by Morris West
‘And that’s all you’re going to tell me?’
‘For the moment it’s all I can tell you. But as soon as there’s more you’ll be the first to know. One last question: could you come to Zurich at short notice?’
‘I could leave now,’ said Tolentino with a grin, ‘except that I owe you dinner – the happiest dinner of my life.’
‘I’ll buy tomorrow night,’ Mather suggested. ‘We have to talk once more before we leave. I’ll get Guido along. We’ll celebrate together.’
Even as he said it, he breathed a silent prayer that there might be something to celebrate. If what he held in Zurich were copies, then he had wasted a lot of time and money. If they were originals and Claudio Palombini failed to retain him on contract, then he would be sailing very, very close to the wind.
Mather’s lunchtime reception at Tor Merla was much less exuberant than at the Gallodoro. The womenfolk of the household were away, there were fewer servants in evidence. The villa environs had a rundown look and the interior of the house had changed: there were fewer pictures on the walls, the furniture seemed more sparse. He was received by Claudio Palombini, his cousin Marcantonio and a young man he had never seen before, introduced as Avvocato Stefano Stefanelli.
Claudio was apologetic. ‘You see what is happening? We are cutting back wherever we can. Still, we are eating from the land and the cook’s wages are paid.’
Mather asked permission to salute the staff. He found them warm but diffident. They, too, were smelling the wind from the battlefield. Only two embraced him. Matteo the major-domo and Pia’s personal servant, Chiara, wrinkled as a prune but still combative and resentful.
‘It was different when the Signora was alive and you were here. Even when she was dying there was something to laugh about. Now it is like a graveyard after midnight.’
Mather kissed her, patted her cheek and went on to join the others at the lunch table. The food was still good. The estate wine was maturing nicely. Claudio insisted they talk no business until the fruit and the cheese. Then he opened the dealing.
‘Clearly we need someone to represent our interests and make active searches for the Raphael pieces. Equally clearly, you have certain important qualifications to do that. You would, as you have said, be willing to consider a contract.’
‘This contract,’ said Mather, and laid it on the table. ‘Only this one. Take your time, read it. I’ll have some more coffee, if I may.’
The document was only half a dozen pages but it was ten minutes before anyone lifted his head to make a comment. It was the advocate who spoke first.
‘If you’ll forgive me, Mr Mather, this seems – may I say it – a very arbitrary document.’
‘It is.’ Mather was mildness itself. ‘It is also non-negotiable.’
‘May one ask why?’
‘Of course. Item one: the discovery of the Raphaels and their return to the Palombini is at best a highly speculative enterprise. Item two: in the present financial circumstances the Palombini cannot afford to underwrite one penny of the cost. Item three: once my article is published at the beginning of next month – an article of which you were given ample notice – there will be a veritable gold rush in the art market. Item four: I shall be dealing in a jungle, with very evolved animals; I need all the protection I can get.’
‘All of which we accept without question,’ said Claudio Palombini. ‘But our lawyer feels that certain premises should be established as a preliminary to the contract.’
‘He has a right to ask that; I have an equal right to refuse. May I call your attention to the opening terms of the contract: “The said Maxwell Mather makes no affirmation as to competence, special knowledge or qualification, or special circumstances relating to the task he undertakes. He makes no solicitation that this contract be entered into by other parties. He offers no guarantees other than a best effort performance whose expenses shall be borne entirely by himself.” That seems to be clear enough, gentlemen.’
‘It is, of course, very clear,’ said Marcantonio, ‘but would you be prepared to answer a few questions on it?’
‘No,’ Mather was very definite. ‘Because any answers I gave could then be regarded as a representation and subject to any interpretation you care to put on it at a later time.’
Claudio was affronted. ‘Do you think we are as brutal as that?’
‘History tells me you are, Claudio,’ Mather told him with a grin. ‘I don’t blame you. We shouldn’t quarrel about it. But you’ve been merchants hunting bargains for centuries. You don’t change. There is no reason why you should. But I’d be a fool to offer you a hand and let you bite it off.’
