Back Up
Page 29
Room 915 contained works of contemporary art. It was one of the smaller galleries in the museum, rectangular in shape, with a glassed-in area running along one wall. Blinds had been lowered against the bright sunshine.
Dominique spotted the canvas straightaway.
René hung on a side panel, to the right of two works by Andy Warhol. The painting was ten feet high high and six feet wide.
Dominique walked towards it in disbelief.
The portrait looked exactly like a photograph. Even inches from the canvas, he found it hard to believe it was a painting. Every detail was captured with striking realism, from the strands of hair to the creases around the neckline and the reflection of the camera flash visible in the man’s eyes.
More astonishing even than the technique was the fact that here before him was Jacques Bernier, younger, but immediately recognisable.
In the portrait, his mouth was half open. He looked stunned, even half-crazed.
A label gave a few details.
Andrew Fink. American. Born 1940
René, 1969–70
Acrylic on canvas
Private collection, New York
‘Welcome to Andy’s Corner!’
Dominique spun around.
A tall, thin man was smiling at him.
He wore a beard and had long, reddish-grey hair. His pale face contrasted with his billowing, vivid red shirt. Wide khaki shorts revealed his stick-thin legs. He was wearing Birkenstock sandals and held a rucksack in one hand.
Dominique smiled back.
‘You’re Andrew Fink?’
‘And you must be Dominique!’
‘Yes. You speak perfect French.’
‘I speak it better than I write it, is that what you’re saying?’
‘Well, your accent is better in real life!’
‘American keyboards don’t have accents, and every New York artist is a terrible, Francophile snob…’
Dominique laughed out loud.
‘I’m very happy to meet you.’
Andrew Fink shook his hand and gestured to his painting.
‘So, did you recognise René?’
‘Yes, he was a friend.’
‘Come and sit down.’
They sat on the padded bench facing a self-portrait by Andy Warhol.
Fink looked Dominique up and down.
‘So you came all the way from Brussels to talk to me about René?’
‘I’ve dreamed of coming to New York for a long time. I took advantage of the opportunity.’
‘I see. What do you want to know?’
‘As I said when I wrote, René was a patient of mine. He was tetraplegic, and could only communicate by blinking. Shortly before he died, he gave me your name. I discovered you knew him in Montreux, but I didn’t know why he had given me your name.’
The painter took a deep breath.
‘It’s an old story. I knew René over forty years ago. I thought I’d be rich and famous, back then. I was the leading light in the American Hyperrealist movement. I thought our art would be recognised and live for ever. We had our moment of glory. For a year or two, people talked about us, but we were forgotten soon enough. We were like downbeat, second-rate singers. A hit or two, and it was over. Except it only takes a few hours to write a song, but it takes months to paint a canvas like that.’
Dominique looked saddened.
‘It’s really impressive, I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘The critics killed us. We had no manifesto. Most of us worked in isolation, we didn’t know one another. We presented cold, mechanical observations of the world around us, free of subjective analysis.’
He rubbed his hands as if to chase the thought from his mind.
‘Well, that’s all over now! Let’s talk about René.’
‘Did you live together?’
‘No, not in Montreux anyhow. He shared my apartment in Vienna for a very short while. I don’t remember much about him. He was a secretive guy. He never said much, didn’t confide easily. I tried several times to find out about his past, but his story changed every time. Sometimes he hardly seemed to know his own name.’
He paused for a moment.
‘Between you and me, I think he had some kind of problem. But I liked him a lot. He was a nice guy. We only saw each other once or twice a week. We would drink beers and smoke dope. I talked to him about my painting. Sometimes, he would talk to me about rock music, and literature, when he’d had plenty to drink. One day, he left and I never saw him again.’
‘So why your name?’
Fink looked awkward.
‘Before he left, he gave me something.’
‘Something? What?’
‘Well it’s all a long time ago, but a promise is a promise, and I always keep mine.’
‘What do you mean?’
Fink stared Dominique in the eye.
‘I have to ask you a question and you’re allowed only one answer.’
Dominique’s eyes widened.
‘OK, go on, I’m listening.’
