Chapter 1 4:23 p.m. Friday, March 25 National Portrait Gallery, Washington, DC Camille Sullivan brushed a long strand of curly red hair from her face and squinted at the elderly gentleman on the far side of the room. Arthur Hamilton Jr.--known to his friends and family simply as Art--stood next to Camille. And though barely a year older at twelve years of age, he towered almost a foot over her--not including the mound of bright red hair that flew off in all directions from the top of her head. However, neither the difference in age nor in height was of any concern to Camille. "That old guy is staring at us," Camille insisted.
"It''s weird." "He''s not staring at us," Art replied. "Is he wearing a beret?" Camille asked. "He''s way too old to wear a beret. I''m just saying it''s not a good look for him. It''s like he''s trying to be French or something. Is he French? I guess he could be French, but it''s still not a good look." "He''s not French," Art replied.
"He''s actually from the Netherlands--and he''s not too old for a beret. I actually think he looks good in it." "And check out that mustache or goatee or whatever is on his face," Camille continued. "He thinks he is so cool. I''m telling you, it''s just plain weird." Art was in no mood to argue with Camille. "Fine," he said. "He''s staring at us, and the mustache is weird.
" "And what''s he wearing?" Camille whispered. "Look at him--he''s got his collar all flipped up." "I don''t know what he''s wearing. Why does it matter?" "It doesn''t," Camille said. "I''m just saying he''s way too old to be doing that." Art rolled his eyes. "He''s not trying to be cool," he said. "He''s just sitting there.
" "I like his hair, though," Camille said. Art smiled. "I thought you might." The dark beret sitting on top of the older man''s head could not contain the curly gray hair that billowed out like clouds from the sides of the man''s head. The man''s hair seemed to have a life of its own--just like Camille''s. "But I still think he''s staring at us," Camille insisted once more. Art waved at his father, who stood on the far side of the room next to the elderly man in the beret. Art was the spitting image of his father--tall, blond, and slender.
Arthur Hamilton Sr. motioned them over--an introduction to the older gentleman was apparently in order. And a brief respite from Camille''s commentary was more than welcome. "I''m nervous," Camille said as they made their way across the room. "Why?" Art asked. "You said he''s worth more than a hundred million dollars," Camille replied. "That''s a bunch of money." Art shrugged.
He had been around people like the man in the beret his entire life. He had met some that were worth even more. He was used to it. "Camille! Art!" Arthur Hamilton Sr. exclaimed as they arrived by his side, a broad smile across his face. "Hello, Dr. Hamilton," Camille replied. "Hey, Dad," Art said.
"How was school today?" Arthur Hamilton Sr. asked. It was always the first question he asked after school. It was sort of annoying. "All good," Art replied. He had learned from experience that the shorter the answer, the better. "It was okay," Camille added. "You know--it was school.
" She peeked around Dr. Hamilton at the man in the beret. "We just wanted to stop by and see how things were going," Art said. "How''s the patient?" "Well," Art''s dad replied as he turned toward the older gentleman, "I''d say he''s doing pretty well for someone who is more than three hundred and fifty years old." Arthur Hamilton Sr. stood beside his son and Camille in a large room on the second floor of a massive stone building located between F Street and G Street in downtown Washington, DC. The building, which traced back to 1836, occupied two full city blocks--the massive stone columns of its southern façade faced directly down Eighth Street toward the National Archives. Its thick granite walls had hosted President Abraham Lincoln''s second inaugural ball, had provided housing for troops during the Civil War, and had been the home of the United States Patent Office for decades.
A large gallery within the building had been--for a brief period of time--the largest enclosed space in the entire United States. But the building eventually fell into disrepair and disuse, its history and contributions to the country seemingly forgotten by the very city it had served for so long. Demolition seemed inevitable--a parking deck had been slated to take its place. Fortunately, the Smithsonian Institution stepped in to save the historic landmark, and on October 7, 1968, the doors of the grand building reopened to a new purpose--the National Portrait Gallery. The National Portrait Gallery was founded by the United States Congress for the purpose of displaying paintings of Americans who have made significant contributions to the history and culture of the United States. Its galleries were filled with portraits of Americans who defined the country--great artists, musicians, film stars, athletes, politicians, civil rights leaders, socialites, activists, and many others. However, within the west wing of the building was a related and yet very distinct set of operations: the Lunder Conservation Center. The scientists, conservationists, and technicians of the Lunder Center were responsible for caring for the artwork owned by the entire Smithsonian Institution--a collection of virtually unlimited historic, artistic, and economic value.
Experts within the center repaired and restored paintings, statues, photographs, drawings, and prints. There was even a frame conservation studio in which historic picture frames were carefully cared for and preserved. It was a weighty responsibility to lead the Lunder Center but a task that well suited Arthur Hamilton Sr. as the recently appointed director of the facility. Dr. Hamilton''s path to the Lunder Center had taken him across the globe. He had long been considered one of the premier art conservation scientists in the world, but he had spent most of his professional life--and all of his son''s life--constantly moving from one job to the next. His unique skills were in high demand, and Dr.
Hamilton had seen little need to settle down in one location. Even following his wife''s untimely death when Art was only four years of age, Dr. Hamilton had carried on as always--albeit with his young son as his constant travel companion. They had lived for months at a time in Paris, London, Shanghai, Los Angeles, Rome, and Cape Town. Dr. Hamilton had educated his son the best that he could--his classroom was whatever apartment, park, museum, or coffee shop happened to be convenient. And what an education it had been. Art had spent most of his life hanging around with artists, authors, academics, presidents, poets, and monarchs.
He and his father had spent nights in castles and once had a picnic on the top of Westminster Cathedral in London. Art spoke fluent French, read voraciously, and knew more about art than the directors at most museums. Dr. Hamilton had walked with his son among the ruins of the Roman Forum. They had visited Shakespeare''s grave. They had stood on the Great Wall of China. Art had seen the world, and Dr. Hamilton was proud of the education he had managed to provide him.
And he was proud of his son--the boy was smart, caring, and resourceful. Everything had seemed to be going well--until suddenly it wasn''t. Just three months earlier, Art had found himself alone in Washington, DC, with amnesia--no knowledge of who he was or how he had come to be there. Dr. Hamilton, unbeknownst to his son, had been kidnapped--he had feared he would never see Art again. But the boy had overcome the failings of his own memory to save Dr. Hamilton and prevent one of the greatest art frauds of all time--with the help of his remarkable red-haired friend Camille. It had been an incredible feat for a person of any age, let alone a twelve-year-old boy and his eleven-year-old friend.
Following those events, it would have been easy to simply fall back into their same routine--back on the road to yet another country, another museum, another job. However, those same fateful events had convinced Dr. Hamilton that there was one thing he had never truly provided for his son--a home. Dr. Hamilton had come to realize that a home was so much more than simply a house--it was a connection to a place, a community, and a people. A home is part of a person''s very identity--and it was identity that his son had struggled so hard to find after losing his memory. Perhaps, Dr. Hamilton thought, the lack of a home had hampered his son''s efforts to overcome.