12 Things I Wished Happened at the Louvre Heist

by Lyndsie Manusos

1) That the robbers were never found, the jewels unrecovered, but whispers would emerge across the world of anonymous deals–large donations to humanitarian enterprises, aid to grassroots campaigns, the sudden purchase and destruction of weapons—in which we’d all think in our heart of hearts, yes, that must be them.

2) That the ceiling paintings and portraits along the gilded molding came alive and assisted in the robbery, perhaps were the robbers, so bored they were watching for years on end.

3) That a young girl, perhaps seven, found the diadem the robbers dropped while making haste to exit, and tucked it under her skirt, the curves of jewels pressing against her skin. Like finding a coin in the street or a wrapped candy ripe for plucking.

4) That a piece of glass from a smashed display somehow tucked itself into the coat of a witness, her brown eyes large and owl-like as she was ushered back, back, back by museum personnel. They spoke rapid French into their radios, faces blanched and sweating. We’ve never seen this before! She wanted to snort. Well, of course not! Robberies don’t happen every day, you know. And with a sigh, she’d think, I wish more robberies happened in places like these. What adventure that would be. Well, that piece of glass would follow her to many more museums, for many years, nested as it was within cotton fibers. With every museum, she’d wish for a robbery. And nothing. The same quiet view. Soon, she’d grow tired of the coat, donating it, and the glass would go into oblivion, as memories often do.

5) The Hortensia diamond would sprout wings and flee to freedom, or the bottom of the ocean. Either would work.

6) That somehow, growing suspicion would be placed upon American politics being at play with the heist. A MAGA radical wanting the jewels for his president, his beloved president. And Republicans would shoot back, no, it was ANTIFA, they must be based in Paris! Then escalations between France and the United States would morph not into violence but rather an absolute, clear mockery, showing the world who they really were, all these shriveled men in power. And the French and Americans would watch going, What the fuck were we thinking? Let the mobs come then.

7) That the robbers were lovers that fell in love while planning the heist.

8) That a baby was born in the midst of the heist. The broken glass shocked the mother enough that her water broke, and the infant was stubborn, like his father. That baby boy wanted to get started, and he slipped out before she could be ushered away. Oh, she’d exclaim, and they’d wrap the baby with an argyle sweater of a stranger that smelled of cigarettes, and she’d ask Shall I name him Heist? Her glassy eyes of joy were so overwhelming that a few around her nodded and cleared their throats. And in French, heist is cambriolage, and that quickly became too long a word for the mother, especially when the boy, now 2, was about to break her favorite vase. So the name shortened to Cambrio, then Cam, and Cam stuck. On routine occasions, Cam answered questions to local media every anniversary of the heist, but otherwise he went to school, had a quiet childhood, and later studied philosophy. He married and moved south toward the ocean, and the sound of the waves made him realize: He had always been restless in Paris.

9) I’d find you there.

10) That a lovelorn wet mop of a person, viewing the Regent’s Diamond, one of the purest diamonds ever made, would simply freeze. The robbers moved around her, as if she were made of energy, a display case that needed no shattering. They could have hurt her but didn’t. They could have yelled at her to move but said nothing.

11) Somehow, she’d look up and down the 200-foot gallery and see your face. You had come to see foundations of the Medieval Louvre. Of course. You loved to get to the root of things, to see where growth began. What synchronicity that is, that we should both come here, be so close, on this day, and in this moment. The same museum! Ah, but you must think: This museum has more than 2 million feet of space. So, perhaps, we’re not really special at all.

12) Until now. Until this. History made before our eyes.

Lyndsie Manusos's fiction has appeared across genres, including SmokeLong Quarterly, LeVar Burton Reads, Reactor, and other publications. She lives in Indianapolis with her family, works as a part-time indie bookseller for Wild Geese Bookshop, and writes for Book Riot. You can read more about her work at lyndsiemanusos.com.