by Karen Swan
She well knew, of course, that the area had been a mecca for some of the biggest names in the French modernist art scene – just 100 metres away sat the famous Colombe d’Or hotel where Picasso and Dalí and Braque had paid for their lodgings with works of art which, even now, graced the cracked, unpainted walls of the otherwise modest establishment. She knew too that both the art world and the film world had converged here in the 1950s to create a sort of golden age for the town that rivalled the glamour of nearby Cannes for attracting big star names. But she hadn’t counted on the sheer number of studios and ateliers still in operation here.
Of course, much of it was tourist tat, feeding the artistic appetites of the hordes attracted to the town’s distinguished heritage, but there was some true quality as well and several times she stood with her face pressed to glass windows, hands cupping her head as she tried to see more, stepping inside to get artist details. She even found herself looking in the windows of an estate agent, intrigued to find out how much an apartment went for here – a lot, it transpired.
Mostly, though, she was propelled along by the crowd, her gaze switching left and right, glancing at every shop name as she looked for Attlee & Bergurren, Jacques’ aunt’s gallery and her reason for being here – but half an hour after stepping through the arch, she was thoroughly lost. She had no idea where she was in the walled town, only that she had turned left twice and right three times, climbing a total of four separate stepped alleys, and was now staring at a street sign, a hand-painted rock affixed to the wall by iron hooks, that read Rue de Derrière l’Église. So at least she knew she was behind the church then. That was something.
She turned on the spot, not sure she could even retrace her steps. All the winding, labyrinthine lanes looked so much the same to her eye. She had moved into a more residential area where the people who dawdled past her had their faces either upturned to admire the profuse window boxes, or else they were looking for street signs, or, with their sights on the ground, tracing the daisy designs set into the stones and trying to get back to the shopping streets. There was no sign of any locals, anyone who looked as if they knew where they were going.
A magnificent white jasmine tree was in full flower further along the street and she walked over to it, sheltering in the shadows again and reaching for the small bottle of water in her bag. She leaned against the wall, pleased to catch her breath, and watched as people slipped past her, oblivious to her presence. Unlike the look-at-me preening of the coastal towns – St Tropez, Cannes, Juan-les-Pins and Antibes – where the scene was all about people-watching, here it felt as though the buildings were the main event, history oozing through the walls and imbuing the place with a rare sense of permanence. It was almost as though the town wasn’t a man-made settlement at all but had been hewn from the mountain itself.
After a few minutes, she began walking again, taking sips of her water every few metres. Ines had said it was forecast to be the hottest day of the year so far and based on the scorching temperatures even at this tender time in the morning, she didn’t doubt it. Heat radiated back at her from the dark cobbles underfoot, the warm walls . . .
She rounded a corner and saw a narrow lane leading downhill to her right. She was sure she could see a flash of white, a shop window at the bottom, and there was a small tavern halfway down, two large oak barrels standing either side of an arch, clearly to attract the shoppers’ attention. She decided to try her luck down there, her sandals slapping against the stones as she skipped lightly over the steps.
She wasn’t ten metres away when a figure emerged quickly from the arch and headed off in the same direction in front of her, stopping her in her tracks. She would recognize him anywhere now. His head was low, a battered straw panama pulled over his dark hair, but she knew from the way his shirt was barely buttoned up – and the fact that even when it was, it was buttoned incorrectly – and the way he wore his car shoes with the backs pressed down, that it was Xavier.
What was he doing here? In a flash, yesterday became alive again and she found herself unable to move. Had he turned around he would have seen her staring after him, open-mouthed, but he didn’t and within moments he was almost out of sight.
She bit her lip, willing her heart to calm down. It didn’t matter that she’d seen him, that her head was full of questions – Why was he here? Had he followed her? – she was here to work, she just had to find the—
The gallery! Like her, he must have come to see his grandfather’s records. She ran down the cobbles and got to the bottom, looking in both directions.
She had been right. She was back on the shopping streets, but the crowds had multiplied in number threefold, and all she could see were shuffling backs and anonymous faces.
The hat! She saw it and began pushing her way through the hordes, ducking and slipping past all the people between her and him, trying to make up the distance. He was walking with his head down, as though he didn’t want to be recognized; he was walking like a local too, seemingly knowing exactly where he was going.
The street was climbing again, rising uphill, and it hooked left further ahead. He disappeared out of view. She tried breaking into a run but it was almost impossible with these crowds and shoes and this heat. By the time she had rounded the bend, he was gone again.
She stood, breathless in the street, her hands on her hips as she tried to work out where he might have gone. She could see straight down the lane from this aspect and there was no sign of his hat in the crowds; there were no lanes shooting off at tangents here.
Then her eyes took in where she was. She didn’t even need to raise her sights to the elegant gilded font on the boutique sign to see the words Attlee & Bergurren. The paintings, set on easels in the window, were enough (hell, even the quality of the display lighting was a world apart) – they were of an entirely different calibre from the pulp catering to the day-tripping crowds; this was the rarefied level of art she was trained to recognize, evaluate and sell to serious collectors. She pushed her way through the crowd over to the windows, recognizing a Marcel Canet in the right-hand one. She reached for the door handle and she pushed –
The door didn’t budge.
