by Iain Pears
'I'm afraid I'm having to deal with several crises simultaneously at the moment,' he said in reply to the question, sneezed loudly, and whipped out a handkerchief too late. He blew his nose and looked apologetic. Allergies, he said. Martyr to them.
'Really? I haven't noticed any crises. By the way, may I introduce Senor di Souza? He's arrived with your new sculptures.'
The comment, innocent enough, clearly added another crisis to Thanet's mental checklist. His brow furrowed mightily and he eyed di Souza with considerable alarm.
'What new sculptures?' he said.
This was more than di Souza's ego could bear. Being ostentatiously ignored was one thing; at least that indicated people knew you were around. But to have Thanet appear genuinely oblivious of his existence was too much. In a clipped and stern voice, marred only by his limited English vocabulary, he explained his presence.
Thanet looked even more irritated, although it appeared to be the content of the message, not the style of its delivery, which alarmed him.
'That infernal man Langton again. He really has no right to cut across established procedures like this,' he muttered.
'You must have known I was coming . . .' di Souza began, but Thanet cut him off.
'What, exactly, have you brought with you?' he demanded.
'Three cases of Roman sculpture, provided by myself, and one case brought for Mr. Langton.'
'And what's in that?'
'I've no idea. Don't you know?'
'If I knew I wouldn't ask, would I?'
Di Souza looked perplexed. All he'd done was arrange shipment, he said. He assumed it was other bits of sculpture.
'It's like trying to run a madhouse,' Thanet confided to nobody in particular, shaking his head in disbelief.
'Do you really give your agents free run to buy things? What about my Titian? Did Langton buy that on a whim as well?'
Thanet shifted from foot to foot, then decided to unburden himself. 'It's Mr. Moresby, I'm afraid,' he said. 'He often decides to buy things on his own account, and instructs people like Langton to go ahead. Then they turn up here.'
What he meant, and couldn't bring himself to say, was that, in the past, he had found his employer and benefactor's judgement in artistic matters to be a little shaky. An alarming number of pictures in the museum were there partly because Mr. Moresby was convinced he could spot a masterwork which the dealers, curators and historians of several dozen countries had unaccountably overlooked. And partly for other reasons. There was one picture, and Thanet shuddered involuntarily every time he thought of it, which had almost certainly been painted in the 1920s, probably in London.
But Mr. Moresby had been persuaded it was by Frans Hals when he bought it eighteen months previously, and Frans Hals it was still labelled. Thanet couldn't think of it without remembering the occasion he was walking through the gallery, past a little knot of visitors, and had heard one of them snickering as he read the description. Nor could he forget the awful row that erupted when a junior curator produced proof that the thing was a dud. The Frans Hals was still there; the junior curator wasn't.
'In both of your cases,' he said, pushing such thoughts aside, 'I'm afraid museum procedure was bypassed. It's no good, you know. Not professional. I shall have to talk to Mr. Moresby - again - when he comes this evening.'
Commercial instincts pricked up their metaphorical ears here. This was the first mention of an impending visit by Moresby himself, a figure legendary in equal parts for his excessive wealth, prodigality in art collecting and singular unpleasantness.
'He's coming here?' They said almost in unison. Thanet looked at them, knowing exactly what was passing at high speed through their minds.
'Yes. We're having to arrange a party at short notice. You're both invited, I suppose. You can make up numbers.'
A bit graceless, but the man was under pressure. Argyll ignored it.
'Panic in the ranks, eh?'
Thanet nodded sombrely. 'That's it, I'm afraid. He likes surprising us with this sort of thing. I'm told he's constantly dropping in at short notice at his factories to see how things are run. Always fires someone, pour encourager les autres. So I suppose we can count ourselves lucky we have some warning, even if only a few hours.' He sniffled once more, and the two visitors took a step backwards to avoid being caught in the blast. After dithering for some time, Thanet decided not to sneeze after all, and wiped his teary eyes instead. He sighed in a rheumy fashion and sniffed heavily. 'I do hate this time of year,' he said confidentially.
