by Janice Law
Not that I needed much help at the moment. Although sometimes I missed louche Tangier’s brilliant light and ravishing colors, I can only really paint in gray and cloudy London, where the whitish sky provides an ideal, even light without much glare. Of course, compared to semitropical North Africa, London was cold and drab. With war damage and bombed-out ruins and the stink of coal dust, it was not a city to encourage false hopes; in short, it was my kind of place, and I got right to work.
More than anything else, painting gives shape to my life. I can do without it for a while, as a drinker can give up alcohol for a spell. I can cavort in Tangier or Monte Carlo or wherever, but sooner or later I need a brush in my hand and a canvas on the easel and an image fit to depict internal weather. The world I see is just raw material, and I usually find what I need in other people’s paintings or in artistic, press, or scientific photographs.
I don’t copy these; rather, I listen to their suggestions, and when I find the right source, the mental floodgates open. After my return to London, there were days when I could hardly get paint on canvas fast enough. I owed this to David, as well as to Muybridge’s photographs. All my adult life, I’d searched for the intensity that I found with him, and my new paintings tried to make sense of him and of Tangier.
By the time my dealer arrived several weeks later, curious about the work and anxious about her investment in the upcoming show, I had a respectable number of canvases finished. The two Owls from Tangier, a couple of large Popes, and—still on the easels and only half-done—my new work, the paintings of naked wrestlers after Muybridge. One pair of fighters was set in the sort of schematic room I often use. I like to create a space that is not illusionary but symbolic and suggestive like the compressed spaces of dreams.
The other pair was within a similar construction but with a floor of grass, and the bodies of the grappling men, lying one on top of the other in a wrestling move, looked like the shadow-striped bodies of wild animals. I was still painting the grass, a matter of lots of individual strokes in different greens, browns, ochers, and blues with a long, thin, liner brush.
Even though the painting was not quite finished, my dealer stood for a long time studying the wrestling men with her arms folded and her head to one side. She is short and dark with a blunt, square face, strong features, and a businesslike manner. The latter, thankfully, is deceptive. She is a rebel and a romantic and as fond of a gambling flutter as I am. But instead of roulette, she puts her bets on painting talent. Best of luck to her!
“This is very good,” my dealer said, unconcerned with (or possibly hoping for) a scandal.
Though I’d known the work was good, I was pleased, because it meant that an advance would be forthcoming. Even a broken heart could not keep me from going out on the town—or, recently, to the airport, where my charming steward sometimes met me on layovers. I liked to treat him to a good dinner, and champagne was becoming increasingly expensive.
Naturally, or maybe, unnaturally, I still wrote to David. I complained about the weather and prices and rationing, which was a way of saying that I missed him. He did not reply. I heard from friends that he was playing the piano nightly at the Meridian and that he’d moved to a smaller house. On bad nights, I thought about David a lot. On those nights, I stayed late in the bars in Soho and walked home down dark and deserted streets not many hours before getting up to paint.
On one of those nights, when my Chablis consumption threatened to overwhelm even my stalwart metabolism, I had the first inkling that something was wrong. I’d left the Europa well after midnight, but when I exited the Tube with the moon up and the Thames running silver, the world was so bright that I thought, bombers’ moon. Old habits of mind, especially old fears, are hard to shake.
I thought that was why I felt uneasy, that it was a little psychic echo of the Blitz and the rocket attacks. I was, after all, in an area that had been hit hard, and I still remembered the clouds of smoke and fire and ash. Yet, the next day, I remained faintly troubled. There had been no fire in the area, not even a big plume of industrial smoke or steam, which can still sometimes trigger memories of the war.
Sober and busy at my easel, I recalled something else: the sound of footsteps in the otherwise quiet night, footsteps that never quite resolved themselves into a fellow pedestrian, although I remembered looking back several times. Just footsteps. Was that right, Francis? Or had there been a shadow, too, sharp in the moonlight and glimpsed for just an instant before it dissolved back into the darkness of buildings or street trees?
