The Forgotten Painting

by Gabriel Farago

  THE EMAIL FROM GSTAAD

  Jack felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket and answered it. It was Celia. ‘Jack, we must talk, it’s urgent,’ she said, sounding excited.

  Jack knew instantly something was wrong. ‘What’s up?’ he said.

  ‘Not over the phone. We must meet—now! Where are you?’

  ‘In my hotel. I’m having a drink with Benjamin and Bettany before dinner.’

  ‘I’ll come over right away.’

  ‘All right. See you shortly’, said Jack, and hung up.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asked Dr Rosen.

  ‘Don’t know. It was Celia. Something important.’

  ‘Did she say what?’ said Krakowski.

  ‘No. But we’ll know soon enough. She’s on her way.’

  Looking a little pale and flustered, Celia joined them in the bar half an hour later.

  ‘You look like you need a drink’, said Jack.

  ‘I do. Make it a large one.’

  ‘Something wrong?’ asked Krakowski.

  ‘Not sure.’ Celia opened her handbag and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. ‘My editor received this earlier today. A response to my article.’

  ‘Oh? How interesting; may I see it?’

  Without saying another word, Celia handed Jack the piece of paper.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jack. ‘I need another drink.’

  ‘Are you going to tell us?’ asked Krakowski.

  Jack passed the piece of paper to Krakowski. ‘Here, better read it yourself.’

  Krakowski read the short text several times and then stared at the two pictures at the bottom.

  ‘Well?’ prompted Dr Rosen. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense.’

  Krakowski held up the piece of paper with trembling hands. 'It's addressed to the editor of The New York Times and refers to Celia’s article we read this afternoon.’ He began to read:

  ‘Dear Sir

  I must inform you that someone has just paid thirty-five million pounds for a fake. Why? Because the original painting, namely Claude Monet’s ‘Little Sparrow in the Garden’, hangs right in front of me on the wall in my house here in Switzerland. (See photo).

  I purchased the painting from Berenger Krakowski in 1942 in Warsaw. He wanted to sell the painting and I bought it. It was a legal, arm’s length transaction. He wanted to be paid in gold, which I did. I still have the original bill of sale. (See photo). I think it is important to set the record straight. Your readers are entitled to know the truth, and so is the unfortunate buyer for that matter.

  Emil Fuchs.

  Gstaad.’

  Visibly shaken, Krakowski put the piece of paper on the table in front of him. ‘There are two photos at the bottom’, he said quietly, his voice sounding hoarse. ‘A photo of the painting, and a close-up of some kind of handwritten document.’

  Jack picked up the piece of paper. ‘It looks like a receipt’, he said. 'It mentions the painting, a sum of money received from Emil Fuchs, and is signed Berenger Krakowski.’

  Stunned silence.

  ‘Is that your father’s signature?’ asked Jack after a while.

  ‘Looks like it’, said Krakowski. Shocked, he covered his face with both hands and it looked as if he was sobbing. ‘I’m confused. I don’t know what to think.’

  Dr Rosen put her arm around him to comfort him, and Jack ordered another round of drinks. ‘That’s what I call a bombshell’, said Jack to Celia.

  ‘This is serious. What are we going to do, Jack?’

  ‘We’ll think of something; don’t worry.’

  ‘You are enjoying this, aren’t you?’

  ‘You must admit, it’s a great story’, replied Jack, smiling.

  ‘Think of the consequences’, said Celia, a worried look on her face. ‘The implications are enormous.’

  ‘Sure are. You are going to become famous, Miss Crawford. But we have to play this the right way’, said Jack, turning serious.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Dinner first, strategy later. I’m a starving country boy, remember?’

  ‘How can you ...?’ said Celia, shaking her head in frustration.

  ‘Never make an important decision on an empty stomach”, my first editor used to say. You should take this on board, Celia; seriously.’

  Celia turned to Dr Rosen. ‘Can you believe this guy?’

  ‘I’m used to him, and so is Benjamin. Let’s go and have dinner’, said Dr Rosen, and stood up. ‘He’ll be impossible otherwise.’

