

You should...

Wash that cut I just gave you in cold water.

You should also get some antibiotic ointment for your wound.

I'm not feeling well.

I apologize, but do not touch me ever again.

Where was I?

Stealing artwork, yes.

While Sandrin was a master of forgery, I was a master of disguise.

Disguise, mind you, is not about costumes and makeup.

Those are important tools, of course.

But disguise is about motion, how you carry yourself.

If you move with confidence, if you speak with confidence, people will believe you.

Or better yet, they won't have to believe you because they won't even notice you.

First, you go to the museum for reconnaissance.

You dress like a common tourist.

Don't look too interested in the art.

Not that anyone thinks you are going to steal the art, but act too fascinated with the painting, and someone might talk to you.

Oh, you a big Kandinsky fan too?

They might ask.

And now you have a witness.

Someone who remembers your face.

Someone who can talk to the police later.

Find the work you want.

Study the quickest or least objectionable egress.

Also, Wear a wig and glasses.

Nothing gaudy.

It should look normal and natural to anyone standing near you.

A baseball hat is also okay, but only in America or Canada.

Pay close attention to how the docents dress.

When you return to the museum, go on a busy day.

The staff will have less time for questions on a busy day.

Dress like a docent.

You should be able to get all the materials you need at any chain clothing store.

And forge a name tag.

These will allow you to get into the back halls of the museum.

Make a mental map, particularly of the places docents aren't allowed.

Many of the Off-Limits offices will not be locked.

If they are, the locks are common and easy to pick.

Find personnel files for security.

Find out who patrols at late hours.

Learn their names, their supervisors, and do a bit of Googling before you show up for work as a museum guard.

Sometimes you don't even have to go this far.

You can actually bribe someone to assist you.

Sometimes multiple people.

A phone call, $1,000, and a Venmo account go a long way.

And that's how you steal an artwork.

Your mileage may vary.

Every job is different.

Completely different, in fact.

It's harder than it sounds, but Santran and I made it seem easy.

And it was.

It had gotten easy.

Mino helped.

Mino was the one who gave us the assignments.

Not really so much a boss as a benefactor.

We didn't have to accept every job.

Some seemed too dangerous.

or didn't pay very well.

Or both.

Mino wasn't offended if we said no.

Once a month, on the 19th, to be precise, Mino would call with a proposal.

Our airfare, first class.

Our hotels, five-star.

Our car rentals, luxury black sedans and SUVs.

These reservations were made under false names, and before we left on any trip, we would receive a package with fake passports and visas.

Mino also sent us 40% payment up front, an advance.

Even if we failed, the payment was still ours to keep.

Mino considered it an investment.

Mino was

a model benefactor.

We trusted him fully.

I wish I had not.

But for about 15 years, everything

worked perfectly.

We palmed a 4,000-year-old Indonesian charm in Tunis.

We walked out the front door of a gallery in Sydney with a Franz von Miris masterpiece.

We swiped a Stradivarius from a violinist's apartment in Manhattan while she was in the kitchen making breakfast.

Sambran and I were quite a team.

Our movements could never be correlated.

We traveled too far, took too wide an array of objects for anyone to notice our patterns.

Sandrin would hide the prizes in various biedataire she owned across the world, and then she would deliver them to Maino for the rest of our payment.

We were happy.

Until Mino wanted a Louise bourgeois from a sculpture garden in Dallas.

I did not want to take any sculpture I could not carry in one hand or hide in a bag.

Sandrine insisted we take it.

She adored Louise bourgeois.

But we don't get to keep the art, Sandrine, I argued.

We steal it from Mino and then we get paid.

We are not collectors.

Santrine didn't care.

She just wanted the opportunity, if only for a couple of days, to be in possession of a bourgeois original.

Just to have the experience, she said.

And I said no again and again.

It was a ludicrous plan from a ludicrous woman.

And though she argued, she knew that this was my business.

We equally split the money, but she was not the man in charge.

I was the man in charge.

I proposed quitting altogether.

We had plenty of money.

We might even have enough to buy a bourgeois of our own.

We certainly had enough for Sandrin to buy her tarot decks and magic crystals and books of spells.

She could be as witchy as the day is long for all I cared.

Why risk it for an object we couldn't lift without hiring others to help?

And the more people you know, the more who know you, and I don't want anyone knowing me, Sandrin.

It's unsafe.

She frowned.

frowned.

It was a frown I had not seen before.

And the next morning, she was gone.

All of her things were gone too.

I followed her.

I should not have, but I did.

I knew she had gone to Dallas.

I knew she was going to take that sculpture.

And I tried to stop her from making a fool of herself and of me.

I watched the museum every day.

I never saw her enter, but one night, I saw her leave,

dead on a gurney.

I had seen the police arrive without lights or sirens.

I had seen them surround the facility.

I had heard a shout, then a gunshot.

Then several gunshots.

And I ran into the street as they wheeled her out.

The police forced me back, but I saw her.

Bullet wounds to the head and chest.

A detective nearby mumbled to another that the suspect opened fire on officers first.

I didn't believe that for one second.

But there she was.

Dead and gone.

That

I believed.

I left before the cops started asking me why I looked so interested.

As far as they knew, I was just an overly curious pedestrian.

On the drive back to my hotel, it began to rain

hard.

I didn't even turn on the wipers.

I let the windshield smear and observed how my ability to see was dependent on the weather.

We're building walls on a shaken foundation,

but we're too busy to notice.

And when we're done here, we'll leave pretty houses for a world where where no one can live.

With happiness always just out of reach.

We follow the trails that run into the ground.

To become kings of the ashes, we will burn

the whole world

down.

