My father always claimed that the moose was killed by Cornelius Rhinebeck, the original owner of Birch Lodge, the estate next door. Rhinebeck, a banker and industrialist from New York City, built the compound in the early years of the twentieth century. In the 1930s the estate was broken up and the individual houses have changed hands any number of times since then. Our house and the barn were originally built for the groundskeeper. A small stream and a band of trees separate us from the main buildings, although an ornate stone bridge that connects us with the estate still stands.
My father was always a tight and controlling man, but from the time of the divorce until his death on January 27, 2002, he drank more and more and became tighter and tighter with his money. His whiskey got cheaper, and it became harder for him to throw things away. It was as if he had promised himself that, having lost his wife, he would never lose anything again.
By the time he died the house was a mess and the barn even worse. They were both filled with crap that reminded me of the worst of him and seemed like a stain on the lake and the only happy memories I had. I didn’t have a lot of money at the time, but I hired two guys to take all his junk out of the house. Most of the stuff went straight to the dump, but the stuff that I couldn’t decide what to do with I had them toss in the barn, on top of the junk that was already there.
It was a year and half later, on July 6, 2003, that I started to work on the barn. I had been up at the lake with my wife, and she was heading back to Princeton. I guess you could say that we had had a nice week together, in a middle-aged way. We had not quarreled. We made love once after a nice dinner without too much wine. But she had meetings to go to in New York and I had some vacation to burn. I had a dumpster delivered to the barn and started to fill it up. There was something deeply satisfying about taking my father’s stuff and smashing it.
I had been working for about an hour when I saw Jeffrey Mossbacher walking up the driveway. He was wearing a pair of Bermuda shorts that looked as if they had just been pressed. Rita and Jeffrey had recently purchased the main house of Birch Lodge and restored the place to what it must have looked like when Rhinebeck was alive. Photographs, with Rita posed fetchingly in front of a fireplace, had been featured in Architectural Digest. They were nice enough people, but they made me feel embarrassed about who I was. They were not the sort of people who let their lives be encumbered by junk; they were able to use their money to make any troubling bits of the past disappear, while for me the past was always present. Jeffrey kept quiet about what he did, but Rita, who used to be a model, let it slip that he worked on Wall Street, something to do with hedge funds. They flew up for weekends in their plane.
“I heard all the banging and thought I would come over,” he said as he held out his hand.
I apologized for disturbing them.
“I don’t think I’ve seen you since your father passed away. I’m sorry about your loss. I never got to know your father very well.”
I thanked him for his condolences.
“So you’re starting to fix the place up?”
“That’s probably a bit strong. Just cleaning up a bit.”
“You have to start somewhere. These old places can take a lot of work.”
“There’s only so much we can do,” I said. “The taxes up here are murder.”
“It’s the waterfront that’s killing you. Fourteen K. That’s a lot, given what you have, no offense. You guys pay almost as much as we do. From a market value perspective the two places don’t compare, but from an assessment perspective, they’re pretty darn close.”
I asked him how he knew all this.
“My people were looking into our assessment—considering an appeal and all that—and so they were checking out ‘comparable’ properties.” I found his use of air quotes annoying, but let it pass. “You’re not thinking of selling, are you?”
“We’re trying to figure out how to hang on to it,” I said. “It’s a lot of expense—and some debt. It’s sort of complicated for us right now.”
“Well, if you ever want to sell, I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to meet any offer you get. One point three, one point four. It wouldn’t be out of the question, the way the market’s going. It would be fitting, in a way, to bring the old property together again. Good to close the loop, you know.” He gave me his card. “It’s got my email and cell number. If you ever even think about it, get in touch. You won’t regret it.”
I thanked him again.
“I’ll let you get back to work,” Jeffrey said. “But I’m serious. I’ve redone the old wine cellar. You should come over and check it out. We can have a glass of wine and talk.”
. 3 .
