by Claude Izner
Tasha made the introductions. On hearing that Victor was a bookseller, Danilo became animated. ‘You don’t happen to need an assistant, by any chance? I have an extensive knowledge of literature.’
‘Thank you. I have one already.’
‘A beer, with no head!’ Marcel announced, setting down a tankard in front of Danilo, who murmured pensively: ‘Jack of all trades, master of none, such is my lot.’
‘I must go,’ said Tasha, ‘I’ve got a lot of work to do.’
Glad to be leaving the Serb, Victor quickly followed her. ‘Do you know him well?’
‘He lives on the same floor as me.’
‘Do you let him into your room?’
‘Never. I’d be too frightened he’d sing me the aria from Faust!’
An idea began to form in his mind. What if he rented a small apartment? He had the means to do it. What would she say? He tested the water. ‘Haven’t you had enough of living in that cramped room and depriving yourself of food?’
She stopped to give him an ironic look. ‘Well, of course I’d prefer the Royal Suite at the Grand Hotel!’
Why there? he wondered, suddenly guarded.
‘But I have to consider my situation from a practical point of view,’ she added as she walked on. ‘Until I’m established as an artist, I’ll have to make do with Helga Becker’s attic room. At least I’ve got a good view of the rooftops.’
‘When are you going to come by the shop? Yesterday, we were stocktaking. I put by some books illustrated by Gustave Doré for you, as well as some Jérôme Bosch reproductions. You’ll have to wait for Los Caprichos — they’re at the bookbinder’s.’
She gave him a sideways look and did not reply. They walked in silence as far as number 60. Victor no longer knew whether he found her attractive or exasperating. But when she held out her gloved hand and promised to come to Rue des Saints-Pères as soon as she was able, he felt happy. He watched her disappear into the far end of the courtyard, then walked slowly back as far as the Trinité Church. Stopping by a highclass grocer’s, he suddenly felt the urge to give her a present. He thought of the bottle of perfume. He would make do with cakes, and she would appreciate them far more. Pink macaroons from Rheims? He was about to open the shop door when he saw a slight silhouette reflected in the window. He turned. Along the facing pavement, Tasha was hurrying towards the cab stand. With a few quick words to one of the drivers, she got in. Without stopping to think, Victor rushed across. ‘Follow that cab!’ he cried, diving into the next one.
Tasha alighted near the Parc Monceau rotunda. Once she’d got her bearings, she rang the bell of a private house that looked like a Hindu palace. Victor waited for her to go inside before he got down from his cab. His pulse was racing as if he had run all the way. He took a few steps alongside the railings without daring to venture into the shade beneath the trees, and kept his eyes fixed on the huge front door. He didn’t like this new neighbourhood on the Plaine Monceau at all, with all the grand mansions built by the nouveaux riches springing up everywhere, even if some did belong to talented artists. As a sign of the times, land that had been worth forty-five francs a square metre in 1870 was now valued at more than three hundred francs, and nobody knew how high this speculative fever would go. Even the flunkeys here think they’re above us ordinary mortals, he thought as he saw a valet in a stripy waistcoat come towards him, stiffly walking two Afghan hounds to the park. Victor stood in the middle of the pavement, forcing them to stop.
‘Excuse me, I’ve just arrived from Limoges and I’m a little lost. Who does this great edifice belong to?’ he asked, pointing to a house opposite the Hindu palace.
‘That is the residence of Monsieur Poitevin and of his cousin, Monsieur Guy de Maupassant.’
‘Guy de Maupassant, the writer?’
‘Yes, Monsieur,’ replied the valet with a touch of irritation. He wanted to be on his way, but Victor took his arm. ‘My wife thinks he’s a genius; she’s always talking about a story concerning a ball and bat. And that house, over there?’
‘Ball of Fat, you mean, Monsieur. Monsieur Dumas the younger lives there.’
‘Oh yes, The Lady of the Hydrangeas …’
‘The Camellias, Monsieur,’ the valet corrected as he tried to calm the dogs, who were pulling on their leashes.
‘One last question. What about this overelaborate construction? Does some nabob live there?’
