“Certainly. I’d be interested to hear what she has to say.”
“Good. And once you hear what my sister has to say, then we’ll decide how to proceed from there. You see, she was the only one in the family who knew B.B. My mother never met him, and neither did I. But Nonie knew him intimately, and he often confided things to her. Do you know Philippe de Montebello?”
“Of course.”
“I wonder if we should invite Phil to our meeting, too. Mother has—tentatively—offered this painting to the Met. I’m sure you know how highly I esteem the Met. I would hate the thought of the Met being given a picture that was a fake. Do you think we should invite Phil to our meeting, John?”
“I can ask him, if you’d like,” he said. “But let me give you a little tip, Edwee. When you meet him, don’t call him Phil. Philippe is a rather formal fellow who doesn’t mind being called Count de Montebello. He is, after all, a French count.”
“Yes, then let’s ask him. In the meantime, I think we should keep this in strictest confidence. This city we live in is so prone to gossip. If the museum people, or, God knows, the press, heard so much as a rumor that this painting is a fake before we’re sure it is, they would turn it down, and that would be … weli, if it turned out that our suspicions were without foundation, that would be a great tragedy for the museum-going public of the city of New York. And I couldn’t bear to have that happen. So until we meet with my sister and de Montebello, let’s keep this matter strictly between ourselves.”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll find out what my sister’s calendar looks like and call you as soon as I know.”
“Have you got the money?” he asks her a little harshly. “Have you got the cash?”
“Well, of course I don’t have it in cash,” Nonie says. “It will take a few days. You don’t come up with sums of money like that in cash. Checks have to clear banks, that sort of thing. But the deal’s been set, the money’s been promised, and I’ll have it for you in a few days.”
“Your message on my machine didn’t say nothing about promises. Your message said ‘Have secured necessary funds.’ Secured. Secured means secured.”
“Surely you can be patient for a few more days, Roger.”
“How long have I been patient with you, Nonie? Three weeks? A month?”
“Well, now it’s only a question of days.”
“How’d you get it, anyway?”
“I think I’d rather not say, Roger. Let’s say it was a private business arrangement with an old friend.”
“There’s nothing funny about it, is there?”
“Funny? What do you mean, funny?”
“I mean, you got it in a strictly legit way, didn’t you? I can’t handle any money that wasn’t got in a strictly legit way, you know. I don’t want dirty money, narcotics money, stuff like that.”
“Narcotics money! Honestly, Roger, where would I have access to something like narcotics money?”
“Okay. As long as you’re sure it’s strictly legit. I don’t want any trouble with the feds.”
“It is, I assure you, strictly legit, as you put it. Strictly.” She pauses. “Can you come by for a drink tonight? Sevenish?”
“Sorry, I’m busy. Call me when you’ve got the money. And by cash I mean a certified or cashier’s check.”
“You’re not being very nice to me, you know!” she says angrily. “You’re not the only spot currency trader in town, you know!” And she slams down the receiver. And then, just in case he might be going to call her back to apologize for his rudeness, she takes the receiver off the hook and leaves it off.
But, she thinks, the trouble is, the question is: Is the deal she has struck with Edwee strictly legit? At first, Edwee’s scheme seemed to her no more than a little harebrained, not actually dishonest, and if he was willing to pay her for participating in it, she would do so, in the spirit of nothing ventured, nothing gained. Who knew? The scheme might work and get him his precious Goya, and, up until now, she had not really cared whether the scheme would work or not. But suddenly she is not so sure. If it does work, will she have been a participant in some form of grand larceny?
Up to now, her only concern was whether Edwee would keep his end of the bargain. She has never entirely trusted Edwee. And so, this time, to ensure that Edwee will not try to wiggle out of his promise, she insisted that they put it in writing, as a letter of agreement, a contract between the two of them. Each has a copy, with both signatures. That way, if Edwee welches on his commitment, she can expose him for the fraud he is. That was smart, she thinks.
