The New Collected Short Stories

by Jeffrey Archer

  Herr Grebenar did not come across Friedrich Bloch again until the artist was arrested a year later, on the far more serious charge of attempted murder.

  Grebenar visited the artist in prison where he languished while awaiting trial. He informed an incredulous Bloch that he was willing to defend him against the charge of attempted murder, but should he get him off, he would require a rather unusual recompense. Bloch, having gone through all his money, agreed to the lawyer’s terms without question.

  On the morning of the trial Herr Grebenar was inspired; he had rarely experienced a better day in court. He argued that as at least twelve men had been involved in the drunken brawl, how could the constable, who had arrived some time after the victim had been stabbed, possibly know which one of them had been responsible for the crime?

  The jury agreed, and Bloch was acquitted on the charge of attempted murder, although he was found guilty of the lesser offence of drunken affray and sentenced to six months in prison.

  When Bloch was released, Herr Grebenar was waiting for him in his carriage outside the prison gates. Grebenar outlined his terms during the journey to the artist’s home and Bloch listened intently, nodding from time to time. He made only one request of his patron. Grebenar readily agreed to supply him with a large canvas, several new brushes and any pigments and powders he required. He also paid Bloch a weekly stipend to ensure that he could live comfortably, but not excessively, while carrying out his commission.

  It took Bloch almost a year to complete the work and Grebenar accepted it was the weekly stipend that had caused him to take his time. However, when the lawyer saw the oil painting Christ’s Sermon on the Mount he did not begrudge the artist one mark, as even an untutored eye would have been left in no doubt of its genius.

  Grebenar was so moved by the work that he immediately offered the young maestro a further commission, even though he realized it might take him several years to execute. ‘I want you to paint twelve full-length portraits of Our Lord’s disciples,’ he told the artist with a collector’s enthusiasm.

  Bloch happily agreed, as the commission would ensure a regular supply of money for years to come.

  He began his commission with a portrait of St Peter standing at the gates of Jerusalem holding crossed keys. The sadness in the eyes of the saint revealed how ashamed he was for betraying Our Lord.

  Grebenar visited the artist’s home from time to time, not to study any unfinished canvases, but to check that Bloch was in his studio, working. If he discovered the artist was not at his easel, the weekly stipend was suspended until the lawyer was convinced Bloch had returned to work.

  The portrait of St Peter was presented to Herr Grebenar a year later, and the prosecutor made no complaint about its cost, or the amount of time it had taken. He simply rejoiced in his good fortune.

  St Peter was followed by Matthew sitting at the seat of Custom, extracting Roman coins from the Jews; another year. John followed, a painting that some critics consider Bloch’s finest work: indeed, three centuries later Sir Kenneth Clark has compared the brushwork to Luini’s. However, no scholar at the time was able to offer an opinion, as Bloch’s works were only seen by one man, so the artist grew neither in fame nor reputation – a problem Matisse was to face two hundred years later.

  This lack of recognition didn’t seem to worry Bloch so long as he continued to receive a weekly income, which allowed him to spend his evenings in the ale house surrounded by his friends. In turn, Grebenar never complained about Bloch’s nocturnal activities, as long as the artist was sober enough to work the next day.

  Ten months later, James followed his brother John, and Grebenar thanked God that he had been chosen to be the artist’s patron. Doubting Thomas staring in disbelief as he placed a finger in Christ’s wound took the maestro only seven months. Grebenar was puzzled by the artist’s sudden industry, until he discovered that Bloch had fallen for a steatopygous barmaid from a local tavern and had asked her to marry him.

  James the son of Alphaeus appeared just weeks before their first child was born, and Andrew, the fisher of men, followed soon after their second.

  After Bloch, his wife and their two children moved into a small house on the outskirts of Hertzendorf, Philip of Galilee and Simon the Zealot followed within months, as the rent collector needed to be paid. What pleased Grebenar most was that the quality of each new canvas remained consistent, whatever travails or joys its creator was going through at the time.