‘You exaggerate, Max.’
‘Do I? Let me remind you I had to fight you to get in a day and a night nurse for Pia. I had to battle to arrange for her a daily visit from the physician. You drive hard bargains. Fine, I know that. So this is the only bargain I’ll make with you. Take it or leave it. I’ll stroll over to the tower. Let me know your decision when I get back.’
The walk to the tower was a mistake. It brought on a dizzying rush of memories: of Pia offering him the first freedom of the domain, of Pia the prisoner of her own illness, of his own flight with the Raphaels stuffed in his luggage, sweating out every minute to Switzerland. When he got back to the house, Claudio offered him a snifter of brandy and a pair of amendments to the contract.
‘We think fifteen per cent is too high, considering the millions involved.’
‘No deal. If someone is in illegal possession of the pictures, that person has to be frightened and paid off. Ten per cent is a normal insurance offer. Then I have to be paid for my trouble. If you think you can deal more cheaply, I’ll step back and let you go it alone.’
‘Very well. Fifteen it is. But there has to be a time limit to your representation.’
‘How long do you suggest?’
‘If you can’t do anything before the end of June we are dead – three months?’
‘On the other hand, if I am showing results even though a return of the works has still to be effected, you can certainly get an extension from your bankers. I want nine months – to the end of the year.’
Claudio looked to the lawyer, who nodded.
‘Nine months it is,’ said Palombini. And for the first time he smiled and asked, ‘Now you can tell us, Max, what are our chances?’
‘Let’s sign first’ – Mather was adamant – ‘then I’ll tell you!’
With the contract in his pocket he felt better and worse, like a fever patient swinging between shivers and sweats. The contract would keep him out of gaol. He could not be accused of wrongful possession, of fraudulent conversion, of larceny as a servant. Until his fee was paid, he remained in undisturbed and unchallenged possession of the Raphaels. On the other hand, he was now obliged to act. He could not withdraw from a situation that was tainted at source.
As he drove back to town in a rented car that threatened to collapse at any moment, Mather wondered why the situation bothered him so much – why a social conscience, dormant so long as to be almost atrophied, had wakened into so lively and prickling a bedfellow.
Then out of a clear blue sky came the memory of his father, yellow and shrunken with the cancer that finally killed him, sitting at the window of his bedroom and looking out at the russet fall of the autumn landscape. He was explaining himself, begging for a tardy understanding.
‘I knew what your mother needed, I knew what she wanted for us; but for me the price was too high. It involved a betrayal of the only integral possession I had – myself. I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t bear to look in my mirror every day and see a stranger…or perhaps a double image, never knowing which was which.’
It was the simile of the double image that plagued him now. The Max Mather reflected in the eyes of his women was not the whole of him but the image they chose to select. The images that Berchmans had, and Liepert, were different again and just as illusory. Now he would have to go back to Zurich and face
Gisela and see her eyes light up when he told her the contract had been signed…and then what? The question was still unanswered when he arrived back at the hotel. He stopped at the desk to ask the concierge to make bookings back to Zurich for himself and Niccoló Tolentino. He called Guido Valente to invite him to dinner. Then he stripped off, soaked in a hot bath and dozed fitfully until it was time to go out.
Guido Valente, Custodian of Autographs at the National Library, was in a happy mood. He rejoiced in the good fortune of his friend Niccoló who was going to America. He himself would be going, though not at the same time, on an exchange fellowship arranged by the American Libraries Association. He would be based in Washington, but would travel extensively, studying American library methods, their latest storage and retrieval techniques and inter-library exchange programmes. He hoped he was not too old to profit from the experience, but the arrival of a new secretary in his office had convinced him that lust was still a happy possibility.
