Caravaggio's Angel

by Ruth Brandon

  However, it wasn’t just the professional implications that worried me. It was the letter itself. A letter from a minister was not to be lightly dismissed. But Juliette hadn’t said anything about any co-owners. On the contrary, her letter – I looked at it again, and it hadn’t changed – clearly implied that she alone owned the picture and was entitled to make decisions about it. Who was I to believe?

  The answer seemed obvious: Juliette. Jean-Jacques Rigaut was a politician and a bully: on both counts, lying to get his own way came as naturally to him as speaking. It seemed clear there had been an argument about me and my request. That would explain the difficulty Juliette had had in coming to a decision. She’d known that for some reason he was against loaning the picture, and had assumed I was visiting her to ask for exactly that. Now he was determined that whatever his mother said, the loan would not take place.

  In that case, what the letter said was untrue. So we could disregard it.

  Whether that would be wise was another matter. I couldn’t see Tony Malahide agreeing to it. Jean-Jacques Rigaut was a powerful man, and no one in TM’s position wants to antagonize powerful men. The Gallery had constant dealings with France, on matters far more significant than this. And what about the consequences for Juliette? At her time of life she could do without yet more trouble.

  The sensible thing would be to speak to her – to ring La Jaubertie and put the matter before her. Then at least we’d know where we stood. But that might be problematic. Babette was the phone-answerer in that house. And Babette, I was pretty sure, was not my friend. I had a feeling that if I rang, and she answered, the news would pretty soon get back to Rigaut. And not just the fact that I’d called, but an account of any conversation between Juliette and myself. Nothing would be easier than for her to listen in on an extension.

  It was eleven in the morning. In half an hour I was due to meet curators from other publicly funded collections to prepare for an upcoming discussion with the Arts and Culture Minister; after that, an introductory essay I’d written for a catalogue needed a final proof-reading. But how could I concentrate on proof-reading with that letter burning a hole in my brain?

  I reached for the file box into which I dropped every-thing connected with Caravaggio and rummaged for the piece of paper with Manu’s number. At the other end, the phone shrilled – once, twice, three times, four times. No answerphone today, apparently. I was about to replace the receiver when he answered. He’d probably been sitting by it all the time, trying to make up his mind whether or not to ignore the call.

  ‘Allo, oui?’

  As on that other occasion, I’d so taken it for granted he wouldn’t be there that the sound of his voice threw me momentarily into confusion.

  ‘Allo?’ said the voice again, sounding impatient.

  ‘Manu? It’s Reggie Lee. You remember – I came to see you.’

  ‘Ah, Régine, of course. How are you? Are you making progress?’

  ‘On some fronts. That was what I wanted to talk to you about. I went to see your grandmother.’

  ‘Yes, she told me. And was it interesting?’

  ‘Of course. You know perfectly well it was.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘She agreed to lend the picture.’

  ‘Yes, she told me that, too.’

  ‘But now I’ve just had a letter from your father saying it’s impossible. He says she doesn’t own it, and the other owners won’t agree to lend.’

  ‘Ah.’ He didn’t sound particularly surprised.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘It’s possible. You never know, with my father.’

  ‘Would it be worth trying to talk to him?’

  There was a silence at the other end. Then Manu said, ‘No. I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  ‘Really? Why not?’

  ‘You could say he’s not naturally co-operative.’

  ‘Do you think perhaps I ought to wheel in the Director of the Gallery?’

  ‘No. That wouldn’t be a good idea.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Fortunately for you, you don’t know my father. My advice is, keep it that way. Think what’s already happened,’ he muttered, his voice so low I could hardly make out the words.

  ‘What?’

  But once again he evaded me. ‘What’s so important about this exhibition anyway?’

  That of course was unanswerable. Once you start asking questions like that, all action becomes impossible. What’s so important about anything at all apart from eating, keeping dry and warm and helping others do the same? ‘Nothing, really,’ I had to admit. ‘It’s my job, that’s all. It’s what I do.’