She pushed harder. Nothing.
She frowned and stepped back, only now noticing the handwritten note: Open at eleven.
Eleven? Who opened at eleven?
She pressed her face to the glass and looked into the office at the back of the gallery. Had they closed up the gallery at Xavier’s behest? Was he having a private appointment in there? It was owned by his grandmother, after all.
She rapped her knuckles hard against the glass, her breath obscuring the view, but no one replied. All the lights were off – save for the window display – and after a few minutes, she stood back in the street, wondering what to do.
It was 10.25 a.m. now, not worth going anywhere else. She looked around for a café and spotted one just a short way further up the street. Tiny square slatted tables were pushed against the walls, director’s chairs with famous Hollywood names emblazoned across the back. Flora hesitated. She would most likely spend much of her time ducking the elbows of passers-by but at least she would have a clear view of the gallery – and Xavier when he emerged.
She ordered a frappé and sat down, sneakily pushing out a potted hibiscus that was positioned against the wall, forcing the passing pedestrians to swerve around it and away from her. She sat and waited, feeling restless, her eyes on the still, dark gallery, waiting for the opportunity to see him again.
Listlessly, she looked around. There was a clothes boutique on one side of the café and a puppet shop on the other, both attracting lots of browsers. Across the street there was another gallery. She couldn’t see what was in it thanks to all the moving bodies shuffling past the windows but she could make out from the sign – Galerie Noir, written, ironically, in red on a white background – that it was small, a single unit only.
She sighed impatiently, drinking her coffee too quickly, looking away, l
ooking down the street, looking up it, looking at her watch, looking at her emails. Then she looked across again, her eyes drawn to the ombré effect of the peach-coloured render blackened in parts, an old wisteria hugging the walls. Her eyes came back to street level.
A rare break in the crowd suddenly afforded her a view of the display in the gallery window opposite and she immediately leaned forward in her seat, trying to get a better look. The quality shone! From what she could see, a giant verdigris bronze ball had been fashioned with two lovers standing atop it, except their feet spread like tree roots over the top of the globe, their arms – as they kissed – held over their heads and spreading into the canopy of an olive tree. The overall effect was whirling and euphoric, a sense of ‘rising’ lifting off it, the two tones of the bronze and verdigris highlighting each other.
Bodies blocked her view again. Dammit! Without thinking, she got up and wove her way over to the window, oblivious to the shouts behind her. It took a tall American man to tap her on the shoulder and say, ‘I think he means you,’ before she realized she had left without paying and she turned to find the waiter, furious, trying to push through the crowds towards her.
‘Pardon!’ she cried, fishing in her purse for 5 euros, trying to explain, but he simply snatched the note from her with a scowl and pushed his way back to the café again, picking up her cup and saucer and taking them inside.
Flora sighed and turned back to the window. The sculpture was even more impressive up close – the globe wonderfully textured like stippled oil in a painting, the twisted bodies of the couple so perfectly redolent of the striated trunk of an olive tree. Simply put, she’d never seen anything like it. Sculpture and decorative art weren’t in her area of expertise – Lydia in the New York office specialized in that – but she knew what she liked, her eye told her what was good even if she didn’t know the nuances of the market and she pushed the door open, determined to get more details to pass on to the team. They were always looking for fresh talent and new blood as future investments for their clients.
The sound of the bell alerted an elderly man to her arrival; he wandered into the space several moments after she’d closed the door, wiping his hands on a black apron that fell to his shins.
‘Bonjour,’ she smiled, lapsing into the language which had long since become second nature. ‘I’m interested in the piece in the window.’
He walked over to it, his expression softening as he took in the texture, evidence of the care and time taken with it. ‘It is striking, no? We get a lot of enquiries about it but I am afraid it is not for sale.’ He gave a comme ci, comme ça shrug.
Flora was surprised. ‘Then why is it in your window?’
‘The artist is a friend of mine. He allows me to display it as a way to bring customers into the gallery.’ He had the grace to look sheepish.
‘That’s rather unfair, don’t you think?’
He nodded. ‘Yes. I could have sold this piece a thousand times over but he does not sell his work. But if you’d like to take a look at some of my other artists—’
Flora smiled and crossed her arms. ‘You know, I’ve found in the past when someone’s told me something’s not for sale, what they really mean is that it’s not for sale until we get to the right price,’ she smiled, well used to haggling for her clients. ‘What can you tell me about it?’
The old man looked bemused by her directness. ‘It is called Love Three.’
She smiled. Of course it was. It shouted that from the rooftops.
‘It took the artist five months to make this model. Do you see how the feet are not riveted or bolted on here, but formed from the one piece? He is an artist of talent and patience.’ The old man chuckled.
‘And what’s his name?’
‘Yves Desmarais.’
