Caravaggio's Angel

by Ruth Brandon

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Why is that, if I may ask? Or perhaps you couldn’t.’

  ‘No, I probably could.’

  In fact there was no probably about it. Like so many of the women I knew I’d once found myself unexpectedly and inconveniently pregnant, and had a termination. It wasn’t a decision I regretted, though inevitably I some-times wondered how things would have turned out if I’d had the child. ‘It just never seemed to be the right moment. So it didn’t happen. It’s as you were saying. Circumstances.’

  ‘And are you successful in your work?’

  Surprised – this was the last question I’d have expected – I said, ‘I suppose I am. Quite. Not as much as I’d want. But then, is one ever? Even if I seemed, as you say, suc-cessful to other people, I don’t expect that’s how I’d think of myself. Not in those terms. I mean, is there ever a moment when you say, Yes, I’ve done it, I’ve got where I wanted?’

  ‘It’s hard to imagine,’ she agreed.

  ‘Impossible. And if you’re a woman there are always too many choices. If you’re not careful you can fall between all the stools.’

  ‘Not when I was a girl,’ Juliette replied firmly. ‘There were no choices then. I suppose that was one reason I ran away. I’m not a very domestic person, I’d have liked a career, and in the convent that was a sort of blasphemy. In the end, of course, domesticity was what I got. Most women did, in my generation. But what I dreamed of was a life like yours. In your place, though, I’d imagine that’s the question I’d always be asking. Am I successful enough to compensate?’

  ‘Put like that . . .’ I couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘Excuse me – I must seem very impertinent. I was inter-ested, that’s all. Isn’t that why this exhibition of yours is so important to you?’

  ‘I think it would be important anyway. But you’re right, it means a lot to me. Madame, can I ask a favour?’

  ‘You can ask, of course.’

  ‘I’d like to look at the picture again. Perhaps take a photo or two.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ she said after a while. ‘And there are some other things I can show you that might interest you.’

  Stiffly she rose from her chair and led the way into the château, turning on lights as she went, so that the garden, which had seemed merely twilit, was suddenly plunged in blackness. We passed the Queen Mother, looking as always sweetly regal and pastel-tinted, and made our way through the enfilade to the study.

  Juliette lit a lamp, and the Caravaggio sprang into life. I brought my camera out of my bag – I’d taken Olivier’s advice about insurance and replaced the one I’d lost in Paris with a superior model, even smaller but technically more advanced. As I took the photos I thought of the young German who had stood in this spot sixty years ago – now, presumably, a very old German, if indeed he was still alive. I wondered what his memories of that time were.

  ‘Did you ever hear from the German after the war? Helmut Kopp?’

  She shook her head and said firmly, ‘Never.’

  ‘Did you ever wonder about him?’

  ‘I put him out of my mind,’ she said, and lowering her-self on to a stool in front of one of the bookcases, began searching among the folders and file-boxes that occupied its bottom shelf. Eventually she found what she was looking for and slowly, slowly, declining all offers of help, levered herself upright again.

  The object she now held out to me was an old notebook, with board covers and marbled endpapers. On its front was a peeling label upon which could just be made out, in faded round script: V. de Beaupré, achats 1910–1914. ‘I told you my grandfather was a collector,’ she said. ‘He kept a record of what he bought and where. He bought the Caravaggio in 1910. I thought you might be interested to see his notes.’

  I took the book to the lamp, but its faded writing was not easy to make out. It seemed to be a kind of diary, with records of meetings. Flicking through it I noticed some names – Mascagni, Sangallo – that rang faint art-historical bells. Hadn’t they been dealers around the turn of the nine-teenth and twentieth centuries? Perhaps one of them had sold Juliette’s grandfather the Caravaggio. But whether or not the book was relevant to the exhibition, it was certainly interesting, and full of the kind of detail that needed longer study than I could give it here – tonight, at any rate. I said, ‘Could I borrow it? I’d bring it back tomorrow.’

  Juliette considered this, then shook her head and said, reasonably enough, ‘No, I think I’d prefer you to look at it here.’

