Masterclass

by Morris West

  The dealers were an odd couple: the man who dealt with the moderns looked like a nineteenth-century dominie. The man who handled antiques and old masters looked as though he had just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine. The auctioneer, who turned out to be a year younger than Mather, had a permanent patina of middle age, like a young Hugh Loredon. Their womenfolk were agreeable but a trifle uneasy and Mather was at pains to draw them into the talk. The banker and his wife were a middle-aged couple of the steady executive breed.

  Long practice had made Max Mather an exemplary guest, an attractive listener and a lively raconteur, deft at exciting interest with unfamiliar trivia. All the time, he knew he was under scrutiny and skilled inquisition. He was comforted by the presence of Gisela Mundt, with her easy smile and her fluent transitions from one language to another when the conversation stalled on a point of vocabulary.

  However, the disciplines of scholarship held good. He was firmly grounded in the grammar of his own trade and he made no extravagant claims outside it. The Belvedere material was impressive. The promise of a flow of dollar funds into the local art market was attractive to everybody. The banker summed it up with a neat little accolade: ‘I know you will do well here, Mr Mather. We appreciate solidität.’

  ‘I’ll get you a good price for the Tompion,’ promised the auctioneer. ‘All the traditional watchmakers will bid for it.’

  ‘As soon as I get the transparencies, I’ll give you a buying order on the Bayards,’ said the dealer in moderns. ‘And I do want you to have a look at Davanti’s work – I think he’s ready to break out.’

  ‘Our best man in Renaissance drawings is Gisevius in Basel.’ This from the traditionalist. ‘When you’re ready, I’ll make an appointment and we’ll go to see him together. He’s got a good laboratory. He’s very conservative. His word carries much weight in Europe.’

  Max’s final accolade came from Liepert’s wife.

  ‘You’ve been a most generous guest, Mr Mather. Our friends have enjoyed you very much. Would you be kind enough to drive Gisela home?’

  ‘It would be my pleasure.’

  As they drove back to town he felt a warm gratitude for her presence. This was the seal set on his evening, the seal of trust and acceptance in this most conservative of cities. In the classic strategy of old-fashioned warfare, he had driven for the high ground and taken it. In a few days he would have consolidated an alliance with a powerful prince – Henri Charles Berchmans the Elder – again by the classic ploys of placing gifts in his hands, removing a threat.…Soon Hugh Loredon’s secret would be his. Now he was no longer a client, a dependent, but a man to respect. There would be no more inquisitions. His writ in the trade would run as freely as the next man’s. Soon, very soon, he would set down the last elements in the scenario of the Raphaels and begin to put the drama into production.

  As they crossed the bridge into the city, Gisela gave him directions to her house – a small, old-fashioned villa near the University. He walked her to the front door. She handed him her key and asked, ‘Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘Love some,’ Max said. ‘Are you sure it’s legal?’

  ‘In Switzerland,’ she answered him with a smile, ‘everything that is not forbidden is legal.’

  Which, thought Mather, was one hell of a high note on which to end an evening.

  Early the next morning Mather called Berchmans in Paris. He was not available, but a minion promised to deliver a message. One hour later he called back. Mather, accustomed by now to his brusqueness, was surprised to find him good-humoured and agreeable.

  ‘Yes, Mr Mather. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Seldes called me last night. He told me you had an interest in certain Bayard items.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘I have them. Seldes does not know that.’

  ‘Thank you for letting me know so promptly.’

  ‘I am going to Amsterdam on Friday. Hugh Loredon has asked me to meet him there. He’s a dying man.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘I’m sure you will treat the information with discretion. His daughter does not know yet.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I propose, therefore – if it is convenient to you – to travel on an early flight from Zurich to Paris tomorrow morning, deliver the items into your hands and take a late afternoon flight to Amsterdam.’

  ‘In that case, permit me to meet you at Orly and offer you lunch at the Veau d’Or. It’s only twenty minutes away, so I can have you back at the airport in time for your Amsterdam departure.’

  ‘Good…I arrive Swissair 731 at 10.30.’

  ‘A question, Mr Mather. Has anyone else seen these items?’

