Masterclass

by Morris West

  Five minutes later Max struggled out of bed, rehydrated himself with orange juice and coffee, then called Anne-Marie and arranged to go running with her in Central Park. An hour and a half later they were jogging quietly on the uptown circuit while he explained to her, ‘I leave for Europe tomorrow.’

  ‘Why so soon?’

  ‘There’s a lot to do. I have to see Berchmans in Paris, set up a company operation in Zurich – that’s the one I’ll be using for your gallery business. I want to get some skiing at St Moritz too. Then I’ll go down to Florence to do some more reading in the archive and make arrangements to bring Tolentino over for the gallery. In between all that, I have to find some quiet time to write the article on Madeleine Bayard and send it back here for editing.’

  ‘Is there any chance of your meeting Father on the way?’

  ‘Only if he’s in Zurich while I’m there. I’ll call Christies and see if they can tell me where he is…but I won’t chase him. He should know that. So if he calls, give him that message.’

  In the shadow of an ancient maple, she stopped dead in her tracks and kissed him full on the lips. He responded willingly, then held her at arm’s length and asked gently, ‘What was that for?’

  ‘I’m going to miss you, damn it!’

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  ‘No, you won’t. You’ll be too busy.’ As they started jogging again, she tossed him a sidelong breathless question: ‘Why didn’t you and I fall in love, Max?’

  ‘Maybe we did,’ said Mather wryly, ‘but we were both too busy to notice. Let’s run the next half-mile, shall we?’

  Edmund Justin Bayard had his own cure for hangovers which, he admitted only to himself, had lately become too frequent. The fact was that while he never touched liquor during working hours, he was tippling solidly over dinner: vodka martinis for cocktail time – one when he got home, one while he soaked in the bath – a bottle of cabernet with the meal, one large brandy with the coffee and another for a nightcap. With a guest for dinner, the quantities increased considerably.

  For remedial therapy he would take a brisk walk to a midtown apartment block where a Thai madam and three younger women provided sauna, bath, shave, massage and manual masturbation for lonely or hung-over businessmen. The premises were discreet, the linen clean, the girls amiable and the whole operation comparatively free of risk. Each cubicle was sound-proofed and equipped with a phone, so that during the recovery period business could be transacted in reasonable privacy. It was from here that Ed Bayard first broached to half a dozen friends and acquaintances Max Mather’s idea of a buying syndicate for art. His argument was simple and it became more persuasive each time he set it out.

  ‘…ten participants, no more, each committed for $50,000. That’s a working capital of half a million, available for holding deposits on works which become available to us and for which a majority agrees that a ready market exists. Now we’re not going to be buying multi-million-dollar master works. No way can we compete in that market. But we all know there are bargains to be picked up in slow seasons around the galleries and low-bidding days at auction. I’ve got just the man who could run it for us. He’s footloose, fancy-free, has modest means of his own and is looking for an opening into the art world. You’ll see a couple of major pieces by him in the April and May issues of Belvedere: Max Mather…that’s right, Mather. The beauty of it is that ‘he won’t control the funds. We will. He simply advises by fax or telex the item, the price and his recommendation. Then we authorise a holding deposit while we do a quick run around the market. No, we don’t have to put the whole $50,000 up immediately; we can underwrite it with a bank Articles of Association? I’ve got a couple of sets for your consideration…. Splendid. I don’t guarantee we’ll make a fortune, but we won’t lose money and we could have a lot of fun. Thanks! You too.’

  By the time he was fully recovered from his hangover and the remedy, he had promise of five contributors and three who would call him back later in the day. He called Mather.

  ‘We’re in business, Max. So far five subscribers at $50,000 each. Three more ready to come in. I haven’t closed the list because I need to know how you see yourself in the picture.’

  ‘Very clearly. I’m the working member. You get a year’s labour out of me for a paid-up share of $50,000. If you want me to continue after that, I retain the paid-up share and we make a new employment contract.’

  ‘That’s fair – over-generous, in fact.’