  ‘Then perhaps I could come back tomorrow morning? We’re both tired, and the light’s not very good. What time shall I come? Would nine o’clock be all right?’

  She nodded, clearly exhausted now, drained of colour, her skin stretched tightly over her cheekbones. ‘Perhaps a little later. I’ll call to tell you when I’m ready. Is there a phone where you’re staying?’

  I gave her the number of my mobile.

  It was past nine o’clock by the time I left La Jaubertie. I drove first to Meyrignac, where I ate a pizza in a café, then back to Les Pruniers. By the time I got there it was twenty past ten, and I went straight to my room. Various sounds – banging doors, someone talking on a mobile phone, a child briefly crying – indicated the presence of others. But they didn’t disturb me. I fell into bed, and into a profound sleep.

  I woke at eight, showered, dressed and went to find some breakfast, wondering if Olivier would be about. To my relief he remained invisible, though I caught a glimpse of Delphine in the depths of the kitchen, and we exchanged cheery bonjours. In the breakfast room the Dutch couple were once again deeply occupied with cheese. I’d decided that the quickest and best way to record the book’s con-tents would be to photograph them, so back in my room I transferred last night’s photos to my laptop and stowed the camera in my bag. Then I sat by the window and waited for my phone to ring. Nine o’clock, five past . . . By ten past I was quite sure Juliette had decided not to call after all. She’d had second thoughts, she was too tired – it was all off. Perhaps I’d written the number down wrong – perhaps she’d mislaid the scrap of paper . . .

  Five minutes later, the call came.

  ‘Régine? Juliette Rigaut. You can come now, if you want.’

  In the now-familiar driveway, I saw with relief that no other car was in evidence. Evidently Babette was still away. I parked in the usual place at the foot of the tower and rang the bell to announce my presence. No one answered, so I tried the door. It was unlocked: I let myself in, closing it behind me. There was no sign of Juliette in the garden room, but I knew she was up and expecting me. I ran up the staircase, but she was still nowhere to be seen. When I reached the salon I called out, ‘Madame, it’s Régine,’ but there was no reply.

  What now? She must be somewhere around, but I could hardly comb the house looking for her. I decided to go straight to the study and get on with photographing the notebook. Perhaps I would find her there waiting for me.

  Juliette was not in the study, but the notebook lay on the table beside the window, where we’d left it the previous night. The light still wasn’t wonderful – a lowering sky promised yet more storms – and I’d have felt more confident if I’d had a tripod to hold the camera steady, but I’d done this sort of work before, and it ought to be all right. Starting with the first page, I photographed spread after spread, without bothering to read what was written there. Time enough for that when the job was done.

  I’d got about halfway through when I heard footsteps approaching. They sounded too heavy for Juliette’s, but whoever this might be I didn’t relish being caught out in what might look like some underhand deceit. I hurriedly closed the book, put it at the bottom of a heap of papers on the desk, stowed the camera in my bag, and looked innocently out of the window.

  The newcomer reached the study door, then stopped short, doubtless surprised by my unexpected presence. Turning, I found myself face-to-face with the looming figure of Jean-Jacques Rigaut.

>   For perhaps half a minute we stared at each other in silence. He was dressed much as when we’d met before, in expensive leisure garments. But his expression was as unleisurely as possible – a mix of astonishment and fury, as though my presence was the last straw in what was clearly already a very bad day. I noticed a vein throbbing in his temple, and his forehead was beaded with perspiration. Had Juliette told him what she’d done to his letter? (Had I left it in my bag or decanted it into my suitcase? I sincerely hoped the latter – Rigaut in this mood would be quite capable of helping himself to anything he felt like possessing.) Or perhaps he had a migraine. Joe got them sometimes, with not dissimilar effects. If so, he’d be even more unpleasant than usual: migraine renders its victims exquisitely irritable. Where on earth had he sprung from? He must have arrived in the past few minutes and I’d been too absorbed to notice – unless his car was parked some-where out of sight, in which case he could well have been here all the time.

  ‘May I ask what exactly you’re doing?’ he demanded, not unreasonably.