In the light of day, night anxieties are supposed to vanish. Instead, I subsequently found myself increasingly uneasy, as I noticed one little oddity after another. Two nights later, someone followed four of us out of the restaurant where we’d met for dinner. I assumed that he was just another patron hurrying off in the rain, but there was a moment when I waved good-bye to my friends, two painters and a photographer, all very merry, and I’d seen—what exactly? A figure standing, as if waiting, in a nearby doorway. He lit a cigarette and discarded the match. Then a cab came, and I was whisked away.
This was an observation scarcely worth noticing, and yet, combined with other little incidents, it strengthened a growing sense that I was under subtle surveillance. Had there not been a few more people than usual wandering by the flat? Men out admiring the river, having a smoke? I now recognized one of them. He was the same short, broad-shouldered man wearing a raincoat and a fedora whom I had seen out on the sidewalk two nights running.
Possibly he lived in the area. Possibly he fought with his wife or his boyfriend and liked to get clear of the house for an hour. Possibly he had griefs and walked for consolation, or had troubles and walked in hopes of inspiration. I didn’t think so. The raincoat was ordinary, British-made, and the fedora was a decent one, but his physique—short, broad-shouldered, and powerful—reminded me unpleasantly of the colonel and his associates.
I told myself that surely the Soviets had realized Jerome Hume was a waste of time. In retrospect, I thought that even the colonel must have had some doubts, but he was dead, and who knew what his replacement might think? This led me to another disagreeable thought: what misinformation might Richard have conveyed to the Soviets? He was good at deception, witness all my tribulations as Jerome, and our man with MI6 had been very put out by my reappearance and furious to be bested by two amateurs. Could this be his revenge?
Probably my imagination was running away with me, but if not, I was in a real pickle. After a bad day in the studio when several canvases joined the debris on the floor, I decided to settle the matter. I came home quite early that night. I went to my bedroom, put out the light, and sat down by the window. Sure enough, after an hour, along came fedora-and-raincoat. I saw him clearly as he passed under the streetlight. He stationed himself a dozen yards away under a big plane tree, lit a cigarette, and seemed set to wait.
For me? I was debating whether I should go down and speak to him, when my landlord approached. Martin is blond, handsome, and rich, a charmer whom everyone likes and who has a way of putting people at ease. He noticed fedora-and-raincoat and said, “Good evening.” When the man replied, Martin began to chat with him.
I could not make out the gist of the conversation, but I could hear, unmistakably, that the man was a cockney, and I was embarrassed to have imagined a Soviet agent or one of Richard’s MI6 pals. “You’re not the center of the universe,” Nan used to say. Remember that, Francis!
Just the same, when I next saw my landlord, I couldn’t resist asking him about our neighborhood sentry. “Hasn’t he been around nearly every night?”
Martin laughed. “Talked to him the other night! What a character, really quite amusing. He’s a private detective of all things, working on a divorce case. He says it’s the most boring job in England.”
“I should think so around here. Who’s married and under seventy?”
Martin’s smile shaded
into doubt. Then he nodded. “He’ll be looking for the correspondent,” he said sagely, for he was qualified as a lawyer. “That will be it. As he put it, he was ‘sniffing out the love nest’—like something out of the Daily Mail. I love it!”
I did, too. I’d been prey to the most ridiculous notions, and when I came back very late the next night and noticed fedora-and-raincoat (did he not have any other clothes?) on the Tube platform, I gave him a wave, which seemed to disconcert him. I felt lighthearted. Tangier and the protectorate and spy services, friendly and unfriendly, were a thing of the past. I was painting with a vengeance and only needed more frequent visits from my friend the steward with the lovely physique to count myself happy. In retrospect, I was already on dangerous ground.
I came down early one afternoon, finished with a good day in the studio and ready for lunch, when Martin called me into the kitchen where he was sitting with The Times. “Did you see this, Francis?” he asked and handed me the paper. “I know you’re interested in Picasso.”
