Masterclass

by Morris West

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The formula every insurance company works on – that it’s cheaper to pay ten per cent to recover lost or stolen goods than pay the full value of the insurance. It’s a simple choice really. Which would you rather have: ten million or twenty million guaranteed, or a hundred million at risk on a crippling lawsuit?’

  ‘I’d like to take that one under advisement,’ Mather told her.

  ‘You’re the client,’ said Gisela Mundt amiably. ‘I offer advice, but in the end I accept your instructions.’

  Late next morning Mather and Gisela shouldered skis and rode up to the Corviglia Club, to have lunch and then ski home. There was the customary round of introductions to members from Italy, France, Great Britain and West Germany. For Max it was one of time’s sweeter revenges. He had come here first as the dependent lover of a wealthy widow. Now, by some strange mutation, he was accepted as another creature – newborn but full grown – whose past, like the past of so many in the Corviglia Club, was seen as a natural stepping-stone to the present. Old money and old lineage still counted for something – but what club in the world could survive without new money and the headline glamour of the arrivistes? Mather and his escort fell somewhere in between – a clerkly pair who understood the manners of the club and court and knew how to eat soup without making a noise or a mess.

  Gisela Mundt was an instant attraction. A group of eager young members formed about her, while Mather himself was pinned in a corner by an elderly Italian whose name was synonymous with wines and who was lecturing him tediously on the follies of the Palombini clan and how none of the present generation could hold a candle to Luca the Swindler.

  ‘You knew him then?’ Mather was always a good listener.

  ‘Very well. He was fifteen years older than I, which would put him well into his eighties by now. But when I came home wounded from Libya – Dio! That’s a long time ago – and started work on our estate, he was very kind to me. He bought a lot of our products, helped me push our exports in Europe. A hard man, but loyal. He said every fool deserved one good lesson; if the fool didn’t learn from it, there was no hope for him. You and he would have got along very well. By the way, I must say this: there is much praise for the way you treated Pia…’

  ‘What else could I do? I loved her.’

  ‘That, of course,’ said the old man drily, ‘is what took some time to understand.’

  ‘Apropos Luca…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He had a famous girl-friend, didn’t he?’

  ‘He had a lot…sometimes two or three at one time . Were you thinking of anyone in particular?’

  ‘Camilla Dandolo.’

  ‘The opera singer? Oh yes, I remember that one. In fact some of us have very special memories of her…no great singer but with so many other talents! What do you want to know about her?’

  ‘Didn’t she marry a Brazilian?’

  ‘No – a German, naturalised in Brazil. A lot of us had a hand in that combinazione. He was SS, very high up, very troublesome. We made a deal with him that if he’d get off our backs, we’d get him out of the country to South America before the Allies got to him. Camilla was part of that deal…Camilla and various other items. He was head over heels and gone for her, so that end of the bargain was easy. The extraordinary part was that he came back in ‘47 or thereabouts and married her. What’s your interest in the lady?’

  ‘I’m doing some preliminary reading for a book on the divas of La Scala. Her name came up.’

  ‘Fascinating subject – I wonder why nobody’s thought of it before. Come and see me when next you’re in Italy; I’m sure I could dig up some of our own family material for you. All our menfolk were opera buffs, although most of their interest was not in the divas but in the promising young sopranos. Let me give you my card.’

  ‘Thank you. About Camilla Dandolo – is she still alive?’

  ‘Alive and living in Milan. She’s an old lady now. Her husband died a few years ago. She cashed in his Brazilian estates – which were fairly substantial by all accounts – and came home. The local anagrafe would have her address. I’m sure she’d be more than happy to receive you. Old troupers always love an audience.’

  Later as they sat over lunch Gisela remarked, ‘You look like a cat with cream on his whiskers. What’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve decided to take your advice.’

  ‘About the Raphaels? Why not? It’s a ticket in a lottery. You can’t win unless you buy one. Now you can answer some questions for me?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Pia Palombini. You were lovers, it seems. Very famous lovers.’

