by Morris West
A uniformed doorman received him with gravity. A pretty girl welcomed him with a smile and rode up with him in a small ornate elevator to the second floor, where Berchmans received him in a long gallery from which every canvas had been removed and in which stood two easels, each covered with a velvet drape.
‘So, my young friend. As usual your timing is excellent. This morning our ladies arrive from Brazil; this afternoon you present yourself. Let us look at these beauties together. Afterwards, we talk.’
He unveiled the pictures with a flourish and steered Mather to the spot on the floor where they could be viewed to the best advantage. Mather looked at them for a long time while Berchmans looked at Mather.
‘Can you put names to them?’
‘This one on the left is Donna Delfina; the one on the right is the daughter, the Maiden Beata. Excuse me just a moment.’
Using the loupe, he examined the Donna Delfina portrait. In the right-hand upper corner was a cluster of buildings dominated by a square crenellated tower whose walls were pierced with romanesque arched windows. In the topmost window, miniscule but clear, was the Tolentino monogram,
Mather turned to the portrait of the girl and, in the shadow of the lowest fold of the gown, found the same symbol.
‘What are you looking for?’ Berchmans was intrigued.
‘I haven’t finished yet. Hold this one for me, please.’
Then, as he had seen Tolentino do in Zurich, he scraped away a tiny area on the back of each panel, just large enough to distinguish the grain and texture of the wood. This was pure theatrics. He himself knew not enough to distinguish ash from birch from oak from a hole in the ground, but the monograms had told him what he wanted to know.
As he replaced the pictures on the easels, Berchmans said grudgingly, ‘That was an interesting performance, Mr Mather. Now tell me what it means.’
Mather handed him the loupe and indicated the places he should inspect on the pictures.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘First tell me what you see.’
Berchmans took a long time to focus the lens and examine each painting. He repeated the process. Then he asked, ‘And you scraped the back to see what kind of wood was used?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I could have told you that at a glance. It’s oak.’
‘Now tell me what you saw in the paintings.’
‘It looks like some sort of cipher.’
‘It’s a monogram.’ Mather took out a card and sketched it. ‘Like that?’
‘Just like that. What does it signify?’
‘It’s the personal cipher of the man who copied these from the originals – which, by the way, were painted on cedar, not oak. His name is Niccoló Tolentino.’
‘And you can verify that?’
‘You can verify it for yourself, Mr Berchmans. I’ll be bringing Tolentino to New York in mid-April.’
‘Meantime, Mr Mather, I think you and I should begin to talk serious business.’
‘My thought exactly.’
‘Let’s go into my office.’
He was just about to flip the velvet covers over the paintings when he paused and remarked, ‘This Tolentino is a fine painter in his own right. You should do well with him in New York.’
‘He commands respect,’ Mather said quietly. ‘He makes me examine my conscience.’
‘An uncomfortable exercise,’ Berchmans commented drily. ‘Let’s talk business.’
For the first time in their patchy acquaintance, Berchmans unbent sufficiently to call him by his first name and invite him into the private office where he dispensed hospitality and advice to wealthy clients. It was a small chamber panelled in white ash upon whose walls were displayed a Gauguin, a Manet and two Cézannes: a still-life of plums and peaches and a version of the rocks at Estaque which Mather had never seen before. Offered whisky, Mather settled for mineral water.
Berchmans asked, ‘So Max, where are we with our scandal?’
‘Danny Danziger is out on bail. Munsel looks good as defence attorney. There’s no way we can stop Madi’s diaries being cited in evidence. However, what I can do is get you a photostat of the passages which refer to you. Then at least you’ll be forewarned.’
‘I’m very grateful.’
‘Then you can do something for me.’
‘If I can, of course. What’s the problem?’
‘Harmon Seldes. You told me he was jealous. He thinks – and has said – that I’m an upstart poaching on his preserves and taking over his relationship with you, which I gather has some financial basis.’
