by Anna Porter
“Is that the expert speaking, or the competition?” Vladimir asked.
“Could it be both? I have studied the painting, and you know I am an expert.”
“Does the one in Cluj have provenance?”
“Since when is that an issue for you? So many of the Augsburg documents were destroyed in the war. But it’s clearer than Krestin’s painting. It was taken from a Jewish timber trader in ’41 by his assistant, who was not Jewish. He killed the trader.”
“Is there a family?”
“All killed. Most by the Nazis during the ’40s. A son who escaped was executed during one of the Soviet purges.”
“Whose son? The thief’s or the trader’s?”
“Both families were killed. There are no descendants.”
“So how did the new owner get his hands on it?”
“I’ll tell you in Cluj.”
They returned to their seats for the second act.
“There is a Russian who also wants in.”
“Isn’t there always?” Vladimir said. “Which painting?”
“He doesn’t know about The Last Judgement.”
There were a limited number of Russians who were interested in acquiring fifteenth- and sixteenth-century art; even fewer who could afford it. Helena had checked with her contact at Ferihegy Airport, and only two private jets had landed this week: one from Kiev, the other from Sochi. Budapest was no longer a magnet for the mega-rich. The Russian airplane belonged to a man she already knew: Piotr Denisovich Grigoriev.
“I would like to see it,” Vladimir said. “I’m not promising anything, but I’ll look at it and then decide which one I want.”
“There’s nothing to decide,” Helena said. “You cannot have Christ’s Entry, simple as that.”
He laughed. “I suppose you are going to stop me.”
“That’s right, but I will show you the other painting, the one you can have, the day after tomorrow, if you are available.”
“Where? And what time?”
“Around nine in the evening. You know the big church, St. Michael’s?”
He nodded. “There is a statue of a Hungarian king on horseback in front of it. One of my companies was involved in Mayor Funar’s effort to destroy the statue by excavating for an underground shopping mall.”
“That’s the one,” she said.
After the performance, he handed her into a taxi and said he would see her in Cluj.
“Meanwhile,” he said, “take care of yourself.”
“Strange,” Helena said. “That’s precisely what Miroslav suggested. And by the way, did you send a thug to make sure I stayed out of your way?”
“Would I do something like that? Really? Would I?” He did not sound offended by the question.
“Of course you would, but I don’t think you did, not this time.”
Back at the hotel, the receptionist was apologetic but Mr. Grigoriev was not to be disturbed tonight. He had taken the fifth floor, and the Gresham would not allow anyone to enter that floor without Mr. Grigoriev’s express permission. The elevator had been reprogrammed to go from the fourth to the sixth floor without stopping.
When Helena tried the stairs, she was met by a decisive man with a sparse command of English and a bulge under his arm. She apologized profusely.
It was late at night, she was tired, and she was not ready to take on the Russians.
CHAPTER 15
Krestin had chosen the restaurant on Múzeum Boulevard, a bright, crowded place where the food cost the same as at the Gresham but was served with a lot less fuss.
Helena, wearing the short black wig, the yellow dress, the long grey jacket, high heels, and a white silk scarf she had picked up at the Gresham’s boutique, was a few minutes early, so she could observe his entrance. She assumed that the local police and the ex-policeman would be looking for a blonde with long hair. So Maria Steinbrunner was safe.
She took the metro to the Astoria stop. In her experience, policemen on duty rarely took the metro.
She knew this part of the city well. The Bauers had lived near the Dohány Street Synagogue and survived the Germans and the homegrown fascists by hiding in the supposedly Aryan apartment of a school friend of Agata Bauer, who lived near the Károlyi Palota. Luckily for them, the Soviets had arrived just when the food ran out in the Palota’s spacious cellars.
The Bauers had hired Helena in early 1990 to recover their two plundered vellum etchings by Rembrandt. As it turned out, the Rembrandts had not been taken by the Germans or the Soviets, but by the Bauers’ friendly neighbours, who would visit them for coffee and cakes before the Third Anti-Jewish Law came into effect.
Andras Bauer had not thought of taking the etchings with them when the authorities demanded they leave their apartment in March 1945. “Suddenly our things seemed rather meaningless,” he had explained to Helena. They had packed only what they could carry.
Helena had returned their Rembrandts some months before they both died. The etchings were now with their daughter in New York.
Shortly after she was seated, Krestin approached the front door. He was wearing a well-pressed formal grey suit, white shirt, thin blue-and-grey tie. His sparse white hair gave him a high-forehead look, and he appeared younger than his age. He walked strenuously upright — no old-man’s shuffle — head held high, looking dead ahead. At the maître d’s stand, he squinted when he saw Helena. He needed his glasses. The head waiter led him directly to where she was sitting.
He stood for a moment, straight-backed, powerful, then he leaned over the table and lifted her hand. His lips almost brushed her fingers as he bent over them and said “Kezi csókolom,” which she knew meant “I kiss your hand,” a greeting that had gone out of fashion long ago. Not even the Germans were doing kuss die hand, any longer, let alone a former Party member with a history of nastiness. But, as Gertrude had said, János had changed with the times.
