by Ruth Brandon
The call came a couple of hours later, while I was watch-ing the television news. Naturally it wasn’t the great man himself. The speaker was a young man, some secretary or gofer. ‘Madame Lee?’
‘Yes, who’s this?’
‘I’m speaking on behalf of Monsieur Jean-Jacques Rigaut. I believe you phoned him.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what this is about.’
‘I told you. Or rather, him. I don’t have any more to say than that. Except to him, that is. If he wants to arrange a meeting, I’m happy to fit in with his timetable.’
‘Madame, you perhaps don’t understand how busy he is . . . the elections coming up . . . I’m sure this can be settled over the phone.’
‘Unfortunately not,’ I assured him crisply. ‘It’s up to him. If he doesn’t have time to meet, then please assure him I shall publish, if not this week then early next.’
‘I’ll get back to you,’ said the voice and rang off.
Half an hour later he rang again. ‘Tomorrow ten o’clock. He can give you half an hour.’
‘Where would this be?’
‘Paris. His office at the ministry.’
Not allowing myself even to think about the monstrous fares bill I was racking up, I said, ‘I’ll be there.’
Ten o’clock! Well, I was lucky he hadn’t said nine. Or even earlier . . . Whatever, I’d have had to go along with it. I checked the Eurostar timetable. There was a five twenty-four that got me in just after nine. Or I could fly – any number of flights left later and arrived earlier. But there’d be all the bother of getting out to the airport, and then back in to Paris during the rush hour, to say nothing of possible delays. Better to take the train, however uninviting. I booked a taxi for four fifteen.
Given that I was going to get up in the middle of the night I ought to go to bed at once. Before that, however, there were still a few things to do. I wrote a précis of what I now knew regarding the two French St Cecilias, together with instructions as to the whereabouts of the file that contained all the backing paperwork – the pamphlet, Lindsay Hillier’s reports, the xerox of the photo in the 1928 Caravaggio book – and emailed one copy to David at his office, one to Tony Malahide, and one to Joe. After that, I wrote an account of my suspicions regarding Antoine Rigaut’s death, printed off two copies, left one with a copy of the photograph in an envelope on my desk addressed to Joe, and slid a similar envelope, addressed to myself at the office, into the postbox on the corner. Finally, when every-thing was in order, I rang Joe.
‘Reggie, hi, I’ve been meaning to call you. Any move-ment on the story?’
‘Quite a bit, actually. I think we may have what we’re after. Look, I’m going to see Rigaut tomorrow morning, in Paris. At his office in the Ministry of the Interior. I’ve sent you an email with all the art stuff and left you a note with everything else on my desk at home – Mrs Walton next door’s still got the key. If you can’t get in I sent a copy of it to myself at the office. If I don’t get in touch by six to-morrow evening it’s all yours. OK?’
‘Are you crazy? This is serious, Reg. Not the moment to piss about with melodramatics.’
‘I’m not pissing about. We have different priorities, that’s all.’
‘Different priorities? What are you talking about?’ After a moment he said disbelievingly, ‘You can’t still mean that bloody exhibition of yours?’
‘It’s very important to me,’ I said primly. ‘It’s going to be the making of my career.’
‘If you’re not careful it’ll be the unmaking of your life. Fat lot of use your career’ll be then.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘This is my story. Eventually you’ll have it. I promise. But in my time, OK? If the worst comes to the worst, tomorrow evening. Otherwise, later. It’s no use going on about it.’
I was so keyed up that sleep was a long time coming, and the consciousness of an early start meant that I woke long before I had to and spent the next hour and a half consulting my watch at five-minute intervals. By the time the train reached Paris I felt flattened, and doubtless looked it, too.
