Masterclass

by Morris West

  ‘I took lessons.’

  Loredon nodded approval. ‘Wise man. Lots of girls don’t like to cook and all of them get hungry.’

  Mather laughed. ‘The voice of experience?’

  ‘Long, long experience. The only problem with dining in restaurants is that it’s a long way back to the bedroom.…You said you had some things to show me.’

  ‘Pour yourself a glass of port while I get them.’

  Mather cleared a space on the table and laid out his small array of treasures: the Tompion watch, the carved emerald, an enamelled comfit box, a pair of seventeenth-century duelling pistols which he had admired in Brescia and which Pia had insisted on buying for him.

  Hugh Loredon took out a pocket loupe and examined each article carefully. His verdict was brief.

  ‘Unless you must, you’d be a fool to sell this stuff. Put it in a bank vault and keep it as insurance for your old age. This watch is a beauty. The inscription indicates that it was made in 1704, the year Tompion became Master of the Clockmakers’ Company in London. It’s a museum piece. It would have to bring anything from seventy-five to a hundred thousand. I sold one ten years ago for fifty. The jewel…it’s interesting but not important enough to raise a ripple in a big estate auction. The box is good, Louis XIV. Thirty thousand maybe. The pistols, ten or thereabouts. The value goes up each year you hold on to them. It’s up to you. If you like, I’ll have our people give them a thorough inspection and then talk to you about a reserve and a suitable date to put ’em up. Alternatively, we could try to negotiate a private sale for you. We’ve got a pretty extensive international client list.’

  ‘Put them up for auction,’ said Mather briskly. ‘I’m trying to get some of the clutter out of my life. I’m not pushed for cash yet, though I may be once I sign the sub-lease with Anne-Marie and start creating an apartment.’

  ‘Let me know when you’re ready,’ Loredon said casually. ‘I’d say there’s an easy hundred thousand, after commission. On a good day, maybe more.’

  ‘What makes a good day?’

  ‘God knows. For me, it’s the way the gavel sits in my hand when I pick it up.’

  ‘There’s something else I’d like to show you,’ Max told him. ‘Even Anne-Marie doesn’t know about this. I’m publishing a piece about it in Belvedere and I want to keep it quiet until then.’

  Hugh Loredon gave him a smile and a shrug.

  ‘You’re very trusting. This is the most gossipy business in the world. But I guess I can keep a secret – until I hear the same thing from someone else. Go ahead.’

  Mather brought in the Palombini account books and translated the entries for him.

  Loredon frowned in puzzlement. ‘Don’t you find that odd? They were painted in 1505 by a man acknowledged in his lifetime as a great master – and they’ve never been seen or heard of since.’

  ‘Odd, yes; but not without precedent.’

  ‘And what do you think will happen once your piece is published?’

  ‘The best would be some response that indicates the works are still in existence. The worst, I guess, would be silence.’

  ‘You may get more than you bargain for.’

  ‘I don’t understand?’

  Hugh Loredon poured himself another glass of port and sliced a small wedge of cheese. He popped the cheese in his mouth and washed it down with a sip of port. Then he patted his lips with the napkin and slowly told his cautionary tale.

  ‘You’re talking about treasures here, Max. If you can get forty million at auction for a Van Gogh sunflower, what do you think these items would be worth? Say a hundred million and you’re being conservative. If we take them to auction the auctioneers alone get commissions of ten per cent buyer, ten per cent seller – that’s twenty million. So we’re highly interested parties for a start. Then think of the other cobras in the basket: the dealers, the big collectors, the institutions, the foundations…. They’re all going to be interested in you. They’re going to be waving money under your nose, wanting to retain you, offering finder’s fees. More than that, they’re going to keep tabs on you wherever you are. Don’t you see? It’s a cheap exercise. You’re the man with the treasure map – a real honest-to-God treasure map, authentic in every particular. Even I would be happy to put a minder on your tail for twelve months, just to make sure my company didn’t lose a shot at twenty million commission. So far I’m talking about legitimate interests, but what about the black market boys? There’s a millionaire shipowner in Athens who sponsors an art thief all of his own. There’s a Colombian collector, a client of ours, who is a well-known receiver of stolen art works. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s got a mountain fortress and a private army to protect him. There’s nothing new in this; in the old days the condottieri used to live on booty.’