'It could be worse,' he went on. 'We're just going to give him a reception, then a tour of the museum. And I think there will be an important announcement to justify our efforts.' He looked suddenly smug as he said it, very much like someone nursing a delightful secret.
'I should be delighted to come, thank you,' said Argyll. Not that he liked parties particularly, but if the room was going to be positively strewn with billionaires, he couldn't afford to miss it. Even a measly multi-millionaire would satisfy. Doesn't do to be fussy.
He was about to make careful enquiries about the guest list when he was interrupted by a semi-sniffle of alarm from Thanet, who whipped out his handkerchief once more and gave a convincing impression of trying to hide behind it.
The focus of his anxiety was a small, brown-haired woman whose immaculately constructed elegance was marred only by a face of steadfast and determined hardness. Early middle-age, but fighting back with the best technology money could buy. She had driven up to the museum in a vast car and was now heading their way.
'Damnation,' said Thanet, turning to confront the menace.
'Samuel Thanet. I want a word with you,' she called as she marched across the lawn, giving the luckless gardener a nasty look as he started to protest once more.
Her eyes swept across the assembled company with all the warmth of a high-pressure water-hose. 'What piece of chicanery have you pulled off this time?'
'Oh, Mrs. Moresby . . .' Thanet said desperately, giving the others the only introduction they ever received.
'Oh, Mrs. Moresby,' she mimicked in an unappealing fashion. 'Stop whining. What I want to know is,' she paused for dramatic effect and pointed an accusing finger at him, 'what in God's name are you up to now?'
Thanet stared at her in bewilderment. 'What?' he said in surprise, 'I don't know what . . .'
'You know very well what. You've been bamboozling my husband again.'
Di Souza, always adverse to being left out of conversations with handsome and vastly wealthy women, spotted his opportunity. 'What does bamboozling mean?' he asked, smiling in the way which, he firmly believed, normally made hearts flutter.
Mrs. Moresby added him to her list of people who deserved looks of withering contempt. 'Bam-boozling,' she said slowly but rather nastily. 'From bamboozle. Verb. To defraud. To corrupt. To pull the wool over the eyes of sweet, trusting old men. To buy, in other words, stolen or otherwise illegally acquired works of art for the purposes of egotistical self-aggrandisement. That's what bamboozling means. And this stumpy little creep,' she said, pointing at Thanet in case there was any doubt, 'is the arch bamboozler. Got it?'
Di Souza nodded slowly, having failed to understand what on earth she was talking about. 'Yes, perfectly, thank you,' he said in what he always considered to be his most charming fashion. Highly reliable usually, and the prop on which he had built an old but deserved reputation for irresistibility. It singularly failed to work its magic on Anne Moresby.
'Good,' said Mrs. Moresby. 'Now keep your nose out of this.'
Di Souza drew himself up in dignified protest. 'Madam, please . . .'
'Ah, shut up.' She cut him dead and directed her full attention at Thanet. 'Your grasping ambition for this museum is out of hand. I'm warning you, if you keep on manipulating my husband, when he comes this evening you are going to pay a very heavy price indeed. So you watch yourself.' She poked him in the chest for emphasis.
She did an abrupt about-turn and marched ba
ck across the lawn. Didn't even say goodbye. In the background the gardener threw up his hands in despair and, as soon as the car swept back out into the street, came across to examine the damage.
Thanet watched her go impassively. He almost looked pleased.
'What on earth was that all about?' Argyll asked in astonishment.
Thanet shook his head and declined the invitation to hand out confidences. 'Oh, it's a long story. Mrs. Moresby likes to take on the role of the dutiful wife protecting her husband from the outside world. And looking after her own interests into the bargain. I'm very much afraid she likes to practise on me. It may well indicate that Mr. Moresby will indeed be making an important announcement tonight.'