EVERYTHING ABOUT STOKES was aggressively English, from the cut of his suit to the way he slicked back his blond hair and held out his soft right hand. He was pale, thin-lipped, and beautiful. And later, when the true and astounding—the absolutely remarkable—extent of the smash became known to the world, it was difficult to imagine such a perfectly groomed face so badly shattered that the blood and pieces of bone had to be cleaned off the Constable before it could be brought to auction.
Adversity had emboldened Stokes. He lived more richly now than he had ever lived before. His debts had reached such spectacular proportions that even Rhinebeck could hardly imagine them. They had become, in some profound way that only Stokes himself could appreciate, beautiful.
“I am informed,” Stokes began, “that you have been peeking into the cabinets of broken-down families in France and Italy, looking to exchange some of your plentiful cash for the odd Old Master.”
“I did not come here, Mr. Stokes,” Rhinebeck interrupted, “to be kept waiting five minutes in your antechamber nor to be insulted. I came, at your request, to discuss a matter of business between us. If you have something to say about that matter, please say it.”
Stokes allowed the gleam of hatred which had been shimmering about his eyes to come into crisper focus.
“Very well, sir. My firm is in debt to yours for a considerable sum. You have also indicated through Mr. Manwaring that you are aware of a potential disagreement between His Majesty’s government and myself. You are prepared, in the name of truth, of course, to provide to the government certain information with regard to that disagreement. Does that state the case?”
Rhinebeck nodded.
“Just before the turn of the century, never mind how, I came into possession of a remarkable painting by J.M.W. Turner,” Stokes went on. “I can tell you very little about the painting, nor can I, in fact, prove that it is by Turner, for reasons that you shall appreciate shortly. The painting is hidden behind the bookcase in front of you. I am going to leave you alone in the room for fifteen minutes by my watch. Then we will discuss our matter of business.”
Stokes moved with remarkable swiftness. With one light and gliding motion he rose from his chair and touched a hidden latch. The heavy and fully laden bookcase slid into the wall and disappeared. With a deft and showmanlike continuation of his original movement, Stokes opened a black curtain that the bookcase had revealed and left the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
When he returned, exactly fifteen minutes later, Rhinebeck had regained sufficient possession of himself to be prepared for his arrival, but had it not been for the stark evidence of his watch he would have been unable to say how much time had passed. All at once The Center of the World became the hub of a wheel to which everything, or at least everything that mattered, was attached. When he saw Helen’s tunic fall in folds of gold and light about her incomparable shoulders, he saw Régine and that room in Paris when he was so much younger. He saw the very pulse of the world; he understood how empires rose and fell and that power and pleasure beyond his ability to imagine were before him to be grasped. Helen’s eyes told him that he was both her slave and a man of destiny who could go forward without fear.
Stokes closed the black curtain so suddenly that Rhinebeck felt a physical sense of loss. His face was flush
ed, his heart was racing, and sweat beaded his brow.
“I see that you are able to appreciate what you have just been privileged to see. Now to our business.” He proposed a transaction which, even then, Rhinebeck knew to be monstrous and outrageous. “And further: I insist that both of us never speak of this arrangement to any living soul and that—I am sure that this hardly needs saying—you will utter not a word to His Majesty’s government on the matter about which you have threatened to speak. I also insist that we conclude this agreement within the next ten minutes. My terms are what they are; you will either agree within that time or I withdraw the proposal. The thought of parting with this painting is deeply painful to me. If I am to endure this amputation, I insist that the ax fall quickly.”
For the first and last time in his life Rhinebeck felt staggered. There did not seem to be enough air in the room. In the upper left corner of the painting he had seen an eagle soaring in the blue sky. The two armies were stretched out below the magnificent bird, the armor of the heroes sparkling on the plain. He saw the battlements of the great walled city in which Helen awaited her lover.
He understood now that Stokes’s financial difficulties were much greater than he had suspected. Only a desperate man would propose what he had.
