Masterclass

by Morris West

  ‘And only if I have a free hand with no questions asked.’

  ‘I don’t understand that,’ Gianni Ruspoli objected. ‘If we’re paying the money, we must have the right to…’

  ‘You won’t be paying a cent unless and until the articles are available,’ Mather interjected. ‘If someone has legal title to them, there’s no way you’re going to get them for less than the market price. But if someone has bad or dubious title, then maybe – only maybe – you can work out the ten per cent solution. But the condition will inevitably be: no questions, no answers. Impossible to work any other way.’

  ‘Let’s say fifteen per cent and close with the offer,’ suggested Ruspoli.

  ‘Let’s not say anything until Max and I have talked in Florence.’ Claudio was in command again. ‘I think I understand Max’s position. He declines to solicit us. He has profitable projects of his own. If we want him, we must offer the contract. Right, Max?’

  ‘Right, Claudio…now, I’d like to buy us all a nightcap.’

  ‘And maybe you’ll tell us where you really found that little Gisela?’

  ‘Why does nobody believe me?’ asked Mather plaintively. ‘I told you. She’s my lawyer in Zurich.’

  ‘And I always thought the Swiss were such dull dogs – Swiss lawyers especially.’

  ‘It pays to keep an open mind,’ said Mather. He raised his glass. ‘To our continued good health!’

  As he drank the toast he understood with stark clarity the nature of damnation: that it was self-inflicted and irreversible. You ate the meal you had cooked though it turned to fire in your gullet. You drank the traitor’s cup to the dregs, but before you set it down it was filled again with gall and wormwood. The lies you told were graven on stone and you carried them at arm’s length above your head as a sign of infamy.

  When they arrived on Monday morning at Zurich station, Gisela thrust a thick envelope into his hands and told him, ‘This is my thanks for a wonderful weekend.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Three hours’ work while you were asleep. It’s my version of the only contract you should sign with Claudio Palombini. I think it’s a good document – I’m proud of it.’

  ‘And how do I tell you my thanks?’

  ‘Just kiss me – and call me!’

  He did the one and promised the other. Then they scrambled into a taxi and held hands until they arrived at her house, where she changed instantly into the Fräulein Doktor Mundt, attorney-at-law, lecturer in jurisprudence and authority on European law relating to chattels.

  Back at his own apartment Mather found messages, letters and packages awaiting him. A Miss Loredon had called from New York, also a Mr Bayard. They would be soundly asleep now, he would call them later. There was also a note from Henri Berchmans in Paris:

  You paid me a singular courtesy. The least I can do is return it. Please inform Miss Loredon that I shall be happy to exhibit my Madeleine Bayard canvases as ‘Not For Sale’ items at the opening of the gallery. I look forward with pleasure to that occasion.

  There was a package of transparencies from Anne-Marie, together with proof copies of the catalogue and the biographical notes. He called the young dealer to whom he had promised them. The dealer arranged for a courier to pick them up. He was impressed with the speed and efficiency of Mather’s response and would endeavour to be equally brisk. He presumed there would be the normal dealer’s discount if they did business together? Naturally, Mather agreed; and that matter was laid to rest. Finally, there was the letter, sent by transatlantic courier, from Leonie Danziger:

  My dear Max,

  Your piece on Madeleine Bayard arrived on Friday. I read it immediately; then I read it three times more during the day. I was stunned by it. I could not understand – indeed I still cannot – how you, who had never met her, were able to grasp so swiftly and surely the essential nature of the woman and the extraordinary influence she exerted on so many people, myself included.

  I am certain I never spoke to you of my relationship with Madi, but it is clear that you must know of it, clearer still that you have come very close to understanding its complex nature. You expressed a fear that I might feel invaded by your text. On the contrary r am enriched by your understanding. I cannot speak for others, only for myself.

