by Morris West
The one area of their life that seemed to be safe from desecration was their mutual passion for collecting art. Madeleine’s comments on a buying expedition were illuminating:
It is like changing partners in the middle of a dance. The moment he sees something that he likes – in this case a Georgia O’Keeffe, bleached rocks and a cactus flower, gigantic on a desert floor – he is suddenly transformed. It is like an exorcism: the devils cast out, the man left empty and innocent and trembling. He turns to me and says, ‘I love this. Can you live with it? Tell me.’ I always agree. I would be a monster to do otherwise, because his instinct is so right. I too admire the work, but between me and it are all the barriers of knowledge and – let me say it – all the jealousies of one artist envying the gifts of another. I tried to explain this to Henri Berchmans when he came to spend a few hours with me. He only laughed and told me: ‘You artists are the spoilt children of God. He lets you peep into heaven. You still want to make mud pies in hell!’ Then he made love to me like a farm boy in a hay-loft, fast and brutally. Yet he, too, makes me laugh and in a strange way helps me to forgive myself. That’s the problem with Edmund. When the exorcism is over and the house is calm and empty, the devils come back – more numerous than before and terribly, terribly unforgiving.
And there, it seemed to Mather, was the whole key to the tragedy: two people who could never forgive each other for being what they were. Madeleine was just as implacable as her husband. Even the act of love became an act of vengeance. The pictures she painted were all of captives trying vainly to escape. It was strange that the only truly happy pieces were the erotic fantasies in which the participants were like playmates in some primal Eden. But even this illusion proved too fragile for comfort:
I know that Edmund buys the sex I refuse him; just as I buy or command or seduce the lovers I need instead of him. Henri Berchmans is right. We are both God’s spoilt children, loaded with gifts that we do not know how to share. Hugh Loredon came to see me today. He told me that he had cancer and that the prognosis was not good. I knew he needed comfort. Suddenly I had nothing to offer. The presence of illness repelled me, I shuddered at his touch. He was terribly hurt. I have never seen anyone so frozen in anger, so filled with loathing. Yet I could not help myself. For the first time since I had known him, Hugh had nothing to say. There was a half-finished canvas on the easel. The model was a young girl from Negroni’s, a dancer. Hugh looked at it in silence, then snatched up a brush and blotted out the image with great daubing strokes. Then he said, ‘Somebody will kill you one day, Madi. Maybe I’ll give myself the pleasure before I die.’ From a man like Hugh it sounded like a Biblical curse. When he had gone, I cut the painting off the stretcher and began a new work altogether.
Mather marked the passage, knowing as he did so that it was too easy and too tempting an explanation for Madeleine’s death. Hugh Loredon would have read it anyway, and might well have used it as a cuecard for the creation of his own fiction. It was midnight. Mather’s eyes were burning. He was just about to close the book when another passage caught his eye:
The boys and girls from Negroni’s are always experimenting with drugs of one kind or another. I have made it a rule that inside my doors nothing will be used. Peter, the stupid one, has tried to defy me: he smokes pot, he sniffs coke. This morning he made a big display while Danny and Paula were here, so I ordered him out. He refused to go. When I walked to the phone and dialled the police number, he tried to snatch the phone from my hand. I picked up the dagger which I use as a paper-knife and held the point against his crotch…he let go and walked out. I told him, never, never to come back. This and the rape incident were too much.
Paula left soon after, but Danny stayed. She was very angry. She reproached me in bitter words: ‘I loved you, Madi. I would have done anything in the world for you. I trusted you. I played your little games because I believed they had meaning for us both. I thought you were the most beautiful, talented woman in the world. Look at you now! You’re tearing yourself and everybody else to ribbons. You’re looking like a slut; you haven’t done a decent piece of work in weeks.’ Furious because I knew she was right, I flew at her and slapped her. She snatched up the weapon and came at me with it. I dropped my arms and stood there. She froze in her tracks, then she tossed the dagger on the table. I begged her to stay and have a drink with me. Then we would start everything afresh: new pictures, new friends. She shook her head and walked away. I took a dean white canvas from the rack and began to prepare the background for a storm picture. About half an hour later Edmund walked in. It was the first time he had ever come unannounced. He said, ‘I had the strangest feeling you might be in trouble. I thought I’d pick you up and take you home with me.’ I thanked him and told him I was pleased he had come and that I was quite ready to leave.
Mather closed the book and put it in his briefcase with the rest of the documents ready for the morning conference with Munsel and the later meeting with the police. He was bone-weary, but after the reading his mind was racing like a buzz-saw. He poured himself a whisky, switched the television to a late-night Western and settled back to unwind. Then the janitor phoned. He was English, a recent migrant doing his best to lend a little tone to Manhattan. It seemed there was a Mr Bayard in the foyer. Was Mr Mather at home?
‘Send him up,’ said Mather wearily.
