A typical collector, Lewington had acquired a certain amount of information about Grapelle and had set to work to research him more deeply. It was, as he had feared, proving difficult.
So many dead ends.
It was as though Grapelle had closed door after door on his life, sealing himself up in a private world which no one else seemed permitted to enter.
Lewington had begun to wonder if he could ever breach the mysteries, on the point of calling it a day.
Then had come the phone call from Laurence Slater. Lewington’s probing into Grapelle’s life had evidently reached the ears of the solicitor. That could be bad news, although Slater gave no hint of that on the phone. Desperate for some sort of lead, Lewington had agreed to visit him.
The offices of Slater, Slater and Byrne were, as Lewington had anticipated, opulent, combining a certain old world taste with ultra-modern technology. There were a few prints on the walls, but nothing that impressed Lewington.
Show only, of little artistic merit.
Not all clients would be as discerning as he was, he knew.
Slater was surprisingly young, perhaps thirty, dressed immaculately, his eyes sharp as a kestrel’s, his handshake firm.
He waved Lewington to a seat as though greeting an old friend. “Thanks for coming,” he said. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Thank you, yes. White with a dash of sugar.”
Slater pressed a hidden button. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I often read your column. I can’t say I always share your views, but there’s no accounting for taste.”
Lewington preferred the blunt approach. He’d never got used to the sycophants who lauded him at every opportunity. “A little controversy often sparks useful debate,” he said.
“Quite so.” Slater waited patiently while a secretary brought them coffee and departed in almost ethereal silence. “Controversy: an appropriate word when it comes to my client, Mr Grapelle.”
Lewington tried to look at ease, though he wondered if he was already on thin ice. “Do you mind my asking, Mr Slater, is Louis Grapelle alive?”
Slater sipped his coffee and set the cup down, leaning back in his chair. Those sharp eyes regarded Lewington keenly. Lewington thought he would have made a good subject for Grapelle. “Yes, he is.”
Lewington drew in his breath.
Alive.
It was as though an electric current had travelled through him at the revelation. He’d always believed it, but to have it confirmed was exhilarating. He tried not to think of Slater as a shark, circling its prey patiently.
“I believe that you’ve expressed an interest in writing something about him, a biography?”
“Yes. I collect his work and, to be quite frank, admire him enormously. But then you’ll know that if you’ve read my column.”
“Certainly. Although I knew about the potential book from Dale Barton, your publisher. We’re acquaintances. He told me about the project. You’re researching it?”
Lewington nodded, unable to escape the feeling of unease. He felt a single bead of perspiration working its way down the side of his face.
“I’ve told Mr Grapelle.” Slater said it coolly, ambiguously.
Lewington’s mouth had become suddenly dry.
“He’d like to meet you.”
It was all Lewington could do to nod.
Meet Louis Grapelle?
“There’ll be conditions, but he’ll explain them to you himself. You’re a man of integrity, Mr Lewington. You’ve a reputation for being honest. Mr Grapelle respects that. He has something for you, but there will be a price. But then, there’s always a price, isn’t there?”
~~~
Lewington paused outside the pub.
It was not the kind of place he frequented, but in his work he had quickly learned to suppress snobbishness. You never knew where the next nugget of information was coming from. He glanced at his watch. He was ten minutes early, the habit of a lifetime.
He went inside, it was cramped, the lighting poor. Shadows crowded him, giving an impression that the place was busy, whereas in reality there were no more than a handful of people here.
At the bar he asked for lemonade and ice. The barman nodded without comment and served the drink impersonally. The pub was one of many in this part of the central city, an anonymous nook where someone like Grapelle could easily blend in without being recognised.
“You’ll be met,” Slater had told him. As the clock above the bar signalled midday, a figure eased alongside Lewington.
“Mr Lewington,” said the man. He wore an expensive suit, his hands unusually large.
An ex-military man, Lewington thought, drafted in as a security guard, or bodyguard. Apparently for Grapelle.
“Yes.”
“If you’d like to follow me.”
Lewington did so and they went to the back of the pub into a small annex. There was almost no light here, and the daylight from the front windows vaguely picked out the wooden seating, a solitary table.
Another of the minders stood to one side and politely ushered Lewington to a chair. He sat at the table, staring across at the other figure, who sat quietly in shadow opposite him.
It must be Louis Grapelle.
Lewington had never met him and had seen no more than a handful of photos of him, all from a dozen years before. The figure was slight, dressed somewhat drably in a baggy jacket and trousers, his hair long and dark, hanging on either side of the gaunt face, which was barely visible in the poor light.
Clearly it was deliberate. Grapelle carried his desire to be persona non grata to unusual lengths.
In spite of the slightly outré nature of the circumstances, Lewington felt his pulse rate quicken. For a moment he wondered if this could be a scam, a deliberate potential fraud, but he was too excited to allow the idea to get a hold.
“Mr Grapelle?”
The figure nodded; the shadows about its face hardly moving.
“Thank you for seeing me,” said Lewington. He felt like a schoolboy facing the Head.
