I had never gone through the trunk—finding the rifle and mug shot had been enough—but now I did. Moth-eaten shirts and pants, a pair of brown boots, the leather desiccated and cracking, a wooden box. Inside, velvet-lined, but whatever jewelry it may have once contained was gone. A couple of rumpled cardboard cartons, one with old-fashioned long johns, the other with two pairs of delicate women’s gloves and a small photo, sepia-toned, of a man and a woman in formal dress. My grandfather and his wife? The trunk’s lining had split, coming away from one side, and something peeked out—an envelope, no stamp or postmark, just a name in now-familiar script: Simon Peruggia. Inside, folded pages, the paper thin and yellowed but otherwise in good shape. I started to read them, but the light was bad, the attic air suffocating.
My bedroom was better, no cobwebs, though my narrow bed was uncomfortable. I ended up stretched out on the floor, using the bed as a headboard.
Dear Simon,
I had written a journal in which I told of my crime. Why I did it. And how. That journal was lost a long time ago. I am writing some of it here again because I want you to know what happened. Because I want you to know the truth about your father.
There were a dozen pages. The first few things I knew and had previously read—Simone’s death, meeting Valfiero, stealing the Mona Lisa, Chaudron’s forgeries, and the bank president, Fournier—much of it abbreviated as if Vincent had been in a hurry to get it down. After that, Vincent wrote of his plans to go to the south of France, again something I knew, which I read quickly. But I slowed down as I started to read the remaining pages.
81
I had walked from the town of Lacoste determined to find Valfiero and Chaudron. And I did. The house with blue shutters sat on a small incline bordered by evergreens. Exactly as the waitress Brigitte had described. A Lorraine-Dietrich was parked in front. The fancy motorcar purchased no doubt with money from the sale of forgeries. I made my way toward the house through bushes and trees. I crouched low. Inched toward a window. Dared a peek. There was a large palette on a wooden table. Paint tubes and brushes. Paintings on the walls. Chaudron’s studio! Two easels stood side by side. Both with Mona Lisa paintings on them! One perfectly painted and finished. Another only half-completed. They had told me all the copies had been made and sold. But they were making more to sell!
I crept along the house to another window. Peered into a room opulently furnished with velvet couches. Gilded mirrors. A Persian rug covering the floor. All obvious rewards of the duo’s unscrupulous dealings. I heard the tinkling sound of a phonograph record. I saw Valfiero and Chaudron at a table across the room. Each with a glass of wine. Valfiero puffing on a cigar like some South American potentate. Chaudron was in a paint-stained smock and appeared to be singing along with the music.
I fumbled the knife from my pocket. I flicked the blade open. I allowed my rage to build. Then I sprinted to the front door. Threw it open! Burst into the room! Kicked the chair out from under Chaudron and watched him tumble to the floor! I got an arm around Valfiero. Put my knife against his throat. Chaudron tried getting to his feet but I leveled my boot into his gut.
Valfiero called me DEAR BOY. Claimed they had been planning to be in touch with me.
I called him a liar. And of course he was. He acted calm though I could feel his heart pounding. He continued his charade. It was DEAR BOY this and DEAR BOY that. He said they had money for me and asked Chaudron to fetch it.
I followed him into the bedroom. Held Valfiero close with the knife at this throat.
Chaudron started to open a large wooden chest. I shoved him out of the way. Moved closer. Tried to see into the chest.
Valfiero said it was all there. Hidden under the blankets.
I leaned over the chest. Chaudron leveled a kick. I began to topple and Valfiero summoned what was left of the South American shantytown boy he had once been. He elbowed me hard and broke free. Chaudron tried to get hold of my flailing arms while Valfiero rustled through the chest and came up with a gun. He aimed at me. Told me there was no money.
I screamed I would kill him. Kill both of them.
Valfiero laughed. Called me DEAR BOY again. Trained the gun on me while Chaudron peeled the knife from my hand.
I shouted they had stolen everything from me. That they owed me. But it was no use.