‘It does.’
‘He thinks I’m a threat to that. I am not. He also proposes to write a follow-up article on the Raphaels. He’s perfectly entitled to do that. However, he may well make a fool of himself – and of you.’
‘And what do you expect me to do about that?’
‘Tell him what I am about to tell you…or as much as you think prudent.’
‘I take it you have a proposition for me, Max?’
‘No, Henri, I’m going to give you some information and you’re going to give me some advice. It may well be that out of that exchange a profitable situation will develop.’
‘Profitable to you or to me?’
‘To you. My contract is directly with the Palombini. They pay me. I cannot accept kick-backs, over-riders, considerations of any kind from anyone else.’
‘In short,’ Berchmans’ tone held a hint of mockery, ‘a situation of purest morality.’
‘Not exactly,’ Mather laughed. ‘A situation with certain flaws in it which, for that reason, requires very legal handling.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ said Berchmans. ‘Please go on.’
‘First, I’m the agent of the family, accredited by written contract to find the Raphaels and negotiate their sale. I cannot, however, make the final contract. They must do that. They will be introduced when a groundwork of discussions has been laid. Am I clear so far?’
‘Admirably,’ replied Berchmans. ‘What is not so clear is why an ancient merchant family would appoint you as agent instead of handling matters themselves?’
‘A number of reasons. This generation of Palombini was unaware of the existence of the Raphaels until I discovered the reference in the archive. They were also unaware – and chose to remain so for political reasons – of many transactions made by their wartime patriarch, Luca l’ingannatore. Luca survived by all sorts of stratagems, not all of which smell too good today. The deal with the German Eberhardt is a case in point. So nobody wants to dig up family skeletons. They prefer to leave them undisturbed in the vaults. However, I’m one of the family skeletons; I was the lover of the last matriarch, Pia. With me the family had no fear of blackmail. I organised a gesture that sat well with the Italian government: the donation of the Palombini archive to the National Library in Florence. Also – and this is important to them – they do not wish to raise any question for the Belle Arti about illegal export of national treasures. Therefore I am a useful emissary – I clear the streets before the procession passes!’
‘I understand.’ Berchmans nodded a ponderous agreement. ‘It makes a devious kind of sense. But why, even before they know where the damned things are, why are they talking sales?’
‘That’s the simplest answer of all,’ said Mather with a rueful grin. ‘They were hit by the market crash in October; now they’re twenty million dollars in the red and their notes fall due in June. When I wrote telling them what I’d discovered in the archive, they were hardly interested. Later, when we met by accident in Switzerland, they changed their minds. Now they’re hoping the Raphaels will be their life-raft.’
‘Provided they’re found in time. But if the family is broke, how do they find money to buy them back? And then resell them at a profit? Whoever’s got them must know their value and must have built up some title to possession.’
‘I’m guessing.’ Mather made no attempt to rebut the argument. ‘I’m guessi
ng that title is non-existent, weak or at best disputable. You know yourself there have been a number of recent cases where US courts have ordered the return of art works alienated during the Nazi occupation. Anyway, it’s the best hypothesis I’ve got.’
‘So far that’s all you’ve got, isn’t it Max?’
‘Not quite,’ said Mather with a smile. ‘I know where one picture is – that’s Donna Delfina. More than that, I’m sure I can make a deal to acquire it or – more correctly – ensure its return to the family.’
‘Who will immediately offer it for sale.’
‘That’s right.’
‘How will they prove it’s authentic?’
‘I’ve already had it checked by Tolentino. It is the one from which he made the copy you have downstairs.’
‘So what are you asking of me?’
‘The same advice as I’m asking from a small list of auctioneers and dealers: the best proposal to bring the Raphaels to market. When I make my recommendations on those proposals, Claudio Palombini decides who gets the selling contract.’
‘And who are my competitors in this rather curious lottery?’
‘One other dealer: Landsberg in Zurich.’