  ‘Well, let me tell you something about Emil Fuchs’, began Jack, after the entrée plates had been cleared away.

  ‘You know him?’ interrupted Celia.

  ‘Kind of.He’s a wealthy Swiss banker; old school. I haven’t met him, but I’ve certainly come across him—big time.’

  ‘How?’ asked Krakowski.

  ‘The class action against the Swiss banks, triggered by my book Dental Gold and Other Horrors. He, or more accurately, his impressive legal team, were the most vocal opponents to the proceedings. They came up with ingenious arguments resisting the claims. It must have cost Fuchs millions. He never left his Swiss mansion and ran the entire case from there. He was well in his nineties; impressive guy.’

  ‘Amazing’, said Dr Rosen.

  ‘Sure is. In the end, however, the pressure became too much, and he caved in. “Compromised” would be the better term perhaps. He put a certain offer on the table—take it or leave it—and then just stared down his opponents; very gutsy.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Celia.

  ‘Everyone was very tired by then; litigation fatigue had set in. The proceedings had been dragging on for ages, costs were mounting up, and public interest began to wane. I’m sure this was part of Fuchs’ strategy. When all else fails, delay can be a very potent weapon, if you can afford it. And that guy had deep pockets, I tell you. A compromise was reached and the case was settled.’

  ‘That was it?’

  ‘Yes. As you know, it was hailed as a great victory against the Swiss banks, and in many ways it was. However, it was time to close that painful chapter in the history books. Everyone had had enough.’

  ‘And Fuchs?’ asked Krakowski.

  ‘He maintained to the end that as a neutral banker he had done nothing wrong. Of course, this didn’t wash with the press, but legally he had an argument and he stuck to it.’

  ‘So he got away with it?’ said Celia.

  ‘Not exactly. His reputation and that of all the banks was badly tarnished; millions were paid in compensation, but this guy has a rhino hide, a giant ego and an unshakable self-belief. I was of course very critical of the banks and their actions during the war in my book, and exposed many of their questionable dealings. Fuchs certainly didn’t like this and has attacked me and my book several times in public; in the press mainly. He was trying to discredit me.’

  ‘Did it work?’ asked Celia.

  ‘No. It backfired; badly. So as you can imagine, I’m not very popular with Mr Fuchs. He must therefore have been mighty pissed off to find that here I was again, this time taunting him with the painting.’

  ‘And this is going to help us?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘How, exactly?’ asked Krakowski.

  ‘Rule number one,’ replied Jack, ‘know your opponent. I think I know that man, and how we should deal with him.’

  ‘So, what’s on your mind, Machiavelli?’ said Celia.

  ‘All right, let’s have a closer look at what we have here. To begin with, we can safely assume that this is no hoax. Someone like Fuchs doesn’t play games.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ interrupted Krakowski.

  ‘There now appear to be two identical paintings attributed to Monet. In short, Little Sparrow in the Garden has a double. Obviously, there can only be one original; the other has to be a fake, unless Monet painted two, which we can dismiss as nonsense. We can also safely assume that Fuchs is convinced that he has the original, and that he can prove it.
’

  ‘But that’s impossible’, protested Krakowski. ‘You know the history of our painting; you are part of it. You’ve seen what the experts had to say. They all agree—’

  Jack held up his hand. ‘I know, Benjamin. This must come as a shock, but we have to deal with the facts, and the facts tell us that we have an original and a fake, and we have to show beyond doubt which is which.’

  ‘And how are we going to do that?’ asked Dr Rosen.

  ‘I have an idea, but we must act quickly.’

  ‘Tell us, Jack’, said Celia, leaning forward.

  ‘First, you call your editor now and ask him to reply to Fuchs’ email.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Like any reasonable paper would. Express interest in the matter but tell Fuchs that without additional substantiation the paper cannot take the matter further. You are throwing him a challenge, and I can promise you, he’ll go for it. The editor should then make him an offer.’

  ‘What kind of offer?’ interrupted Celia.