He looked at his watch. Eight minutes had passed. He wiped his brow with his handkerchief. Stokes sat across from him as still as a statue.
“I accept your proposal.”
“Damn you. I knew you would. You are a man of sense and feeling.” Stokes rose. “I have a lorry waiting round the back. Within the hour my people will deliver it to your hotel. My business people will call upon yours. We are done with each other.”
Rhinebeck saw in Stokes’s eyes that he was a defeated man. A servant entered and ushered him out.
He crossed the square and looked at the house, trying to determine which curtained window hid the painting, which Stokes was surely looking at for the last time. London seemed vague and unreal. The sky was gray and unfocused. There were children playing in the park. An attractive young woman was looking at him. It all seemed like mere decoration, like the work of a third-rate Impressionist.
. 4 .
THERE IS NO PLAQUE on the door of the elegant brownstone on the Upper East Side of Manhattan where Madison Partners does business. An attractive young woman greets those who arrive. She answers the telephone, keeps calendars, and makes travel arrangements. She hopes one day to sit at one of the nineteenth-century mahogany desks behind her, at which two or three other young people are working on silver laptops or speaking to clients on the telephone. These young people are always well dressed, usually in black, white, and shades of gray. Low shelves filled with catalogues and art books ring the room. The wall above is paneled, decorated with a changing collection of five or six top- or second-tier European oils from the eighteenth, nineteenth, and early twentieth centuries—a Sisley, say, or a Sir Thomas Lawrence. These works may be acquired, but the young people have been trained too well to say they are for sale.
Behind the front room is a small conference room, also decorated with three or four paintings, and behind that, with a view over the back garden, an office. A small kitchen completes the first floor. The two floors above are a private residence, the second floor being dominated by a large library.
The only dweller in this residence, and the principal of the firm, is Mr. Arthur Bryce. The office on the first floor is also his, for Madison Partners has no partners. When Bryce leans toward a client as if he is revealing a confidence, he often likes to say that he is a modest man who prefers to remain invisible, the one who disappears into the illusion of the many.
Although the paintings in the front room and the conference room are for sale, Madison Partners is not, in any conventional sense, an art gallery. It is, rather, a fine arts consultancy, specializing in European art. Bryce makes it his business to know who has what and who desires what. He brings parties together, often without either knowing who the other is. Payments are made and checks are written into accounts in Geneva, New York, or Nassau; shipments arrive from a secure facility near Kennedy Airport. Works not generally known to be available change hands without any of the inconveniences associated with auction houses or tax collectors. Those who might be tempted to raise concerns about the provenance of a work are not informed of anything that could cause them distress.
One afternoon in November of 2001 Bryce sat alone in his library, a cup of coffee by his side. A handsome man in his early sixties, with close-cropped gray hair, blue eyes, and a disarmingly clear complexion, he wore round tortoiseshell glasses, a custom-made shirt, and a silk tie with a Windsor knot. Bryce prided himself on his ability to stand above the fray and to take the long view, but he realized that even he had been knocked into something of a funk by the recent events. The smell of smoke and death still hung in the air; getting around downtown was, he found, inconvenient as hell, and conversation had turned horrid. He had, of course, been able to take advantage of the panic that had set in that September; he had assisted in several transactions in which savvy clients in Japan and the Middle East were able to profit from the nervous desire for cash that a number of Americans felt. The walls of Madison Partners were more densely hung with paintings than was usual, but Bryce knew it was only a matter of time before cash would seek a more beautiful refuge.
Bryce picked up a leather binder and reread a document he had read a hundred times before:
Petworth House
November 16, 1837
Dear Mr. Turner,
Of your past greatness as an artist there can be little doubt, as there can also be little doubt of your pernicious influence on my Father in his declining years, or of your impudence. As for that infamous painting to which you had the audacity to refer, I beg you to think of it as no longer existing. Any payments you received from my father you may keep. If you provide Documents signed by him acknowledging further obligations to you they shall be examined carefully, for it seems to me, and so it would seem to all men of correct understanding, that no matter how lofty the title of artist you claim it is improper you be paid for debauching an old man in his dotage.