But once we could drink from the well,

the well

You and I

We sprayed the fields till the weeds grew resistant

Pulled track nets through every ocean

Replaced our forests with deserts and landfills to ensure a steady growth.

We poisoned the waters and ruined the crops.

So, what do we say when our kids turn to us and ask us to justify all this mess?

Cause they will

reap what we sow.

But once we could drink from the well,

you and they,

once we can drink from the well.

The sky will open up to flush out the filth and settle the storm.

Soon I blow information,

stuff with plastic bits.

We'll wash upon the shore and form a new foundation

in all colors and shapes

for future generations

to build their shaky lies

and be reminded of us

once we could drink from the well

You and I

once we could drink from the well

You and I

You chose to hit play on this podcast today.

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Mike and Alyssa are always trying to outdo each other.

When Alyssa got a small water bottle, Mike showed up with a four-liter jug.

When Mike started gardening, Alyssa started beekeeping.

Oh, Oh, come on.

They called a truce for their holiday and used Expedia Trip Planner to collaborate on all the details of their trip.

Once there, Mike still did more laps around the pool.

Whatever.

You were made to outdo your holidays.

We were made to help organize the competition.

Expedia, made to travel.

Reach out for six months.

And then, on the 19th of the month, he called.

And the month after that, and so on.

I didn't take the calls.

I was too busy thinking about Santran's death.

It took almost two years before I forgave myself.

It wasn't my fault.

She wanted her own life, separate from mine.

Fine.

She got what she wanted.

She got what she deserved.

I helped her.

She helped me too, but I showed her that path.

I lifted her from the dirt and she thought that meant she could fly.

Mino's monthly calls continued.

It was two years and three months before I finally answered and agreed to take another job.

On one condition, I told Mino,

that we get to meet in person.

And Mino agreed.

Hours later, I landed at JFK.

A car took me to the St.

Regis.

And the next morning, I visited the Morgan, and by early afternoon, I was on a train to Montauk.

In a little cabin on the beach, run down and unassuming, I saw Mino for the first time.

There was no artwork in the home, nothing even on the walls, except cracks and stains.

Mino was standing on the back deck looking at the water.

It was foggy that morning.

I was confused,

disoriented, and when Mino turned around, I gasped.

It's hard to imagine why it was so surprising.

Looking back, it seems obvious it was Sandren

the whole time.

All 15 years of our perfect life, she was Mino.

She faked her death.

She did it to get away from me.

From my selfishness,

my misogyny, my narcissism.

But she missed me, I told myself.

This is why she kept calling me.

She still loved me.

But how could I believe this?

She mocked me.

Emasculated me, pretended to be my woman.

Instead, she was my puppeteer.

And when I saw her, I spit on her.

She didn't move.

She didn't change expression.

She said,

Would you try again?

I would.

And I did.

The spit landed right across her deceitful lips.

She lifted one hand.

And without even touching me, I was cast into the air, across the deck, and plunged into the gray, frigid waters of the Atlantic.

I tried to swim, but I couldn't.

I was certain she was drowning me, pulling me under my lifeless body, never to be found.

Then I heard her voice.

I won't kill you, Silas.

I don't want revenge.

I want you to learn.

And your first lesson is to know what it's like to be alone.

Even when you live under the care of another.

I didn't understand.

It all went black.

Then there was light, dull, flickering, depressing light, and tiled blue walls and the stench of urine, maybe my own, and I became this.

This!

I hate this!

I hate you too!

Leave me alone!

Stop touching me!

Stop feeding me!

Stop petting me!

I am sick, and there's not a thing you can do about it.

Wait!

I do.

I thank you

for taking care of me.

It's not your fault that I am here.

It's

it's

my fault.

You're leaving?

Already?

No, don't go.

I'm

okay.

You're gone.

See you tomorrow.

Same time.

And my name is Silas, not Kaushik, okay?

Okay.

Welcome to Night Vale is a production of Night Vale Presents.

It is written by Joseph Fink and Jeffrey Kraner and produced by Dispirition.

The voice of Kaushik was Jonathan Atkinson.

Original music by Dispirition.

All of it can be found at disparition.bancamp.com.

This episode's weather was Drink from the Well by Stoge Snock.

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We have so many spooky things to take you into spooky season.

Today's proverb, true change starts with the person in the mirror.

He's standing far behind you, barely visible.

He's really going to change things.

I'm Amy Nicholson, the film critic for the LA Times.

And I'm Paul Scheer, an actor, writer, and director.

You might know me from the League Veep or my non-eligible for Academy Award role in Twisters.

We love movies, and we come at them from different perspectives.

Yeah, like Amy thinks that, you know, Joe Pesci was miscast in Goodfellas, and I don't.

He's too old.

Let's not forget that Paul thinks that Dune 2 is overrated.

It is.

Anyway, despite this, we come together to host Unspooled, a podcast where we talk about good movies, critical hits, fan favorites, must-sees, and in case you missed them.

We're talking Parasite the Home Alone, From Greece to the Dark Knight.

We've done deep dives on popcorn flicks.

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Listen to Unspooled wherever you get your podcasts.

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Hi, we're Meg Bashwiner.

And Joseph Fink of Welcome to Night Vale.

And on our new show, The Best Worst, we explore the golden age of television.

To do that, we're watching the IMDb viewer-rated best and worst episodes of classic TV shows.

The episode of Star Trek, where Beverly Crusher has sex with a ghost.

The episode of of the X-Files, where Scully gets attacked by a vicious house cat.

And also, the really good episodes, too.

What can we learn from the best and worst of great television?

Like, for example, is it really a bad episode, or do people just hate women?

The best, worst, available wherever you get your podcasts.