‘What was the first rock song?’
Dominique burst out laughing.
‘What?! You’re asking me what the first rock song was, and I’m only allowed one answer! I have no idea!’
Fink stared at him.
Dominique could see he was deadly serious.
He was about to give up when the answer came to him in a flash of inspiration.
‘I think I know.’
‘Go on.’
‘Perhaps it’s not the full title, but I think it begins with “Maybe”.’
Fink smiled.
‘I get you. I’m like you, I don’t know anything about rock music, but I can only hand over this item on one condition, a kind of password. ‘Maybellene’, by Chuck Berry. I thought about that again recently, in fact. Chuck was on TV publicising his latest tour.’
Fink bent forward and picked up the ruck sack. He placed it on his knees, opened it and took out a stack of school exercise books held together with a rubber band.
‘Here.’
He handed them to Dominique.
‘He didn’t say whether I could read them, but I’m an inquisitive guy, so I did. Well, I tried. But the writings inside are very confused.’
Dominique removed the band and opened one of the exercise books.
The pages were filled with dense handwriting punctuated with numerous crossings-out. He leafed through the book. The writing changed on every page; sometimes it was square and straight, sometimes right-leaning or left-leaning, with different-sized characters. On some pages, there were only a few words, written in huge letters. In addition to the crossings-out, some pages were packed with drawings, figures and diagrams, or notes added in red in the margins.
Fink sighed.
‘See, none of it is particularly clear. Basically, he says he made a record with a group in Berlin. Something happened at the studio. He tries to explain what. I didn’t understand much of it, but I didn’t read it in any great detail.’
Dominique weighed the books in his hand.
‘Well, he had a lot to say.’
‘Take my advice, don’t pay too much attention to it. He wasn’t in his right mind. It’s all fantasy. But do what you want with it. The books are yours now. Just promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘If one day, you ever make sense of it all, get back in touch with me.’
‘I promise.’
They stood up and shook hands.
‘Thanks for your help, Mr Fink.’
‘You’re welcome. I kept my promise to René.’
Fink glanced at the painting.
‘One day, I took a picture of him when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t like being photographed. He was a strange guy.’
They waved and went their separate ways.
Dominique became lost in the maze of galleries, and had to ask a gallery guard for the exit.
Outside, the sun dazzled his eyes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I admit to the occasional Web and Wikipedia search, for the background to my books. But reconnaissance on the scene of the action, and interviews with key witnesses, are of a whole other order of importance.
And so I must thank Guy Mazairac, an emergency specialist at the university hospital in Namur, who treated the hero of this story on the forecourt of Midi station, and gave him the name X Midi. A big thank you to Benjamin Legros, neurologist at Erasmus Hospital, who administered X Midi’s initial treatment. And to Pierre Schepens, a psychiatric doctor and chief consultant at the clinic in the Forêt de Soignes, for accepting X Midi into his establishment and allowing me to visit him there. And finally, Marianne Parache, neurologist and LIS specialist, who enabled X Midi to tell me his story.
A nod and a wink to Michel, wherever he may be, who left us too soon and may recognise himself in Dominique.
For the rock’n’roll years of X Midi’s youth, I give heartfelt congratulations to Marc Ysaye and all the team at Classic 21 rock radio. Devoted listening to their fabulous station provided a wealth of anecdotes from the history of rock, for the pages of Back Up.
A big thank you to Lydie and Maxime for their thorough reading and good advice.
And finally, a personal message to my original publisher: Pierre, the message you sent after reading Back Up takes pride of place on my desk. I don’t need to read it, I know it by heart. Thank you for this daily elixir of youth.
A Point Blank Book
First published in North America, Great Britain & Australia by Point Blank, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2018
This ebook published 2018
Copyright © La Manufacture des livres, 2012
Published by arrangement with Agence litteraire Astier-Pécher
English translation © Louise Rogers Lalaurie, 2018
The moral right of Paul Colize to be identified as the
Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78607-110-1
ISBN 978-1-78607-111-8 (eBook)
With the support of the Wallonia-Brussels Federation
This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Oneworld Publications
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