Masterclass

by Morris West

  ‘I’ll show you a picture.’ Munsel was mildness itself. ‘Not yet of course, but when we’re a little further down the track. I’m going to advise Mr Mather now that he’s answered your key questions and should reserve the rest of his information for the court. That is, of course, if we get to court.’

  ‘Meaning?’ Bechstein, a good hunting hound, was instantly at the point.

  ‘The courts are overcrowded, the judiciary is overworked. You’ve got mobsters and murderers walking free. If you really want to see justice done, you’ll talk to the Man, tell him he hasn’t got a case and that we’d be happy to prove it to him privately before he makes a fool of himself in public.’

  ‘If you want to take a plea?’

  ‘No plea.’ George Munsel was suddenly grim. ‘No deal. Your sources are tainted. Your case is bad. You’re sitting on dynamite.’

  ‘We’ll talk to the Man,’ Bechstein said.

  ‘He won’t like it,’ said Hartog.

  ‘He doesn’t like it now,’ said Bechstein. ‘But that doesn’t say he’ll change his mind. His middle name is Billy. Show him a stone wall and he’ll try to butt it down.’

  ‘Feed it to him,’ suggested Munsel cheerfully, ‘one spoonful at a time.’

  Afterwards when they were strolling out to lunch, he handed Mather a slightly different proposition.

  ‘We said true words and brave words. They’re not enough because the law doesn’t work that way. The boys know they’ve got a flawed case, so does the prosecutor. But he also knows that we don’t want orgies and lesbian lovers and messed-up marriages spread all over the tabloids. So what he’s going to calculate is whether it’s worth taking a beating in court to stage an old-fashioned witch-hunt – sex in SoHo and all that. It will take time to work out the mathematics: elementary justice or a well-staged human sacrifice.’

  Two days later Max Mather went through his own form of ritual death – moving himself and his possessions into his studio apartment in SoHo. The movers he hired were the ‘nice Jewish boys’ who advertised in New York magazine, who guaranteed to preserve him and his belongings from all harm and leave him relaxing in luxury at the day’s end.

  It was not their fault that it rained, that there were grid-locks on the crosstown arteries, that the trucks were late, that two movers and shakers had bad backs and another had wife problems. Neither was it their fault that it was after midnight when Mather dumped the last bag of trash at the collection point, vacuumed the last nap from the new carpet and found himself alone, like a lost animal in unfamiliar territory.

  Below him were two empty floors smelling of new paint. The elevator grilles gleamed with polished brass and black ironwork; the ground-level doors were bolted and deadlocked, the windows grated with steel bars. Outside was an alien skyline and alien tribes moving in hostile streets. His only companion for the night was the fragile, faint piping ghost of Madeleine Bayard.

  He was trying to read himself to sleep when the telephone rang. Anne-Marie was on the line.

  ‘Max? Where are you? I’m sorry it was such a foul-up with the movers. I’m sorry I couldn’t help, but I was racing about all day…I bled for you. I can’t bear the thought of your spending your first night alone in that great barn. I’ve just picked up a champagne supper at the Chantilly. We’ll have our own private housewarming. Don’t worry, I’ve got a limousine.…The driver will wait at the door until you let me in. Don’t fall asleep before I get there.’

  The which, he told himself without too much conviction, was not forbidden fruit but an unsolicited gift which it would be churlish to refuse. In a dog’s world, you had to give thanks for small mercies and always to keep a warm spot on the mat for the unexpected guest.

  It was a kind of love feast. They did get sentimental about shared memories – the clamour of Sunday bells in Florence, drinks in Harry’s Bar on the Lung’arno, summer sailing at Porto Santo Stefano; all the shared hopes that now, in strange and tortuous fashion, were becoming realities. They ate caviar, drank champagne and walked the empty building together, planning where to hang this or that picture, how to make the auditorium look like an assembly place for scholars and disciples. They rode upstairs in the elevator, tidied the supper mess and, because there was no other way to finish the evening and sign off from nostalgia, nestled together in the wide bed, turned out the lights and watched the big yellow moon setting over the roof-tops. They made love, laughing in the dark as they remembered old encounters and bed-habits. But afterwards came the slow insidious sadness and the silence of untold secrets.

