Ten Word Game

by Jonathan Gash

“We should chose what we’re nicking.”

  “We’re not nicking anything, Lovejoy,” now with ill-suppressed anger. “We’re doing a let’s-pretend.”

  “Honest?”

  The room held silence. I saw the golden sheen come off the sea through the balcony window. Quite like amber, I’d thought earlier in my own cabin. Our faces were golden. I wondered anew why Ivy had slipped me the book of the treasures we were going to steal. Then I wondered how on earth she’d known that fact. She wasn’t one of our group, never had been.

  “You think we’re going to all this trouble for no reason, Lovejoy?”

  “No.” And I didn’t.

  “We pretend to thieve the Impressionist paintings in the Hermitage. How many times do I have to tell you? Seventy-four paintings.” He looked round the others. “Lovejoy will authenticate them on a routine visit, in the company of a hundred other passengers. Then we go for it.”

  “How?” I asked Marie for some more toast. She looked at her table in disbelief, amazed it had all gone. I thought, for God’s sake, woman, eating is what toast is for. Toast isn’t a proposition by Wittgenstein.

  “That isn’t your business. When the exhibition went on show, the whole world shrieked one question: Are they genuine? You’re here to tell us yes or no. Got it?”

  “What if – ?”

  “You just go in,” he shouted, losing his rag, “make sure they’re genuine masterpieces, and tell us. Then we set things in motion.”

  “What things?”

  “I have arranged that with the Russians.” He leant back. “Safe enough, Lovejoy?”

  “Still no facts, though.”

  “There!” Lady Vee said brightly. “We’ve all got to be in special places at the right time, haven’t we James?”

  “Yes, Lady Vee.” He brought out a map of the Hermitage, several layers of the damned thing. They were marked with red crosses, each cross with a single letter in scarlet. “L is for Lovejoy,” he said, all sarcasm. “He simply goes into the Exhibition, picks out the duds, if any. Lady Vee is V, okay?”

  “It’s really thrilling!”

  He went over the list. Stairs were going to be awkward, because the lifts were sacrosanct and might be out of service.

  “It’s the way things are here. We’re two days in St Petersburg,” he finished. “I’ve arranged excursions for us.”

  Us? I didn’t like the thought of being on a trip with him. The less I saw of the murdering swine the better.

  “We must stick to the times marked on the charts, follow the guides at the proper times, and all will be well.”

  “Must I see every single painting in the collection we’re, er, not going to steal?” My heart was thumping. Marie brought a mingy three pieces of toast. I asked for more. She stumped out. See? Nothing to do all day except make a manky plate of toast, and she goes to pieces.

  “Yes. Timing is critical. If you detect a fake among them, keep a list. They’re numbered and named.”

  “Who gets my list afterwards?”

  He looked exasperated. “For Christ’s sake, Lovejoy, shut the fuck up. It’s simple. Sensible questions, anyone?”

  “Not me,” I said, wondering where his excursions were going to. I vowed not to be there when the trip went carousing off. I’d heard of folk who’d been there before. “No questions. Ta for the nosh.”

  “Thank God,” he said, sinking back in relief. “Somebody open the door and let the cretin out.” As I made off he said, “Ten o’clock at the gangway, Deck Four. Be there.”

  “Right, right.” I went for a proper breakfast, kippers, poached eggs and a decent stack of toast with proper marmalade. I don’t know what some women have against food. Marie should get a grip.

  * * *

  Estate agents – those who sell houses for extortionate prices and horrendous commission fees – have this saying: Three things decide price: location, location, and location. It’s similar in antiques: there’s three things decide what an antique is worth: provenance, provenance, and provenance. Everybody (including me) forever quotes the mythical Anglo-Saxon axe, that has only had three new heads and two new hafts since it was dug up. When somebody reminds you of that old crack, you’re supposed to smile knowingly and pretend you’ve never been taken in. Better, though, to think of some antique where provenance was authentic and the world of antiques is stunned by the mega-wealth involved. Think, for example, of Lord Nelson’s sword.

