A lesson? I wanted to strangle him. How could he do this to me? His own son. This was betrayal of the highest order.It was the worst moment of my young life.
He then repeated the admonition, that we had to keep what we chose, so I had to think fast. After running through a few ideas, some of which involved serious violence, I changed course. I took out the doll, told my sister and parents how happy I was, then informed them all that Patti Playpal would make a terrific target out on the street, where my friends and I could practice our aim, hitting it bows and arrows or rocks.
My mother tried to intercede, but I said fair is fair. If I wanted to fill the doll full of holes, or rip her limb from limb, it was mine to do with as I pleased. Right?
Emily started screaming, then literally dove through the air, shoving the small box at me and clutching Patti Playpal for dear life. If I had to guess, I would say it was the ‘limb from limb’ comment that put it over the top.
I owned that Fanner 50 for many years. Long past the age when I had any use for it, I kept it in the original box on a shelf in the closet. When I was away at college, my mother threw it out in one of her fits of Spring cleaning, but I wish I still had it. It was the best toy gun ever made, and another link to the past I shared with my father.
I was staring at Gilles as I looked at my father’s letter again. It said, “When Benny and I stole the Money in France we knew the risks.” One of the water stains fell directly over the “y,” which now turned out not to be a “y” at all, but a “t.”
I took a deep breath, feeling as if the air had gone out of my lungs all at once. “A Monet? As in, Claude Monet?”
Gilles smiled at me.
“You mean these water drops were intentional?”
“Mais oui.”
I lowered my voice to a whisper now. “He was talking about a Monet painting?”
“Yes,” he replied, probably thinking me an imbecile at this point, or at least slow on the uptake.
From that evening when I first read my father’s letter, I had my doubts about the entire thing, concerns I carried all the way to France. Was there really any money? Whose money was it? What trouble would I be in if I found it? Would his old friend Gilles even acknowledge that he knew what I was talking about?
Through all of that, though, I assumed my father was talking about dollars, a heist, who knows what?
But he was talking about a Monet, and Monet paintings are worth millions of dollars. Millions.
I had more questions than I could organize, but the first one was easy. “Where is the painting now?”
“Of course, you will want to know that,” the old man allowed, “but first there are other things you must understand.”
I picked up my glass of Bordeaux and unceremoniously drained it. “I’m listening.”
Monsieur de la Houssay leaned toward me. “Most of the artwork we recovered belonged to museums, some to large institutions, others to private collectors. It was a challenge, sorting out the proper ownership. Some of the owners had died in the war—some in battle, some in concentration camps—and others who survived had been wrongly deprived of what was rightfully theirs. Am I saying this correctly?”
“Yes sir.”
“These were problems that have carried over to the present time. For example, Swiss banks refuse to, uh, divulge, is that the word, to divulge ownership of money that has, shall we say, a questionable source. Comprendre?”
“Money and property taken during the war. Especially from the Jews.”
“Exactement. There were Jews throughout Europe who were fortunate enough to survive Hitler, yet still faced problems reclaiming their property.”
Our waiter, seeing my empty wine glass, stopped by to fill it up, which finished the bottle. Gilles asked him to bring another of the St. Julien.
“You like the wines of Bordeaux?” he asked me.
“Yes, very much.”
“There are also white wines from that region.”
“I prefer red.”
“As do I. Beychevelle is a very reliable Chateau.”
“You were talking about the Jews.”
“Ah.” He took a moment to find his place. “It was horrible. Many Jews lost their lives, their families—I have said this already, yes? But it cannot be said enough. Many of those who survived had their property taken, as I have also said, and we were to investigate and recover everything we could with the least amount of, what is the word, uh…publicité?”
“Publicity?”
“Précisément. As I also said, our work was, how you say, clandestine. Hush hush, they called it.” He laughed at the memory. “The Americans loved to say that, to say it was a hush hush operation. Americans, in so many ways, are young. Like children.” He smiled at me. “I mean no disrespect. I find it a most charming, uh, attribute. Your father was very much that way.”
I smiled. “He could certainly be charming.”
Gilles returned to their days in the service, explaining the process used to identify the missing artifacts, then track them down. Most of the items were taken by Nazi occupiers, but some were pillaged by those French collaborators who later falsely claimed an affiliation with the Resistance. That was why the government wanted to avoid publicity. The government did not want that sort of immorality to taint the reputation of their best and bravest. The authorities also wanted to keep these issues away from the inevitable bureaucracy of tribunals and hearings and red tape that comes with winding up a war.
“Your father, Benny and I, we were diligent in our work, and very honest. Believe me, this was an assignment of great honor, and we were proud of what we were doing. Of course, we took certain liberties with some of the wine we recovered, sharing it with local maidens who were pleased to celebrate their freedom with us. We were popular, as part of the liberating force. I am sure you understand.”