  ‘Famous, I wouldn’t know. Lovers, yes.’

  ‘And she got very sick and you nursed her until she died.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you in love with her?’

  ‘I loved her. It’s not quite the same.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Forty-six…eleven years older than I.’

  ‘I approve that.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Equal opportunity. If older men can chase young women, I’m all in favour of older women taking young men – most of whom need a lot of education anyway. Didn’t your Mr Benjamin Franklin have something to say about that?’

  ‘I believe he did, yes.’

  ‘Am I embarrassing you, Max?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Why good?’

  ‘Because it confirms something I’ve felt about you ever since we met. You’re a man who for a long time has had very little confidence in himself, who always felt not quite good enough to compete in the challenge races. That’s why you always went for older – and richer – women.’

  ‘I think this has gone far enough.’ Mather was terse. ‘It started as fun. Now it’s mischief. Finish your lunch and let’s do the run.’

  ‘It’s not mischief.’ She laid a cool hand on his clenched fingers. ‘I’m really working up to a compliment. I see a man with a rock of confidence building inside himself. At the Corviglia Club you were one who had earned his place…I admire that, and I’m glad I came to the Engadine with you.’

  ‘You’d have no trouble finding someone to take you home.’ Mather gave her a rueful grin and relaxed. ‘I didn’t mean to snap. Forgive me.’

  ‘You’re entitled. If I made mischief with my brothers, my father would bite my head off.’

  ‘What did your father do?’

  ‘He was a hill farmer – which meant, of course, that he had to be a master of all trades: mason, blacksmith, carpenter, animal midwife. He was also a maler, a rustic artist who painted pictures on the walls of houses. I used to think he was better than Dürer. That’s why I was fascinated by all that dinner-table talk at Alois Liepert’s.’ She hesitated a moment, then blurted out, ‘I’m glad to be part – even a small part – of what you’re doing in Switzerland. I don’t mean the Raphaels but the rest of your plan.’

  ‘Why do you exclude the Raphaels?’

  ‘Because I find myself involved in a very difficult conflict of interest.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You have a perfect legal right to do what you are doing. I’ve undertaken to defend that right. But as an old-fashioned country girl, I find your conduct reprehensible. There, now it’s said. You can sack me as your lawyer and put me on the next train to Zurich.’

  Mather shook his head. ‘You don’t escape that easily. You told me the first time we met that I had to decide the moral issue for myself. So what’s new?’

  ‘Nothing. Except that for my own conscience I had to tell you.’

  ‘You’ve ruined my lunch,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Let’s move. It’s a long schuss home.’

  It was not a schuss. It was a series of traverses each with its own special risk, but when they hit the town, apple-cheeked and breathless, Mather felt a slow surge of hope. Of all the women in his life, this was the least complicated, the least…he groped for the a
ppropriate word…the least tainted by social displacement and the alien speech of the acquisitive societies. As he trudged down to the hotel, carrying her skis as well as his own, he found himself responding with less and less reserve to her questions.

  ‘What did your father do, Max?’

  ‘He was a schoolmaster – a very good one.’

  ‘What did he teach?’

  ‘European languages. Comparative languages. English literature. He was a versatile man.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘My mother was a lady – she came from a well-to-do family – who always felt she’d married beneath her.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘She always wanted more than we had. She bullied my father unmercifully. He retreated further and further into his scholar’s world. In the end it was hard even for me to reach him – and I loved him very much.’

  ‘And your mother?’

  ‘I loved her too. I knew I could never match her ambitions for me, but I depended on her for my own security. It was she who somehow scraped together the money for Princeton – but it was my father who prepared my mind for it. I loved them both. I never understood why they couldn’t make each other happy.’

  ‘You’ve had a lot of women in your life, Max.’

  ‘I guess. I’ve never really counted.’

  ‘And now you’ve got me.’

  ‘On a weekend pass only.’