  I gave a copy to Bayard, as you asked. I delivered it by hand and explained the discretion you had given me as your editor. He asked me to wait in his office while he read the piece. It had the most extraordinary effect on him. His expression changed from moment to moment. He smiled, he frowned, at one instant I thought he was going to burst into tears. When he had finished he took off his spectacles, wiped his eyes, then cleaned the lenses…a whole series of little moves designed to delay his comment. The only thing he said was, ‘How the devil could he know so much?’ When I told him he should be thankful for so graceful an epitaph, he simply nodded. He was still too moved to say much, but he did approve publication.

  Which brings me to Anne-Marie Loredon. I called on her as you asked. She was very quiet, very reserved, still trying to come to terms with the fact that her own father had excluded her from his last rite of passage. I could have explained it, I think, had she been willing to listen, but the hurt is too deep. She needs you to reason through the pain with her.

  Last of all on my list, Harmon Seldes. I put it to him that the piece could sit better in the New York Times Review and would be much more helpful to the Bayard exhibition. He did his little dog-in-the-manger act. You’re his contributing editor, you’d cleared the piece with him…all of which is true. It’s also true that he knows it’s beautiful, touching, sensational – and he doesn’t want to let it go. We argued for an hour, then he agreed to print it as a special loose-leaf insert for the April edition provided – and this is the sting in the tail – Anne-Marie Loredon would pay for a back-page advertisement on the lift-out. She’d already recognised the importance of the article and readily agreed to the outlay. So it’s all arranged. You can have reprints at cost if you want them – very useful for provincial and overseas selling.

  So comes the question, my dear Max. Now what? For me it’s easier to answer than I expected. With Hugh Loredon dead there is no one left to mock my follies and make me feel less than myself. What you have written lifts me up, as you have lifted Madeleine Bayard, to a higher place from which I can see the pattern of things. I have found a new friend. Her name is Carol. She is an artist, like Madi. She has moved in. We are learning to be happy together. I hope you will like her.

  More, much more when I see you. I can say now what I never could before. I love you, Max, in my own special way. I wish you better things than you allow yourself to hope for.

  Danny

  It was the first time she had used the pet name to him. The look of it on the page moved him strangely. It told him that this one time – if never before and never again – he had broken through the dry crust of scholarship and told a truth about the tears of things.

  He lifted the telephone and dialled the number of Niccoló Tolentino’s studio at the Pitti Palace in Florence.

  The voice that answered was ten times as big as the gnomish little man who owned it – a rich, velvety baritone that welled up from the soles of his shoes.

  ‘This is Tolentino. Who’s speaking?’

  ‘Max Mather.’

  ‘Max, dear friend. What a pleasure! Where are you?’

  ‘In Zurich. I’m coming down to see you the day after tomorrow. Everything is arranged. You are coming to New York.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I promised.’

  ‘I know you promised, but most promises are like Madam Butterfly – “one fine day”.’

  ‘This time the dates will be firm, the tickets will be bought. You’ll be staying in my apartment. Now, here’s my programme: I fly into Milan Wednesday morning early. I pick up an afternoon flight to Pisa, then drive into Florence. Can we have dinner?’

  ‘Certainly. Nine o’clock. The Gall
odoro. Would you like me to call Guido?’

  ‘No. This time it’s just you and me. We have lots to discuss, big decisions to make.’

  ‘Incredible!’ said Niccoló Tolentino. ‘Just when I have become a contented infidel, a miracle happens.’

  Max Mather himself had need of a miracle. His next call was to the international operator in Milan to identify in the telephone directory the number of a widow whose name was Eberhardt but who could now have reverted to her maiden name of Dandolo or to a combination of the two.

  This was not in itself a monumental task, but Italian operators were notoriously short-fused and at the slightest hint of difficulty or confusion they left you dangling on the end of a line, deafened by a ‘busy’ signal. This time the miracle happened. The operator was cheerful and attentive. She found the number in twenty seconds flat: the Signora Camilla Dandolo-Eberhardt, Via del Orso 81. Mather copied down the address and the number and flirted with her for fifteen seconds more until she giggled and threw the switch on him. Then, with a silent prayer for one more miraculous intervention, he dialled the Dandolo-Eberhardt number. After what seemed an age, a maid-servant answered. She demanded to know who was speaking and the nature of their business. In his best Tuscan accent, Mather explained himself.