The Ministry of the Interior occupies the Hotel Beauvau, in the Faubourg St Honoré. During World War II it was the headquarters of the Gestapo; the unfortunates who were summoned there then – among them, doubtless, many associates of the current Minister’s father – must have felt much as I did now. I gave the address to the taxi driver, and sat back exhausted while he negotiated the traffic-choked streets. The slower the better: as far as I was concerned, the ride could happily have gone on for ever. Only too soon, however, I found myself standing outside the Ministry. This was Rigaut’s home ground – no shabby provincial château, but a grand seventeenth-century palace, its pillared façades surrounding three sides of a huge cour d’honneur designed to contain the horse-drawn carriages of the rich and powerful, several abreast. All around busy fonctionnaires came and went, in animated conversation with their cellphones.
Silently repeating my mantra – knowledge is power, knowl-edge is power – I penetrated the wrought-iron gates and approached the vast reception desk.
‘To see Monsieur Rigaut, did you say?’ The receptionist sounded distinctly unconvinced – disbelieving, even. It struck me that, having got me here at such effort and expense, my quarry was about to fob me off with some underling. I was instantly filled with invigorating fury. Fine, I thought – just let him try. He’d soon see what happened.
Almost to my regret, these fantasies were interrupted by the receptionist’s fluting ‘Yes, that’s correct, to see Monsieur le Ministre.’ She summoned an official to take me through the usual procedure of badges and searches, and at ten precisely we stood outside a pair of imposing double doors, almost three metres high and elaborately gilded. The official knocked, then opened one wing of the doors. And I stepped inside.
The Minister’s office had once been the grand salon. Mirrors set in gilded panelling reflected an elaborate Louis XVI escritoire, and many side-tables, armchairs and silk-upholstered sofas in the same style. A matching arrangement of white and gold lilies perfumed the air with a faint scent of corpses. Four immense windows, of the same proportions as the door, looked out on to the cour d’honneur. My man was seated at the escritoire, looking over some papers. When I came in he glanced briefly up, said, ‘Bonjour,’ and went on with his paperwork.
I said, ‘Bonjour,’ and went to wait by the left-hand window.
‘Asseyez-vous,’ he said, not looking up, and I took my place on a sofa, which was quite as uncomfortable as it looked.
‘Well,’ he said after we’d been sitting like this for a while, ‘I understood you had something to say to me.’
‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.
‘Then please say it.’ He looked at his watch.
I started out on my recital. The two pictures, the slight differences between them, how I’d realized what must have happened, and so on.
‘Most interesting, I’m sure,’ he remarked. He still hadn’t looked at me – was still shuffling through those papers. ‘Et alors?’
‘Et alors, Monsieur le Ministre, suddenly a lot of things fell into place.’
‘Very possibly, but art history, however fascinating, isn’t exactly at the top of my agenda just at present.’ He looked me levelly in the eye, his confidence so absolute that it felt almost physical, a barrier to be scaled.
‘Then let’s move on to something else,’ I offered. ‘Your brother’s death.’
‘Ah, yes. My brother . . . Madame, excuse me for asking, but what can the circumstances of my brother’s death possibly have to do with you?’
‘Eh bien, monsieur, it’s the same old story. The picture. And then one thing led to another.’
We sat staring at each other, holding each other’s gaze as lovers do. What lay between us, I shiveringly understood, was not so very different from what had bound me, briefly, to Olivier.
‘Et alors?’ he said again.
In repl
y I pulled the photograph from my bag and put it on the desk, on top of his pile of papers. He studied it, still expressionless.
‘May I ask where you got this?’
‘It came in the post. I’ve no idea who sent it.’
‘Really?’ he said coldly.
‘Really.’
He looked at the photo again. ‘My poor brother. It’s a mystery why he did it, who knows what goes on in a per-son’s head? But since you didn’t know him – I believe that’s so? – I don’t imagine you can cast any light on that.’
‘Forgive me, but why he did it isn’t really the question,’ I said. ‘It’s whether he did it at all.’
‘Please don’t speak in riddles.’ He was frowning now, his impassivity ever so slightly ruffled. Everything had been so securely tied up – what could possibly have gone wrong?
‘I believe the magistrate found that he committed sui-cide. But there’s a problem. If you look, the photo shows the gun by his right hand. And he was left-handed.’