The two bodyguards drew back into deeper shadows, becoming ornaments, not part of the discussion unless there were to be a sudden need for them.
“It’s me who should be thanking you,” said the artist in a calm, measured voice. He sounded quite young, although Lewington knew him to be in his forties. “Mr Slater, who you met, told me you want to do a book about me. And you’ve started looking into my life. Got very far?”
Lewington tried to appear composed. “Well, no. To be honest, I’d reached a point where I was beginning to admit defeat.”
“You collect my stuff, my portraits?”
“I do. I’m not ashamed to say that I’m a devout fan of your work. It was a sad day when you stopped, although I’m sure you had your reasons.”
“I did. Well, I have something for you.” The man reached under the table and pulled out a rectangular package. Lewington could see that it was the canvas wrapping of what must be a picture – he’d seen enough of them to recognise the shape. He tried not to gape.
“You have to earn it,” said Grapelle, white hands clasping the edge of the packet tightly.
“May I ask what it is?”
“The last portrait I ever did. Before I hand it over to you, I’ll tell you a few things. I’ll tell you why I stopped. Everything you want to know.”
“You approve of the book?”
“No. Not at all. That’s the deal. You get the painting and I get your silence. And your assurance you’ll make sure no one else gets to know about me, to the best of your ability. I know it sounds weird, Mr Lewington and probably frustrating, but that’s the deal. When you hear me out, it’ll make more sense. Shake on it now, or go. Either way, there’s to be no book. Mr Slater will be keeping an eye on things. I pay him a lot of money to look after my interests. Not a man you’d want to fall out with.” It was a mild threat, but a threat nevertheless.
Lewington looked down at the parcel, almost burning it open wi
th his gaze. He couldn’t believe that Grapelle might be deceiving him.
“Hear me out; then open it,” said the artist. “You’ll know it’s one of mine.”
Lewington shook the man’s hand and sat back, nodding. The book had lost its importance. What was on offer here was far more seductive. He tried to relax as Grapelle began his story.
~~~
I knew when I was at college that I had something.
I’d always been good at painting, even as a kid. I’d draw trains and tanks and stuff. Then armies, all the sort of stuff kids do. Guns blazing and all that. We had a dog and I did a few of him. Then mum said, why don’t you do people? Proper people, not armies. Do me, she said.
I did do her. Some sketches, then a painting.
That’s when I knew I had something.
At college I did a few mates, and the pictures always went down a bomb. I even made a few quid. Then I used to go out at weekends and do sketches in the city centre – I was in Nottingham, but I guess you know that. People paid me for sketches of their kids. I got more work than I could do. A local gallery found out about me and offered to sell any pictures I did.
That was the start of it. When I left college, instead of looking for work as a teacher or whatever, I opted for making a living out of painting. I did okay. Earned enough to pay my rent and that. Moved to London after a year and things went even better.
My landscapes and cityscapes were good enough to sell, but it was my portraits that seemed to wow the punters. The best of them earned me a lot of money – well, to me it was a lot. I had a nice flat, expensive tastes and good prospects.
I was ambitious, of course I was. People told me I was a top man. That happens when you do well.
Everyone wants a piece of the action.
My few close friends told me it wasn’t just flattery. I tried not to let my head swell. Difficult in that world. Success is a drug, stronger than most. I was doing okay, but I had a long way to go if I really wanted to be a top man, and I knew it. It bugged me. It drove me. I kind of felt that there was more, but I couldn’t quite reach it.
Anyway, one day I was introduced to a guy called Stanislavski. Never did know his first name. He’d come to see an exhibition of mine.
“You have a rare gift,” he told me. “I like what you do, Louis. Yet this is only the beginning. Don’t you think?”
He’d read my mind. He knew how I felt; he’d read my doubts about myself. Yeah, I had doubts. Until you do find that extra something you’ve been groping for, you have doubts, no matter what anyone tells you.
“I can help you,” Stanislavski said.
I didn’t know a thing about him. Whether he was an artist himself, or, like you, a critic, or just a wealthy collector – oh, yeah, he was wealthy. He reeked of money. Real money. Like he was royalty.
He arranged for me to visit him. A car would fetch me. I had a few reservations. There are some weird people about. I may not have followed it up, but a few days after I met him I was working on a portrait and it wouldn’t come right.
I got so pissed off with it I carved it up and burned the canvas. I didn’t normally get that frustrated. I just set things aside for a couple of days and go back to it later, usually with better results.
So I rang Stanislavski and said okay, come and get me.
He sent that car – a bloody big monster, don’t ask me what it was – and it took me to his place. I said he was like royalty, well, his pad was more of a small palace. Russian nobility, like it belonged in a world of its own, or certainly something that pre-dated the Revolution. There were paintings there that would have fetched real money. This guy was fabulously wealthy.
“I can help you,” he said again, when we were sitting in one of the opulent rooms, sipping brandy. It was a weird feeling, but kind of exciting. Hell, this sort of lifestyle would be worth working for.
“I can extend your gift,” he said. “Your portraits will be unique. And your clientele will be very special.”