  In 2002, this bloke wanders up to an ordinary antiques valuation counter, bringing a brooch. It happens to be diamond, authentic Georgian, anchor-shaped, with H and N giving clues to its long-dead possessor. The owner was a descendant of Horatio Nelson’s personal assistant. The man’s family also had a box containing scores of letters, account books, a blood-stained purse still holding Nelson’s twenty-one golden coins … and the great hero’s personal sword, actually his famed Turkish sabre. The scabbard was in the Greenwich Hospital. Amid excitement, the Turkish sabre was tried in the scabbard. Like Cinderella’s shoe, it fitted! A portrait of Nelson’s assistant painted by Arthur Devis in 1808 shows the same sabre in detail. Provenance reigned.

  “The collection,” recorded the newspapers just before the 21st October, 2002, sale in London’s New Bond Street (anniversary of Trafalgar, incidentally, save having to look it up) “is totally new to the market and with a provenance that is second to none.” Everybody I know, including me, groaned with unrequited lust at the thought of all that beautiful provenance going to undeserving (meaning other) buyers. Needless to say, the Sotheby’s Sale Catalogue is now a collector’s item in its own right. See? To them that hath provenance shall be given. It’s in the Bible, or should be if it isn’t.

  Now, I define antiques as the commerce of old items where lies are only rarely encountered but falsehood is the natural means of expression. Here on board the Melissa, St Petersburg clamouring for me to go ashore and gaze breathless upon the zillions of priceless antiques in the Hermitage, the reverse seemed the case; lies were endemic, and falsity merely there as background music in the plush lounges and luxurious trappings of day-to-day ship-board life. For instance, I didn’t know who Mangot’s famous team was, or who would pull off the robbery. Did he seriously think I’d believe this mob of duds was a swashbuckling league of Raffles lookalikes, who could even pretend to take on the entire Russian army?

  Worse, I’d read about modern Russia. Oppose the tide of graft and corruption, you got lobbed from a roof or abducted and deliberately suicided in, or off, some hotel. They had an expression that’s been grafted into English: krisha is the word for roof, meaning a safety factor protecting you from adverse forces. So their politicians are merchants who provide a krisha to protect the criminals. The forces of law and order can likewise be a krisha if you bribe the right people with the right amount of zlotniks. They say it was worst of all in the free-for-all 1990s, but others say things are a hell of a sight worse now. It was into this mayhem that, this bright morning, I was going to step ashore and divvy a priceless collection of masterpieces.

  Now, Germany, France, and other assorted nations with multo political and diplomatic clout, had tried to wangle the paintings back. It had been in the papers for half a century. They got nowhere. The Russian government itself was said to have displaced the old Russian mafia, using the time-honoured nudge-splash of the sailor’s elbow technique and usurping their street power. Law has evaporated, says rumour, and local authorities are merely the first layer of krishas. There’s a resistance, like in any occupation of any country; you can pay to have your opponents eliminated. Simple.

  And if, say, somebody decided on an automobile accident as the means of choice, why, what could be simpler than bribing the authorities to delay/prevent/avoid/ignore investigations? Life has to go on, and by life is meant the level of corruption you can afford. Crime must flourish because it’s essential. Ask any government.

  Mind you, I should talk. In our own country justice is a miscarriage; law is simply the description of ho
w justice fails.

  I tried thinking over the events of the cruise: Southampton, the Baltic, my attempts to escape. And the two deaths, Mister Moses and – probable, but unconfirmed as yet – Henry Semper. It had been good of Ivy, though, to give me the massive beautifully-produced catalogue of the Hermitage’s special exhibition. Good guess, Ivy.

  Ten o’clock, I went to sit in the Atrium near the gangway exit on Deck Four, hoping I’d not be spotted. Amy and Les Renown caught me and hauled me off the ship, laughing.

  “Here, Lovejoy,” Les said, choking with laughter. “Two psychiatrists meet. One says, ‘Morning Joe. You’re fine today. How am I?’ Get it? See, they’re psychiatrists!”

  “Hilarious, Les,” I said gravely. Down the gangplank, into Russia.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  An assortment of coaches assembled on the wharf. The couriers were all beautiful ponytail blondes with polished nails, decor on wheels. They made us look shabby. I was glad I’d given my teeth a special go, to confront the fabled State Hermitage Museum of Russia. I was clean, done up in my – well, Gloria’s imaginary brother Cal’s – gear. The crew gave us bright yellow lapel stickers saying D4.