  ‘Granted, on a weekend pass; which doesn’t count. Which of your women were you really happy with, Max?’

  ‘It’s the wrong question.’ Mather was suddenly withdrawn. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever learned what happiness really is.’ Instantly he shrugged away the sombre thought. ‘I’m going to have a sauna and a swim – join me?’

  ‘Sure. Then I’m going to bed for a couple of hours. Join me?’

  Which of course made for a pleasant Saturday afternoon, but solved not one of the problems of Max Mather.

  That evening they dined in the Stübli, where it was not necessary to dress formally. The place was crowded and noisy with a gaggle of languages. Halfway through the meal there was a sudden lull in the talk and then, from a nearby table, came a clatter of Italian. The voice was familiar…Mather slewed round in his chair to find himself staring at Claudio Palombini, who was seated with two other men in a banquette near the window. He excused himself to Gisela, got up and went to greet him.

  ‘Claudio, how goes it?’

  ‘Max!’ Palombini was instantly on his feet, embracing him. ‘What a surprise! What are you doing here? This is Gianni Ruspoli, our financial controller; Marcantonio, my cousin, who runs things for us here. Bring the lady over and join us. Now, from the beginning. What brings you to Switzerland?’

  It was easy to share with them the clubbish euphoria of the moment. They were interested to hear of the gallery project, the job on Belvedere, the buying syndicate. Gisela was a ready sharer in the talk.

  It was, however, much less easy to stifle the pangs of guilt as Max sat face to face with the man he was depriving of his patrimony. Only long practice in dissembling enabled him to do it. The talk went round the table, fluent and facile, until Mather asked his own question of Claudio.

  ‘And how’s business? You sounded unhappy when you wrote to me.’

  ‘Boh!’ The word came out in a sharp explosion of sound. The gesture that accompanied it expressed futility and despair. ‘We are here to talk to the gnomes. My darling aunt – God rest her! – your beloved Pia, left me a tin of worms for a legacy. We had hoped for some salvation from the art collection, but that, as you know, is worth very little. Three months from now we shall be in real trouble. Without an extension of our loans or a new injection of capital, we may be forced to sell off some of our holdings and regroup. In today’s market that’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ Mather was genuinely concerned. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘How could you?’ Claudio was instantly on his dignity. ‘It was – it is – a family matter.’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me.’

  ‘We need a miracle.’ Gianni Ruspoli tried to relieve the momentary tension. ‘Like the loaves and fishes.’

  ‘Or those Raphaels about which you wrote me.’ Claudio laughed as he said it, but the laughter had a hollow sound. ‘I’ve been dreaming about the damned things. They dance in front of me, just out of reach. Do you think there’s any chance of their turning up?’

  ‘After all these centuries?’ Marcantonio was sceptical. ‘That would be a bigger miracle than the loaves and fishes! Besides, how do you establish ownership after nearly five centuries?’

  ‘Perhaps it wasn’t five centuries,’ said Gisela. Everyone turned to her. She smiled at them over the rim of her glass. ‘The very first time I heard this story I felt that it had ended too soon.’

  Claudio was immediately alert. ‘Perhaps you could explain that more clearly, Signorina?’

  ‘Certainly. Check me, please, on the details. Max is working as archivist in the Palombini household. He is engaged on a private research project as well. His employer – your aunt Pia – dies. His employment is terminated. He returns to the United States but continues his researches, in the course of which he discovers an entry in old account books concerning the commissioning of works by the master, Raffaello Sanzio. An article or series of articles on that discovery is in course of publication. Right?’

  ‘In every detail,’ he agreed. ‘Now what?’

  ‘That’s my question,’ rejoined Gisela. ‘Has any further investigative work been done to trace the history of the pieces? If they were sold, are there any receipts? Were they given away as a gift? The occasion must have been important enough to note somewhere. When was the last time, if ever, the collection was listed? It seems to me that you let your most important asset escape you. Who else in the world knows as much about the Palombini archive as Max Mather?’