Bayard was a little drunk, but he looked fresh enough and he smelt of cheap bath soap and massage oil. He said:
‘I know I’m intruding, but it’s a bib…biblical counsel: “Never let the sun go down on your anger.” The sun’s down, but the moon’s up. We were both angry last night.’
‘Now we’re just tired. Let’s not prolong the agony, Ed. What can I do for you?’
‘Anne-Marie called. She said you wanted to bring the Danziger woman to the opening.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I just wanted you to know I concur…that’s the word. I heartily concur.’
‘I’m glad you see it that way.’
‘Only possible way, Max. Innocent until proven guilty…justice seen to be done…all that. Very proper. I could use some coffee. This place I use, the women are expensive but the drinks are free. I drank rather a lot, so my performance was a little inhibited. You know what I mean?’
‘I’ll get the coffee.’
Bayard followed him into the kitchen, still talking.
‘I agree with your policy on the exhibition, Max. The fafs in the fire now. Let it sizzle…make a blaze. What have we got to lose? Nothing. What have we got to win? Nothing but money. So I said to Anne-Marie: go for it, body, soul and breeches! No sugar, no milk, just black and strong! Another thing I wanted to say, Max…’
‘Let’s take our coffee inside, shall we?’
‘Sure. Another thing I wanted to say, Max – I’m glad we’re not rivals any more.’
‘As far as I know, we never were.’
‘I thought we were – which comes to the same thing. Now I hear you’re marrying a Swiss miss?’
‘So?’
‘So congratulations.’
‘Tharik you.’
‘And I’m going to ask Anne-Marie to marry me straight after the exhibition.’
‘It’s probably wise to leave it until then; she’s under a lot of stress just now.’
‘But your being back is a great help, Max, a great help. Now about the other poor girl. Danziger…’
‘What about her, Ed?’
‘She didn’t do it.’
‘I know she didn’t, Ed; but that has to be proven in court to a New York jury. If you know anything that can help her defence…’
‘I know she didn’t do it.’
‘You said that. How do you know?’
‘The blow, Max. The weapon. All wrong for a woman, especially this woman.’
‘Then why did you bawl me out when I called from Zurich?’
‘Because I hadn’t had time to think about it. It was like getting a baseball smack in the teeth.’
‘Are you prepared to give evidence at the trial?’
‘Max, Max, you’re very thick in the head tonight. What I have is an opinion, not evidence. That’s more than useless in court. But if anything else crops up I’ll certainly be in touch.’
‘Ed, it’s very late, long past my bedtime. What did you really come for?’
‘Oh, that? Yes, well, a number of things.’ He began counting them off on his fingers. ‘First, black coffee which is doing me a power of good. Second, to tell you about Anne-Marie and myself. Third, to congratulate you on your engagement. Fourth, to tell you I’d rather not have your Florentine feller introduce Madi’s pictures; Lebrun will do it very prettily. And fifth – what the hell was fifth? Oh yes – to invite you to dinner at my place next Wednesday. It’s a sort of pipe-opener for the exhibition, cream of the cream of Manhattan’s connoisseurs. Twenty people, black tie. Anne-Marie will be my hostess. I’ll be pairing you off with Mrs Lois Heilbronner. She tells me you once knew each other quite well.’
‘Oh God,’ Mather prayed in silence. ‘Why now? Why me?’
But he knew the answer already. God was a practical joker who took care of drunks and madmen like Bayard but had no mercy at all on talented Casanovas like Max Mather.
SIXTEEN
‘You will sit at the head of the table, Miss Danziger.’ George Munsel was setting the scene for the morning’s conference. ‘Max will sit to one side of you, slightly removed; I will sit opposite him. Effectively you will be isolated as you will be in court, as each witness is on the stand. That in itself is a test of nerve and concentration. This morning, for the purpose of this exercise, neither Max nor I is your friend. We are old-fashioned inquisitors, interrogators intent only upon arriving at the truth. Each of us has information which you do not possess, so what you tell us will be tested against what we know already. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘There will be no concessions in the questioning – no politeness. Are you prepared for that?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I choose to put you on the stand in court – and I haven’t decided that yet – you will be under oath. A false answer will be perjury. You will answer now as if you were under oath. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘How long had you known Madeleine Bayard?’
‘About two years.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘I was working on a Belvedere piece called “Artists and Models”. Seldes had dug up some old photographs and prints of Montparnasse and the Via Margutta in Rome and the Café de Paris in London. He wanted to show the continuity with SoHo and the Village today. One of the places I came to was Negroni’s. One of the people I met and talked to was Madeleine Bayard.’
‘You became friends?’
‘Yes.’
‘You modelled for her occasionally?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long before you became lovers?’
‘I suppose a couple of months.’
‘Are your sexual preferences exclusively for women?’
‘They were not then. They are now.’
‘Why the change?’
‘I think because I am no longer trying to be what I am not.’
‘Was your relationship with Madeleine Bayard exclusive?’
‘No. She had other lovers.’
‘And you?’
‘I followed her example.’
‘You enjoyed the variety?’
‘No. I found I…I wasn’t built for it.’