  ‘Are you saying I shouldn’t publish?’

  ‘I have no right to say that. You’re a scholar. I’m an auctioneer. We both want to see the things found – each for a different reason. I’m just pointing out that this isn’t a parlour game…it has nothing to do with aesthetics or absolute values. This is trade – trade in rare and restricted commodities – which is as specialised as the old traffic in spices or the new one in commercial secrets. There’s no place for amateurs. The rewards are high. The game is rough, dirty and sometimes downright dangerous. Also, it can cost you a lot of money to buy in…I gather you’re comfortable, but not rich. From what Anne-Marie has told me, you like the leisure of academic life. I’m just warning you that the next couple of steps you take may land you in hell’s kitchen.’

  ‘Let’s suppose,’ said Max Mather quietly, ‘let’s suppose I decided not to publish and conducted my own research?’

  ‘You can’t.’ Hugh Loredon was emphatic. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘Why can’t I?’

  ‘Because the moment you talked to Harmon Seldes you were already published. He knows what you know . He knows the source of your information. He’s already talking it round his money people. I’m the same as he is. I know what you know. All I’ve engaged to do is keep the secret until it’s not a secret any more – which is any moment from now. But because you’re a friend of my daughter and you’re a good cook and I’d hate to see you get your nose rubbed in the custard, I’m giving you fair warning.’

  ‘I’m an idiot,’ said Mather with feeling.

  ‘You’re just ignorant,’ Hugh Loredon told him cheerfully. ‘No harm in that. Stupid is something different. Now I have a favour to ask of you.’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I’m worried about Anne-Marie and Ed Bayard.’

  ‘Why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘She’s tied too closely to him; he’s making a play for her.’

  ‘She’s a big girl. She knows how to say no.’

  ‘It doesn’t bother you?’

  ‘Why should it?’

  ‘I thought you two…’

  ‘We’re not. Anne-Marie and I had good times in Italy – lots of fun and no regrets on either side. Here in New York the fun times are over and we’re just friends doing business together. That suits us both. So if she wants to date the May Queen or the garbage collector, that’s her affair.’

  ‘Then let me put it another way.’ Loredon was suddenly sombre; his ruddy face seemed grey and shrunken. ‘Ed Bayard’s wife was a beautiful woman and a fine painter. He was insanely jealous of her. He tried to keep her isolated from her friends, in continual uncertainty about her talent. He would never allow her to exhibit, only to make private sales. He kept her in a state destructive to any artist – continual self-doubt. In the law he’s brilliant. In his private life he’s a screwed-up sadist.…’

  ‘And how do you know all this?’

  ‘Madeleine Bayard and I were lovers.’

  Mather gave a long whistle of surprise. ‘Did Bayard know that?’

  ‘I believe so. I have no proof.’

  ‘And you let your daughter make a deal with him?’

  ‘I couldn’t stop her. She had the w
hole thing set up before she came to see me: the lease signed, the exhibition contracted. She waved the papers under my nose like a banner, just so I’d be proud of her. What was the point of digging up a shabby little piece of history?’

  ‘You’re a bloody fool, Hugh.’

  ‘I know it. I missed the moment.’

  ‘Nonsense. Tell her now. If you don’t, I will. Were you never questioned by the police about the murder?’

  ‘Of course I was. But the only thing they could establish was that Madeleine and I were friends who occasionally went to bed together.’

  ‘So it’s in the record and it isn’t a secret. What else did you tell them?’