  ‘Then I leave it to you to draw up an arrangement equitable to all concerned. I leave for Europe tomorrow; I’ll telex you an accommodation address.’

  ‘You’re moving fast.’

  ‘I’ve got a long action list. By the way, I’d like to use your name as a reference: character only, not financial. My bankers will do the rest.’

  ‘Better still, I’ll write a letter of introduction and send it round to your apartment this evening. Oh, one other thing…remember that to all intents and purposes the syndicate is in place. There’s nothing to stop you talking about it or even using it on your travels. I’ll handle the formalities at this end.’

  ‘That’s good to know. I’ll call you once I’m sure of my movements.’

  ‘Have a good journey, Max.’

  His hangover had disappeared. He felt relaxed and ready for a busy day at law. With Mather away, he expected a swifter and smoother courtship of Anne-Marie Loredon. He was enveloped in a warm glow of well-being. He gave the little Thai girl a twenty-dollar tip, patted her affectionately on the rump and walked out into the dusty sunshine of Manhattan.

  Leonie Danziger was studiously brisk and business-like. She was already busy on the background material for the Madeleine Bayard article. She handed Mather two folders sealed with tape.

  ‘This one contains notes of interviews with the senior investigator at the precinct. You can’t quote them directly, but they’ll give you a pretty clear idea of the police version of the murder. The diagrams are photostats and self-explanatory.’

  ‘How did you manage to get all this?’

  ‘Long practice and a freelance investigative journalist with lots of charm. The New York police department does maintain a public relations section, so she told them of the upcoming exhibition, of the article you were writing for Belvedere, the inevitable revival of press speculation over an unsolved murder. They gave her a nice young man who took her up to the precinct. She bought lunch for the officers on the case…voilà! They wouldn’t part with any photographs, but they put her on to the Black Star agency who had a photographer on the spot a few minutes after the police. All of which cost me three hundred and fifty bucks, for which I’ll take a cheque or cash.’

  ‘I think you deserve a bonus.’

  ‘I’ll accept that too.’

  He fished out a small object wrapped in tissue. When she unwrapped it, Leonie found a small figurine of a tarantella dancer in antique capodimonte. Her eyes brightened with pleasure, but her thanks were carefully restrained.

  ‘She’s beautiful – and you’re very thoughtful, Max. Thank you.’

  He wrote out a cheque for three hundred and fifty dollars and handed it to her.

  ‘I’ll send you the copy as soon as I can. What I’m proposing at the moment is a portrait of Madeleine Bayard as she reveals herself to me in her paintings, by hearsay, in the record of her life and death.’

  ‘And this time,’ said Leonie Danziger gently, ‘you’ll do it with loving care, won’t you? No sloppy work, no writing round a half-thought theme?’

  ‘No, teacher,’ he mocked.

  ‘What time do you leave in the morning?’

  ‘Air France Concorde. Ten-thirty. It’s an evening arrival. The following morning Seldes has set up a meeting for me with Henri Berchmans in Paris. After that I head down to Zurich.’

  ‘Don’t tell me any more. I’m eaten up with envy. Would you believe, I’ve never crossed the Atlantic – little Miss Manhattan, that’s me! I’ve put everything I’ve earned into this
apartment – and the elements of a blue-stocking education.’

  There was a cliché on the tip of his tongue. He bit it back and asked instead, ‘Will you act as message centre while I’m away? Commercial rates, of course.’

  ‘All part of the service. By the way, read the police material very carefully, then study the photographs. They open up a wide ground for speculation.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning the drug-crazed killer is a sop to the public. The police claim they know the real man, but they can’t find proof enough to nail him.’

  ‘Happy thought.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it?’

  There was an awkward moment of silence; then, still carefully formal, she held out her hand.

  ‘Travel safely, Max. I don’t know what your plans are, but I wish you all the luck in the world.’

  ‘You look after yourself too. I only wish…’

  She laid a finger on his lips to hush him. ‘If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.’

  ‘Yes, well…you look after yourself too. I’ll call from Zurich.’