It was an article about an upcoming auction of “Modern Masters,” the highlight of the offerings, now on view at Sotheby’s, would be two vintage Picassos, including a “very desirable” portrait of Dora Maar and a “1930s ‘bone period’ image,” both from “a private European collection.” Right! I would lay good money that they were two of the fakes done by yours truly.
That afternoon, I got myself to Bond Street and went to see the paintings. There was a good variety. A nice little Bonnard—not my sort of painter, but still, bright and handsome; a Soutine portrait that I studied with real interest; and, in pride of place, the two Picassos, beautifully displayed in fine carved and gilded frames. There is nothing like the classic gold frame to set off a painting, and I resolved on the spot never to display my work in anything else.
The Picassos looked smashing, plus, they came with documentation as long as my arm. It appeared that they had gone straight from the master’s brush into a “notable Czech collection.” They were hidden during the war (hence assumptions that they’d been destroyed) and sold immediately afterward to one Hugo Kovar, the present consigner. I suspected that Hugo Kovar used to go about in the world as Herr Samuel Goldfarber.
Could I prove it? I looked at the paintings with great care. I had, as a sort of insurance, inserted my initials with very small, rough brush strokes in each painting, but now I looked for them in vain. Score one for authenticity, but what were the odds of two “presumed destroyed” paintings turning up immediately after I had painted copies of them?
No, these were my work, but Goldfarber, despite his homicidal habits and vulgar manners, was a pro. He had clearly inspected the paintings carefully enough to find and remove the incriminating initials. It was lucky for me that he hadn’t noticed them while I was still close at hand.
Goldfarber had then signed the Picassos very convincingly and used some idle hours to work up their provenances. Those were elaborate and complete; he’d done everything short of a trip to Antibes to have the old man authenticate the canvases.
I’d thought all along that even painted in oils my fakes would be obvious. I had not counted on the ambiance of a big auction house. The hush. The carpeting. The truly splendid frames. The flattering lighting. And most important of all, the presumption of greatness. I was fascinated, and I looked for so long that one of the staff came over. He was dressed in a gray conservator’s smock and wore white gloves—all the better to protect the artwork—and asked me softly (no one spoke even at normal volume in the presence of the paintings) if I had any questions. Although it wasn’t perhaps relevant at the moment, his thick black hair, rather rough features, and powerful physique lent him a thuggish charm despite his refined manners. Stick to the subject, Francis!
I introduced myself and said that I was a painter. “Studying the technique of the masters is always so valuable,” I said.
He agreed.
I asked some questions about the Czech collection and Hugo Kovar but learned little except that he was a wealthy and reclusive art fancier who wished to “further diversify his collection.” I’ll bet!
“Wonderful work,” I said quite sincerely, and I asked what time he got off work. Nan always said, “Stick to Mayfair, Francis,” and I thought that Bond Street was close enough. The upshot was that I met him in a pub an hour later for drinks. We got on so well that we went for dinner at my favorite Soho restaurant, which, as usual, was wall to wall with painters, so that Damien Worthing, not long out of Oxford, was impressed. That led to various entertainments of a more private nature, ending with drinks at the Europa Club.
I got back to my flat, satisfied on a number of accounts. I had no doubt at all that Hugo Kovar and Samuel Goldfarber were one and the same. Damien’s description was detailed; the erstwhile dealer and former KGB recruit was now a rich, reclusive collector with a weakness for strapping young men like my new friend.
“I’ll bet he has a posh house,” I remarked at one point.
“Rooms at the Claridge just at the moment,” Damien replied.
Nan would have been so pleased: Mayfair was going to be in my future after all. It’s an indication of my state of mind, that I was actually considering how best to contact Goldfarber/Kovar when I happened to look toward the end of the street. The lone light picked out fedora-and-raincoat. “Sniffing out a love nest” my foot.