  Millicent and Jim Akehurst came along, she glittering with diamonds, he as sober as any conveyancing lawyer. Billy the Kid and Ivy were with us, the former looking like a fifty-year-old cowboy in riding heels and shimmering waistcoat. It’s a wonder he didn’t have a green eyeshade, but he had the cheroot. Kevin came, pouting over some restriction imposed by Holly Sago, both so tasteful in black as to create suspicion. Amy the dancer and Les Renown sat at the front of our coach with the courier. Mangot I saw on the quayside chatting with June Milestone. He was in mufti, but wore an imposing badge and emblems on his arm.

  “I am Natasha,” the guide announced in her microphone. “Can everyone hear me?”

  On the drive to the city we were treated to a summary of Russia’s efforts in the Great Patriotic War and her subsequent development.

  “She’ll elide over the attempted Christmas Coup of 1991,” Ivy said. She’d somehow landed next to me. I was by the window. I can’t resist looking out, especially at a place I’ve never been. Natasha was prattling on, statistics mingled with history.

  “Coup?”

  “Pathetic,” Ivy said. Her voice had a wistful quality, but then most women have that. It makes them worth listening to, especially when you think of my gender’s most popular representative on the cruise, Les “Chuckles” Renown.

  “I didn’t know they’d had one. Don’t you mean 1905, or 1917?”

  “The Winter Palace march was on Bloody Sunday in 1905, the Potyomkin business the same year. Then the siege, 1941 to 1944. Those are what foreigners remember about St Petersburg. I meant the hopeless business in 1991. It dissolved the Soviet Union within minutes.”

  She spoke without bitterness but with an odd resignation I hadn’t heard before. Natasha was still rabbiting on. Ivy looked across the river at the imposing buildings, the onion-topped churches. They looked glorious.

  “They’re coloured!” I exclaimed. The exteriors were beautiful with pastels, the pillars and facades down to the waterlines. It seemed utterly innocent, as if beyond harm. I said as much.

  She smiled, better word. “Yes. Colour is a custom here.”

  “Painting the buildings?”

  “That, and the ability to convince everyone how innocent St Petersburg is.” Only, she didn’t say St Petersburg, like she hadn’t said Potemkin, the name of the famous film Battleship Potemkin. She pronounced it Sankt Pieter Burkh in a slithery guttural.

  It made me look at her anew. Mousy, sure, but she had depths. And that book of the Hermitage’s prize exhibition had been well handled. Some passages had been underlined.

  “You’ve been here before, Ivy?”

  “Yes. It has not always been so beautiful.”

  She listened to Natasha answering passenger queries. Millicent was annoying everybody with questions about money, Russian wages, price of furs, income tax, bargains, jewellery shops and other vital essentials. Holly asked about casinos, was it true Russians all knew how to rig faro in only eighteen cards. Billy was laughing with Kevin and ignoring everything else, including the superb city.

  “You will know straight away which of the antiques is a forgery, Lovejoy. Am I right?”

  “In the Hermitage? Probably.”

  “Not for sure?”

  “I never know.”

  Ivy glanced at her husband and Kevin. They were immersed in their own happy chat. From what the lass was recounting, the Russians seemed to have had a hell of a lot of wars. I saw Ivy’s lips move as if in mute answer when the guide stumbled over translating a word

  “The cruiser,” the lovely guide managed at last, remembering with relief, “is called Aurora. You can see her there. She fired her gun in 1917, signalling the October Revolution. She is famous. She is painted very bright colours for general admiration.”

  Ivy therefore spoke Russian, and she’d been here before. If Natasha was in on our scam, as Purser Mangot had implied, was Ivy?

  “Please keep together when we arrive at the Winter Palace, ladies and gentlemen. I shall carry this umbrella. Remember we are Coach D4. Please follow my umbrella at all times.”

  I found myself smiling, and was caught by Ivy watching me. I went a bit red and shrugged.

  “Well, she’s bonny,” I said lamely.

  “That lady who left the ship at Gdynia, Lovejoy. She too was bonny, in her older way. Had you been friends long?”

  “Margaret? I forget.” I sound crass.

  “Forget deliberately?”

  “I don’t disclose a lady’s confidences, love. Ask her. Don’t ask me. Gossip is women’s work, not mine.”

  “I’m glad you think like that, Lovejoy.”