  I felt like asking him the same thing. Instead I said meekly, ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Rigaut. I’m waiting for Madame your mother. We arranged yesterday that I’d come round this morning. I rang the doorbell, but nobody answered, so I came in. I thought I might find her in here.’

  Well, you thought wrong. She’s away,’ he said.

  I felt the blood rise to my face, and knew my ears must be glowing red as traffic lights. ‘But that’s impossible. She telephoned me not half an hour ago, to tell me to come. She must have been here then.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken,’ he said coldly. ‘Do you usu-ally walk unannounced into strange houses?’

  ‘I wasn’t unannounced. I told you, Madame your mother asked me to come.’

  He glared, then swept the room with that restless gaze of his, glancing first at the picture – still there – and then, or so it seemed to me, checking that all the small, movable objects were in their accustomed places. Just when I thought he was going to ask me to open my handbag for inspection he said, ‘And what exactly were you hoping to do when she arrived?’

  I felt disinclined to tell him about the notebook, still less that I’d already photographed part of it. In his current mood he’d probably demand my camera and insist on deleting the photos then and there. I’d already lost one camera to him, indirectly – quite enough, in my view. And I wanted to look at what I’d got. Of course there was no way of knowing if I’d photographed the relevant bits, but it was possible: I’d done about half the book, a fifty-fifty chance. I said, ‘I wanted to talk to her a bit more about your father.’

  ‘I’d be grateful if you would stop pestering my mother,’ he said. ‘I’ve already made it perfectly clear that borrowing the picture is out of the question. She’s a very old lady, and I don’t want her tired by journalists. Also I think I should remind you that it’s not only impolite to break into other people’s houses, it’s illegal. Au revoir, madame.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Please go,’ he said. ‘I have things I need to get on with.’

  Arrogant pig! I decided to join him on his high horse – there was plenty of room for two, and what did I have to lose? ‘I’m not a journalist, Monsieur Rigaut,’ I said stiffly, ‘but a curator at the National Gallery in London. Forgive my asking, but what is it about this picture? What exactly is the problem about lending it? I’d be genuinely interested to know.’

  It was clear my question astonished him – perhaps less for what it asked than the fact that I’d had the nerve to put it. If he gave an order, people didn’t question it – and not just because he was Monsieur le Ministre: they never had. Some people charm their way up the ladder, some out-manipulate their rivals, but with Jean-Jacques Rigaut it was clear that, as his mother said, intimidation had always been the weapon of choice. ‘I don’t think I have to explain my reasons for doing what I like with my own property. Just because you’re desperate for something doesn’t give you the right to have it.’

  ‘I’m not desperate for it, as you put it, though it’s true I’d very much like to borrow it. And I still believe it belongs to your mother, in which case it’s up to her to say whether or not that will be possible.’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve lied? I’d be careful if I were you, madame.’

  He looked so angry as he said this – the vein throbbing so violently that I was afraid he was about to have a stroke – that it was almost an admission. For a moment I felt tempted to threaten him with lawyers – then we’d find out the real truth. But that would be stupid: quite apart from the expense (I could just imagine Tony Malahide’s expression!) the law was his to play with, and the odds would be stacked against me, whatever the objective situation. Better, and more effective, to try and defuse things. I said ‘Monsieur le Ministre, this is all getting rather out of proportion. You keep acting as if I’m trying to steal this picture. The National Gallery of London is probably the most respectable institution in the entire art world. We’re mounting an exhibition and we’re asking for a loan. That’s all.’

  He swallowed and breathed deeply, visibly calming him-self. ‘Please excuse me, madame,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to lose my temper.’ (Liar! That was exactly what he’d meant to do.) ‘But things are rather difficult just now. The fact is, it’s not possible either to speak to my mother or to borrow the picture. You’ll just have to accept it.’