Clearly, much remained unsaid here, but Argyll had no opportunity to pursue the matter. Thanet fended off further questions, apologised profusely for the unorthodox way in which di Souza had been welcomed, and sniffled his way off to the solitary splendour of his office in the administrative block. The two Europeans watched him go in silence.
'Can't say I'd like his job,' Argyll ventured after a pause.
'I don't know,' di Souza said. 'Whatever Moresby's faults, I have heard that he pays well. Are you going to go this evening?'
Argyll nodded. 'Seems so.'
Di Souza waved his hand dismissively. 'Good. The place will probably be littered with artistically starved wealth. All wanting genuine works of art imported direct from Europe. Could make your career, if you oil your way around the clientele properly. And mine, come to think of it. If I can only unload my stock on some of them I'll be able to retire a happy man. I just hope that dreadful woman won't be there.'
'The trouble is, I've never been very good at parties . . .'
Di Souza tut-tutted. 'You're the only art dealer I know who feels embarrassed about selling things to people. You must get over this disgusting reticence, you know. I know it's the mark of an English gentleman but it's bad news here. The hard sell, my boy. That's what's needed. Get the bit between your teeth, the wind in your sails, the eye on the ball . . .'
'And trip up?'
'And make money.'
Argyll looked shocked. 'I'm most surprised to hear you talking in such blatantly materialistic terms. And you an aesthete, too.'
'Even aesthetes must eat. In fact, we spend a fortune on food, because we're so fussy. That's why we're such expensive friends. Come now, this is your big chance.'
'But I've just sold a Titian . . .' Argyll protested, feeling his professional acumen was being called into question a little.
Di Souza looked unconvinced. 'Many a slip,' he said supportively, and Argyll glared at him. The last thing he needed at the moment was something else to worry about. 'After all, you've not cashed the cheque yet.'
'I haven't even got the cheque yet.'
'There you are. It's amazing the things that can go wrong. Take Moresby, now. I remember, just after the war . . .'
Argyll did not want to hear. 'That Titian is as sold as you can get,' he said firmly. 'Don't go around putting ideas into people's heads.'
'Oh, very well,' di Souza replied, annoyed to be interrupted in mid-anecdote. 'If you restrain yourself over my sculpture. All I was trying to say is that the good dealer never misses an opportunity. Think how much your stock will rise with Byrnes if you unload something else while you're here.'
'My stock is quite high already, thank you,' Argyll said primly. 'I've been asked to go back to London. Perhaps become a partner.'
Di Souza was impressed, as well he might be. Argyll, after all, left out the bit that it was more of an order than a request, and the result of a cutback rather than a promotion.
'You're leaving Rome? I thought you were settled permanently.' That, of course, was the rub. Argyll had also thought he was settled permanently. But it seemed that, in reality, he had no real ties to the place at all. Not when it came to the test.
He shrugged miserably. Like Thanet, he was not in a confiding mood at the moment. Di Souza, ever insensitive, assumed he was thinking about money.
Chapter Two
For all Argyll's misgivings, the party was an impressive affair, especially for a scratch effort. However nasty an employer Moresby might be, clearly parties were an area where blank cheques ruled. And whatever the inadequacies of the museum itself at least its entrance lobby was a good place for a bash. Centre stage was a vast table covered in ice and half an ocean full of miscellaneous shellfish; nibbles there were aplenty; a jazz band blasted away in one corner, a string quintet in another, to emphasise the museum's mission to unify high and popular culture. No one paid much attention to either. The drink situation, while not generous, was adequate if you worked at it.