Chaudron tied my arms behind my back and bound them with rope. I struggled but Valfiero pressed the gun against my temple. He wanted to kill me then but Chaudron argued they needed to wait and kill me later. Behind the house. After dark. And Valfiero agreed. He taunted me. Laughed at me. Called me an immigrant and a thief. Said no one would miss me.
They searched me. Found my other knife. Tugged the journal from my waistband. Chaudron flipped through pages. Handed it to Valfiero and he did the same. They saw I had written about them. They were shocked and amused. Said they would keep it and read it later. Then Chaudron slid it into his jacket.
They forced me into a chair. Tied my wrists and ankles to it.
I told them I knew they had given me a forgery. Asked if the finished Mona Lisa in Chaudron’s studio was the original. They refused to tell me.
Valfiero drew his spidery hand across my cheek and I spit in his face.
Chaudron tied an oily paint rag around the bottom of my face. Stuffed it into my mouth.
Then they drank wine and smoked cigars. They dared to raise their glasses of wine to me. And laughed.
I watched. Bound and gagged. Impotent rage burning in my gut like acid.
I tried to think clearly. My knives lay on the table just beside Valfiero’s gun. Could I jerk the chair closer? But there was no way to reach them with my hands tied.
The two of them became quite drunk. Chaudron wound his phonograph and played the record. Did a drunken little dance while Valfiero applauded.
The windows grew dark. They were about to take me outside and kill me.
Then the front door flung open and Georges Fournier stood in the doorway. A pistol in his hand.
Chaudron made a grab for the gun on the table. Fournier knocked it to the floor. He trained his pistol on the two men. Ordered them to untie me.
I coughed and cursed as the gag came out of my mouth.
The bank president demanded that Valfiero and Chaudron return his money. Valfiero was all innocence. Asked Fournier if he was unhappy with his purchase.
Fournier said he knew it was a forgery.
Valfiero denied it. Said it was Leonardo’s masterpiece.
I shouted he was a liar. But Fournier already knew that. He had seen the proof. He whipped his pistol across Valfiero’s face and Valfiero stumbled and fell. Chaudron pressed a linen napkin to his friend’s bloody lip. Then he sprang up. A wild man! Leaping at Fournier. Knocking the pistol from Fournier’s hand. It skidded across the floor. I made a dash for it but Valfiero got there first. He waved the gun in the air ordering all of us to get back. But too late. I was already in motion and our bodies collided.
The shot reverberated throughout the stone house.
Chaudron fell.
Valfiero scampered on hands and knees to his friend. Chaudron stared down at the blood on his smock. It was a moment before Valfiero saw the wound. He assured Chaudron it was only his shoulder and not serious.
I raced to get the gun. So did Fournier. Then Valfiero. The three of us struggled over the weapon. One more time the gun fired.
Fournier stumbled back. Hands at his neck. Blood spurting. Then he fell to the floor. I tore the hem from my shirt and wrapped it around his neck. The blood seeped through quickly. Fournier got an arm around me and pulled me close. Whispered that no one must ever know what happened here. Then his arm dropped. His body went slack.
It was only then I realized that Valfiero and Chaudron had fled. I saw the trail of bloody footprints leading to the front door. I raced after them. But too late. The Lorraine-Dietrich was alr
eady disappearing down the road.
I came back to the house and looked at Fournier’s lifeless body. I had never intended this. Never wanted it. But it was too late for regrets.
I headed outside behind the house. Found a shovel. Began to dig. I was thankful for the cloudy night. No moon or stars to illuminate my terrible work. I dug and dug. The thought of my son kept me going. When the hole was large enough I used the Persian rug to drag Fournier’s body outside. I went through his pockets. There were over a hundred francs in his billfold.
Then I rolled his body into the grave. Used the rug to cover it. Shoveled dirt back in. Gathered rocks and pebbles and fallen branches and spread them across the new layer of dirt until it was hidden.
I went back inside the house. Cleaned blood from the floor and walls. Washed my hands and cleaned the sink. Then I went through the house searching for the money. I did not think they had time to take it. I searched every drawer in the wooden chest and the bedroom dresser. The closets and under the bed. I slit the mattress. Ransacked the kitchen cabinets. Knocked glasses and fine china to the floor. Moved the potbelly stove and icebox away from the walls. Stomped on the floorboards. But none gave way.