  Anne-Marie drew close and told him: ‘I’m glad we had this, Max. It was a good way to sign off, wasn’t it?’

  ‘The best, cara. The best. It gives us both a clean start.’

  ‘Not yet, Max. I know you’ve been trying to nurse me through the exhibition. I know that when it’s over you’ll be gone and we’ll just be friends and colleagues. But it won’t be as easy as that, Max. You can’t leave me walking in the middle of a minefield, not knowing when something’s going to blow up in my face. You have to come clean with me now, otherwise this place will be enemy territory for the rest of my life.’

  ‘You’re asking me to hurt you – hurt you badly.’

  ‘Better now, Max, better here, than later with another man who doesn’t understand.’

  He gathered her body close to his own and then, without gloss or excuse, he told her about her father, about Madeleine and Edmund Bayard and Leonie Danziger – and even about the final dark suspicion that hung over the trust fund. During the whole recital she said not a word. Her only response was the wetness of tears on his breast and the tremor as she absorbed each separate shock like a boxer under a rain of killing blows.

  When the long sorry tale was ended, she lay huddled against him as if the slightest move would expose her to new pain. The first words she spoke had a strange Sibylline ring.

  ‘Remember old Guido Valente in Florence? He used to read my palm at dinner. He said what was written there was the graffito of God and we were too stupid to read it.’

  ‘I remember. Guido’s coming to your opening.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can face it, Max.’

  ‘You can. You will. The worst is over now.’

  ‘Not for Ed. He’s lost everything, hasn’t he? Including me. He’s going to ask me to marry him…you know that.’

  ‘So you wait till he asks and tell him gently: no thanks! That will be the end of it. Now curl up and go to sleep; it will be morning soon.’

  SEVENTEEN

  Morning brought a call from Alois Liepert in Zurich. Everything was going according to plan. Gisevius in Basel had been especially helpful over the cartoons. He was so pleased to have them, even in temporary care, that he had included them on his own insurance list free of charge – to encourage, as he put it, the idea of a later exhibition. Palombini was on notice about an early meeting. He was also becoming increasingly restless and curious. Liepert had had to remind him of the stringent provisions of the contract to settle him down. Then it appeared that his anxieties had been exacerbated by a cable from one Harmon Seldes asking for a special exclusive interview for Belvedere magazine.

  Mather exploded. ‘The bastard – that’s the last thing we need.’

  ‘Precisely what I told Palombini, who has sent a curt refusal and directed him to deal only through you.’

  ‘He’ll get more than a curt refusal from me.’

  ‘Take it easy, Max. Everything is in good shape here. Where do you want to see Palombini?’

  ‘In Zurich. I need you there – I’ll call you tomorrow with a date. How’s Gisela?’

  ‘Well…and anxious to hear from you.’

  ‘Tell her I’ll call her first thing in the morning, Zurich time.’

  ‘That means you’re keeping late hours in New York, Max?’

  ‘I’ve just moved into my new apartment. I’m still trying to find my way around it. By the way, call your friend at the gallery and tell him we expect active tra
ding at the exhibition. If he wants to reserve any pictures from the transparencies we sent, he should let me know by telex and I’ll reserve them for him. Also, pass a message to Hürliman that I may want to confer with them when I get back. But don’t mention Palombini yet.’

  ‘You sound like a busy boy, Max.’

  ‘More than busy. The opening’s just around the corner. We’ve got Danny Danziger out on bail, but the case still has to be fought.’

  ‘No offence, Max; but that should double your sales.’

  ‘You have the morals of a grave-robber, Alois.’

  ‘It’s the art business, Max. It seems to attract rogues and vagabonds. What else do you need done?’

  ‘Get in touch with Tolentino. Make sure he’s got his visa and his ticket; let me know his arrival time and I’ll pick him up at the airport. Also call the National Library in Florence and see if they can give you a contact point in Washington for Guido Valente. If he’s in the United States, I’d like him to be at the opening too.’

  ‘Are you bringing Gisela over?’