  ‘Then take my advice. Drop it. Exhibit something else. He’ll never agree.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Forget it,’ Manu said. ‘Just forget it. And forget him. OK?’ And he put the phone down.

  Think what’s already happened – what was that supposed to mean?

  I stared at the phone for a minute, then dialled Joe’s mobile. If I didn’t talk to someone sensible about all this I’d go mad, and who else was there? Besides, it was an excuse to get in touch. I hadn’t spoken to him on my return from Meyrignac – from his point of view there hadn’t been much to report. But this was different. This might be interesting.

  ‘You think he’s lying?’ Joe said. ‘But why would he do that?’

  As usual the sound of his voice made me long to see him. But he’d made it clear he didn’t want to meet. I’d heard rumours he’d taken up with someone else – some-one in television. ‘I suppose because he doesn’t want to lend the picture.’

  ‘That’s obvious. The question is, why . . . You’d think it might be a feather in his cap – look, I’m not just an oik, I actually own Art. In any case, if he’s lying he must realize you’ll find out. It could be damaging if it got out. I’m surprised he’d take the risk for – well . . .’

  ‘For something so insignificant.’ I finished his sentence for him. ‘He doesn’t care, presumably.’

  ‘So if he is lying, there’s something bigger behind it. Well, well . . . Have you seen today’s papers?’

  I had. Rioting had broken out again, this time in the suburbs around Lyons, and the Interior Minister had made a speech denouncing the rioters. If they didn’t like it where they were, why not try life elsewhere? He’d hinted there might be funds to meet the expenses of anyone planning to leave.

  ‘He’s trying to set himself up as the new strong man,’ Joe said. ‘Perhaps you’re messing up his arrangements. Though I can’t imagine how. Were you thinking of going back?’

  ‘To Meyrignac? I can’t think quite what I’d do there. I don’t want to put the old lady in a difficult position.’

  ‘Sounds to me as though she’s already in one. Well, if you change your mind, let me know. We might be able to help with the expenses. It’s all background.’

  Later that day, riffling through the back pages of my diary to find a name, I noticed a phone number in the pages covering my stay in Meyrignac. It was Delphine’s: Delphine, whose husband was also a journalist, and who came from those parts.

  ‘Delphine? It’s Reggie Lee – you remember, I stayed with you a while ago. To go to La Jaubertie?’

  ‘Régine – of course . . . Are you coming back?’

  ‘It’s possible. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about the Rigauts.’

  ‘What did you want to know?’

  ‘That’s the problem, I’m not quite sure. I wondered – you said your husband comes from St Front?’

  ‘Olivier? Yes, but I’m afraid he’s not here just now.’

  ‘Still in Paris? Surely these are the holidays?’

  ‘He comes and goes.’ Judging by her tone of voice, these comings and goings were arranged to suit Olivier’s convenience rather than Delphine’s. ‘He’s due back at the weekend. If you want to speak to him I can give you his Paris number.’

  I dialled. The phone was picked up almost immediately. ‘
Oui?’

  ‘Olivier Peytoureau?’

  ‘Oui.’

  I launched into the usual explanation – name, place of work, the exhibition. Delphine. ‘One of the pictures I’m interested in is in St Front, at La Jaubertie. But they don’t want to lend it, or rather Monsieur Rigaut doesn’t. The old lady agreed, but he’s just written to say it’s all off, she can’t lend it unless he goes along with it, and he doesn’t.’

  ‘You could ask him why not,’ said the voice at the other end reasonably.

  ‘Apparently it’s not as easy as that . . .’

  ‘No, that figures.’

  ‘It seems to be part of some sort of family quarrel. Delphine said your family’s from Meyrignac – the old lady seems to have been involved with your great-uncle, is that right? So I wondered if you might have any idea what might be going on. Or know anyone who could help me find out. Then I might be able to do something about it.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps we should meet. Will you be coming over sometime soon?’

  The budget wouldn’t really stand endless trips to France. On the other hand, I felt reluctant to ask Joe for money unless I really had to. ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘I could come to Paris. That would be easier than St Front.’