  EIGHT

  Henri Charles Berchmans the Elder received him with scant ceremony in the galleries of Berchmans et Cie near the Quai des Orfèvres. It was Sunday morning, one of those grey drizzling days when Paris and her people look shabby, unhappy and pinched about the mouth. The only other inhabitants of the galleries were three security guards who looked like middle-aged robots. The interview took place in a cluttered office, devoid of ornament, which on weekdays must have been inhabited by a junior clerk.

  Berchmans, a small stocky fellow with iron-grey hair, hard eyes and restless twitching hands, had elevated rudeness to an art form. Mather, whose flight had been delayed two hours in New York, whose hotel booking had been thereby cancelled and who had been forced to spend the night in a room no bigger and hardly cleaner than a broom cupboard, was less than amused. Berchmans’ first demand, in French, was all-embracing.

  ‘Well, Mr Mather, what have you to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Berchmans. I am visiting you at the request of Harmon Seldes. I have put myself out to do so. I am waiting for you to ask me a question that will justify the inconvenience.’

  ‘Very well.’ Berchmans was in no wise perturbed. ‘Why Raphael, eh? Why not Caravaggio, Bellini, Boldini? Raphael’s fixed and finished. The codex is complete. These references you have found are signposts to nowhere. You’re a smart fellow; you must know that.’

  ‘If I were smart,’ said Mather, ‘I wouldn’t be wasting this Sunday morning in Paris. I’m a palaeographer. I stumbled on an entry in a set of Florentine account books. Because I’m a scholar I referred it to a scholarly magazine. Harmon Seldes told me he’s made some kind of a bargain with you. I’m not part of that arrangement. I didn’t ask to be. I’m paying you and Seldes a courtesy and I find you a very rude man. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be on my way.’

  ‘Wait!’ Berchmans raised a stubby hand to stay him. ‘I’m rude. You’re angry. Let’s start again. These account books – are they genuine?’

  ‘You know they are.’

  ‘I don’t know. Seldes tells me so.’

  ‘Don’t you believe him?’

  ‘I like to keep an open mind.’

  ‘That’s your privilege. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’

  ‘I’ve made a deal with Seldes. Did he not offer you any part of it?’

  ‘I declined it from day one.’

  ‘You’re a fool.’

  ‘I’m wise enough not to play with the big punters.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t refuse a stable tip?’

  ‘That would depend on who gave it to me.’

  ‘The owner, maybe. You couldn’t do better than that, could you?’

  ‘Unless the jockey were paid off and the trainer was in on the fix.’

  ‘You’re insulting, Mr Mather.’

  ‘No. You are, Mr Berchmans. First you try to bully me, now you’re trying to buy me. For what? The day we met I told Harmon Seldes that finding the Raphaels is a million to one shot. I don’t have the time, energy or money to join the search. I’ve even promised to pass on any extra information I dig up. But that’s it! Finish, done! I’ve got some interesting projects. I’m scouting for a new gallery. I’ll be doing a little dealing at the low end of the market and I’ll be continuing my own research programme.’

  ‘I could perhaps put some business your way. Come.’

  The old man took Mather’s arm and hurried him none too gently out of the office and down into a storage area. He pulled a canvas out of a rack and thrust it at Mather.

  ‘Can you identify that?’

  Mather studied the picture for a few moments, then delivered a hesitant verdict.

  ‘It’s pretending to be a Frans Hals…but it isn’t.’

  ‘Why isn’t it?’

  ‘The background’s too light, the face is weakly drawn, the hair doesn’t fit. The costume is elaborate but the lacework is sloppy.’

  ‘Can you put a name to the painter?’

  ‘No. May I ask the point of this exercise?’

  ‘Just to test what sort of an eye you have.’

  ‘Do you want to enlighten me about the painter?’

  ‘No. Except that he’s a very good restorer and an excellent copyist who has done a certain amount of work for me.’

  ‘I confess I’ve seen better.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Niccoló Tolentino. I’m bringing him to lecture in New York this summer.’

  ‘Are you an impresario too, Mr Mather?’