  ‘Yes. But she doesn’t know it yet.’

  ‘You’d better clear out all the other ladies before she gets there, Max. She’s devoted to you, but if she catches you looking at another woman you’ll find she’s got emerald eyes and snakes in her hair!’

  ‘I’ll remember.’ Mather laughed. ‘Thanks for the help – I’ll be in touch.’

  When he called Henri Berchmans and told him of Seldes’ indiscretion, Berchmans swore volubly. Mather added some terse comments.

  ‘Palombini has cabled him to deal only through me. If I call him, I’ll blow my stack and that will give him an excuse to fire me. I don’t need the money, but my position at Belvedere is useful to us all at this moment. Useful to him too, only he’s too dumb to see it.’

  ‘Let me see if I can explain it to him.’ Berchmans was measured and mild. ‘That occasion – that piece of business we discussed. Would you have any objection to giving him a part in it…something to soothe his injured vanity?’

  ‘Not at all. So long as he does as he’s told.’

  ‘Let me put it to him,’ Berchmans suggested quietly, ‘so that he consents to do as he’s asked.’

  ‘I am reproved.’ Mather gave a small sour laugh. ‘But thanks, Henri.’

  ‘You’re new in the business.’ Berchmans was tolerant as a schoolmaster. ‘You’re suffering from first-night nerves.’

  Mather’s nerves were even more jangled when he rode down to the second floor to take the press conference which Anne-Marie and her public relations people had set up for him. Anne-Marie looked tired. There were dark hollows under her eyes, but she was very composed and there was a new, distant dignity in her bearing and in her speech. He took her hand and drew her to a quiet corner of the big room, out of earshot of the journalists who were filing into the rows of chairs.

  ‘How are you holding, cara?’

  ‘I’m fine, Max, I promise you. I’m in control now; the ghosts don’t frighten me any more.’

  ‘Some of them will pop their heads up in a few minutes.’

  ‘I’m not scared – just bruised.’

  ‘What’s the name of the PR lady?’

  ‘Chloe Childers.’

  ‘My God, I don’t believe it.’

  Chloe – big, brusque and brash – collared him for final instructions. ‘There are the usual warhorses from the arts pages, but most of this lot are news. All the TV stations are here and radio as well. I’ll be chairperson and control the meeting. You field the questions. Ready?’

  ‘Christians to the lions,’ said Max Mather. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was only when he stood at the lectern without a single note in his hand that he understood what a bad joke it was. These were the predators: young, fast on their feet and hungry for red meat. The first question set the tone.

  ‘Mr Mather, what is your connection with the Liberation Gallery?’

  ‘I represent it both as buyer and seller, especially in the European market where there is already lively interest in this exhibition.’

  ‘How lively, sir?’

  ‘I’m just off the phone. I’m awaiting confirmation of several orders from a Swiss dealer.’

  ‘Madeleine Bayard was murdered in this building.’

  ‘That’s right – on the floor above.’

  ‘May we see the place?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. It’s now my private apartment.’

  ‘Is it haunted?’

  That one got a laugh but he decided to take it quite seriously.

  ‘Yes, it is. This whole building is haunted by the memory of a tragic woman of enormous talent. In a few days the first floor will be hung with her creations, some of which are illustrated in the photographs which you have been given. It’s a vulgarism to think of haunting only in terms of terror. We are haunted also by beauty – and by what Wordsworth called “intimations of immortality”.’

  ‘What can you tell us about her death, Mr Mather?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Mather was curt. ‘If you need that information, you’ll find it in your own files.’

  ‘And what about the woman who is accused of killing her – Leonie Danziger?’

  ‘She has pleaded not guilty and has been released on bail. Her case is sub judice and I have no comment to make, except that she will be here on opening night as a guest of the gallery with the full knowledge and consent of Mr Edmund Bayard.’

  They liked that. It was a piece of the raw meat they needed. They began to show some respect to the fellow who tossed it to them with ill-concealed contempt. This time the questioner was a woman.

  ‘Mr Mather, Madeleine Bayard is said to have lived a very colourful and…well, promiscuous sex life. What have you to say about that?’