  ‘Okay, but I’m leaving Friday. Shan’t be back for a couple of weeks after that.’

  Today was Tuesday. Tomorrow was impossible, filled with commitments of various sorts. So was Thursday, but I could put those off. ‘Thursday?’

  ‘You really want to know this stuff!’ Peytoureau sounded amused.

  ‘I really do.’

  ‘Lunch?’

  ‘That would be good.’

  ‘I’ll see you at the Voltaire, then. Quai Voltaire. Twelve thirty.’

  The Voltaire’s frontage, slipped in amongst a group of high-class antique shops, was so discreet that you had to look twice: yes, it really was a restaurant. The interior was dim and old-fashioned, with red plush banquettes and white tablecloths. The maître d’hôtel pointed out a table at the back of the room where a youngish man, perhaps in his early thirties, was reading a newspaper. As I approached he stood up and held out his hand. He had black curly hair, cut short, and very bright black eyes, slightly slanted, like a faun. Also in the faun tradition, he was thick-set and not particularly tall: a rugby player’s figure.

  Neither the place nor the man before me fitted the slightly alternative character I had for some reason – per-haps because his wife ran a country b. and b. – ascribed to Olivier Peytoureau. He wore a well-cut cream suit with a black T-shirt, and was clearly at home in this distinctly bourgeois restaurant, most of whose tables were occupied by business lunchers. The Voltaire had been his choice, not mine, but he was doing me the favour, so this one was on me. And this was an expensive place – far beyond my tiny Caravaggio budget. I’d just have to foot the bill myself, and pretend I was back at the auction house.

  ‘An apéro?’ He grinned cheerfully across the table, clearly enjoying (as who does not?) the prospect of an excellent lunch at someone else’s expense. ‘A kir? A coupe de champagne??’ He held up his glass. ‘The champagne’s excellent here. Let me order you one.’

  I glanced at the list of drinks. A glass of kir cost four euros, champagne, five. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. I’m hot, I’ll have a mineral water.’

  ‘You’re probably right, one really shouldn’t drink too much at lunchtime. Especially in this weather.’ He studied the menu. ‘Let’s order, then you can tell me what this is all about. I can recommend the oysters here, they’re excellent. Direct from Normandy. Do you like oysters?’

  ‘It’s years since I had any,’ I prevaricated truthfully.

  ‘Now’s the time to try again, then. Unless you’d prefer something else?’

  I looked at the menu. Oysters did not figure on any of the the prix fixe possibilities. ‘I think perhaps I’ll just have one thing. I’m not very hungry. But you have oysters, if you want. I’m quite happy to watch.’

  ‘Well, then, I think I will. Sure I can’t persuade you?’ He looked at me with one eyebrow raised – a trick that as a child I thought particularly stylish, and tried endlessly, and fruitlessly, to master. In fact you can’t: it’s like waggling your ears, something you’re born with, or not. It gave him a rather consciously charming expression of amused inquiry that I found illogically annoying. ‘This is on me, by the way,’ he added. ‘Or rather, my employers. I can smell a story in here somewhere. I’m a journalist – did Delphine tell you?’

  I nodded. ‘But she didn’t tell me who for.’

  ‘It’s a scandal sheet, you almost certainly won’t have heard of it. Very sensationalist and downmarket, very successful. I want to move, but the pay’s too good. I’m looking for a golden way out that will buy me a good job somewhere a bit more reputable.’

  I said, to make conversation and because it might raise my stock, ‘I’ve a friend who’s a journalist – Joe Grissom. He does political stuff. Do you read the English press?’

  ‘A bit. Joe Grissom?’ He looked at me with new interest. ‘I know the name. D’you know him well?’

  know the name. D’you know him well?’

  I nodded. ‘Very. Is that the kind of job you’re after?’

  ‘That kind of thing. In French, obviously.’

  ‘And you think this may help you into it?’