Did he flinch? If so it was the merest flicker. Nor did he argue. What would have been the point? Instead, like the seasoned campaigner he was, he moved on to the attack. ‘Really? If that’s all you have to say, madame, I’m afraid I shall have to terminate this interview.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can give you just two minutes more.’
‘Fine. I’ll get to the point. I have several copies of this photo, Monsieur Rigaut, and a number of my friends know I’m here today with you. I haven’t told them why – or only the art history. But if anything happens to me, I’ve made sure they will find out.’
‘How very melodramatic,’ he said, echoing Joe. ‘And why should anything happen to you?’
‘I’ve noticed that things do tend to happen to people who get in your way. Your brother. Your mother. Olivier Peytoureau.’
‘Ah, your little boyfriend. Did something happen to him? How unfortunate. I wasn’t aware . . .’
‘His wife died in a car crash. Forced off the road. The other car was never found. All we know is, it was red.’ Just like yours.
‘Indeed. I still don’t understand what all this is about.’ He removed the photo from his papers and began to go through the next one on the pile.
‘I’m quite sure you do,’ I said. ‘I’m here to strike a bar-gain. If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll publish what I know. Think about it, Monsieur le Ministre.’
He studied me for a while. Unlike Manu his lips were thin and firm: when as now he pressed them together, they almost vanished. ‘Ah, now I understand. This is a black-mailing exercise.’
‘You could look at it like that,’ I agreed. ‘But then, you should know.’
His head jerked up. ‘Moi?’
‘You said a minute ago that no one can know what’s going on inside another person’s head. Well, I think you knew pretty well what was going on in your brother Antoine’s head the day he died.’
He didn’t reply at once, but got up and, profiled in the many mirrors, turned to look out of the window. Then he turned slightly, and in those same mirrors our eyes met. After a minute he said coldly, ‘So what exactly do you want from me, madame?’
‘That’s easy. What I’ve wanted all along. I want the pic-tures for my exhibition. All you need do is give the Louvre the green light.’
That surprised him. He’d been expecting – what? Political lectures, demands that he drop out of the presidential race? At the very least, the promise of his brother’s old job at the Louvre. A surprise appointment . . . And now – this puny little request. Art history. What sort of person was this, who would go to such lengths and then so signally fail to take advantage of the opportunity when it arose? Our eyes met again. ‘You did all this just for that?’ he said softly.
‘That’s my job,’ I said. ‘I do pictures, not politics. It isn’t as though I’m being asked to vote for you. I noticed that that little riot you started did wonders for your poll figures, by the way.’
He turned and approached the sofa where I was sitting, his hands clasped in front of him, visibly restraining him-self from – what? Hitting me, strangling me? I wondered what it would feel like, and what would happen then. Suddenly, disconcertingly, I felt that familiar, insistent tingle between my legs. What would happen if I took those hands and directed them to the spot? I thought of that President of the Republic who died in medias res with the mistress of the moment . . . Rigaut was behind me now, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. If I looked up our eyes would meet –
With an effort I pulled myself back from these fantasies. For all I knew he had the place covered by hidden cameras: tit for tat, and au revoir, madame. If you show mine, I’ll show yours. Sitting up very straight I said, ‘In any case, there’s no reason not to lend them now. They both belong to the Louvre, there’s no money in it for you any more.’
He moved away. ‘True enough, unfortunately. So why not just say so to begin with?’
‘Sheer pleasure,’ I said. ‘I wanted to enjoy a little power, for once. You of all people should understand that.’
He raised his hands in dismissal, or agreement.
I rose to take my leave. ‘So no more obstacles to those loans. Entendu? And no black marks hanging over any-one’s career.’
He nodded. ‘Not that that kind of thing is anything to do with me.’
‘Of course not. But even so . . . And don’t forget what will happen otherwise.’ Now we’d got so lovey-dovey, it seemed a good idea to reinsert a little chill. I held out a hand. ‘Au revoir, Monsieur le Ministre.’