  ‘To send a journalist—you—to interview him at his home tomorrow.’

  Celia looked at Jack, surprised. ‘Are you serious?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Just like that? He’s in Switzerland, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘So? Leave the logistics to me. If he agrees to this, which I believe he will, we are halfway there.’

  ‘You seem pretty sure about all this’, said Krakowski.

  ‘I am. The most important thing at the moment is to keep this out of the public domain. Isis just paid thirty-five million for the painting, you just sold it, and the Rosen Foundation has received the proceeds. The last thing we need is some scandal hanging over this, with competing claims about authenticity flying back and forth and, God forbid, ending up in court. Also, I believe Isis must be told about all this now. I will go and talk to her after dinner.’

  Krakowski kept staring at Jack, a worried look on his face as the magnitude of the dilemma began to sink in.

  ‘Don’t look so glum’, said Jack, turning to face Krakowski. ‘For what it’s worth, I have no doubt we have the original painting. We just have to convince Fuchs that this is so.’

  ‘And how exactly are we going to do that?’ asked Celia, shaking her head.

  ‘Ah. Here comes our main course now’, said Jack. ‘You know how it works: tucker first, strategy later.’

  ARROGANCE AND PRIDE

  Jack met Celia in front of her hotel early the next morning. ‘Your editor sent the email?’ he asked.

  ‘Exactly as you suggested.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You were right. Fuchs agreed to the interview at once, just as you predicted.’

  ‘The old bugger can’t help himself. This is all a great adventure for him, can’t you see? A lonely old man at the end of his life feeling important, most likely for the last time. We are giving him exactly what he craves: attention. He can’t resist it.’

  ‘Well played, Jack; I’m impressed. Fuchs expects me sometime today. I have his phone number. Pray tell me, how am I going to get there in time?’

  ‘That’s the easy bit’, said Jack, brushing Celia’s concerns aside.

  ‘You’ve managed to book a flight?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘No need. We don’t need tickets.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘You will in a moment. Let’s go.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Jack was enjoying himself. ‘To the airport of course,’ he said, ‘where else?’

  The taxi dropped them at the terminal reserved for private planes. ‘Here we are’, said Jack, and paid the cabbie.

  ‘You chartered a plane?’ asked Celia, her eyes wide with astonishment.

  ‘No need; we have our own.’

  ‘You lost me ...’

  ‘Ah, here she comes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lola; our pilot.’

  Jack had spent the entire night with Isis discussing the situation, and together, they hammered out a plan of attack. Isis placed Pegasus—her private jet—at Jack’s disposal, which took care of the logistical considerations involved. Lola was delighted. She hadn’t flown the plane for quite some time and was keen to get her hands on the controls and take to the air. Pegasus was always on standby, day or night, and could be prepared for take-off within a couple of hours.

  ‘Have you been in one of these before?’ asked Jack, following Celia into the cockpit.

  ‘No; this is amazing.’

  ‘Then you are in for a treat. You sit behind Lola.’

  Lola was in her element. Flying was her passion because to her, it meant freedom. Strapped into the seat behind her, Celia watched her prepare the jet for take-off. Fascinated by Lola’s ability to manipulate the aircraft’s sophisticated controls, she listened to the instructions coming from the traffic control tower as the jet taxied slowly along the runway. With excitement and a little fear churning in her stomach, Celia felt like a co-pilot sitting in a fighter jet, ready to take off and roar into battle. A few moments after the A380 in front of them had disappeared into the morning mist, traffic control gave Pegasus permission to take off.

  ‘Here we go’, said Lola, her hand on the throttle.

  Celia had never before experienced such power in an aircraft. Pressed into the seat by the breathtaking acceleration of the jet, Celia felt a great sense of exhilaration gripping every fibre of her tense body. It was a wonderful feeling of freedom. ‘Wow!’ Celia cried out, gripping the arms of her seat as the plane left the ground and rapidly began to climb.

  As soon as the plane reached cruising altitude and levelled out, Lola turned to the co-pilot sitting next to her. ‘Okay Joe, she’s all yours’, she said, unclipping her seatbelt and getting out of her seat.