He then enquired solicitously about Anne-Marie. He might, just might, arrive in time for the opening of her gallery. Now he had some good news for his old friend Max. Thanks to the generosity of a certain Marchesa – an American lady long married to an Italian – a borsa, a fellowship, had been established at the Library for American post-graduate scholars. The amount was substantial, the terms fell well within Max’s discipline. He would be happy to recommend his old friend for the first award. The fact that this same old friend had procured the Palombini archive for the Library could not fail to count strongly. So…?
So Max Mather was touched. He promised to think deeply about it and respond as soon as possible. Guido would understand that he had a number of options open and that this was a critical time for him. It was so critical that he thought they needed more wine. Niccoló agreed. But before he drank, he too had an announcement to make. He had been much exercised on what kind of gift he should make to his good friend Max. Finally he had settled upon this. He brought out a small flat box in which, nestled upon a bed of tissue, was a small copper rectangle incised with the head of a boy.
‘This, my dear Max, is the first etching I ever made. The head is of my brother who died in the war. I give it to you because you are like my brother, open and generous…and under here,’ he lifted the plate, ‘are prints numbered one to five which I did especially for you.
‘Eh, bravo!’ Guido Valente blew his nose violently. ‘I keep saying to you, Max, you are a man much loved.’
Far gone in wine, Mather was very near to tears himself; while the imp on his shoulder kept nagging him sardonically: ‘If only they knew, little brother; if only they knew!’
In Zurich it was Friday, high noon on a bleak March day, with a cold wind whipping across the lake and the citizens still muffled to the ears. There were large patches of snow on the lower peaks. Winter was at an end but it was not yet truly spring. Niccoló Tolentino was perched on a bollard on the quay, sketching. Max was in the kitchen of his apartment laying out a lunch of cold cuts and salads for Gisela Mundt. She had warned him she would be late. Her Friday lectures did not finish until noon, so it would be twelve-thirty before she arrived. This he had decided must be the day of truth – Black Friday or Good Friday, according to the outcome. He could no longer tolerate this see-saw existence, rocked between the bright promises of the future and the accusing voices from a past which refused to be buried. Safe now from arraignment because of the Palombini contract, he could begin to negotiate, if not a peace, at least a truce, with his residual conscience.
Gisela arrived, flushed and breathless, demanded to be kissed and then offered a drink. They toasted each other, then the contract. She was in no hurry to eat, so Mather plunged head first into deep water:
‘I’m going to tell you something.’
‘Oh. Confession time, eh?’
‘If you like, yes.’
‘You show me yours; I’ll show you mine.’
‘It isn’t funny.’
‘I know it isn’t – I can see by your face it’s deadly serious.’
‘It’s about the Raphaels…’
‘So?’
‘I’ve decided. We take the ten per cent solution.’
‘I think you’re wise.’
‘I’d hoped,’ said Mather with a grin, ‘I’d hoped you’d tell me I was good and noble and no longer reprehensible.’
‘How would I know, Max?’ She gave him that happy beguiling smile. ‘I’ve enjoyed your body, I delight in your company. But I’ve still seen very little of your soul.’
To which he made the tart reply, ‘As to that, my dear Doktor, it’s for sale like everyone else’s – provided the price is right!’
That same afternoon, just before close of business, Max Mather went to the safe-deposit vaults of the Union Bank on Bahnhofstrasse with Gisela, Liepert and Tolentino. There, with unsteady hands, he pulled the wax from the canvas satchel, unpicked the lacing of cobbler’s thread and laid the contents on the glass-topped table in the alcove between the tiers of boxes. He kept the cartoons covered to protect them from the light but displayed the twin portraits of the Palombini women – Donna Delfina and the Maiden Beata.
In the hush that followed, Niccoló Tolentino held them at arm’s length and gazed at each for a long time. Then he took the loupe from his pocket and examined every square centimetre of the surface. He put the loupe away and, with a small pocket-knife, scraped a tiny area of wood on the back of each picture, carefully spreading the dust on the palm of his hand before blowing it away.