  ‘You never know. If Rigaut’s mixed up in it. He’s such a bastard – the idea that he’s Interior Minister and can tell all the rest of us what we can and can’t do is, well, absurd isn’t quite the word. I’d really love to get something on him. Especially with this election coming up. He may even end up as premier – perhaps even President. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’ He raised his glass. ‘A bas les salauds.’ Then he waved to the waiter. ‘Some champagne for Madame.’

  We raised our glasses: I remembered, too late, that I don’t actually much like champagne. ‘Here’s to your story,’ I said. ‘Though I have to say, I don’t quite see how my problem could have anything to do with politics.’

  He shook his head. ‘In this country everything connects to politics. Especially money.’ He laughed again, so infectiously that I started laughing too, though what he had said was not particularly, indeed at all, funny. I suddenly found him sharply attractive – the first time I’d really fancied anyone since the break with Joe. But of course there could be no question of any of that. Whatever Olivier Peytoureau saw when he looked across the table I felt fairly sure it wasn’t a potential bedmate. A potential colleague, perhaps, a well-connected contact . . . In any case, he was married, with a family I both knew and liked. ‘Why don’t we start with six oysters?’ he said, while I was thinking all this. ‘Then if you like them we can order six more. Or a dozen . . . And a bottle of Sancerre? Or how about this Mâcon Blanc Villages?’

  We placed our orders, and the wine arrived, along with the oysters. I’d forgotten how refreshing they were, concentrated mouthfuls of ocean. The six we’d ordered vanished almost instantly. Olivier called the waiter and ordered twelve more; while we were waiting, I told him more about the exhibition – about the three pictures and the various stories associated with them.

  ‘A very small exhibition, then.’

  ‘Oh, very. Though of course there’ll be other stuff too – some drawings, and some other paintings. But I can’t afford to lose any of the central stuff. And the Rigaut brothers seem – seemed – determined to make sure it won’t happen.’

  Olivier swallowed his last oyster. He was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. ‘I wonder if there’s a connection?’

  ‘Between what? Them both saying no?’

  ‘Did you hear anything about how Antoine died?’

  ‘Not really. I was with his nephew when he heard about it’ – Olivier looked up abruptly: I enjoyed his astonished expression – ‘but all he knew was that his uncle had been found dead. The papers said they don’t suspect foul play.’

  ‘That doe
sn’t mean anything,’ he said dismissively. ‘You can kill people without actually murdering them.’

  ‘What are you saying, that Jean-Jacques murdered his brother?’ That seemed to me to be taking obsession to the point of fantasy.

  ‘I’m not saying anything . . . You say you were with Manu?’

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘A place like St Front, everyone knows everyone. Everyone’s related to everyone, pretty much. He’s a little younger than me, but we kind of grew up together . . . How did you meet him?’

  ‘You remember, I was telling you about that strange affair with the Surrealist who committed suicide. It’s become a sort of legend and I wanted to see the place where it happened. It turned out Manu lived there. The house belongs to his grandmother now.’

  ‘You say you went to see her?’

  ‘Yes, Manu gave me her address. The idea was we were going to talk about her husband. And then – there was the picture. I couldn’t believe my eyes.’

  ‘He didn’t tell you it was there?’

  ‘No. I knew it existed – it appeared in an exhibition fifty years ago – but it seemed to have vanished.’

  ‘Strange that Manu didn’t say anything about it.’

  ‘Isn’t it? When I first got there he wouldn’t tell me a thing – not even where his grandmother lived. I managed to drag out that she’d been married to Emmanuel Rigaut, and that Robert de Beaupré was her brother. But every time I asked him about her he changed the subject. Then just when I was on the point of leaving he heard about his uncle’s death, and for some reason that changed every-thing . . . Did you know about it? The picture?’

  ‘I think I vaguely remember it. A great big thing. But it’s years since I went there.’ Olivier tapped his teeth thought-fully. They were unnaturally white, like a toothpaste ad or an American college girl. Untrustworthy teeth, I always feel, at any rate in a man. ‘So what next?’