Thank you for attending my Father’s funeral. I regret that the ceremony went on so long as to inconvenience you. I see no reason for you to trouble yourself with further visits to Petworth. Sketchbooks, paints, brushes etc. belonging to you have been packed up and will be sent to your address.
Yrs,
Geo. Wyndham
The writer of the note was the bastard son and heir of the Third Earl of Egremont. Egremont, who was born in 1751 and died, at the age of eighty-six, in 1837, was the most important patron of the arts of his era. He supported any number of British artists, including J.M.W. Turner, the greatest of all English painters, and, in Bryce’s opinion, one of the three or four greatest painters who ever lived. Bryce smiled to himself as he remembered how he had acquired the letter, less at the ingenuity of the scheme than at the fact that it would not do if the circumstances became generally known.
If Bryce had been a conventional art historian or scholar, this document might have changed the general direction of Turner studies. But Bryce traded in information; information, like certain works of art, was precious and beautiful to him on account of its rarity. He was conscious of the fact that he knew something that no one else did, namely, that at the behest of Egremont, Turner had created a painting that Egremont’s boorish son had described as “infamous.” And there was something curious about the phrase “I beg you to think of it as no longer existing.” Not quite the same as “it has been destroyed” or words to that effect. If, Bryce thought, it had not been destroyed, it might still exist; if it still existed, it could be found.
Yes, it still existed. Bryce decided he would believe in this “infamous” painting and that he would find it. He knew that he needed some greater purpose to help him get through the dreary days of war and vengeance that were sure to come. Such a quest would serve that end.
&
nbsp; . 5 .
THE THREE OF US who remained sat in silence for a moment. When His Lordship rose, we all rose with him. He seemed more than usually thoughtful as he led us to the staircase. A servant had appeared to lead us and light the way, while others had materialized behind us and were already cleaning up the brandy glasses.
“Turner, you know, is a brilliant man. He hits his mark more often than he misses it. It is time for bed, gentlemen. It is time for bed. Good night.” With those words Egremont shot forward and disappeared up the stairs.
Jones and I followed at a more moderate pace and said our good nights at the landing. I left the candle burning by the bedside as I settled myself down in the enormous bed. Lady Mary looked down out of the darkness. I wondered who else had slept in this bed under her baleful gaze. Some Tudor knight, I thought, might have died where I was lying and the panels on the wall may have echoed the sound of a baby’s first cry when Elizabeth was queen and Shakespeare’s new work was the talk of London. Thinking of all those houseguests in tights and ruffs who must have known each other on this bed, I fancied that if it could speak we would have a history of noble life, death, and fornication to which I would be some insignificant footnote.
These cogitations led me back in due course (after a pleasant detour around your thighs and bottom) to Turner’s remark about the truth that lies between a woman’s legs. I have, as you know, only a theoretical knowledge of that location, but, thinking of you and what hangs between your legs, I half understand what Turner meant. When we are in each other’s arms, David, I am, at least, aware of all that matters.
I woke just before dawn and went to the window, which overlooks the park. Earth, trees, grass, and water had been molded by Capability Brown as if all God’s materials were putty in his hands. The result was Nature made more perfect than Nature itself. In the half light I could see the pond, silver gray against the darker gray of the grass. I could make out some ducks or geese. There were deer bending down at the water’s edge. The hills beyond were black against the lightening sky, while the distant patchwork of cultivated fields was still invisible. As I stood there in my dressing gown, I could see the world begin to take on the colors of day, gray giving way to various shades of somber green. The sky behind the hills glowed with the faintest traces of rose as the fiery disk of the sun began to appear.
The Center of the World Page 2