I went outside again. I thought perhaps they had buried the money. I raised the shovel. But where to start? I had no idea. I sagged onto the cold earth and covered my face with my hands. My body drained and exhausted. Simone’s face appeared in my mind. I heard her call my name. But it sounded more pitying than soothing.
I searched Chaudron’s studio. The drawer below the paint table. The one tiny closet. Tested the studio floorboards here as well. Nothing.
I examined his forgeries. A Dutch still life. An English landscape. A medieval Madonna and child. Chaudron had aged and cracked the paint brilliantly. In any other place I would have sworn it was real. I lifted the finished Mona Lisa off its easel. Studied the dreamy landscape. The subtle coloration of the flesh. Lisa del Giocondo’s beautifully articulated hands. I searched the area below them for initials. There were none. Chaudron had not yet painted them in. Unless this was the original!
I turned the painting around. Noted the stains and marks and the Louvre stamp. But I had seen Chaudron ape these elements before and they proved nothing. I sniffed the surface. But the studio reeked of oil and turpentine and it overwhelmed all other odors. I could have tested the painting with turpentine but no longer cared if it was real or not. A thought had taken shape in my mind. A plan. A cultured man like Fournier had fallen for a fake. There would be others. Perhaps this was the original Mona Lisa. Perhaps it was one of Chaudron’s forgeries. It did not matter to me.
I wrapped the painting with cloth and tied it with twine. I turned the story over in my mind. I would say I had returned a forgery to the Louvre. Which I had! That I had hidden the original for after my release from prison. And now I wanted to sell it.
It sounded plausible. Possibly even true. A plan I knew I could carry out. I had followed couriers from Chaudron’s studio to art collectors and dealers. I would go to these buyers now. Tell them the paintings they had purchased were forgeries. That the one I had was real. Perhaps I would not be lying. I had already accomplished the impossible task of stealing the world’s most famous painting. From the world’s most famous museum. Selling it would be easy.
I undressed. Found clothes in the bedroom closet that fit me well enough. I looked for my journal. Then remembered Valfiero and Chaudron had taken it.
I burned my bloodstained clothes. Spread the ashes. Prepared to leave. But Chaudron’s forgeries flashed in my mind. Poisoned my gut. I wanted to rid the world of these fakes. These abominations. These counterfeit beauties!
I grabbed the half-finished Mona Lisa off the easel and put my foot through it! Gripped the Dutch still life and did the same. Tugged the English landscape off its nail. Studied the forger’s masterful hand for a moment before using a palette knife to slit the canvas until it hung from the stretcher in shards. I threw the Madonna and child to the floor and stomped on it. Wood splintered beneath my feet. Then I stood back to survey the damage. I dug the tin of La Paz from my pocket. Rolled a cigarette. Lit it. Waved the match out. Dropped it to the floor. And turned to go.
It was then I noticed the small flicker of red. My match. Still alive. On a tangle of oily rags. I stomped on it with my heavy boots. But the sparks spit and scattered. The flames curled in the direction of Chaudron’s palette table. Toward bottles of oil. An open tin of turpentine. I tried to crush the flames with my hands. Singed my palms. Stumbled back. I watched the flames undulate and twirl. Hypnotized. How easy it would be to lie down and let them take me. To join Simone. I inhaled the smoke into my lungs. Felt it begin to constrict my breath.
Then an image of you Simon my newborn son flared in my mind brighter than any fire. I knew I had to live. I tore from the studio. Out the front door. Swallowed deep gulps of cold night air.
I had the cash I had taken off Fournier in my pocket. I put the painting in the back seat of the bank president’s Berliet. And I was ready.
My hands were shaking but I started the motorcar. I had driven little in my life but had a feel for engines and driving came naturally. I maneuvered the Berliet onto the main road. The car’s mirror reflected writhing flames of red. The crackling sound of burning wood competed with the sound of the motorcar’s rumbling engine. But I did not look back.