  There was then an interval of nearly two years when no work was forthcoming. Then, without warning, Thaddaeus and Bartholomew followed in quick succession. Some critics have suggested that each new canvas coincided with the appearance of the latest mistress in Bloch’s life, although there is little or no historical evidence to back up their claims.

  Herr Grebenar was well aware that Bloch had deserted his wife, returned to his old lodgings and was once again frequenting the ale houses at night. He feared that the next time he came across his protégé it would be in court.

  Grebenar only needed one more disciple to complete the twelve, but when no new canvas had appeared for over a year and Bloch was never to be found in his studio during the day, the lawyer decided the time had come to withhold his weekly allowance. But it was not until every ale house in Hertzendorf had refused to serve him before his slate had been cleared that Bloch reluctantly returned to work.

  Five months later he produced a dark, forbidding image of Judas Iscariot, thirty pieces of silver scattered on the floor around his feet. Historians have suggested the portrait mirrored the artist’s own mood at the time, as the face is thought to be in the image of his patron. Grebenar was amused by Bloch’s final effort, and bequeathed the twelve portraits of Christ’s disciples to the town’s recently built museum, so that they could be enjoyed by the local citizens long after both the artist and his patron had departed this world.

  It was over a game of chess with his friend Dr Müller that Grebenar learned his protégé had contracted syphilis and had only months to live – a year at the most.

  ‘Such a waste of a truly remarkable talent,’ said Dr Müller.

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ retorted Grebenar, as he removed the doctor’s queen from the board.

  The following morning Herr Grebenar visited Bloch in his rooms and was horrified to discover the state the artist was in. He was lying flat on his back, fully clothed, stinking of ale, his arms and legs covered in raw, pustulous scabs.

  The lawyer perched on the end of the bed. ‘It’s Herr Grebenar,’ he said softly. ‘I’m distressed to find you in this sorry state, old friend,’ he added to a man who was only thirty-four. ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  Bloch turned to face the wall, like an animal who knows death approaches.

  ‘Dr Müller tells me you’re unable to pay his bills, and it’s no secret you’ve been running up debts all over town and no one will grant you any more credit.’

  Not even the usual cursory grunt followed this observation. Grebenar began to wonder if Bloch could hear him. The lawyer leaned over and whispered in his ear, ‘If you paint one last picture for me, I’ll clear all your debts and make sure the doctor supplies you with any drugs you need.’

  Bloch still didn’t move.

  Grebenar saved his trump card until last, and when he’d played it, the artist turned over and smiled for the first time in weeks.

  It took Bloch nearly a month to recover enough strength to pick up a paintbrush, but when he finally managed it, he was like a man possessed. No drink, no women, no debts. Just hour after hour spent working on the canvas that he knew would be his final work.

  He completed the painting on 17 March, 1679, a few days before he died, drunk, in a whore’s bed.

  When Grebenar first set eyes on The Last Supper he recalled the final words he had spoken to the artist: ‘If you achieve what you are capable of, Friedrich, unlike me you will be guaranteed immortality.’

  Grebenar couldn’t take his e
yes off the haunting image. The twelve disciples were seated around a table, with Christ at the centre breaking the communion bread. Although each one of the Apostles sat in different poses and leaned at different angles, they were unmistakably the same twelve men whose portraits Bloch had painted during the past decade. Grebenar marvelled at how Bloch had achieved such a feat since once they had left his studio, the artist had never set eyes on them again. Grebenar decided there was only one place worthy of such a masterpiece.

  Herr Grebenar fulfilled the Maker’s contract of three score years and ten. As he approached death, he had only one interest left in life: to ensure that his protégé’s works would remain on permanent display in the town museum, so that in time everyone would acknowledge Friedrich Bloch’s genius, and he himself would at least be guaranteed a footnote in history.