‘I know him – a good man for this period.’
‘Two auctioneers: Christies in London, Hürliman in Zurich. In New York, yourself.’
‘Why did you pick the two Swiss candidates, Max?’
‘Because, according to my information, they have a good clientele and are extremely discreet in their dealings. The one shadow that still hangs over this transaction is the Sovrintendenza delle Belle Arti in Italy. I don’t want them to claim that the pictures must be imported back as a national treasure. After all, the Palombini live there. The last thing they want is a long lawsuit with the government. So I’m prepared, as indeed are the Palombini, to have a slightly muddy provenance.’
‘Which doesn’t help if you want a good price at auction.’
‘But which need not be an impediment in a private sale – the kind of transaction in which you and Landsberg are experts. So my questions, Henri. Would you be interested to deal privately for us?’
‘Yes.’
‘At what percentage?’
‘I need to take that under advisement.’
‘Remembering, of course, that if we go to auction we pay twenty per cent.’
‘But remembering also that the auctioneer is selling to me and people like me who trade for big institutions such as Getty and the Metropolitan – and sometimes with unique items there’s an agreement to keep the price within reason.’
‘A ring, in other words.’
‘My dear Max, that’s libellous!’
‘Of course. My point is that the seller’s commission must be competitive and there has to be a floor price to protect the interests of my client.’
‘For objects of this value and rarity a syndicate of dealers might be advisable. Each big dealer has his own exclusive list of clients. A syndicate means that you can tap into a wider market without the publicity of an auction. But all this is predicated on three requirements. One: that you can offer clear title to the picture. Two: that it can be authenticated. Three: that whoever gets the first picture and makes a satisfactory market for it, gets first shot at the other items as and when they become available.’
‘I would advise Palombini to accept those conditions – provided the first commission figure made sense.’
‘I wonder,’ said Berchmans, ‘whether you understand what that commission pays for?’
‘I think so.’ Max Mather was singularly respectful. ‘To quote Whistler: “the experience of a lifetime, the credit of a lifetime”. Believe me, I don’t underrate that. I would hope one day to have a fraction of that experience and credit; but to do so I must act as I am acting now to protect the interests of my client. I’m very small beer, Henri. I’ve wasted a lot of years playing around. But I’m not playing now…I’m doing my damnedest to learn from a master.’
‘I’d say you’re a fast learner.’ It was hard to tell whether he was offering a gibe or a compliment. Mather waited for the rest of it. ‘However I don’t take pupils or apprentices. I have two sons who will inherit the business, so I use outsiders only to serve my own purposes. However, those whom I do use must merit my trust.’
‘Then we understand each other. You have twenty-four hours to respond on the commission figure. Otherwise I shall assume you are not interested. There is one other condition: satisfactory escrow arrangements for the passage of funds and the delivery of the pieces.’
‘The Berchmans name is usually good enough.’
‘The signature on the Raphael pictures in your studio is perfect…it is still not genuine.’
‘And how would you know if it’s perfect, Max?’
‘I’ve seen the original. I’ve held it in my hands. During the escrow period it will lie in my safe-deposit. So you see why I make the point.’
‘I also see,’ said Henri Berchmans slowly, ‘that you are much further along the road than I believed. In that case my commission will be twenty per cent.’
‘Would you be open to a syndicate operation?’
‘Reluctantly – and it could well be unnecessary. The two copies downstairs are splendid sales aids. It may well be that I shall come back to you with an offer very soon.’
‘In that case I’ll have a suggestion to make to you – something to add a little style to the deal, a little old-fashioned panache.’
‘And what kind of nonsense do you have in mind, Max?’
It took some time to tell it, but Henri Berchmans listened to every word and at the end Mather thought he saw a twinkle in the dark shrewd eyes. On the other hand, it could just as easily have been a trick of the light reflecting off the granite.