‘The house of Monsieur Constantin Ostrovski, a major art collector,’ replied the valet with a disdainful sniff.
‘Art! What more is there to life? Are there other painters in this area?’
‘Monsieur Meissonier lives not far from here, on the other side of what was the outer boulevard, right next to the brick mansion belonging to Monsieur Gaillard, whom I have the honour of serving. Calliope! Polycarpe! We’re going back home!’
Victor transferred his attention to the Hindu palace. He waited a good hour before he saw Tasha come out. She crossed Boulevard de Courcelles. He hesitated. Should he follow her? No. He would learn far more from a meeting with the nabob.
Victor handed his calling card to a vivacious maid, who left him in the entrance hall, having offered him an imposing highbacked chair, which he refused to sit in. It was too much like his doctor’s waiting room. He had time to examine at his leisure a collection of ancient weapons: sabres, muskets and pistols, which hung on the walls between paintings of rural scenes. The owner of this place seemed to favour comely milkmaids viewed from above. Amidst all this eclectic collection was Le Figaro de la Tour, prominently displayed for the benefit of visitors and framed like a certificate. The lead article began with the words:
PERSONALITY OF THE DAY: CONSTANTIN OSTROVSKI
It is with great interest that we have followed …
Victor had to stop reading, as the hall door opened and a stout, bald man in his fifties entered, wearing a monocle and a jovial expression on his face. In a flash Victor could once again see Kenji showing his framed Utamaros on the terrace of Café de la Paix. He recognised the buyer.
‘What can I do for you, my dear Monsieur … Legris?’ asked Constantin Ostrovski, reading Victor’s calling card.
Victor tried to maintain his self-control.
‘So you are the personality of the day?’ he asked, pointing at Le Figaro.
‘The very same! My ego has become as inflated as La Fontaine’s frog. I’m trying to deflate it before it bursts!’
Victor returned to the newspaper, skipped the lines about the collector and read the list of signatories of the Golden Book printed under the article:
Si-Ali-Mahaoui, Fez. Udo Aiker, editor of the Berliner Zeitung. G. Collodi, Turin. J. Kulki, editor of Hlas Navoola of Prague. Victorin Alibert, bandleader. Madeleine Lesourd, Chartres. Kenji Mori, Paris. Sigmund Pollock, Vienna, Austria …
The rest of the text was obscured by the edge of the frame.
‘You haven’t answered my question, Monsieur Legris.’
Reluctantly, Victor turned to him and stammered, ‘I’ve come on behalf of … Kenji Mori.’
‘Kenji Mori? Pardon me, I have no memory for names. Is he an Asian?’
Victor nodded. ‘Japanese.’
‘That doesn’t ring any bells. I may have met him at Siegfried Bing’s on Rue de Provence, you know, the dealer in oriental art.’
‘He told me he had sold you some Utamaro prints.’
‘It’s possible. I am buying left, right and centre. Do you have something to offer me?’
‘Well … it’s a little delicate, you see, I —’
‘Don’t tell me I’ve been buying stolen property!’
‘No, no, it’s just that I have certain works that I would like to sell as privately as possible, you understand …’
‘Come, we will be more comfortable in the sitting room. You have nothing against tea, I hope? In this sort of heat boiling hot tea is the ideal beverage.’
Ostrovski led him through rooms cluttered with Chinese trinkets, Greek antiquiti
es, Sèvres plates, Renaissance furniture, and stuffed animals. They finally came to a room with enormous picture windows, overrun by luxuriant plants, which were growing right up to the ceiling. On the walls, which were decorated with brightly coloured glazed earthenware tiles, hung dozens of pictures whose tones clashed with the colour of the decor. The simplest was a still life of a bunch of grapes, the largest showed the Battle of Sebastopol. Framed by two icons, a row of hermetically sealed little pots stood on the shelf of a credence table. A corner sofa, four chairs and a cane table placed around a gushing fountain completed the arrangement. Victor stopped in front of the sofa, over which hung a large oil painting of a naked oriental dancing girl draped in transparent veils twirling around under the covetous eye of a sheik.