  ‘First, madam, in spite of my obvious youth I’m an old-fashioned man. I was brought up never to kiss and tell and never to speak ill of the dead, who can’t defend themselves. Also, there’s the question of the living who, as you well know, can still sue for libel.’

  ‘But, Mr Mather, don’t you think.…’

  ‘Please, madam. You asked the question. Let me answer it. In a very real sense, Madeleine Bayard’s morals are irrelevant. When you look at the splendour of the Sistine Chapel, does it bother you that Michelangelo was an agonised homosexual? Who remembers or cares that Caravaggio was a riotous and quarrelsome fellow who killed a man in an affray and died as a result of violence? That is the kind of stuff you use to play Trivial Pursuit…and this is an art gallery, not a coffee-shop. What we’re privileged to sell is the stuff of dreams, which in the end are all we have to leave.’

  ‘Talking of dreams – this, Chloe whispered, was the New York Times – ‘you appear to have a few of your own, Mr Mather. I understand you’re going to stage a series of seminars at the gallery?’

  ‘In this room,’ he replied. ‘Our first guest will be Niccoló Tolentino, who is recognised as one of the great restorers of Italy. He’ll be doing a series of twelve lectures in the form of master-classes, on all the aspects of his craft.’

  ‘And you think there will be an audience for that sort of thing?’

  ‘It seems so. I know that since our first notices went out we’ve received more than a hundred applications for enrolment – about half from senior students, the rest from working staff at various collecting institutions.’

  ‘Mr Mather, in this month’s Belvedere you published a paper in which reference was made to works by Raphael, now lost. Has that brought any response?’

  ‘Surprisingly, yes. Copies of the two paintings – that is to say, one copy of each – have been traced and identified.’

  ‘You mean forgeries?’

  ‘No, I mean exactly what I say: copies. I can’t tell you any more at this moment because confidentiality is involved, but further announcements may be expected shortly.’

  ‘About the originals?’

  ‘We hope so.’

  There was a momentary lull in the questioning, b
ut it was only the calm before the storm. A girl in the back now held up a sheet of drawing-paper.

  ‘This, I am told, is a sketch made in her studio by Madeleine Bayard. It’s very erotic; some might even call it pornographic. Any comment, Mr Mather?’

  ‘I’d give you a piece of advice. Hang on to it – it’s going to be very valuable, very soon.’

  ‘Was Madeleine Bayard a pornographer, Mr Mather?’

  ‘If you’re asking me did she paint or draw erotic studies, I’m sure she did. Unfortunately we don’t have any in our exhibition and so far none has been offered to the gallery. Again, I fail to see your point. J.M. Turner was a voyeur who used to visit the London brothels to draw the scenes he witnessed. John Ruskin, who wasn’t very good in the sex department, took it on himself to destroy them. Loss or gain? Important? Or just another footnote to a great painter’s legacy? Up to you to decide.’

  ‘Mr Mather?’ A plaintive voice from the middle of the hall belonged to a tall angular woman of indeterminate age but with a very determined jawline. ‘It seems to me you’re lecturing us. Why are you doing that?’

  Suddenly all the tension in him dissolved. He grinned, shrugged and made amends with an eloquent gesture.

  ‘Why? Because I’m the new boy and when someone pushes me, I push back. But the real reason is in front of you.’ He stepped back, whipped off the white sheet that covered the easel and displayed the centrepiece of the exhibition: ‘The Bag-Lady’. ‘Take a good look at it, ladies and gentlemen, then decide what’s relevant and what isn’t.’

  As he stepped down from the rostrum there was some scattered applause and then a concerted move to examine the picture while the cameramen jostled to get their shots. Chloe Childers gave him a discreet thumbs-up sign. Anne-Marie pressed his hand and whispered her thanks.

  So, for good or ill, it was done. He lingered awhile for photographs with Anne-Marie, for TV dialogue shots and some puff-pastry questions from the gossip girls; then he retreated upstairs to call George Munsel and make his confession.

  ‘You should know I had a long session with Anne-Marie Loredon last night. Ed Bayard’s going to ask her to marry him – I felt she had to know the full story.’