  ‘An old friend of the Palombini family…from America…writing a book about the great divas of La Scala.…Thus and thus until the maid, overwhelmed by his eloquence, consented to pass him to her mistress. Camilla Dandolo sounded spry enough, but tetchy and suspicious. Mather had to go through the whole pavane again and answer another twenty questions before she consented to receive him at eleven on the Wednesday morning. He promised to call her from the airport if there were any flight delays.

  Then Mather drove down to Alois Liepert’s office. Did he know a reliable travel agent? He did. Could he have his girl make a series of bookings and find him a hotel in Florence? All possible. All immediately in hand. Finally, asked Mather tentatively, could Alois Liepert cast an eye over a draft contract? Now, if possible? Liepert read the document with great care and then cocked a quizzical eye at Mather.

  ‘From your point of view, it’s a wonderful contract. It gives you exclusive rights to deal for the family over the Raphaels. You can’t sell them or mortgage them if you find them, but you don’t have to hand them over until you’re paid. You’re not obliged to declare how they came into your possession. You can make what representations you like, short of a criminal act…And nobody can go past you to the family. The only thing I ask myself is why anyone would be fool enough to make that contract with you.’

  ‘But you’d agree it’s worth a try?’

  ‘If Palombini signs it, I’ll buy you the best dinner in Zurich.’

  ‘You’re on. Could you have it engrossed and copied for me, please?’

  ‘One minor question: who drew it up for you?’

  Mather grinned. He also had the grace to blush.

  ‘Gisela Mundt. We’ve just had a weekend skiing in St Moritz.’

  Alois Liepert threw himself back in his chair and laughed immoderately.

  ‘My God, my wife was right after all. She told me there was electricity between you two. I didn’t believe her. She’s an inveterate matchmaker. Well, what can I say? I’m delighted – I hope it lasts.’

  ‘And you don’t mind about the contract?’

  ‘Hell, no. All I can say is I wouldn’t have the gall to draw it; but if you get away with it you owe the lady diamonds.’

  ‘Only if the Raphaels are genuine.’

  ‘That, of course, is the big if.’ Liepert laughed again. ‘I’ll raise the bet. I’ll buy you both a dinner.’

  The travel documents and the contract in his pocket, Mather went to the bank, drew money for the journey and then withdrew from the safe-deposit the photographs he had taken months before of the Raphael portraits and the five cartoons. He knew it was a risk to have them in his possession, but if Palombini signed the contract the risk would vanish immediately. If he did not, then another strategy would have to be devised and for that he might well need the photographs.

  Back in his apartment he made three calls to New York. The first was to Bayard in his office and his first question was about Anne-Marie.

  ‘How’s she holding up?’

  ‘Holding back is the word,’ said Bayard unhappily. ‘She’s very controlled, very withdrawn and working around the clock. How long are you going to be away?’

  ‘A couple more weeks. We’re pretty well organised here. I sent you stuff from Amsterdam and Zurich.’

  ‘The Janzoons were great. The prices are right too. We’ll talk about him as soon as you get back. And, Max?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Your memorial to Madeleine – I read it. I was deeply moved. I still can’t understand how you came by such insights. I want to ask…’

  ‘Don’t ask, Ed. Let the document stand on its own merits.’

  ‘You’re right, of course.’

  ‘I have good news for you. Berchmans will allow his pictures to be shown and acknowledged at the exhibition.’

  ‘That’s fabulous. Money in the bank. How did you manage it?’

  ‘Gentle persuasion.’

  ‘I’m sure. There’s something you should know, Max.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had a visit from the police yesterday.’

  ‘Any special reason?’

  ‘Yes, they were asking whether there was any connection between Max Mather and my late wife.’

  ‘And you assured them there was not.’