‘The humidity … Isn’t it bad for your canvases?’
‘Daubs!’ said Ostrovski with a laugh. ‘I am taking my revenge on all those pretentious cretins who have had houses built around me, the Duezes, the Gervexes, the Escaliers, the Clairins … These lords of the palette are always selling me the poorest study for an exorbitant price so that they can buy themselves Japanese curios at the Magasins du Louvre! They boast of how their paintings are prominently displayed in my home. What they do not know is that this room was conceived not for them but for my dear plants. Let’s sit down.’
Constantin Ostrovski clapped his hands. The vivacious maid appeared instantly.
‘Sonia, some tea, please. Rare works, you say?’ he resumed, turning towards Victor.
‘Manuscripts … antiphons … a thirteenth-century illuminated Book of Hours.’
‘Oh, books?’ he said, pulling a face. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not really interested in books, least of all religious ones.’
‘The last one I mentioned is very precious. It belonged to Louis the Ninth; its binding is a little marvel.’
Ostrovski intertwined his fingers and rested his chin on them. ‘And of course you’ll be wanting a good price for it.’
‘Nothing too excessive for such a fine piece.’
‘My latest passion is for exotic objects. This bow and quiver, there on your left, taken from the enemy, was a gift from my friend Nate Salsbury, the manager, as he likes to call himself, of Buffalo Bill. But books, I must admit …’
Victor felt sick. This forest of twisted shapes was for him like a strange hothouse conceived by an artist in the grip of paranoia. The tree fern was unfurling its canopy in the shade of bamboos; the Indian palm tree stood alongside Mexican cacti; African zamias and cycads were mixed up with Brazilian orchids. This incongruous combination of plant species, which violated the laws of botanical geography, made him feel as if he was suffocating. He noticed a display cabinet full of glass containers where monsters that looked like foetuses preserved in alcohol were sprouting. He was reminded of his meeting with Tasha in the Palace of Liberal Arts. Tasha … Why had she stayed so long at this man’s house? Had she reclined on the sofa underneath the naked dancer? Had the man’s podgy hands been exploring her body? She got rid of you. She lied to you.
‘Monsieur Legris? Monsieur Legris, are you listening to me?’
‘Please excuse me, I was admiring … your dispensary over there on the credenza, a very fine series of pots …’
‘A little weakness of mine. As a child I dreamt of being an apothecary. Not an idiot like that Homais caricatured by Flaubert, no, a highly gifted dispensing pharmacist who would discover all the secrets of plants and would know how to extract both what was good and bad from them. Now, that’s something that might interest me! An old pharmaceutical codex. You don’t happen to have any you could sell me? No? What a shame …’
He pushed a box of cigars towards Victor.
‘Here’s a beneficial plant. Please have one.’
‘No, thank you. I only smoke cigarettes.’
Sonia brought them tea, a black steaming liquid with slices of lemon floating in it. Ostrovski crunched a lump of sugar, drank a big mouthful of the burning liquid very noisily, put his glass down, and gestured around the room to indicate the plants.
‘Do you know why they fascinate me, Monsieur Legris? Because they are like us. You know, in tropical forests the smallest of them cannot survive without light. They wait for a giant tree to fall to find their place in the sun. Of course, many will not have that opportunity. It’s a race to the top. The first to get there grow side branches, condemning the losers to darkness and death. One also finds species that do not need light, such as saprophytes and parasites. They feed on decomposing matter. Here, everything flourishes – I make sure of it. Do you like plants, Monsieur Legris?’
‘Er … yes, I mean the ones that aren’t dangerous,’ was Victor’s careful reply: he was beginning to have doubts about the mental health of his host.
‘Dangerous? It all depends how they are used. Only man is dangerous, don’t you agree? Well, I have your card, so the ball is in my court, and I shall contact you. Very pleased to have made your acquaintance.’
Constantin Ostrovski stood up as a sign that the interview was at an end. They shook hands. Gracing him with a silent smile, Sonia accompanied Victor to the door.