“Would you prefer to converse in English?” he asked as the maître d’ pushed the brown-and-cream striped chair in under his ass.
“Nous pouvons parler en français, si vous préférez,” she said.
He shook his head. “English,” he said. “It’s good practice for me. I am glad you could make it to our rendezvous. I was concerned that you would still be on the road and had no way to reach me.” He spoke with a definite, front-loaded Hungarian accent, but the words were clear.
“It’s a long way,” she said, uncertain what he meant.
“From Slovakia,” he filled in the blank. “Yes, Gertrude called. We are still in touch. Perhaps she told you. I support her and our boy.”
Not very well, she thought. “Of course,” she said. “Your son.”
“Mater semper certa est, as the Romans put it. And, of course, I support both of them.” He laughed. “You must already know a lot about Gertrude. Did she mention that she might even have married Géza, once.”
“I am interested only in the painting,” she said. While that wasn’t strictly true, she had come with only one purpose and it didn’t include learning about a love triangle. She was as keen to leave Hungary as the would-be killer’s employer was to eliminate her. Her only reason for finding out more about Gertrude, Krestin, and Márton was if their relationship explained why. Géza had been quite dismissive about his early “infatuation,” as he called it, with Gertrude, yet he, too, still supported her.
“I know.” He glanced at his menu and waved to the waiter. “If I may make a suggestion, madame, the foie gras four ways is a favourite of mine, and the restaurant is rather famous for its duck à la Russe with gnocchi. We could have a glass of Chablis each, or would you prefer red with the foie gras?”
“The Chablis sounds fine,” she said, “and I am okay with the duck.”
She studied his easy elegance as he gave the order to the waiter, carefully closed his menu, placed it at t
he side of the table, and patted it. A meticulous man. Orderly. Fastidious, as was his home, especially his study.
“How did Gertrude seem to you?”
“Well,” she said. “But then, I’ve never met her before, so I don’t know how she looked in the past.”
“She has had a difficult time since she left me.”
“I have also met Mr. Kis,” she said, sidestepping further discussion of Gertrude. She would come back to it later.
“Oh yes, the talented Dr. Kis. And how did you find him?” he asked as their wine was poured. Krestin’s English was exacting, rather like subtitles on a foreign film.
“Greedy . . . and perhaps a little scared.”
Krestin laughed and raised his glass to her: “Should we drink to our good health, then, madame? Yours and mine. And maybe poor Gertrude’s. Or to a successful deal, if you like?”
“All that,” she said, examining the foie gras that had just arrived. “Kis told me the price had gone up by twenty-five million, overnight.”
“It is the nature of a negotiation. You make an offer, we make a counter offer. You saw the merchandise. Although I haven’t any idea why you chose to break into my house, rather than wait for my invitation. I could have offered you more time for a close inspection. We could have shared a few stories. Had a little wine. But,” — he held up his hands to indicate that the opportunity had passed — “you should know it is worth a great deal in today’s market. A great deal. The last time a large Titian was sold, the price was one hundred million dollars. Correction: it was a smaller piece. But you know that, too, don’t you?”
“It was not one painting, but several, and there was no question about the provenance. There had been twelve prior owners, all named, the first one as early as 1580. The subsequent ones, all listed and accounted for. A clean bill of health, in other words. Not like your painting.”
“You have me there,” he said with a chuckle. “But what something is worth is dictated by the market, not by a series of owners who may have made their money in very questionable ways. It’s the basic principle of capitalism, and the market for this particular piece tells me that your original offer was too low.”
The duck arrived, one breast and one leg, crispy and well browned.
“Perhaps Vladimir Azarov is willing to pay more than the Mártons,” she said.
“He is not the only one,” Krestin said, before biting into his duck leg. He had picked it up with his fork, rather than by the white paper holder the restaurant supplied. This made it difficult to eat without smearing grease on his cheek, but he managed it. “And the painting has been authenticated by an expert.”
“Which expert?” she asked.
“An Italian art expert, since you ask. Someone who appraised it for a museum.” He waved his hand as if to indicate the appraisal was a matter of small importance. “There are several bidders.”
“Géza Márton has a prior claim.”
“That’s ridiculous. I don’t see how he could. I purchased the painting in good faith. I didn’t even know he was desperate to have it until Kis mentioned their arrangement when he came to see my paintings. Even now, if you don’t mind, we have only your word for that. I purchased it after his fascist father was arrested. And Géza, himself, made no attempt to procure it after he chose to emigrate.”
“His father was hardly a fascist.”
“In the judgement of the court, he was certainly a fascist and likely a killer as well. It seems your arrangement with his son does not include him telling you everything.”
“And Géza didn’t exactly choose to leave,” Helena said. “He escaped after the Russians invaded in November ’56. It would have been very difficult for him to cross the border on foot with a painting that size. Presumably, you know that.”
“Actually, madame, I know very little about Géza Márton.” He was starting to eat the gnocchi, spearing each one separately. “But I do know about his dalliance with Gertrude, of course,” he said between bites. “She told me he had been heartbroken when she advised him it was over. Her decision was, at the time, a smart one. She had no desire to leave the country with him. He was not such a good find. Women like security. Even after he arrived in Canada, he did not do so well. Presumably he has done better since, otherwise he would hardly be bidding on this painting.”