  ‘No. I’m a scholar testing his talents in a number of new fields.’

  ‘Then I trust you will send me an invitation to see and hear Signor Tolentino.’

  ‘With pleasure. Is there anything else?’

  ‘Yes. Take my card. Feel free to call me at any time, here or in New York.’

  ‘That’s kind of you.’

  ‘I am never kind, Mr Mather. I am rarely even civil. I am a dealer. My sole motive is profit. The fact that I make it by dealing in beautiful things is beside the point. I cannot eat a Poussin. A Cezanne will not feed my horses or pay the jockey and the trainer. It is the profit which does that. I have the feeling that you could be profitable to me – and for that reason only, I am prepared to be helpful to you. On the Raphaels or any other matter.’

  ‘The Raphaels we have already discussed. They are a matter between you and Harmon Seldes.’

  ‘Why are you so obstinate, Mr Mather?’

  ‘Because you are playing games with me – an old man’s games, a rich man’s games. You’re tossing me all sorts of bait and waiting to see which one I’ll pick up. I’m as corruptible as the next man, but you’re converting me to righteousness very quickly. Now I really must go. I leave at three-thirty for Zurich. I’ll stroll back to the hotel.’

  ‘You’ll be drenched before you get there. Unbend a little. Let me drop you off.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘There now.’ Berchmans chuckled and held out his hand. ‘Already you feel better. Let’s be friends. I like a robust fellow who can fight for himself. That’s what makes a good artist, too. He has to be tough to survive the discipline, then the failures and the rejections. Seldes tells me you’re doing some work for him. What other interests have you?’

  ‘I’ve accepted a scouting commission for a new gallery in New York. Hugh Loredon’s daughter is running it – you know Hugh, of course?’

  ‘Indeed yes. These many years. His daughter is a friend of yours?’

  ‘We were in Florence together.’

  ‘And what will be your first venture?’

  ‘A posthumous exhibition of Madeleine Bayard. I doubt you’ve heard of her: wife of a New York lawyer, murdered in her studio.’

  ‘Would you believe I knew her very well, Mr Mather? I bought three of her pictures from my friend Lebrun. I commissioned another, but she died before it was painted. She was a beautiful woman, a great artist.’<
br />
  ‘Do you have the pictures here in Paris?’

  ‘No, they’re in New York.’

  ‘Would you consider exhibiting them with the rest of the collection? It would do us both good.’

  ‘I might. Who owns the exhibition?’

  ‘Her husband, Ed Bayard.’

  ‘I’ve done business with him from time to time. He has an interesting collection, but it’s like the man himself – fragmented, idiosyncratic.’

  ‘Miss Loredon’s gallery will represent that collection as well.’

  ‘Then you, Mr Mather, are in very respectable company.’

  ‘I like to think I’m a useful colleague.’

  ‘I’m sure you are; but you are not of course a specialist in fine art.’

  ‘Absolutely not. My discipline is manuscripts. I did secondary courses in the history of art and appreciation of art. My tradition is the humanist one, which is why I lived very comfortably in Florence. Would you mind if we go now? I have some other matters to deal with before I leave.’

  ‘Of course.’

  As they drove back to the hotel, Berchmans made one final strategic play.

  ‘The Palombini family…You were their archivist, I understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am not familiar with their art collection.’

  ‘It is not among the great ones. As a matter of fact I had a letter from Claudio Palombini only a few days ago, pointing out that though his family had bought good things from time to time they were, as a matter of historic fact, Philistines. I had written to him with the information I had turned up. His comment was that he had never heard of the pictures but he wished he had them now. He could use the cash value.’

  ‘So you see,’ said Berchmans happily, ‘I am not such a bad-tempered old fool, am I? You have it from your former master.’

  ‘He was never my master,’ Mather told him coldly. ‘His aunt was mistress of the household. She and I were lovers until the day she died.’

  ‘Requiescat.’ The Frenchman crossed himself hurriedly.

  ‘Amen,’ said Max Mather.

  ‘Until we meet,’ said Henri Charles Berchmans.