I wanted to say, what’s the catch? I’m a blunt kind of guy. There’s no such thing as a free dinner, right? Even if this guy was a bored Count, a multi-millionaire with nothing better to do, he wasn’t about to set me up without wanting something from me. “That’s very interesting, Mr Stanislavski, but I imagine you’d want something from me. To act as my agent? I do have one you...”
“I know. He has done well for you, but his influence is limited. Allow me to pay him off. I will be your patron. Work for me and you will not only achieve your full potential, but you will earn more money than you could imagine. I promise you. The people we will work with are very wealthy, and very rewarding.”
That was the start of it. I had nothing to lose – well, my agent, sure, but he did get a good pay off, enough to keep him happy.
I started to spend a lot of time with Stanislavski. We talked about art, about styles, methods, everything. In a subtle way, it was working its way into my artistic mind. He never said, you should do this, or, the way to improve this aspect of a painting is to do this, but somehow I felt that our time together was enhancing my natural skill.
The pieces of the puzzle that I’d always felt were missing were starting to slide into place. I admit it was exciting.
The time came when he said he wanted me to do a painting for him. He had a rich client, a lady who had a daughter and it was the girl that he wanted me to paint. He arranged a meeting. I was on fire to get started. I knew something was welling up, something that wanted to express itself in paint.
Stanislavski had a studio set up in his labyrinthine home. It was equipped with everything I needed. I was more than ready to begin.
One evening, he invited the lady – she was a peripheral member of the Royal Family, you don’t need to know any more than that – and her daughter, an exceptionally shy girl of around fifteen, to the house.
Stanislavski had subdued the lighting and sat with me beside a log fire, something of an anachronism in the world I was used to, although it was perfectly natural here.
The girl, who I’ll call Alice, was dressed in modern clothes, very chic and elegant. I reckon she got whatever she wanted from her mother, who was also immaculately dressed.
Alice had an ordinary figure, her hands very pale, a bit bony, her posture a bit slumped, as if she was lacking in confidence.
But the weird thing was, she wore a mask. It only hid the lower part of her face, from under the eyes down, and it was very skilfully blended with her face, so that, from a distance anyway, you might not even realise it was there.
I didn’t say anything, of course.
“This is the young lady I would like you to paint,” Stanislavski said. Her mother was a real looker – I would have happily painted her. Those cheekbones, that amazing expression.
She looked at me as if she saw something beyond my bland expression, her own full of hope, like a kind of quiet desperation.
It was agreed and I was to start the next day. Alice came to the studio, silent as a ghost at first and I could see she was scared stiff of me, as if I was about to do something nasty.
I did my best to ease her nerves and got her to sit in one of the ostentatious chairs Stanislavski had provided. He’d told me that Alice was to be painted without her mask. That was going to be the difficult bit. He had said, she knows, and she will comply.
“You are a sensitive person, Louis,” he’d said to me. “You are compassionate. Use that. Be generous to Alice. Paint her at her best.”
When she quietly slipped off the mask, I knew instantly what was expected of me. Alice had a birthmark down one side of her face, a livid, crimson stain. I suppose I’d expected something, so I hid my reaction to it as though I hadn’t noticed. Her mother wanted a picture of her without the birthmark, as the girl would have been if nature hadn’t been so cruel.
So that’s what I did. I poured all my efforts into that picture and I knew that something had broken free inside me. I’d gone that extra mile – Stanislavski’s magic h
ad worked. He’d put something in me. And now it came out.
Alice came and looked at the portrait when it was done and drew back, her eyes wide, They filled with tears and she ran out of the room. Moments later her mother and Stanislavski came in and went immediately to the painting. The woman gasped and then she was crying. She managed a muffled ‘thank you, thank you.’ Stanislavski beamed.
“Magnificent,” he said. “Louis, that is wonderful.”
Later, after mother and daughter, now a bit less overwhelmed, had gone, taking the carefully wrapped painting with them, I sat with Stanislavski at the dinner table, toasting our success with champagne.
“You must be very pleased,” said Stanislavski. “Not only have you produced an exceptional portrait, but you have given more than you could imagine to Alice and her mother. Just how much, you will soon learn.”
I was too excited, and a bit high on the wine to think anything of his remark at the time. Two days later, I found out the truth of the matter.
I was in the studio, amusing myself with some sketch work, when Stanislavski came in, a painting tucked under his arm. “You might find this interesting,” he said, unwrapping it.
When he held it up for me to look at, I had to sit down. It was my painting of Alice. I had captured her perfectly, erasing the birthmark and enhancing her beauty, giving her a look that made her confident of her new beauty, even slightly flirtatious. Except that the painting had changed. It depicted her as she was in life.
“What’s happened?” I said. “Who the hell has painted over it?”
Amazingly, Stanislavski was smiling. He held out something else and it took me a moment to see what it was. It was the thin mask that Alice had worn before I painted her. Stanislavski walked to a nearby bin and dropped it in.
“You have given her a new life,” he said.
We went back into the house and he had one of his servants – yeah, he had several – take the painting away. I never saw it again.
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