  ‘So far as I am aware, only the person to whom they were written and the person who gave them to me.’

  ‘Are they originals or copies?’

  ‘Originals.’

  ‘Thank you. I look forward to our meeting. You continue to intrigue me, Mr Mather.’

  Mather landed at Orly half an hour late in a flurry of March wind and misty rain. Berchmans’ chauffeur met him and drove him swiftly to a small country restaurant in the direction of Fontainebleau. Berchmans was waiting for him in a corner booth, well insulated from the other diners. He was cordial and expansive. He offered an aperitif. Then he discoursed on the menu: whiting cooked with white wine and bread-crumbs, a breast of lamb with fennel, a rabbit with prunes. He made a ceremony of the wine list. He assured Mather he could enjoy a leisurely meal and be back at the airport with time in his pocket.

  Mather was happy enough to be cosseted but he was anxious to despatch the business in hand. So as soon as the orders had been taken he handed Berchmans an envelope containing the letters which he had written to Madeleine Bayard.

  Berchmans scanned them swiftly and put them back in the envelope, which he stowed in his breast pocket. He gave a small, shamefaced grin and said, ‘Thank you. There’s no fool like an old one.’

  Mather shrugged and said nothing.

  ‘How did you come by these letters, Mr Mather?’

  ‘Better you don’t ask, Mr Berchmans. They are evidentiary material in a murder case which is still open.’

  ‘Wise counsel,’ said Berchmans. ‘The last thing we want to do is spoil the taste of this excellent food. In this business, moreover, it is best to make friends with the police.’

  Then, with hardly a shift in tone or expression, he launched into a series of dazzling anecdotes which lasted from the hors d’oeuvres to the dessert.

  He told of the Norwegian cabinet-maker Casperon, who became so good at forging the paintings of Edvard Munch that he painted one under police supervision in three hours. He told how he himself had amassed a collection of excellent forgeries by one Jean-Pierre Schechroun, who came from Madagascar, studied with Leger and could knock off Braques and Picassos, Kupkas and Kandinskys at the flip of a cheque-book. He was clever, Berchmans explained; he never worked in oils, only in watercolours, pastels and sketches – the ‘tentatives’ of every master in every studio.

  His own view of such rogueries was interesting.

  ‘At the top end of the market the effect is minimal. Any challenge to a major work is instantly met by offering a battery of scientific tests. If the work turns out to be a fake, you get a kind of see-saw effect – how clever the criminals are, how much cleverer are the experts. How valuable the original must be, to take so much trouble to forge it.

  ‘In the middle and lower markets, no one sweats too much except the buyer. It’s still caveat emptor – and caveat mercator too, if the dealer wants to stay in business. Hang a David Stein forgery in your dining room and which of your dinner guests is going to tell you it isn’t a van Dongen? Mannerisms are easy to imitate. Genius is as hard to catch as a butterfly and it is, after all, the function of genius to make us create our own illusions.’

  Then came the sting in the tail of the scorpion:

  ‘Madeleine Bayard had that sort of genius…I wonder
what you are going to say about her? How are you going to judge her?’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand her yet,’ replied Mather. ‘There is a schizophrenic quality in her work which still confounds me. I’d like to hear your judgment of her – off the record, of course.’

  ‘I promised you a luncheon, Mr Mather, not a press interview.’

  ‘Let me put it another way then. Did you buy her paintings because you were lovers or because you prized her work?’

  ‘Because I prized the work. No doubt, no question about that. The world is full of junk. I see no reason to pay money for it.’

  ‘Still, she was an exciting lover.’

  ‘That’s the second time you’ve used the word. She was not a lover. She was the classic courtesan, the poule de luxe. She gave pleasure with the utmost skill. But that was the end of the endowment. After that she’d devour you if you let her. Not for money, but for reassurance. She was a prisoner, ravenous in an empty room, always looking for escape, not caring who offered it to her or at what risk…’ He broke off and looked at his watch. ‘Time to go, Mr Mather, if you are to make your plane to Amsterdam. Rushing at airports is a lethal occupation.’