  What can you say? Usually women are narked if they catch you admiring another woman, and here was one actually pleased I thought the courier gorgeous? I gave up and looked out at the passing canals, the buildings, the coloured facades of the architecture. The guide promised we’d arrive in ten minutes and warned us again about her blinking umbrella.

  “I never believed there was such a thing as a divvy, until I saw your disagreement at the dinner quizzes with Mr Semper. Do you wish you weren’t?”

  “Sometimes I keel over. It feels rotten.”

  “Poor thing,” she said, and meant it. I thought she was joking until she touched my arm. “Tell me, Lovejoy. Aren’t you ever tempted to get it wrong deliberately? Fool people, I mean.”

  Who’d said something like that, not too long ago, from his hospital bed? I muttered, “Dunno.”

  “Can I go in with you?”

  “We’re together anyway,” I pointed out. “A school crocodile. Only we don’t have labels on a string round our necks.”

  “I mean for the pleasure of your company.”

  My company, a pleasure? I stared at her. She was obviously off her trolley. Since making smiles there had been a strange distance between us. I shrugged and agreed. “If you like, but I hate people pointing things out. I get shirty. You’ll have to put up with me.”

  “I’ll last out, Lovejoy,” she said quietly. “Don’t you fret.”

  I wasn’t fretting at all, not that I knew. I said nothing as we arrived, last of four coaches in line within a stone’s throw of the dazzling Winter Palace. I was almost starting to shake, probably from excitement or, worse, fright, as if I could feel the dangerous vibes up ahead.

  * * *

  Ivy took my arm as we assembled, the whole coachload. We were alongside the river. Nervous, I glanced at Billy, but he just gave me a grin of approval and continued his waggish conversation with Kevin. I saw Lady Vee wave from her wheelchair, pushed by unsmiling Inga. Les Renown and Amy were alighting from Coach D1, Amy tapping her watch to me as a reminder about time. Holly Sago was striding angrily among some beggars, ignoring everybody. I thought, we’re a rotten species.

  We trailed after the guide’s gaudy umbr
ella. I breathed in some strange scent. It was Ivy, puffing at me from a small spray can.

  “Repellent? You’d only to say.”

  “Mosquitoes, Lovejoy. You just don’t know their ferocity here.”

  Whereas she, on the other hand, did? I tried not to gaze quizzically at her, just noticed how she turned to the right towards the entrance before even the courier’s umbrella swayed that way. Ivy knew St Petersburg in a way strangers never would.

  “Admission fees are included, Lovejoy.” She had felt me reach for my pocket as we got to the entrance. “Russians pay less than one-twentieth what foreigners do, and have separate entrances. There’s a close security. You’re not carrying a weapon, or anything with wires and batteries, I hope?”

  “Next time, maybe.”

  My feeble joke made her stiffen slightly. She relaxed as we shuffled inchwise into the entrance hall. Two beefy women at tables near immense pillars began a long exchange with our courier. Natasha hadn’t even glanced at me. Fine, but if she was secretly one of Mangot’s lot, and I was as valuable as he said, shouldn’t she at least have counted us to make sure I hadn’t slipped away among the Russian families thronging the place? The noise was of a subdued pandemonium. Natasha’s conversation with the two ticket women seemed heated, became friendly, went back to anger, then full of dismissive merriment. I saw Ivy suppress smiles as the verbal brawl went on.

  “Can’t we get in?” I asked her. Almost too nervous to speak, I was desperate to see the rarest collection on earth.

  “Of course. It is already decided. They see each other every day. St Petersburg people can’t resist gossip.”

  We were let in after more delay. No tickets seemed to be handed over despite our numbers. I asked Ivy why. She gave an enigmatic smile. Another mystery? It was quarter to eleven.

  Natasha assembled us round her coloured umbrella and racked her delivery up another load of decibels to tell us of the history of the Hermitage. I switched off. Like everybody else, I already knew of Catherine the Great. That empress was a true con artist, playing off every other national leader for gain – and any gain would do. She chiselled away at Walpole to con him out of over a dozen Van Dykes, in exchange for a grotty portrait of herself. (He was our start-up prime minister, so was easily twisted.) Her famous Ten Commandments is in every schoolkid’s essays these days; I like her Seventh, Do not sigh or yawn, but hate the thought of her Eighth, Agree to join in any suggested game, without saying what the games would be. Her best was her First Commandment, Leave your rank at the door with your hat and sword.