  Two hundred and ninety-eight years later . . .

  It all began when a drop of rain fell on the chief sidesman’s forehead during Monsignor Grebenar’s Sunday morning sermon. Several members of the congregation looked up at the roof and one of the choirboys pointed to a small crack.

  Once Monsignor Grebenar had delivered his final blessing and the congregation began to depart, he approached an elder of the church to seek his advice. The master builder promised the priest he would climb up on to the roof and inspect the timbers the following morning.

  A preliminary opinion and a rough estimate as to the costs of repair were delivered to the Grebenars’ family home on the Wednesday afternoon, along with a warning that if the church council did not act quickly, the roof might well collapse. Monsignor Grebenar received confirmation of the master builder’s opinion from above when, during Vespers on the following Sunday, a steady trickle of rain began to fall on the front row of the choir as they chanted the ‘Nunc Dimittis’.

  Monsignor Grebenar fell on his knees in front of the altar, looked up at Friedrich Bloch’s Last Supper and prayed for guidance.

  The collection that followed raised the princely sum of 412 euros, which wasn’t going to make much of an impression on the master builder’s estimate of the 700,000 euros needed to repair the roof.

  If Monsignor Grebenar had been a more worldly man, he might not have considered what happened next to be divine intervention. When he had finished praying, he crossed himself, rose from his knees, bowed to the altar and turned to find someone he had never seen before seated in the front pew.

  ‘I understand you have a problem, Father,’ the man said, looking up at the roof. ‘And I think I may be able to help you solve it.’

  Monsignor Grebenar looked more closely at the stranger. ‘What did you have in mind, my son?’ he asked.

  ‘I would be willing to pay you seven hundred thousand euros for that painting,’ he said, glancing up at The Last Supper.

  ‘But it’s been in my family for over three hundred years,’ replied Monsignor Grebenar, turning to look at the painting.

  ‘I’ll leave you to think it over,’ said the stranger. When the priest turned round, he was gone.

  Monsignor Grebenar once again fell to his knees and sought God’s guidance, but his prayer had not been answered by the time he rose to his feet an hour later. In fact, if anything, he was in even more of a dilemma. Had the stranger really existed, or had he imagined the whole thing?

  During the following week Monsignor Grebenar canvassed opinion among his parishioners, some of whom attended the following Sunday’s service with umbrellas. Once the service was over, he sought advice from a lawyer, another elder of the church.

  ‘Your father left the painting to you in his will, as did his father before him,’ said the lawyer. ‘Therefore it is yours to dispose of as you wish. But if I may offer you one piece of advice,’ he added.

  ‘Yes, of course, my son,’ said the priest hopefully.

  ‘Whatever you decide, Father, you should place the painting in the town’s museum before it’s damaged by water leaking from the roof.’

  ‘Do you consider seven hundred thousand a fair price?’ asked the priest.

  ‘I have no idea, Father. I’m a lawyer, not an art dealer. You should seek advice from an expert.’

  As Monsignor Grebenar did not have an art dealer among his flock, he phoned the leading auction house in Frankfurt the following day. The head of the Renaissance department did not assist matters when he told him there was no way of accurately estimating the true value of Bloch’s masterpiece, since none of his works had ever come on the market. Every known example was hanging in one museum, with the notable exception of The Last Supper. The priest was about to thank him and put down the phone when the man added, ‘There is, of course, one way you could find out its true value.’

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘Allow the painting to come under the hammer in our next Renaissance sale.’

  ‘When is that?’

  ‘Next October, in New York. We’re preparing the catalogue at the moment, and I can assure you your painting would attract considerable interest.’

  ‘But that’s not for another six months,’ said the priest. ‘By then I may not have a roof, just a swimming pool.’

  When the service the following Sunday had to be moved to a church on the other side of town, Grebenar felt that Our Lord was giving him a sign, and most of his parishioners agreed with him. However, like the lawyer, when it came to selling the painting they felt it had to be his decision.