  ‘Nothing. You’ve got to understand that right up to the end I was hedging my bets. I didn’t want a scandal; appearances are very important to my company. I had a few other little affairs going, because wealthy women dominate the art scene. I didn’t have anything to offer the police except that Bayard made his wife unhappy. It didn’t sound very convincing when he was the wronged husband and I was the part-time lover.’

  ‘But Bayard did have a motive for murder.’

  ‘Maybe, but the police ruled him out as a suspect very early in the piece.’

  ‘So why are you telling me now?’

  ‘Because…because I’m afraid. I’m as sure as I am of my own name that Ed Bayard is going to use my daughter to revenge himself on me.’

  ‘That’s probably an authentic expression of your guilt feelings, but it doesn’t fit the facts. Anne-Marie told me herself that she stumbled on the studio through a realtor.’

  ‘But once the deal was mooted, once Bayard knew who she was…don’t you see?’

  ‘I see why you’re worried. I don’t see what else you can do but tell her the truth.’

  ‘If I do, will you promise to stay close to her? Try to read what’s happening between her and Bayard?’

  ‘That’s not my style, Hugh.’

  ‘My daughter tells me a different story. That you hung in with your Italian friend until she died in your arms. That you’re good in bed. That you’re generous to your friends, you don’t make scenes and you do clean up in the kitchen. She says there’s much more to you than meets the eye.’

  ‘It’s a party trick,’ said Mather with sour humour. ‘Like sprouting mango trees and rabbits popping out of a silk hat.’

  ‘I know that, Max. You know it. But so long as we keep it to ourselves, the illusion works.’

  It was the tag-end of the afternoon when Hugh Loredon left, sobered with black coffee, soured a little by memories that curdled in the telling. Mather was left with the impression of an ageing actor who had found a vehicle to keep him working as long as he wanted, but for whom the role had lost all surprise and the performance all conviction. His easy charm and facile cynicism seemed to mask a bleak loneliness.

  For Mather himself the luncheon had been a profitable event. The magazine, the auction house, the gallery – all these were patents of respectability. On the other hand, little by little the fictions were being stitched into the facts of other lives from which he had managed so far to isolate himself.

  Hugh Loredon’s dilemma illustrated something he himself had learned by rough experience: the weakness and the power of the cavalier’ sirvente, the professional squire. His public existence was a half-life during which his mistress hoisted him like a flag at dawn and then lowered and furled him at sundown. For the rest, he was a possession personal to her: their life together a secret activity in which venery and venality, passion and perversity were compounded in unstable chemistry. The single element that held it in balance was its privacy. Only the squire saw milady’s bulges and wrinkles. Only milady knew the cowardice of her attendant. The moment another person stepped into the room, the fragile combination became explosive.

  Mather had warmed to Loredon at first because he understood him and could feel for him. He felt for Anne-Marie too, walking so confidently through the minefield of her father’s follies. He wanted no part in their affairs, but since he had elected to use them for his own purposes he was like an insect being drawn inexorably into the Venus fly-trap.

  He was pottering about his kitchen, stacking dishes, drying cutlery and ruminating on this shift in his perspective, when the telephone rang. Anne-Marie was on the line.

  ‘Max, what are you doing?’

  ‘Right now I’m cleaning up my kitchen. Your father and I have had lunch together. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m leaving home now and going down to the studio. The architect is meeting me there. I thought you should meet him too to discuss the plan for your areas.’

  ‘Good idea. Pick me up on the way; I’ll be waiting on the sidewalk.’

  The ride downtown was a nightmare. The Haitian driver, deaf to all protests and cursing continuously in Creole, hurled them through the traffic as though the Ton-ton Macoute were chasing him with machetes. By the time they reached the studio Mather was ready to kill him with his bare hands and Anne-Marie, dizzy with car sickness, was heaving her heart out.

  Mather steadied her and made her walk half a block, gulping in fresh air. Then they stood for a while surveying the exterior of the warehouse whose façade was of iron, cast and moulded in the opulent days of the steel barons. It was double-fronted, with a wide door in the centre and barred windows on either side. The door was matched on each level by a hatch through which goods hauled up on a winch could be brought into each storage area.