He headed into the park, taking deep breaths. He felt both disappointed and relieved. Tasha and Kenji had both met Constantin Ostrovski. What was so extraordinary about that? Ostrovski collected anything and everything. Tasha was an artist, and Kenji was converting his prints into cash so that he could spoil his mistress.
Victor sat down on a bench near the little lake and watched some small children playing with their buckets and spades as he tried to marshal his thoughts. What if Kenji’s treats were intended for none other than Tasha?
‘Can this really be? No! Impossible!’
A nanny on duty by the sandpit turned to look at this man who was talking to himself. Embarrassed, Victor stood up.
‘No, that’s absurd!’
He rejected that thought, otherwise he was going to end up losing his mind. As he walked towards the cab stand, he thought of the page of Le Figaro de la Tour on show at Ostrovski’s home. Was John Cavendish also amongst the signatories of the Golden Book? And what about Eugénie Patinot? I need evidence, real evidence.
Victor checked again that Kenji had not followed him upstairs: no, he must still be sitting at his desk with his record cards. He’d hardly reacted when the door chime had sounded. He lifted the blotter and uncovered the Le Figaro de la Tour headline:
PERSONALITY OF THE DAY: CONSTANTIN OSTROVSKI
followed by the Golden Book signatories:
Madeleine Lesourd, Chartres. Kenji Mori, Paris. Sigmund Pollock, Vienna, Austria. Marcel Forbin, lieutenant of the second cuirassiers. Rosalie Bouton, laundress, Aubervilliers. Madame de Nanteuil, Paris. Marie-Amélie de Nanteuil, Paris. Hector de Nanteuil, Paris. Gontran de Nanteuil, Paris. John Cavendish, New York, USA …’
The letters blurred before his eyes into one grey mass. For several seconds he stood completely still, his mind empty of thoughts, his ears buzzing. He managed to recover himself, and made himself read it again from the beginning, following the text with his finger. All three of them were there: Ostrovski, Kenji, Cavendish. And Eugénie Patinot? Not there. Nowhere to be seen. For Eugénie Patinot the first platform had been high enough. He put the newspaper back in its place and smoothed the blotter. Had he stepped into a nightmare? Straightening up, he noticed that the empty spaces left by the Utamaros had now been covered by two new prints, nocturnal landscapes by Hiroshige. He felt a dull pain in his forehead. Kenji’s face looked out at him from a silver frame, with a typically mixed expression, both serious and ironic. How can one possibly suspect someone with smiling eyes, of murder?
Seized by doubts once again, he opened a drawer and found a railway timetable for the London and Dover Railway. The apartment door creaked behind him. Closing the drawer, he jumped round. Kenji was staring at him, surprised.
‘Are you looking for something?’
‘I’ve got a migraine. I was hoping to find some medicine. I haven’t a
ny left in my apartment.’
‘You know I never take medication. I’ll send Joseph down to the pharmacy, you go and lie down.’
‘Don’t bother Joseph. I must still have a little cola nut left. Oh, so you’ve changed over your prints,’ said Victor, desperately trying to sound casual.
‘Habit is like an old mistress, it’s good to shake off its yoke sometimes.’
Irritated by this proverb, which Kenji. had probably invented on the spot, Victor returned to his apartment with Kenji right behind him. ‘Come to think of it, I’ve met an amateur print collector who’s mad about Hokusai. He’ll buy at any price, especially animal images. He’s called Ostrovkine, or something like that. Do you know him?’ Quick, lie down, close your eyes.
‘I’m not a print dealer. I’m going to make you some tea.’
Victor wanted to refuse but Kenji had already gone. He remembered the adventures of the King of the Apes, Souen-Wou-Kong, the hero of Chinese legends, which Kenji had read to him once upon a time. He’s cleverer than a barrel of monkeys. You just can’t corner him. Does he know Tasha? Are they lovers?
Kenji returned, carrying a tray with a teapot, a cup and the bottle of medicine. ‘It was next to your washbasin. I can’t believe you didn’t see it. Drink it while it’s hot.’
Victor forced himself to sip the green tea in spite of his complaining stomach. As he put his cup down, Kenji suddenly clapped his hands loudly. It made Victor jump and he almost knocked everything over.