  We stood there, looking each other in the eye, and to my horror I caught myself thinking how attractive he was. The sheer furious intelligence in that face was something you don’t often meet, and you don’t have to like someone to want to go to bed with them. The truth is, powerful men have that effect on me. Rigaut wasn’t the first I’d met, but he was my first demagogue, and even when he didn’t have a crowd to please you could feel his magnetism, lurking there like some dangerous animal. Caroline always said that whenever she met a magnate the first thing she won-dered was what crimes he’d committed en route to the top, and perhaps, shamefully, that was one reason I found power sexy. I was simply less evolved than Caroline. She’d progressed to the point where civilized values outweigh primitive evolutionary urges, whereas I was still unable to resist the sight of the biggest ape pounding his chest. In conventional terms Manu scored over his father in every way – he was young, good-looking, good-natured insofar as he allowed himself to exhibit any nature at all. But in the sex-appeal stakes he didn’t begin to compete. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, it seemed unlikely Monsieur le Ministre shared my present fantasy (which though brief was surprisingly detailed). Judging by the way he looked at his wife he wasn’t attracted to women of a certain age, and it was hardly probable he’d make an exception for me. Short of undressing on the spot (which might or might not have the desired effect) I’d never find out.

  There seemed little more to say, so I nodded with as much dignity as I could dredge up and said, ‘I’ll speak to Madame Rigaut another time, monsieur. Au revoir et bonne journée.’

  Have a nice day – that was what everyone said round here. In this case I felt it achieved exactly the level of subtle insult I was aiming for. Unwise, perhaps – but it made me feel better. If there had been anything to lose I’d lost it already. Rigaut didn’t respond.

  I left the room without looking back, got in my rented Saxo and drove off, resisting the temptation to wave good-bye out of the window. Bastard! There was no other car in sight: where he had sprung from I couldn’t imagine.

  Despite my nonchalant exterior, I felt extremely agitated. ‘You’ll just have to accept it,’ he’d said. But I couldn’t – not without answers to a few questions. In particular, where was Juliette? I had spoken to her: it hadn’t been a hallucination. Had he locked her in her room and forbidden her to see me? It looked very like it – and if so, that could only mean she’d told him what she’d done, and perhaps that I was on my way. In which case they’d have had a shouting match, and he’d gone his usual route and simply bullied her. But that was not just out of order, it was
ludicrous, excessive. Why should anyone do such a thing?

  If it wasn’t absurd – he was the Minister of the Interior, for God’s sake, after the President and the Prime Minister the most powerful man in France – I’d have said I had him rattled at some fundamental level. There was something he deeply didn’t want found out, and it was something to do with the picture.

  I drove back to Les Pruniers and found Delphine in the kitchen drinking a mid-morning coffee. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘How did it go? Have you found what you came for?’

  I said I had, more or less, and she asked if I’d be spend-ing another night. I said no, paid my bill and put my bag in the car. She then said she was just off to join Olivier and the children at a lake where they sometimes spent the day: the threatened storm had receded but it was very hot and heavy, and if I felt like a swim, she’d show me where it was on the map. But I declined. I had other plans for the afternoon.

  Delphine left, and told me to make myself at home. Wandering through the garden room she used as an office I found the phone directory lying on the floor beside the table. On impulse, I called Juliette’s number. But no one replied.

  I spent the morning in the orchard, reading and eating the greengages which were falling off the trees all around me, and waiting for time to pass. At two o’clock a combination of boredom and impatience convinced me that the moment had come, and ten minutes later, I pulled up for the second time that day outside La Jaubertie.

  There were still no cars in evidence, but judging by the morning’s encounter that didn’t mean anything. Rigaut must have some other parking place, round the back. I sat in the Saxo for a while, but no one appeared. The chairs beneath the cedar tree, where Juliette and I had spent the previous afternoon, were empty, and the windows all shuttered up – but that was normal in heat such as this.

  After ten minutes or so, I got out of the car, softly shut the door, and began to prowl round the outside of the house, turning first to my right, a side I hadn’t examined during my earlier explorations. The lawn here was less extensive, the trees closing in nearer to the château. In amongst them stood a stone outbuilding I hadn’t noticed before, a barn, with big double doors. I tried them, but they were locked. The grass in front of them was worn and slightly rutted. You could easily leave a car here. Perhaps it was here still. There was no way of knowing.