I kept my eyes on the road. Headed north toward Paris. The thought of selling the painting and reclaiming you, my one thought. My only thought.
It was a few weeks before I had accomplished it. Sold the painting!
I never said it was the actual Mona Lisa. I did not have to. The fact that I was the thief who had stolen it from the great Louvre Museum was more than enough proof.
The sale was conducted by a fence. I never met the buyers. They had met my price of five hundred thousand francs and that was all I cared about.
I steered the Berliet along dirt roads once again. Your grandmother was now living in her small home in Toulouse. A place I had once visited with Simone, your mother. It took two days from Paris to reach the outskirts of the town and it was late when I arrived. I found a room at an inn. Ate and drank alone. Spoke to no one.
That night I dreamed Simone and I lived in a grand apartment with you our beloved son. We were renowned artists. Feted and critically acclaimed.
I awoke with tears in my eyes. But I was happy. I believed the dream was an omen that I would get you back.
In the morning I took my time getting ready. I scrubbed my face. Shaved carefully. Trimmed my mustache. Parted my hair neatly into place with pomade. Put on the new clothes and shoes I had purchased in Paris. I needed to look my best. Needed to look prosperous. I tore the lining from my old coat where I had hidden the francs. Carefully tucked them into a money belt. Tied it around my waist. Covered it with a bulky woolen vest and buttoned it to my collar.
I drove from the inn along narrow country roads. My thoughts of Simone. Of our one visit here years ago. A beautiful summer day. Simone radiant in a white dress. Her blond hair loose around her face.
The house was how I remembered it. A tiny stone cottage with weathered yellow shutters. I brought the Berliet to a stop.
Your grandmother came out and stood on the porch. An infant was in her arms wrapped in a blanket. She seemed not to know me. Perhaps blinded by the bright winter sun or the expensive car or my fancy new clothes. Then she recognized me. Her face went hard. She asked what I wanted. I told her just to talk. To come into the house. I was careful to keep my voice calm and gentle.
She assessed me for a long time. The fancy car. The expensive clothes. It felt like an eternity before she said yes.
The house was messy and crowded. The crib filled half the living room. Wet diapers were draped over the backs of chairs.
I asked if I might have a look at you.
Marguerite hesitated, then rolled the bl
anket down to reveal your fine gold hair and long lashes surrounding eyes the same color as your mother’s. My heart swelled with so much love and sadness.
I told your grandmother I had made a lot of money. She said nothing. But I saw a slight softening of her face and a trace of curiosity.
I asked if I could hold you.
Another hesitation then she handed you to me. You nestled your head in the crook of my neck. I had never felt such joy. Tears sprang to my eyes.
Marguerite wilted into a chair beside the kitchen table. She looked old and weary.
I asked her what she had named you. She said Simon and I whispered it again and again as my lips brushed your cheek. Simon. Simon.
I asked Marguerite if she still hated me. She said she was too old for hate. And too tired.
Then we sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee and talked. I told her I had much success in Paris selling paintings. My own paintings. I was not sure Marguerite bought my lie. But she said nothing. I could see she needed my help. That she wanted to believe me.
I helped her straighten up. I added logs to the fire. Marguerite cooked and mashed peas and I fed them to you. When you cried I walked you until you fell asleep. Then I laid you into your crib.
I came back to the table where Marguerite was waiting. She asked how much money I had. I told her a lot. Enough for all of us. All of it made from the sale of my paintings. She said it did not matter how I had gotten the money. She was tired and alone and no longer young. That the baby was difficult. But she did not want to lose him. He was all she had left of her daughter.
I looked into her eyes. I said he was all I had left of Simone too.
She told me about a house for sale down the road. A simple stone house. Sturdy. Twice the size of her house.
I said I would buy it if all three of us could live there together. She said yes. And then she cried.
82
I awoke on the floor, curled in a ball and achy, morning sun streaking through my Bayonne bedroom window. My first thought: I have to call Smith, have to tell him what happened to Peruggia. Then reality set in, but I said it anyway. “We got it, Smith, the end of the story.”
The Last Mona Lisa Page 25