This examination completed, he laid the portraits down and re-covered them. He carried the drawings to the dark corner of the alcove, made Mather stand in front of the light source to cast a deeper shadow; then reverently, as if he were handling a Communion wafer, he held each of the sheets up for inspection. Finally he laid them down and covered them again. It seemed an age before he spoke, and even then his deep voice was husky and unsteady.
‘These are the real ones, from which I made the copies.’
He broke off. Mather was shocked to see that he was weeping. He laid a protective arm round the humped shoulders. The old man recovered slowly and gave a shaky laugh.
‘Son’ pazzo, I’m crazy. Every time I look at something so wonderful, I know there has to be a God – else how could an ugly animal like man make such beautiful things? I was worried about the cartoons, but they are standing up well. The air-conditioning in these vaults is about right for them. No more light though! Imperative there should be no more light. Put them back in the canvas, but don’t reseal it. There is no need.’
‘The next thing we must do,’ said Alois Liepert, ‘is go back to my office and take a deposition from you, Niccoló, that you have seen and identified these things and that they are authentic and in good order and condition.’
‘While we’re there, I must ring Berchmans,’ said Mather.
‘Is that wise?’ Liepert was dubious.
‘I think it’s necessary. If I don’t let him know that the pieces in Brazil are copies, then he’ll think I conned him. He’s one I don’t want as an enemy.’
‘Just be cautious,’ Liepert warned him. ‘Don’t tell him too much over the phone. And if he wants to get deeper into discussion, refer him to me.’
‘Für aufklären und konfirmieren, right?’
‘Right!’ agreed Liepert. ‘Gisela has given me strict instructions about you.’
‘I have a question for you both,’ said Gisela tartly. ‘Who’s carrying the insurance on these little items?’
Tolentino did not seem to hear. He was busy replacing the pictures in their covers, handling them like tender infants.
Mather and Liepert looked at each other. Liepert said, ‘Let’s discuss it back at the office.’
The deposition which Liepert drafted in Italian for Tolentino’s signature covered a lot of ground.
On this day I, Niccoló Tolentino, citizen of the Republic of Italy, presently and for the past thirty-seven years employed as resident copyist a
nd restorer of paintings at the galleries of the Pitti Palace, Florence, went to the safe-deposit vaults of the Union Bank situated in the Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich. I was accompanied by Advocates Alois Liepert and Gisela Mundt and Mr Maxwell Mather, official agent for the family Palombini in Florence. I inspected two portraits on cedar-wood panels which I believe to be autograph works of Raffaello Sanzio and five cartoons by the same master. I was familiar with the portraits because I had been commissioned in early 1941 to make copies of them for their then owner, Sig. Luca Palombini in Florence. The cartoons I had never seen before but I identified them, like the portraits, as most probably the work of the same master. The said works were in excellent condition and were being cared for in adequate conditions of dry air, stable temperature and minimal light exposure. I was not offered, nor did I ask for, any information as to their recent provenance. I was not offered, nor did I seek, any fee for my services which were given as a mark of respect for the Palombini family and their representative, Mr Max Mather.
Next came Mather’s phone call to Berchmans in Paris. This time it was made on conference phone and announced accordingly to Berchmans.
‘Max Mather here again. I’m calling you on a conference line from my lawyer’s office in Zurich. Mr Berchmans, Mr Liepert.’
‘Good-day to you, Mr Liepert. Now may we get on please. Why the formality?’
‘About the Brazilian items.’
‘What about them?’
‘They’re copies. Good ones, but copies.’
‘I’d need proof of that.’
‘Then I simply suggest caution until I have the opportunity to lay the facts before you.’
‘Dealing at this distance with Camoens, I’m at a disadvantage. He may try to set up an auction with me providing the floor price. So I have to ask, Mr Mather. How good is your information?’
Liepert interposed quickly. ‘I offer a lawyer’s opinion, Mr Berchmans. The information is Grade A. The informant is impeccable.’
‘In that case, I thank you both. Has Harmon Seldes been informed?’