But the only trouble with that is, she reminds herself now, that if she exposes Edwee as a fraud, she will have to expose herself as a part of the fraud, and where will that leave her? Flapping in the high winds of some very embarrassing publicity. She wonders whether Edwee had perhaps thought of that, too, when he so willingly affixed his signature to the agreement she drew up in her best quasi-legal manner. Art fraud, she thinks. There has been a lot in the newspapers lately about art fraud. This, of course, involved art dealers who were passing off forgeries as original works. What Edwee is proposing to do is sort of the opposite. But is that art fraud, too? Is that just as reprehensible, even illegal? If the museum found out, could it come back to them—with a lawsuit, perhaps—claiming that it had fraudulently been prevented from receiving a piece of art to which it had been entitled? Could there be more than just unpleasant publicity? Could there be … legal action? Legal action involving millions of dollars? Would it be like the Mayflower Madam? Would she go to jail? What would the press call Nonie Myerson—the Heiress Art Thief? The Goya Grabber? The Metropolitan Manipulator? A shiver of very real fear now chills her at the thought of the mess that she has let Edwee get her into.
Her best hope, perhaps, is that Edwee’s scheme will not work. They are meeting with John Marion and Philippe de Montebello on Tuesday. She knows what she is supposed to say, and she is not too worried about that part of it. After all, as Edwee says, it could have happened, and there is no one in the world who could possibly prove, or stand up and swear, that it didn’t. And Edwee has promised to pay for her performance, whether it works or not.
But what if it does work? What might happen next? And then, to top everything off, what if Edwee tries to wiggle out? How will she defend herself? She wishes she had consulted a lawyer, or some third party as a witness, before signing that contract, which could turn out to be as worthless as yesterday’s newspaper.
Have I been tricked again? she asks herself, and another shiver of fear assails her.
She wishes, prays, right now that Roger is trying to telephone her from wherever he is, that he is sitting there, angry and frustrated by the repeated busy signal, prays that he is sitting wherever he is, just as uncertain and frightened as she is, but she still does not return the receiver to its cradle.
From Jim Greenway’s notes:
I could not help noticing that Mimi did not quite seem herself today. When I was with her, she seemed a little distant and preoccupied, and from time to time I saw a small and quite uncharacteristic frown cross that lovely face of hers. Something, I think, is weighing on her mind—something that she is not willing, not yet, at least, to tell me about.
Of course, I’m certain that she’s under a strain as the launch date of her new fragrance approaches. A lot of money has been invested in this, and I know how badly she wants “Mireille” to be a success. At the same time, the optimism about the success of “M” is running very high among the others in her office, where everyone seems confident that the “Man with the Scar” campaign is going to be seen as some sort of landmark in the advertising business. Mark Segal, her ad director, is positively giddy with excitement about it, and this excitement of his has had a trickle-down effect on everyone of the 16th floor, right down to the secretaries, the receptionist, and the boys in the mailroom.
We screened a rough cut of the first (redone) commercial today, and I must say I agree with Mark—t
hat it’s brilliant, fucking brilliant, as he keeps saying. There’s something about the scar that does … what, exactly? It makes him, the model, look not really sinister, but somehow a little threatening, in a bedroomy sort of way. It gives his face a Paul Henreid sort of crookedness, and I kept thinking of Henreid lighting up two cigarettes at once for Bette Davis in Now, Voyager. It gives him a Bogey sort of face, the young Bogey, crossed with whatever it was that stirred women’s vitals when George Raft appeared on the screen. Mark says the scar gives the model “cojones”—balls. Maybe that’s it. But from watching the expression on Mimi’s face, it was hard to tell whether she was pleased or not.