  ‘Of course. The reason for the inquiry was a letter written by Hugh Loredon two days before his death and lodged for transmission with other documents by the US Embassy in The Hague. The letter apparently stated that on your return to the United States you would be in a position to make certain disclosures which would effectively close the case. Have you any idea what that means?’

  ‘A very good idea. And I don’t like any part of it.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Maybe, later.’

  ‘What do you suppose Hugh Loredon was trying to do?’

  ‘I’m still reserving judgment on that one – and observing discretion on the telephone. Until we meet, then.’

  ‘Until we meet.’

  His next call was to Anne-Marie. He was unprepared for the sudden rush of urgent affection when she answered.

  ‘Max, thank God you called! I’ve been going crazy. After the way I behaved the other day, I thought you’d never want to talk to me again. I knew I was acting badly but I couldn’t help it. You were the last one in the world I wanted to hurt – you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Sure. I know it. How are you feeling now?’

  ‘All the better for hearing your voice.’

  ‘I’ve got some good news for you.’

  ‘Tell.’

  ‘Berchmans will lend his pictures for the opening.’

  ‘Wonderful!’

  ‘I’ve just sent the transparencies to our Swiss friend. We’ll have to provide a gallery discount – I’m sure he’s a buyer. There’s a wonderful young expressionist in Amsterdam called Cornelis Janzoon. I’m sure we could get him to exhibit with us…and I’m leaving on Wednesday for Florence to finalise arrangements for Tolentino’s visit.’

  ‘That’s great news, Max…Thank you.’

  ‘How’s the building coming along?’

  ‘Faster than I expected. The elevators are installed, all the plumbing’s in and most of the electrics, alarms and so on. Your apartment is almost finished. Most of what’s left to be done is superficial. We’ll be ready for opening, which is now the second week in April.’

  ‘We’ll make it a smash hit.’

  ‘I read your article.’

  ‘I hope you liked it.’

  ‘That’s the wrong word. It moved me. It made me, in a way, very jealous. It was almost as though you’d been in love with her yourself. But it’s a wonderful piece and it will do wonderful things for
the show. You got some of it from Hugh, yes?’

  ‘A lot of it.’

  ‘How much did he tell you?’

  ‘More than I wanted to hear.’

  ‘And the stuff he wanted you to read?’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘You know, in the…oh!’ She gave a small gasp of surprise and recognition. ‘Forget it, I must have been thinking of something else. I’ve got so much on my mind these days.’

  ‘We all have, sweetheart. And how are things with you and Bayard?’

  ‘Quiet. He’s been very protective, very considerate. I know he’s relieved that Hugh isn’t around any more, but I don’t blame him for that.’

  ‘And you? How do you feel?’

  ‘Until you rang I wasn’t feeling at all. You must have been my wake-up call. How’s your love-life, by the way?’

  ‘Don’t pry, sister Anne – remember what happened in Bluebeard’s castle.’

  ‘Can I ever forget it?’

  She said it lightly enough, but the way she spoke made him wonder whether Hugh Loredon’s secret was a secret any more. That bloody ham actor couldn’t make a clean exit to save his soul. He was born to be the rear end of a pantomime horse – going out with a fart and a lurch and a last twitch of his goddamned tail…

  TWELVE

  The flight to Milan was delayed fifteen minutes at Zurich and another fifteen by a stack-up over Linate airport. Another twenty minutes were lost in immigration because a visitor from Lebanon had an out-of-date visa. Mather had just time enough to buy a basketful of wilting violets, scramble into a taxi two steps ahead of a murderous mob and make a flustered arrival a quarter of an hour later.

  Camilla Dandolo’s apartment was on the second floor of a nineteenth-century palazzo with high vaulted ceilings and stairwells cold as charity. A gorgon of a maid admitted him and left him to cool his heels in a salone full of heavy mahogany, photographs in silver frames and romantic landscapes in gold ones.

  ‘It does look terrible, doesn’t it?’ Camilla Dandolo spoke from the doorway. ‘But I rent it furnished and the price is right.’