When he left Berchmans, fatigue hit him like a hammer blow. Manhattan was his battlefield now. Every hour meant a new foray, a new skirmish. There was no longer any woman to whom he could turn to borrow strength or solace. He ate a quick tasteless meal in a coffee-shop, then went home, soaked in a hot tub, climbed into pyjamas and dressing-gown and settled down to yet another analysis of Madeleine Bayard’s diaries. This time he decided to analyse her accounts of all the people in her life and compare her versions with his own experience. Ed Bayard was the first on the list, not only because he was her husband but because every day’s entry took its key from their last encounter.
Not all were hostile or even abrasive. There were moments of serenity, more rarely of tenderness. The odd thing was that the abrasive encounters were followed by lively, even joyous entries, while the gentle ones segued into flashes of anger and frustration:
Last evening was so simple, so pleasantly bourgeois that it was almost comical. Ed was working over a brief, I was sketching and listening to Claudio Abbado playing a Mozart piano concerto. I kept saying to myself, I hope nothing happens to spoil this. And nothing did. We went to bed, we made love, we fell asleep. But this morning I couldn’t wait to get out of the house! I am oppressed with ennui; it weighs on me like a leaden cape, stifling me. I look at the sketches I made last night. Dull, banal and academic. It is only when I am in this empty space that I take fire. Last night I was looking at Ed with love and tenderness. This morning over the breakfast table I could hardly be civil to him. I wish he would do something to outrage me, but no, he chips away like a sculptor trying to hew an angel out of this impossible piece of rock. All he succeeds in doing is call up the devil. I have called Peter to model for me this morning – now there’s another kind of devil: mindless, stupid, vain, cruel – but his body is perfect and while I pay him he is all mine. I have learned to tame him with contempt, because I can buy twenty like him and he knows it.
A few days later the emotional tone reversed itself completely:
Whenever Ed is harassed in business he demands from me an instant concern. I must understand immediately the complexities of the problem, the clashing personalities. I must shower him with sympathy and solicitude. I tel
l him I can’t do this. My mind, my emotions, don’t work like that. I wouldn’t expect him to nurse me like a child every time I was having problems with a canvas. If he needs that sort of comfort, he can buy it in a bath-house or with a call-girl. I wouldn’t mind. I do mind and I do resent very much his tugging me this way and that as if I were a rag doll. But the moment I am back here I am calm again. I call Danny. She says she will come and sit for ‘The Woman at the Window’. While she poses we talk. She tells me all her problems, with women and with men. I soothe her by gentle words. It gives me so much pleasure to see the taut muscles relax and her white body begin to transmit its fluid image on to the canvas. When it is over, we kiss a little and drink a little and make comforting love.
In another place there was mention of the manic aspect of Bayard’s character:
He does not indulge in crude violence. He does not strike out or smash things. Sometimes I think it would be healthier if he did. Rather his rage turns inwards and is translated into something else – a studied menace like that of a villain in high tragedy. Except that this is not drama, but reality, and I confess that it frightens me terribly. It is like looking into the face of Siva the destroyer. I tried to catch the image in a sketch, hoping to exorcise it by putting it on canvas, but my hand balked and my memory went blank. I simply cannot face the studio alone today. I should go out, but that would mean I am defeated by Edmund. Instead I decide to call Hugh Loredon. He comes as always at the click of my fingers – but I know that he would respond in the same way to any good-looking woman. Hugh represents no triumph to me; I can summon him up like a court jester, certain that he will make me laugh – at myself and at him. But when I tell him about Ed and his black rages, he shakes his head despairingly and tells me, ‘If you don’t get away from each other, one of you is going to get killed – you mark my words, Madi. I don’t know how you put up with this life. It’s like a witches’ brew, simmering and bubbling over the fire.’ I tell him he exaggerates, but deep down I know he is telling the truth. I would like him to make love to me, but he’s in a hurry to be off – to a viewing, he says, but I know he is saving himself for one of his women clients. Holding him is like trying to hold quicksilver.