In short supply, however, were all those multi-millionaires slavering at the chops to buy up Argyll's small (but select) stock of goods. Perhaps they were there and he just didn't know how to spot them. You couldn't, after all, just sidle up to someone and ask for a quick peek at their bank statement, though some people did seem to have a sixth sense for this sort of thing: Edward Byrnes instinctively headed towards people with excess cash burning a hole in their pockets. Argyll had never worked out how he did it. Nor had he ever grasped how to manipulate a conversation so that it imperceptibly came round to the question of, say, nineteenth-century French landscapes. Of which, by chance, you happened to have a fine example . . .
On his own little ventures into this complicated territory he generally found himself trying to sell Flemish genre pieces to waiters. When he did manage to latch on to the right person, he ended up demonstrating at length how his pictures weren't really that good, and recommending something currently owned by a rival.
So it was this evening. Almost subliminally, he managed to convey the notion that he found the idea of selling something faintly distasteful. While he had the distinct impression that Hector di Souza was unloading his fakes on every wealthy woman in the area, Argyll scarcely even managed to tell anyone he had anything to sell. His one substantial conversation was with the architect, a flamboyantly casual man with a pronounced tendency to middle-age spread, who lectured him on the synthesis of modernist utilitarianism and the classicist aesthetic as expressed in his own oeuvre. To put it another way, he talked about himself non-stop for twenty minutes. The fact that he was one of those people who constantly look over your right shoulder for someone more interesting didn't make him any more endearing.
But the conversation was not entirely without interest: in a fit of self-satisfaction, the architect confided that this was a big evening for him. Old man Moresby had finally committed himself to the Big Museum (known to all staff as the BM), and was going to announce it tonight. Hence the panic, hence the sudden visit, hence Thanet's vague air of smugness to counter the more general worry, and hence, presumably, Anne Moresby's pre-emptive strike a few hours earlier.
'The biggest private museum commission for decades,' he said with excusable satisfaction. 'It's going to cost a bomb.'
'How much is a bomb?' asked Argyll, who loved hearing of other people's folly.
'The fabric alone will be about 300 million.'
'Dollars?' Argyll squeaked, appalled at the very thought.
'Of course. What do you think? Lire?'
'Dear God. He must be crazy.'
The architect looked upset that anyone might query the idea of entrusting him with so much money. 'Museums are the temples of the modern age,' he intoned sonorously. 'They enshrine all that's beautiful and worth preserving in our culture.'
Argyll gazed at him quizzically, trying to discern whether he was joking. He came to the depressing conclusion that the man was serious. 'Bit pricey, though,' he objected.
'You have to pay for the best,' the architect insisted.
'And that's you?'
'Of course. I am by far the most significant architect of my generation. Perhaps of any generation,' he added modestly.
'But doesn't he have anything better to spend it on?'
Evidently for the first time, the
architect considered the possibility for a moment. 'No,' he said firmly after a while. 'If he abandoned the museum, everything would go to his godawful son. Or his godawful wife. If they weren't so dreadful, I doubt this project would ever have got off the ground.'
Then he saw a more important person on the other side of the room and whisked himself off. Argyll, offended at being abandoned but relieved he was left alone, shot like a bullet in the direction of the drinks section to recover himself.
Business was not brisk; the waiter had a slight air of underemployment. One person, however - and Argyll warmed to him the moment he saw him pointing a shaky finger at the whisky – seemed to be doing his best to make the poor soul feel wanted.
'Great,' said this stranger, a man in his late thirties with long fair hair of an antique cut. 'Thought I was the only person here drinking something other than Perrier. What you having?'
This wasn't so generous, considering all the drinks were free, but as an invitation to conversation it was adequate. Argyll refilled and they leant back on the table, companionably side-by-side, and watched the world go by.
'Who're you?' the man asked. Argyll explained. 'Thought I'd not seen you around before,' he said. 'You here to unload fakes and curios on my old man?'
Argyll was both affronted and intrigued in equal measure. This, it seemed, was Arthur M. Moresby III, known as Jack, although he did not know why. So he asked. Jack Moresby looked pained.
'To distinguish me from my father. My middle name, I hate to say, is Melisser.'