Meanwhile, Mark has come up with a publicity idea that strikes me as damned clever. It is sort of the “Does She, or Doesn’t She?” idea from the old Clairol ads, but in this case it will be “Does He, or Doesn’t He?”—does he, or doesn’t he really have a scar? During the first few weeks of the campaign, Mark wants to do a publicity blitz that will focus on that question, to keep the public wondering about the scar and, naturally, talking about the ads and talking up “M.” Of course, the success of this will depend on keeping the real Dirk Gordon under wraps for a while, but, considering what they’re paying him, this should be no problem.
In the end, naturally, it will be revealed that the scar was in fact created by makeup—cosmetics from Miray, the company that can make women beautiful as easily as they can make a pretty-boy ugly! Brilliant, effing brilliant, as Mark would say. But, again, from her faraway look, it was hard to tell whether Mimi agrees or not.
And I know that Mimi is also very preoccupied with the details of her launch party, which will be on September 17. This will be a big, fancy affair at the Pierre, and the invitations are already at the printer, and the guest list is being drawn up. All the department store heads and all the buyers will be invited, of course, along with the editors and writers from the fashion press, plus the usual members of the Manhattan social zoo: Vreeland, Pat Buckley, Judy Peabody, Brooke Astor, Susan Gutfreund, and the rest. And there’ll be the usual Big Question, which no one will know the answer to until the last minute: Will she or won’t she show up? Jackie, that is. Half of Mimi’s office staff, it seems, is working on the guest list, adding names, taking others off.
But I must say Mimi brightened up considerably when I mentioned that I’d like to interview some of the people whom the family call “the Leo cousins.”
“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Yes, I think you should talk to them, Jim. After all, it’s no secret in the industry that there’s one whole branch of my family that doesn’t speak to the other branch. And, frankly, I’d like to know what’s behind all this myself—why Grandpa had Leo’s portrait painted out.”
Then she made a surprising suggestion.
“What would you think,” she said, “if I came along with you when you do these interviews? Would that cramp your journalistic style too much? Maybe you could be just the one to help me break the ice with them. After all, it’s ridiculous for this sort of family feuding to go on for nearly fifty years! All the offending principals are dead, and surely it’s high time that their offenses, whatever they were, should be forgiven. Maybe if I went with you, I could convince them that I’m not the ogre they’ve been brought up to believe I am. Maybe you could provide me with a toe in the door to these people who, after all, are stockholders of this company. Could I be a tagalong, Jim? What would you think of that?”
I told her I would be delighted to have her come along with me, that it would be my pleasure.
“I can give you all their names and addresses,” she said. “I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice people, though there’s one who’s not quite right in the head.”
When I left her, she seemed in a much brighter mood, anticipating our trips to the various surrounding suburbs.
Why does it please me to be able to put her in a brighter mood?
Then, no sooner had I got back to my apartment than I had a telephone call from her Granny Flo, in a very agitated state.
“I’ve been invaded, Mr. Greenway!” she cried. “I’ve been invaded again! Edwee’s been in my house again, I can smell him! I know how my own son smells, and I can tell he’s been here again, snooping around. George, at the front desk, denies it, but I know he’s lying. What are they trying to do to me, Mr. Greenway—all of them? George talks to me as though I’m teched in the head, as though I’ve lost my marbles. But I haven’t lost my marbles! George talks to me like I’m a child—talks to me like someone telling a child there’s no such thing as the bogey man. But there is a bogey man, and his name is Edwee Myerson! Edwee and someone else, because I can also smell another man! And if that isn’t proof enough, there’s the way Itty-Bitty’s been acting, jumping all around, yip-yip-yipping, trying to tell me something’s wrong, and then, suddenly, lifting her little leg against the leg of my chair and weeing! Itty-Bitty never does that unless something has been going very wrong. Help me, Mr. Greenway, help me. You’re the only one I can trust. I’m surrounded by enemies! My own home isn’t safe anymore!”
I asked her what I could do to help.
“Talk to Nonie,” she said. “I think Nonie knows what’s going on. Talk to Nonie, and see if you can get it out of her what they’re trying to do, because Nonie isn’t on my side, either!” Then, holding out the carrot at the end of the stick, she said, “Don’t forget, there’s a lot more things I could tell you, Mr. Greenway—a lot more! You’ve only just scratched the surface, Mr. Greenway, with the things I could tell you about this family!”