He ignored it, turned on his heel, returned to his desk and reapplied himself to his papers. He must have had some sort of bell-push there, for a second later the door opened to reveal the official who had guided me here. ‘Please take Madame to reception,’ Rigaut said, not look-ing up. ‘Au revoir, madame. Good luck with your show.’
Back in London, I notified Joe of my continued existence. And then I put in a call to Charlie Rey at the Louvre. The redoubtable Madame Desvergnes tried to deflect me, but I told her it was essential to Charlie’s career that I speak to him and, on the off-chance I might be telling the truth, she put me through.
Charlie sounded furious. Doubtless he’d hoped never to think about the St Cecilia or hear my voice again.
‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ I said, ‘but I believe I’m right in thinking a certain obstacle has just been removed? Do tell me if it hasn’t, and I’ll get through to the person in question and let him know you didn’t get the message.’
That did it. As in a dream, I heard him admit that yes, something of the sort had indeed happened.
‘So we can go ahead after all?’
‘I suppose so. Please deal with it through my assistant. You’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot on my plate just now.’
23
Exhibits: London, June
The Director laid out the various items I’d brought and studied them intently. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said, more than once, as I told him my story – the pamphlet, the switched pictures, Lindsay’s reports and the one from the Louvre, the xerox of the 1928 photograph. I explained that at one time there had been a little difficulty regarding the loans: Antoine Rigaut’s unfortunate death had held things up at the Louvre while the ‘owner’ of the real Caravaggio had been afraid that if the story came out he’d be forced to exchange his excellent picture for the inferior copy. But now, by a happy chance, both belonged to the Louvre, and there were no more problems. Dr Rey, the acting head of pictures, (‘Charming fellow!’ the Director put in, and I didn’t contradict him) – Dr Rey had assured me that all difficulties had been overcome, and that both his St Cecilias were at our disposal whenever we might choose to borrow them.
‘Well, what shall we say? How about, I don’t know, a year next June? It won’t take up very much space, even with all the ancillary stuff – just a room, really, isn’t it? That would give you eighteen months, a bit more. We don’t want to leave it too long – don’t want any of this leaking
out before we’re ready, do we? And you won’t want to wait indefinitely to publish . . . Think you can do it?’
As we both knew, an exhibition of this kind, even a small one, takes a good deal of setting up, even after every-thing’s agreed. Insurance and transport must be arranged. A catalogue must be prepared, its essays commissioned, its pictures selected, its printing scheduled. The exhibitions department must select a space and prepare a design. But he was right. Both for the reasons he’d outlined and for others of which he was happily unaware, we didn’t want to delay any more than was necessary.
So there I stood, on a warm June evening, dressed in my best and waiting for the first guests to arrive. Behind me and on either side, four St Cecilias gazed up at four Angels, who extended one, three or (in two cases) two fingers in blessing. Of the four, Freddie Angelo’s, the originario, was the finest, with a quality of detail unmatched in the other three, though the Jaubertie version ran it close. The Getty’s picture, the last to be painted by Caravaggio himself, seemed by comparison a little faded, as though by then the artist had been running out of steam. Even the Angel looked slightly tired, while the Saint, poor girl, appeared exhausted. Along the remaining wall the abducted picture conducted its photographic dance across Paris. In a dark booth interested punters could sample the optical effects about which Freddie had written such an informative essay for our catalogue. And in a central glass case lay the pamphlet itself, along with contemporary newspaper cuttings and photographs of the protagonists. Emmanuel Rigaut, at twenty-two, looked unnervingly like the grand-son who now bore his name. Robert de Beaupré, fiery dark eyes burning out of the photo, seemed tragically young. Juliette appeared twice, once in her convent girl’s uniform, looking anonymous, and again as a full-fledged beauty, in one of the famous photos taken by Rigaut soon after they were married. She looked divinely happy, leaning back on a hillock of sand and laughing in the sunlight – a happiness that would soon be obliterated, and never truly regained.