  When he had signed the bill, he said quite casually, ‘One more matter, Mr Mather.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You have done me a singular service at cost and inconvenience to yourself. What do I owe you?’

  ‘An apology,’ Mather said curtly.

  Berchmans gaped at him, flushed to the roots of his hair. It seemed an age before he found voice or words.

  ‘You’re right. That was very uncouth. I apologise. I am grateful for what you have done. Please forgive me.’

  He held out his hand. Mather accepted the gesture. He was not sure that he had made a friend, but saw no point in making a powerful enemy.

  The evening flight from Paris to Amsterdam was a milk run, crowded and comfortless. Mather gave himself over to dozing and working out variations on the scenario which now was beginning to look more and more feasible, provided he had the patience to wait for the propitious moment.

  He had no immediate financial pressure. He could last at least eighteen months living on capital. There was reasonable income in prospect. The master works locked in his bank vault were appreciating every hour – and now there was a new thought to conjure with. As a recognised dealer with a sympathetic banker, he could raise money on the Raphaels without ever having to bring them to market. With the loan money thus raised, he could trade himself into steady profit without ever having to compromise himself. Then, at some later time, he could begin his market forays with the big pieces. Right or wrong, it cost nothing to dream; and before the dream had dissipated they had touched down at Schipol airport.

  The road into Amsterdam was greasy, the city blanketed in misty drizzle, but the Amstel Hotel offered warmth and solid burgher comfort. Hugh Loredon had booked him a room adjoining his own suite, so that he had the use of a lounge as well as a bedroom. As always, Loredon was well-groomed and freshly barbered, but his once ruddy face was pinched and drawn and his eyeballs were beginning to yellow. He had ordered dinner to be served in the suite, explaining, ‘I tire quickly; I can’t cope with crowds. And now, of course, I’m not allowed alcohol. Hell of a note, isn’t it?’

  ‘How long have you known about this?’

  ‘I’ve been fighting it more than a year. I came to England because I didn’t want to get caught up in the final protocols of treatments at home. I saw no reason to donate myself as a guinea-pig…I’d made up my mind years ago that rather than face a long terminal illness I’d opt out…which I’m doing now, courtesy of certain members of the Dutch medical profession.’

  ‘What can I say?’ Mather made a small gesture of deprecation. ‘It’s your life. But I wonder why you can’t share at least the last few days of it with your daughter?’

  ‘Because I don’t have the right to put her through the misery. I’m an empty man, Max. A one-role actor whose contract’s been terminated. The news that you’re going to take back is that you left me looking very well. We talked some business together – there’s a young Dutch painter whose work you’ll see tomorrow who could be a candidate for Anne-Marie’s gallery. His name’s Cornelis Janzoon. Then before you leave, I’ll have a sudden collapse. No time, no warning. I’ll be cremated and my ashes will be sent home. Simple, clean, no fuss. Anne-Marie will recover quickly. I’ve always been a very small part of her life anyway. You’ve been more important than I have.’

  ‘I’m her old-shoe lover, Hugh, worn out but comfortable, to put on when her feet hurt. So let’s you and I stop waltzing around. I’ve read all the Madeleine Bayard stuff. It’s locked in a safe deposit in Switzerland. Now you have to tell me what it means.’

  ‘Before I do that,’ Hugh Loredon was harsh and emphatic, ‘you’d better be damn sure you want to know.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because knowing’s a burden, Max. It’s a load on your back and hooks in your heart; and once you’ve got ’em you’ll never get rid of ’em. That’s one more reason why I’m taking the high jump. So don’t say you haven’t been warned.’

  ‘I’m warned. So tell me. Who killed Madeleine Bayard?’

  ‘Wrong question, Max.’

  ‘What’s the right one?’

  ‘Why you were privileged to see Madi Bayard’s papers and to hear my last confession.’

  ‘Tell me, then.’

  ‘Because you’re like me, Max, a maverick, a rogue male – and you’re the only one I know who’s bright enough, tough enough and crooked enough for me to trust with what’s left to be done.’

  ‘Thanks for the compliment.’