I knew for a fact that no one in the neighborhood kept anything like my hours. No one. The same mental state that had led me to consider meeting up with Goldfarber now led me to start down the street toward the supposed private detective, but though portly, he was quick. He disappeared into the shadows, and I heard a car start up. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to look for Goldfarber. Perhaps he had already found me.
Chapter Sixteen
The next afternoon, I went to the Claridge and asked for Hugo Kovar. Mr. Kovar was not in. I tried calling the hotel that evening, but Mr. Kovar was not answering his phone. I declined to leave a message; he didn’t need to know that I was onto him. Not yet.
The Modern Masters auction was set for the following night, and I registered to bid to be sure that I would have access to the main room. I arrived in plenty of time, picked up a numbered paddle, and set a course for the drinks table. There were furs and tuxedoes and some very nice diamonds, but no sign of Goldfarber. Maybe the nervous consigner waited behind the scenes. Maybe the supposed recluse was going to avoid the auction and just collect his check. Maybe he would think to share the wealth with his forger. Or maybe not.
The auction started with some of the smaller paintings, a couple of hundred pounds here, five hundred there. The Soutine portrait I admired went for little more. I regretted not raising my paddle, but I wouldn’t have funds until—and unless—my upcoming show was a success.
On to the bigger name impressionists. A late Renoir, very red and pink. Wholesomeness that exaggerated begins to look like rot. A bigger Bonnard, quite a splendid landscape. With each lot, one or more of the white-gloved staff came out to present the painting, while the auctioneer, very debonair and carrying his voice up his nose, described the beauties of the piece, reassured us about its provenance, and kicked off the bidding as high as he dared. He was rarely disappointed; the crowd had obviously come with cash in hand, but I guessed that some of the wealthiest bidders were holding fire. They were waiting for what the auctioneer called, “the highlight of the evening: two splendid Picassos from the master’s vintage periods.”
With that buildup, I was thankful that I’d at least done them in oils. And they did look good, spotlighted tastefully against the dark velvet curtain. The whole process took the painting from the mess and smell of the studio with paint and wine bottles and cigarette butts underfoot, and in Picasso’s case, children running about, not to mention the wives and models and lovers—in short, the whole muddle and uproar of a busy life—and turned it into Art with a capital A.
The auctioneer starte
d at nine hundred pounds. This was impressive. I consider it a good day’s work if one of my pictures sells anywhere near that price, but the weeping Dora Maar took off like a V-2 and didn’t start to slow until she had made almost ten thousand pounds.
“Nine fifty. Do I hear ten? Ten thousand pounds. Thank you, sir. Ten, do I hear ten fifty? No, ten thousand pounds? Ten thousand pounds?” A slight pause, then he tapped the desk with his gavel. “Sold for ten thousand pounds.”
By the time the evening was over, Hugo Kovar, formerly Samuel Goldfarber, had cleared the better part of eighteen thousand pounds sterling. The bastard had pulled it off, wherever he was, and I felt that I needed a stiff drink. Not at the depleted drinks table, either. I wanted a pub, preferably a seedy one, a little psychic chaser after the luxury and deception of the auction rooms, where I’d been entangled but good in a very professional fraud.
Before, I’d had fantasies of exposing Goldfarber. How about a telegram to Richard? Goldfarber in London. Stop. At Claridge under name of Hugo Kovar. Stop. Fakes at Sotheby’s. Stop. I’d rather liked that idea before I saw how convincing the two “Picassos” looked. I’d have to prove the case, and it would be my word against the reclusive collector and the auction house. Confession in this matter might be good for the soul, but would be disastrous for my career and probably ineffective.
I’d also considered a little blackmail. I really did think I was owed something for damages after my time with the KGB, hence my visit to the Claridge and my calls to Mr. Kovar. Would I have been successful if Kovar had picked up the phone or accepted visitors? I’m not so sure. Perhaps I should have telegraphed the Tangier police commissioner, instead: Goldfarber hiding Claridge Hotel, London. Stop. As Hugo Kovar. Stop. Selling paintings. Stop.