And so I called Nonie and asked to see her. She was polite, but a little cool. “Of course, I should be delighted to see you, Mr. Greenway,” she said in her cultured-pearls voice. “But this week is just not turning out to be a ruling week for me. My poor calendar is simply chockablock. Call me next week, darling, and I’ll try to set aside some time for you.…”
And so, inevitably and willy-nilly, it seems, I am being drawn deeper into the personal problems of this family in which at the beginning I had only a detached, professional interest.
And yet I don’t find myself resenting this involvement. I am beginning to feel as though I am one of them.
17
“I’m Jittery, Mimi,” her mother says, twisting her rings. “That’s the only way I can describe it. I’m jittery. I’m all a-jitter. Thank you, dear, for coming by. I told your Mr. Greenway that I just wasn’t up to seeing him today.”
“Well, he’s not my Mr. Greenway, Mother,” Mimi says. “And you don’t have to see him at all, if you don’t want to.”
They are sitting in her mother’s cozy living room in Turtle Bay, overlooking the private central courtyard with its fountain, leafy trees, and busy squirrel population. “Oh, I’ll see him,” her mother says, “because I know he wants to talk to all of us, and because I know you want us to talk to him. But not today, because I just feel so … jittery!”
“You look fine, Mother. In fact, you’ve never looked better.”
“God love you for a liar! I know how I look. There are mirrors in this house, too, you know!”
Mimi looks into her mother’s face and tries an encouraging smile. But it is true. In another year, her mother will be seventy, the beginning of old age, and Mimi must admit that her beautiful mother, the mother she once thought must be the most beautiful woman in the world, is looking old.
“What kind of a story is it, do you think, that he wants to write, Mimi?”
“I have only one theory when it comes to dealing with the media,” she says, “particularly the print media, and that’s be honest with them. If you’re not, they’ll just make up something. But I like this man. I think he wants to write an honest story.”
“He’ll want to ask me about your father, I’m sure. But that was so long ago—more than twenty years. I’m not sure I’m up to going back to all those memories, at least not today. Of course, they told us at the Ford Center there’d be days like this, when you just … can’t seem �
�� to …”
“What’s wrong, Mother?”
Her mother’s laugh is almost gay. “I want a drink, that’s what it is! I want a drink, right now! A nice cold drink, with lots of ice, that I could nurse, the way I used to. My medicine. Liquid courage—that’s all I want!”
“Deep in your heart, Mother, you know you don’t.”
“That’s not true! Deep in my heart, I do! I keep a bottle, you know, right over there in that sideboard. They tell us to! Face your enemy, they say! Well, what would you say if I told you I’d opened that sideboard at least twenty times this afternoon and faced my enemy! But I’ve resisted, Mimi. I’ve resisted.”
“Good,” she says. “Good for you. I’m proud of you, Mother. Because you remember some of the things that happened.”
“What things? What things happened? Oh, you mean on the airplane, going to California. Yes, I admit I was a naughty girl then—and thank God you were there to help me, Mimi. But other times I wasn’t so bad, was I? I used to think of whiskey as my friend. It used to help me sleep at night. Now I have trouble sleeping, I can’t—”
“Doesn’t Dr. Bergler give you something?”
“Oh, yes. The valium. And Seconal, to sleep. But lately the valium doesn’t seem to be doing what it did at first. And, with a Seconal, I sleep only three or four hours, and at two in the morning I’m wide awake, and thinking …”
“Thinking what?”
“Thinking that it wasn’t like that when I could carry a drink to bed with me, and nurse it as I fell off to sleep, wonderful sleep! And I never had a hangover, Mimi. I never knew what a hangover was.”
“Not even that morning in California, Mother? You looked pretty sick to me.”
Shades of Fortune Page 27