  Once again, the Monsignor prostrated himself before the masterpiece, wondering what his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather would have done if faced with the same dilemma. His eyes settled on the thirty pieces of silver scattered around Judas’s feet. When he finally rose and crossed himself, he was still undecided. He was about to leave the church, when he found the stranger once again sitting in the front pew. The stranger smiled, but did not speak. He extracted a cheque for seven hundred thousand euros from an inside pocket, handed it over to the priest, then left without a word.

  When they were told about the chance meeting, several of Monsignor Grebenar’s parishioners described it as a miracle. How else could the man have known the exact sum that was needed to repair the roof? Others looked upon the stranger as their Good Samaritan. When a part of the roof caved in the following day, the priest handed the cheque to the master builder.

  The stranger returned within the hour and took away the painting.

  This tale might well have ended here, but for a further twist that Monsignor Grebenar surely would have described as divine intervention, but would have caused Herr Grebenar to become suspicious.

  On the day the new roof was finally completed, Monsignor Grebenar held a service of thanksgiving. The church was packed to hear his sermon. The words ‘miracle’, ‘Good Samaritan’ and ‘divine intervention’ could be heard on the lips of several members of the congregation.

  When Monsignor Grebenar had given the final blessing and his flock had departed, he once again thanked God for guiding him in his hour of need. He looked briefly at the blank, newly painted white wall behind the altar and sighed. He then turned his eyes to the brand new roof and smiled, thanking the Almighty a second time.

  After returning home for a simple lunch prepared by his housekeeper, the priest settled down by the fire to enjoy the Hertzendorfer Gazette, an indulgence he allowed himself once a week. He read the headline several times before he fell to his knees and thanked God once again.

  Grebenar Museum burnt to the ground

  Police suspect arson

  The London Times described the loss of Friedrich Bloch’s work as devastating, and far more significant than the destruction of the museum itself. After all, the arts correspondent pointed out, Hertzendorf could always build another museum, while the portraits of Christ and his twelve disciples were works of true genius, and quite irreplaceable.

  During his closing prayers the following Sunday, Monsignor Grebenar thanked God that he had not taken the lawyer’s advice and transferred The Last Supper
to the museum for safe-keeping; another miracle, he suggested.

  ‘Another miracle,’ murmured the congregation in unison.

  Six months later, The Last Supper by Friedrich Bloch (1643-1679) came under the hammer at one of the leading auction houses in New York. In the catalogue were Bloch’s Christ’s Sermon on the Mount (1662), while the portraits of the twelve disciples were displayed on separate pages. The cover of the catalogue carried an image of The Last Supper, and its unique provenance reminded potential buyers of the tragic loss of the rest of Bloch’s work in a fire earlier that year. The foreword to the catalogue suggested this tragedy had greatly increased the historic significance, and value, of Bloch’s only surviving work.

  The following day a headline in the arts pages of the New York Times read:

  Bloch’s masterpiece, The Last Supper, sells for $42,000,000.

  MEMBERS ONLY*

  9

  ‘PINK FORTY-THREE.’

  ‘You’ve won first prize,’ said Sybil excitedly as she looked down at the little strip of pink raffle tickets on the table in front of her husband.

  Sidney frowned. He’d wanted to win the second prize – a set of gardening implements which included a wheelbarrow, a rake, a spade, a trowel, a fork and a pair of shears. Far more useful than the first prize, he thought, especially when you’ve spent a pound on the tickets.

  ‘Go and collect your prize, Sidney,’ said Sybil sharply. ‘You mustn’t keep the chairman waiting.’

  Sidney rose reluctantly from his place. A smattering of applause accompanied him as he made his way through the crowded tables and up to the front of the hall.

  Shouts of ‘Well done, Sidney’, ‘I never win anything’ and ‘You’re a lucky bastard’ greeted him as he climbed up on to the stage.