“Most people who came back from Siberia didn’t do so well,” she said. “But you did.”
His fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “What makes you think I was in Siberia?” he asked.
“Vorkuta was in Siberia, wasn’t it?”
Krestin sat farther back in his chair with an almost perfect expression of astonishment.
“It’s where you first met Géza Márton,” Helena said.
He shook his head. “You have been woefully misinformed,” he said. “Did Márton tell you I was serving the Soviet cause in the Gulag?”
That was a strange way to define slave labour in the Soviet Union, Helena thought, but it might take another year or two before Krestin abandoned all his Communist terminology.
“Is that what you called it?” Helena asked. “Most people picked up by the Soviet army were not keen to serve the Soviet cause, as you so charmingly put it, Dr. Krestin, although perhaps you were one of the few who enjoyed himself there?”
“I was never imprisoned in the Gulag,” Krestin said, emphasizing each word. “Do you think I would have been chosen to work with the justice ministry if I had been a fascist?”
“Oddly enough, yes. From what I have learned, you adapt well. And you are smarter than most Communists.”
“Whatever it is you are implying, madame, it is unacceptable,” he said. “I was not so involved. Check your sources; they are not to be trusted.” His English was deteriorating but he was still quite coherent. “I am a businessman. I am respected in my country. I have never been accused of any wrongdoing. I was decorated by my government in 2008. I have the Order of St. Stephen and the Magyar Becsület Rend — the Hungarian Legion of Honour. You must check before you accuse people of —”
“I would have thought serving in Siberia would be a badge of honour in these post-Soviet days,” Helena said.
He took a deep breath and stared at her.
“The painting,” she said, “may not be a Titian.”
“I don’t care. I will sell it for the highest offer. I don’t care who takes it. I don’t care about what you call provenance; it is not my problem. I have the papers to prove that I purchased it here, in Budapest, for good consideration, given the times. And I don’t care to discuss past history with you, or anyone else.” He called for the waiter and asked for the bill.
“Dr. Krestin, if you did not buy the item from Géza Márton, I have to assume that you bought it from someone else who was in Vorkuta with him.”
“Whether I purchased it from Márton or someone else does not matter,” Krestin said. “I own the painting, and I intend to sell it. If that’s not sufficient for you, I shall sell it to one of the other bidders.”
“Do you know a man with the nickname of Bika?”
For a moment, Krestin was taken aback, but he recovered quickly. “You can assume whatever the hell you want, madame,” he said, “but just for your information, I most certainly do not. As for Géza Márton, I consider him a traitor. And as for the painting he wants, I am tired of it. I will sell it at the end of the week.” He signed the bill and stood. “I wish you good day, madame.” He inclined his head in military fashion and walked out of the restaurant.
A gentler soul than Helena Marsh would have felt embarrassed. She ordered a cup of coffee and asked to see the dessert menu.
CHAPTER 16
Helena got up from her table at 3 p.m., just as all the other diners began to trickle back to their offices. The maître d’ didn’t charge her for the coffee or the chocolate-covered pear and insisted that the accompanying
pear brandy was also on the house. With compliments. “Dr. Krestin is one of our best customers,” he said in passable English. “Has been for many years.”
“Did you know his first wife?” Helena asked.
“Yes. We don’t see her much anymore. She has moved away, but they do still come from time to time. Last time they ordered the venison with pear and dumplings, and she wanted Champagne. French, not Hungarian. She looked like she hadn’t been eating much.
“The first Mrs. Krestin was a real lady — quiet, soft-spoken, never complained about the food or the service. The second one is a different story. She is barely civil, even to him. Nothing is good enough for some people.”
Helena smiled and nodded as if she had known all along and tipped him generously, not so much that it would lead him to wonder, but enough to keep him talking. “Thirty years is a long time,” she said, assuming he would know how long the Krestins had been separated.
“More than that, I think. But we have been here even longer, since 1885.”
“Some things don’t change,” she suggested.
“But the people who eat here . . .”
“In 1885, the nobility and the newish middle class,” she prompted. “Then two world wars. The Communists.”
“They weren’t all bad, you know.”
“Dr. Krestin, for example,” with as ingratiating a smile as she could manage.
“Even with his Party pin, he was a gentleman. Always polite. I can’t say that about all our guests in those days, but he never changed. Not here, anyway.”
***
Helena took the tram to the East Station, then walked to the Kerepesi cemetery. It was shady, with towering chestnut trees and giant stone mausoleums, but she had no trouble finding the elaborate tomb of the actress and opera singer Lujza Blaha and the nearby arcade. It was a tall, pillared structure with sad putti and an even sadder peasant, boots pointing inwards, bearded head bending over his zither, and inside the colonnade reclined the actress and opera singer, her hair in pleasing ringlets, plump cheeked face, breasts tastefully uncovered. She had died in 1926, but people still made the effort to place fresh red roses and pink carnations in strategic spots around her, and a bunch of gold chrysanthemums was wedged in at the crack of a putty’s dimpled bottom.