  ‘Madonna Mia!’ Marcantonio breathed a long sigh of surprise. ‘We come to ski in the Engadine, we meet the Cumaean Sibyl. She’s right, Claudio. There’s been a lot of history since 1500.’

  ‘A lot of recent history too,’ Ruspoli put in. ‘The Fascists, the Germans! Luca l’ingannatore!’

  ‘The point is made,’ said Claudio curtly. ‘Let’s not labour it.’ He turned to Mather. ‘Max, this is a matter which you and I might discuss in Florence. I realise that you have commitments and ambitions in other directions, but perhaps…?’

  ‘Let’s discuss it by all means,’ agreed Mather.

  ‘But since you pay me to advise you,’ said Gisela cheerfully, ‘I’ll draw up the contract.’

  ‘Are you a lawyer, Signorina?’ Marcantonio asked the question.

  ‘A very expensive one. I also teach jurisprudence. I’m especially good on mediaeval concepts and their development into modern law. Try me on chattels – what paintings are and women used to be. I know all about trover and retinue and finder’s rights and replevin. But it would pay you much better to retain Max. Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I know you have business to talk and I’ve had a very long day. So I’ll say good night.’

  When she had gone, Palombini ordered another round of drinks and talked trivia until they arrived. Whatever the vices of the Italians – and they had many – the big virtue they had was style: style in adversity, style in friendship, style in love. They might not have two coins to rub together but their shoes would be polished, the threadbare suit pressed, the shirt-front immaculate, the pinched cheeks barbered. When they took you to their hearts they created a whole family about you. When they hated they did so in the grand manner.

  Claudio Palombini, scion of the banner-bearers of Florence, was going down the drain with the bathwater; yet he was doing it with a flourish and half a hope for a miracle, while Max Mather, scholar, man of intelligence and respect, drank his liquor, smiled like a very Iago and wondered whether to bless or curse Gisela Mundt.

  Marcantonio passed him his drink and began quizzing him. ‘That’s
a smart girl you’ve found, Max. What do you think of her idea?’

  ‘Great in theory. In fact, it’s a million to one shot. Claudio here knows what that archive looks like…It’s thousands and thousands of books, folios, bundles of decaying paper. Your odds against finding any relevant items in it are millions to one. You couldn’t pay me half enough to look at a job like that. But let me explain what is going to happen and what neither you nor I has any part in.’

  He explained in careful sequence how Seldes and Henri Berchmans had teamed up and how, with their worldwide contacts, they would be combing the market for any trace of the missing master works. He read a brief lesson on statutes of limitations and provenance and the difficulties of proving title. Then he said, ‘But once Seldes and Berchmans find access to the pieces, you can forget any idea of repossessing them. Those two will keep you dangling and dancing for twenty years, and the Raphaels will have gone underground before you can say Sanzio. Have you any idea what that whole suite of pieces is worth in today’s market?’

  ‘Millions,’ said Ruspoli.

  ‘But how many millions?’ inquired Palombini, and added the gloomy postscript, ‘Just for the record, we need twenty in ninety days!’

  ‘The portraits are worth not less than fifty million dollars each. You might conceivably get a hundred. The cartoons not less than a million and a half each. So what you have to ask yourself is what reward or what commission you would be prepared to offer to get them back – verified authentic and undamaged. Remember it can’t be less than ten per cent, because that’s what an insurer would offer on an article which he had covered.’

  ‘Ten, fifteen, twenty – what does it matter?’ asked Marcantonio. ‘You’re only paying on results – and I’d happily pay twenty to have eighty million in our pockets right now. Think about it, Claudio.’

  ‘I am thinking about it,’ Claudio told him. ‘I’d like to hear if Max here is also willing to think about it.’

  ‘I might…on certain conditions.’

  ‘Which would be?’

  ‘Only if there were a clear contract that we could both wear.’

  ‘I’m sure we could come to that quickly.’