‘Can you explain that?’
‘I felt that I was cutting myself up in little pieces like a wedding cake and handing myself out to be eaten. I was afraid the pieces would never come back together again. I needed…I need the security of a one-to-one relationship.’
‘In other words, you are very possessive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Jealous?’
‘Yes.’
‘How jealous? Very, madly, insanely?’
‘Very.’
‘Enough to kill someone?’
‘Enough to wonder if I could kill someone.’
‘Yet you willingly took part in a variety of sexual entertainments with people of both sexes. These entertainments were organised and directed in the studio by Madeleine Bayard.’
‘I took part. Not always willingly.’
‘You protested?’
‘Mostly I resented, silently.’
‘When did you protest?’
‘When I was forced by a man I did not like to do things I didn’t want to do.’
‘While Madeleine watched?’
‘Yes.’
‘And encouraged the performance?’
‘Yes.’
‘But when you protested?’
‘She called a halt.’
‘And how did you feel?’
‘I hated her.’
‘Ever afterwards?’
‘No, I don’t have that talent either. I can’t love or hate too long or too deeply.’
‘With your permission, George,’ Mather cut into the interrogation, ‘I’d like Danny to comment on certain notes I have . They’re verbatim quotes from Madeleine’s diaries. Did you know she kept a diary, Danny?’
‘Yes. But she would never let me or anyone else read it.’
‘Let me try some passages on you: “Paula and Danny are jealous of each other. I withdraw myself from them and have them make love with Lindy. Then I have Peter join in the play. I explain over and over that love should be fun, not fury.…” Does that refer to the occasion you have just mentioned?’
‘Yes.’
‘Would you say it’s an accurate record of what happened?’
‘Definitely not. It makes it sound as though it were a carefree romp, with Madi as…as mistress of ceremonies. But it wasn’t at all. It was crude and cruel and…and dangerous.’
‘Try this, then.’ He read her the long recital of the drug episode and her own attack on Madeleine with the dagger. ‘Is that a true recital?’
‘No, it isn’t. First of all Paula wasn’t there – only Peter and Madi and myself. Madi is lying when she says she didn’t allow drugs in the studio. She’d never have been able to stage her parties without them. But she never used them herself. She was too afraid of what they might do to her work – which was the only thing she respected. But yes, the kids from Negroni’s brought them in…on this occasion Peter offered me coke. I refused it. It’s too great a risk for me too; I depend on one talent. Then Peter began to get difficult. He had a kind of routine. He would coax first, then get playfully cruel, then quite violent. Madi just stood by and watched. I grabbed the dagger in one hand, a jar of raw turpentine in the other. I threw the turpentine in his face. It blinded him. Then I ran out, leaving Madi to clean him up. I don’t know what the date of that entry is, but I never went back to the studio until Madi called me on the day she died.’
‘So what you are saying,’ George Munsel picked up the interrogation, ‘is that Madeleine’s diary is an unreliable document?’
‘I’m saying it’s not a document. It’s a story she made up each day to make it possible to live with herself. Look, she knew my weakness for her; she knew my indecision about my own sexual identity. But she was pandering me to this…this musclebound thug, Peter. Then of course it got out of hand. I could have killed him – or he could have hurt me very badly.’
‘Could you have killed Madeleine?’
‘A few times, yes.’
‘Did you?’
‘No.’
Munsel consulted his notes and then, in the same dry detached fashion, continued his inquisition.
‘The day of the murder was February 18th. Tell me exactly what you did on that day.’
‘I can’t tell you exactly. The morning is clear enough, but the afternoon is a blur.’
‘Tell me then what you remember.’
‘I got up at seven and jogged until eight. Up Fifth to Seventieth Street, across to Madison, down Madison to Gr
and Central, across town and home.’
‘What was the weather like?’
‘Clear, but bitterly cold.’
‘Then?’
‘I showered, made breakfast, went down to the City Library to look up a reference.’
‘On what?’
‘Michelangelo’s forgery.’
‘I’m not familiar with that.’
‘Michelangelo spuriously aged a statue of a sleeping cupid for a Milanese dealer, who sold it as a genuine antique to Cardinal San Giorgio.’
‘So you found the reference. Then?’
‘I stopped at a stationery store to buy some manila envelopes and some sticky labels. Then I had some coffee.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere around Forty-seventh Street. After that I caught a cab and went home. There was a message on my machine from Madi, asking me to call her.’
‘And you did?’
‘Not immediately. I had been free of her for a while. I really didn’t want to get involved again.’
‘So why did you call back?’
‘There was something about her voice that bothered me: it was slurred and stumbling, as if she were drunk. Then I wondered if she was having a stroke…I had seen that happen to an aunt of mine. I remembered it very vividly.’
‘So finally you did call back?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Madeleine answered?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did she sound then?’
‘Better, but still not herself. When I asked what she wanted, she said she wasn’t feeling well and would I come down and have lunch with her. I asked if she were alone. She said she was. I agreed to go down and see her.’