‘I’d love to know more about him and to see more of his work.’ She reached into her bag and handed him a business card. ‘I assure you I’m very serious. I have a lot of clients that I know for a fact would be interested in this.’
The old man stared at the card and then at her, his small brown eyes staring at her deeply before he nodded. ‘Well, in fact he is here . . . Would you like to meet him?’
‘Yes, I would,’ Flora replied with pleasant surprise.
‘Wait here, please. He’s in the workshop at the back.’
‘He works here?’
‘Sometimes.’
Flora felt her heart quicken again. If she could get a preview of any of his other work, she could distribute it to the team and get first dibs on the pieces, maybe before they were even made. ‘I can’t wait to make his acquaintance,’ she smiled.
The old man nodded. ‘I shall bring him through.’
Flora rubbed her hands together as the owner disappeared into the back of the unit, scuffing her feet as she walked slowly around the rest of the space. There were other pieces by an artist working with driftwood, creating organic representations of horses and other wildlife, but whilst they were accomplished, they in no way touched the vision or expertise of the bronze artist. She stopped to admire a rendering of a bull – this one worked without any of the same texturizing. The angles were rounder and more contoured, in the school of Barbara Hepworth.
A sound made her start and she turned expectantly.
The old man was back in the doorway, but he was alone. ‘My apologies,’ he said with an awkward smile. ‘But the artist is currently working and cannot be disturbed. It was wrong of me to offer an introduction without checking he was free, first.’
‘Did you tell him I . . .’ Her voice faded away as she caught sight of something behind him on a hook.
A battered hat.
She looked up and saw a CCTV camera on the wall, realized she was standing centre stage for it.
All became clear.
‘Well, that’s quite all right,’ she said, feeling her cheeks burn, the rejection sting. She reached for the handle and pulled the door open too hard, the bells jangling noisily, for too long. ‘Goodbye.’
She flung the door closed behind her and strode down the street, trying to get out of sight of the gallery and its cameras as fast as she could. Attlee & Bergurren was finally open – the lights inside telling her so – and she dived in, grateful for the refuge, aware of the irony that although she was the one running, she wasn’t the one hiding.
Bruno was heavily involved in a serious game of pétanque with a seventy-year-old local when she finally met up with her friends at the café. Flora was relieved to see they were sitting in the shade, Ines chatting away merrily with the people at the next table.
Flora plonked her bag down and threw herself into the chair, sitting slumped as she watched Bruno throw the boule.
‘You look cross,’ Ines said, disentangling herself from the neighbouring conversation and pulling her chair round to face Flora.
‘Me? No,’ Flora said, pulling a nonplussed face, watching as the ball landed heavily on the ground, sending up a dust cloud. ‘I’m not cross.
‘Stressed then.’
Flora shook her head. ‘No.’
There was a short pause, Ines lighting up a cigarette and watching her friend suspiciously. ‘So how did you get on?’
The waiter came over and took her order for a glass of rosé.
‘So-so. I’ve got copies of all the acquisitions Von Taschelt made between 1938 and 1942. It doesn’t help me much for anything he bought after then, which is probably when he acquired most of what we’ve found in the apartment, but it’s something to work with. I’ll cross-reference the descriptions against my own inventory and see if I get any hits. It’ll be quicker than going to the cat rais of every-single-different-artist,’ she said, bouncing those lost words with a groan.
Ines looked back at her blankly. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. The cat what?’
‘Never mind,’ Flora said, shaking her head irritably, her eyes still on the game.
‘Well, so long as it wasn’t a wasted morning, because I wish you’d been with me ea
rlier. I bought the most amazing dress in a boutique in Cannes. You’d have loved it.’
Flora doubted that. She wasn’t interested in shopping right now. She sighed. ‘Let me see.’
Ines reached down and pulled out a long white silk jersey dress with a red abstract apple print and draped shoulders.
‘Gorgeous,’ Flora said listlessly, reaching out to touch the fabric. ‘I can totally see you in it.’
‘Yeah?’ Ines grinned as she folded it back into the bag. ‘What about you? See anything you liked? There’s a lot of rubbish in there, no?’
‘Yes, but there was some quality stuff as well.’
‘That is the thing – it’s either tourist rubbish or high, high-end for the Russians.’
‘Give me that,’ Flora said, reaching out for the cigarette suddenly.
Ines looked back in surprise. ‘But you don’t—’
‘Just – give,’ Flora demanded bossily, brooking no argument.
Ines handed it over, looking back at her in open bewilderment now. Flora took a drag, not even having to suppress the urge to cough; she was so keyed up, even her body was toeing the line. She was quiet for a few moments, knowing she’d aroused Ines’s suspicions now with her uncharacteristic behaviour. ‘Have you ever heard of a sculptor called Yves Desmarais?’
She watched Ines’s features carefully for signs of recognition. Thanks to her family’s old-school connections and her crossover status in Paris’s cool bohemian-hipster scene, she knew everyone and everything.
‘No. Never heard of him.’
‘No? He’s good. Excellent, in fact.’ Every word was like a staccato point.