I laughed. “And I’m sure the local maidens were extremely grateful.”
“Ah, indeed, indeed. What I am trying to explain, is that we never intended to do any wrong. We were patriots, and we retrieved millions and millions of francs in valuable treasures. I am sorry your father never shared any of this with you, it was a source of great pride.”
“He felt the need to keep it a secret because of the Monet.”
He nodded, then sat back in his chair and lit another Gauloises. “We were doing God’s work, believe me. And then we met Jean Paul Quoniam,” he said with obvious contempt.
The waiter brought the second bottle of Beychevelle, and Gilles waited until it was served before he continued.
“Quoniam was working for the Resistance at the start of the war. Then he came to believe that victory by the Third Reich was inevitable and turned coat. He sold out his countrymen, furnishing information to the Nazis from his participation in the underground movement, leading to the deaths of the many freedom fighters he identified. None of that could ever be proven, but I believe it to be true. When Vichy fell, Quoniam took the spoils he had accumulated and hid out in Alsace, where your father, Benny, and I tracked him down.”
“You also found what he’d stolen?”
“Oui. He had paintings and sculptures that belonged to museums and individuals, including various Jewish families living in France, people he had identified to the Germans so they would be arrested and taken away. When he was cornered, Quoniam tried to buy his way out, like the coward he was. But we could not be bought,” Gilles said, his voice strong. “You must understand, we did not make deals, your father and I. And Benny, of course. We were trusted with a sacred mission, and we believed in what we were doing.”
Gilles told me of how they arrested Quoniam at gunpoint, then sorted through his treasure trove and cataloged the pieces. All the pieces but one.
“It was so beautiful. You cannot imagine what it is to hold it in your hands and look at it. You lean it against a wall and ste
p back, your breath is taken away, yes? It was unmistakable, a Monet, there was no need to look at the signature to see that. A hazy sunrise with small boats beneath an orange morning sun. Beautiful. And without an owner.”
“How’s that?”
“It was incredible, but there was no record of this painting being stolen. Or missing. You understand? We checked every list, every claim. It was as if this painting came directly from Monet himself. We could not find any record of an owner.”
I sat back in my chair. “Provenance, right? Isn’t that the word?”
“Very good, yes. There was no provenance, we could find no history of ownership from the moment Monsieur Monet completed the last brush stroke on the canvas.”
“Don’t major artists catalogue their work?”
“You are well informed. Touché. But such records are not perfect, especially when one is dealing with a prolific artist. Even today, there are many, many cases in the French courts involving the authenticity of paintings. It is not an easy task, to recreate this history.”
“And so,” I said, “if there was no record of it, then finders keepers, was that it?”
Gilles burst into laughter that caused others dining on the terrace to turn in our direction. He leaned toward me again. “Ah, my friend, I can hear your father saying these same words to me, so many years ago.” He drew on his cigarette and exhaled, his movements as elegant as could be. “Yes, it was there, in our hands. No owner. No history. No one making a claim.”
“And so you decided to keep it? Simple as that?”
“Ah, if only it had been so simple. You see, after his arrest, the weasel Quoniam tried to make deals with everyone he met en route to prison. He knew every piece he had stolen and, when he was confronted with an inventaire of his plunder, he raised the issue.”
“Inventaire? Like inventory?”
Gilles smiled. “Yes. Quoniam insisted there was a Monet not on the list. He could see that it was not there and accused us of taking it. By then, of course, we had no choice to give it back, even if we wanted to. We had to say he was lying. Our impulse, as you gave me the word before, was not to include it in our list since we had not found an owner. Once we did not record the paining, we had no choice but to deny the accusation.”
“This guy Quoniam was a liar, a traitor, and a thief. Why would anyone believe him?”
“It was not a matter of belief. It was a matter of caution. It was, as I have said, a difficult time for France. There was paranoia and, in this case, I have to admit, it was justified.” The admission saddened him, even now. “If we could have found the owner we would have given it up. Perhaps, if there was a way to explain its exclusion from our list, we would have given it back then and there and the matter would have been complete. But we could not, not without admitting our improper intent, so we never did. And in all these years, no one has ever stepped forward to say, ‘There is a missing painting that is mine,’ ‘my father’s,’ ‘my grandfather’s.’ You see?”
“What if it belonged to a Jewish family that was wiped out in the Holocaust? I’m sure you considered that possibility.”
“Mais oui. And we tried to find whatever we could, especially after we were investigated ourselves. We came to believe the painting had never been outside France. As your father would say, how could one steal something that no one seems to own?”
“He had a point.”
Monsieur de la Houssay managed another sad smile. “Perhaps. Unfortunately the authorities would never see it that way. The intelligence agencies have never completely given up the suspicion Quoniam created. Still, as you properly said, no provenance exists. Not even a description of this painting in Monet’s records. It could not be identified even if it were hanging on the wall of this restaurant.”