  ‘Let’s not be sensitive, sonny boy. I’m on the eve of execution; I don’t give a damn for your wounded feelings. Let’s start with Madeleine’s diary. That explains some of it, but not all.’

  ‘So what’s your version, Hugh?’

  ‘It’s not a version. It’s…another facet of a truth that you can’t take in all at once. You have to start with Madeleine herself, as she appeared to each of us. I’ve been auctioning art all my life – great art, good art, valueless junk. One thing I learned: the real thing is a magical object. It raises your own passion, the passion of the crowd in front of you. It’s like…like a wind rippling across a cornfield. It’s the same with the artists themselves. They are magical persons. The air around them is charged with electricity like a storm-cloud. Carl Jung talked about this somewhere. He called it “numen”, the aura of power. Madeleine Bayard had it. She was a sorceress, laying a spell on everyone who came in contact with her. Take me, Max. I’ve been chasing women all my life. Love-’em and leave-’em Loredon! I could read ’em at a glance, from the tip of their pink toes to the twitch of their eyelashes. But Madi Bayard had me so bewitched I’d have walked through fire for her. Even when she got tired of me – which didn’t take too long – I was happy to be with her, to be accepted as part of her group…the boys and girls and the not-so-young, the talented and the fringe-dwellers. I remember as a boy hearing the story of Circe and how Odysseus came to her castle and heard her singing as she wove wonderful dazzling fabrics…. Don’t laugh at me, Max. Don’t laugh at any of us. Madi Bayard was our Circe. She wove wonderful dreams, but she enslaved us all. She could make us do anything she wanted.’

  There was sweat on his forehead and on his upper lip. He mopped it away and reached for a glass of water as Mather waited in silence.

  ‘Problem is, Max, there’s good and bad magic. Our Circe, too, turned her guests into swine. Madi’s marriage was a mess. Ed Bayard had neither the wit nor the strength to manage her. He turned into a tyrant, a querulous, bitter tyrant…She never left him, because he became the excuse for all her aberrations. She hated herself, you see. She knew the talent she had. She respected that. Her pictures were Circe’s magic tapestries. But without Ed Bayard she had to explain the ugly creature who lived in her skin when the happy enchantress was absent. That creature played terrible,
perverse games. The secrets she heard from one, she would pass on to a rival. She would make love to a woman and then deride her to a man. You’ve read the diary – which isn’t a diary, but facts turned into fictions – you’ve seen how she herself remained always the centre of her universe…the dark goddess who lived by devouring her devotees. Danny Danziger was one of those devotees. You may have met her. She does editorial work for Seldes.’

  ‘I’ve met her. I’ve worked with her,’ said Mather calmly. ‘I can’t say I know her very well.’

  ‘She takes some knowing,’ said Loredon. ‘I probably knew her better than most. She’s bisexual, but when I met her all her experience had been with women. I was her first man – which at the time I was very proud of – a special kind of victory! Jesus, how naive I was! The encounter was a mess for both of us. It also created a big problem with Madi. She was jealous of any interest that wasn’t centred entirely on her. Me she could threaten by gossip and denigration, but she was very canny about that because I knew too much and was always ready to snap back – slap her about, if necessary, because she needed violence sometimes as other women need caresses.

  ‘But in Danny Danziger she had an easy prey. You remember that piece in the diary where she described introducing Peter into a lesbian encounter between Paula and Danny? It wasn’t at all the way she described it. Peter was a model hired from Negroni’s – a professional stud, a nasty piece of work. The whole episode was painful and humiliating for Danny, but Madi managed it so that it made Danny more and more dependent on her – more self-conscious, more stricken with self-contempt.’

  ‘I’m getting the picture,’ said Mather. ‘It isn’t a pretty one.’

  ‘It’s exactly what she expresses in her paintings,’ Loredon said wearily. ‘Her unsuccessful flight from an untenable habitation, an unhappy and destructive self.’ He gave a small humourless chuckle. ‘That’s a good phrase; you’re welcome to use it in your piece. No charge, just pour a libation to my ghost.’

  ‘I’ll use the best scotch,’ Mather assured him. ‘Go on, for God’s sake.’