  Inside the whole place had been stripped bare. There was an old-fashioned elevator and a wide stairway. At the rear of each floor was a toilet and a washroom. Apart from these encroachments all four storeys were free space, broken only by the slim cast-iron pillars which carried the weight of the steel floor joists and the roof-load.

  They walked upstairs, inspected each level and then rode down together in the elevator. Mather noted with some surprise that the floors had been freshly sanded and the whole interior painted with undercoat. He asked Anne-Marie, ‘Did you do this?’

  ‘No. This is how I took it over. The lease says I have to hand it back in the same state. What do you think, Max?’

  ‘It’s a steal. The structure is sound. There are no signs of roof leaks, the load is carried on steel girders and iron pillars. The plumbing’s old-fashioned but sound. The elevator needs a new motor. You’ll want dual cycle air-conditioning. After that it’s a partition and paint job, with a good lighting plan. The rest is superficial – a simple office, attractive toilets, a workable kitchen and servery.’

  ‘How does it strike you as a gallery venue?’

  ‘Good. The area is being developed. There’s a young, affluent population. You can cover the old-money uptown buyers with advertisements and direct mail. I presume your father can help you build up a good client list?’

  ‘He can. He will. How did you two get along together?’

  ‘Fine. He liked my cooking. I enjoyed his talk. He approves of my working for you; he thinks you can use a minder.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think I need one.’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘Not really – except that I’m laying out a lot of money and nothing’s coming in, so naturally I’m nervous. Also Ed Bayard’s a little more than I need at the moment.’

  ‘More passes?’

  ‘No. It’s just that he’s so…so intense. I spent two hours at his house yesterday, cataloguing the exhibition pictures. At the end of the day I was quite drained. Even here I get an extraordinary sense of…of presence.’

  ‘In spite of the clean-up Bayard’s done?’

  ‘You mean he’s trying to paint out memories.’

  ‘How many New York landlords give you a free scouring and undercoat job on a warehouse lease?’

  ‘You talk as if it’s something sinister. I think it’s wonderful.’

  ‘You’re right. It is. I’ll light a candle for him every morning.’

  Then the architect was at the door, with an armful of plans and a head f
ull of suggestions for the gallery, the storeroom, the lecture space and a dwelling for Max Mather. Two hours later they were all sitting over dinner in a neighbourhood restaurant run by two Vietnamese girls who called themselves the Trung sisters. The food was good, the service came with a smile. The architect, a new resident in SoHo, was full of gossip.

  ‘I’ve been spreading the word about the gallery. Everybody’s happy you’re moving in – takes the curse off the place, so to speak. I’d moved down here just before the murder and for a while realty values took a dive. It was a very bloody business.’

  ‘We know,’ said Max Mather curtly. ‘We’re trying to forget it. You’re designing a gallery, not a mausoleum.’

  ‘Sorry.’ The architect was all apologies. ‘Last words on the subject – ever! Now, to come back to the question of track lighting….’

  So by a very narrow margin the meal was salvaged, but Mather was left with the uneasy conviction that silence was more dangerous to Anne-Marie than a blunt statement of her father’s follies. Sensitive however to his own secret interest, he decided that he should not make himself the bearer of bad tidings. Such messengers were often killed for their pains and the only reward they got was two copper coins to hold their eyes shut. For him the wiser counsel was to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut and be the good friend of all the world: the Loredons, Bayard, Harmon Seldes, Uncle Tom Cobbley and the girl in the shampoo commercials.

  Max sat up late that night, writing a careful letter to Claudio Palombini. It was a simple, straightforward account of the Raphael references, a mention of their forthcoming publication and a plea for help in his future researches:

  …Clearly publication of my findings will raise much curiosity about the lost works – if indeed they are lost and not buried in one of the more recondite collections which we know exist, even though the catalogues of their holdings are never published.