“Could it be a forgery?”
He uttered a brief laugh. “My young friend, this is no forgery. This is Monet.”
“And all these years later, the police still suspect—”
“Oh yes, I see the surprise on your face. Why do you think this became so difficult? This episode, in many ways, deprived me of my friendship with your father and Benny. Our contact became very limited. It was a great price to pay, I assure you.”
I nodded.
“And the ownership, even the existence of this painting, remains an unsolved mystery.”
I held my breath and asked, “But you still have it?”
Gilles let out a sigh. “No, I believe that you have it.”
I drew back. “I didn’t even know about a painting until twenty minutes ago.”
“I believe you,” he replied patiently.
As I was about to ask what he meant by that little paradox, Donna returned.
“I’m sorry,” she said, a bit out of breath as she took her seat. “I know you two have things to discuss, but there’s something I think I should tell you.”
Gilles and I waited.
“I took a walk around the village,” she said. “It’s awfully nice, by the way. Then I came back, thinking I’d sit inside, near the bar, until you came for me.”
“And?”
She turned to me. “Guess who was sitting at the bar when I got back?”
At that point, I don’t think I could have been shocked by anything.
“The man in gray,” she said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“The man in gray?” Gilles asked.
I explained that I thought there was a man watching us, and how Donna thought I was nuts.
“Aha,” he exclaimed in a whisper. “Interpol.”
The two of us stared at him. “Interpol?” Donna repeated.
“Yes. Not to worry. Does this man have gray hair, ordinary features, medium height and weight?”
Donna said he did, which only describes about a half billion people in the world.
Gilles got to his feet. “Pardon, allow me a few moments.”
Donna and I stood up too, then watched him slowly amble toward the doors that led him inside.
“What’s going on?” she asked as I fell back into my chair with a dull thud. She took her seat beside me.
“I’m not sure.”
“Did he tell you what you needed to know?”
“Some of it. I’m still having a hard time putting it all together.”
“You mean putting together what he told you and what Benny told you?”
I felt a slight shiver run up from the base of my spine.
“Benny?”
“Wasn’t that your father’s friend in Las Vegas?”
What she said seemed fine, it was the way she said it that sounded too familiar, too knowing.
“Yes.” I looked at her, and her sparkling blue eyes danced away from my gaze.
“God, this is just awful,” she said.
I found myself staring across the courtyard at an elderly couple enjoying their candlelight dinner. They appeared to be French, and I guessed they were talking about their children, or maybe their grandchildren. Perhaps they were just discussing what they were going to do tomorrow. They looked like they fit together. When I turned to Donna again, she was watching me, her eyes rimmed with a touch of red.
“Is there something you want to tell me?” I asked her.
She hesitated, then said, “Everything has gotten so complicated.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” I said, then spotted Gilles coming through the courtyard door. “We should talk about this later”
“We will. I promise,” she whispered.
As Monsieur de la Houssay made his way back across the stone terrace, I noticed how gingerly he walked. He seemed older than when he was sitting at the table animated by the obvious pleasure he took in sharing his stories with us. Donna and I watched in silence as he eased himself into his chair.
“Well my young friend, I can assure
you that you are not crazy. The man who has been watching you is an old friend of mine, although some may find that hard to comprehend. His name is Frederique Durand, and he would very much enjoy meeting with us. I invited him to join us for dessert, if you have no objection.”
I leaned against the back of the wrought iron chair. “Who is he?”
“Inspector Durand is an officer of the law, and has more than a passing interest in our, shall we say, our situation.” Then, turning to Donna, he said, “Some more Beychevelle, my dear? This second bottle has breathed enough, please have another glass with us.”
I found myself wondering about the oil painting of a Provençale landscape Blackie brought back from France. I knew enough to know it was no Monet, but it was a painting, the only painting he had ever given me.
As for a Monet, if Gilles was correct and I had the thing, I never noticed.
Gilles had described the Monet oil in great detail, the small boats, blue sea, orange sun and the shimmering reflections on the water. I’d seen Monets like that, but only in museums. Gilles also said that the painting was pretty fair in size, about a meter across and two thirds of that in height.
Not something I would miss if I had ever seen it.
While I was running through the possible whereabouts of the Monet, I had some random thoughts about Donna. There’s a screen in my brain that displays headlines twenty-four hours a day, like the building in Times Square, and believe me, while the rest of my tortured mind was trying to work everything out, my cousin Frank’s name was brightly flashing there.
And what about Gilles? He wanted to introduce me to Interpol. What was I missing?
What if I was the target of an elaborate plot to recover the painting, or worse, to steal the painting back from those who had stolen it in the first place? What if there was no painting, that this was all about something else entirely?
My stomach began to ache.
Gilles read the look on my face. “I know,” he said warmly, “this is all a great deal to absorb.”
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