  ‘Come, Celia,’ said Lola, ‘let’s go to the back. It’s a little more comfortable there. The weather forecast is good, and we should get some great views of the Alps before we land in Bern. I have arranged for a hire car to take us to Gstaad. Should only take us a bit over an hour.’

  ‘Just like the good old days’, said Jack, leaning back in his comfortable seat. ‘Lola and I have been around the world in this little beauty, haven’t we Lola?’

  ‘Sure have. And we had quite an adventure taking off in Mogadishu. Only just made it—’

  ‘That was after the sinking of the Calypso, the Blackburn flagship, wasn’t it?’ interrupted Celia excitedly. ‘It’s all in your book—The Hidden Genes of Professor K.’

  ‘It is’, said Jack.

  ‘And you gave that fateful news conference at Heathrow after you arrived from Somalia. I was there!’

  ‘Small world, isn’t it Lola’, said Jack, and kissed Lola on the cheek. ‘Now, let’s get down to business. This is a short flight’, continued Jack. ‘Listen carefully; this is our plan of attack.’

  Fuchs watched the black hire car pull into the driveway below his window. It was just after noon. He adjusted his binoculars and watched the driver open the rear door of the limousine; a young woman got out of the back seat and looked up.

  Ah, Miss Crawford. Right on time, thought Fuchs, well pleased with the effect his email had had in such a short time. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of excitement and control he thought he would never experience again. Once more, he was pulling the strings, and Fuchs was a cunning puppeteer who could make people dance to his will to get what he wanted.

  Fuchs turned his wheelchair around to face the door and watched the young woman walk slowly towards him. ‘Miss Crawford’, said Fuchs, extending his hand. ‘You are much younger than I imagined.’ Celia walked over to the old man and shook his hand. It felt like old parchment; dry and flaky. ‘Good of you to come, and so quickly. Very impressive.’

  ‘Thank you, Herr Fuchs,’ replied Celia, giving the old man her best smile, ‘for the opportunity to meet you.’

  Despite the wheelchair, at ninety-five, Fuchs was still an impressive man. Impeccably dressed in a
white shirt, blue blazer and grey slacks, he obviously took great care with his appearance. A shock of white hair, neatly parted in the middle, and gold-rimmed glasses gave him a studious look, like a retired university professor. But most striking of all were his eyes: clear and ice-blue, they radiated intelligence and danger.

  ‘Shall we sit by the painting?’ suggested Fuchs. ‘It’s just over there.’

  Celia followed Fuchs across the room. Fuchs didn’t believe in polite chitchat and decided instead to come straight to the point.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, and pointed to the painting.

  Celia was stunned. The striking painting looked exactly like the one she had seen at the auction. The only difference appeared to be the frame, which was far more elaborate. Displayed on a small table in front of the painting was a piece of yellowish paper; obviously the receipt.

  ‘Extraordinary’, said Celia, genuinely surprised.

  ‘Your article that first alerted me to all this the other day was excellent, Miss Crawford. I like your style. Good journalism; quite rare these days.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Since then, my secretary has obtained a full transcript of what Mr Krakowski and Mr Rogan had to say at the auction. You can assume that I am familiar with all that.’

  ‘What do you think of the painting’s provenance?’ asked Celia, coming straight to the point. She sensed that Fuchs would like that. He did.

  ‘Impressive, and convincing, if it weren’t for this.’ Fuchs picked up the piece of paper on the table in front of him and handed it to Celia. ‘I bought the original painting in 1943 from Berenger Krakowski; here’s the proof.’

  ‘With respect, what makes you so sure it is the original?’ asked Celia quietly.

  ‘I understand, of course, where you are coming from. Firstly, I know art, Miss Crawford. In my considered opinion, this is a genuine Monet. However, there is more. The circumstances of the purchase.’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘The painting was offered for sale in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942. Those were desperate times, Miss Crawford. For a man like Krakowski living in the ghetto with his family, selling a fake to the authorities would have been a death sentence; unthinkable.’