Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “He’d do that to his own son?”

  “He did it to his own brother, Michael. Why not to his own son? I can remember when that happened. Mimi’s too young.”

  “What kind of a pantywaist are you, Myerson?” Michael shouted. “What kind of a lousy, lily-livered little cowardly pantywaist are you to let another man walk all over you this way?”

  “Michael, please—”

  “There are certain other circumstances,” her father said quietly, glancing quickly at her mother. “There are other circumstances, Michael, that you’re not aware of, and that Mimi’s not aware of—circumstances that I can’t go into here—that make it impossible for Mimi’s mother and me to defy him outright. I have to ask that you accept that, Michael, that there are extenuating circumstances!”

  “Impossible!” her mother wailed.

  “What circumstances, Daddy?”

  “I can’t go into that.”

  “Well, I say you’re both a bunch of lousy, fucking cowards!” Michael said. “Only a coward puts up with blackmail without fighting back!”

  Her father was angry now. “I’m telling you that under the circumstances it can’t be done!”

  “Wait!” Mimi’s mother cried. “Why won’t anybody listen to my plan? I’ve got a plan!”

  “Yes, let’s listen to your mother’s plan,” her father said.

  Mimi’s mother rose from her chair, her drink in one hand, her face suddenly wreathed in smiles, and moved—almost danced—across the room to where Mimi sat. “Have an affair!” she said. “Why don’t you two have a nice affair? This is nineteen fifty-seven, the year of contraception! There are lovely little devices a girl can use today! Don’t look so shocked. When your father and I were going out, before we were married, there was only that little rubber thing that the man used, and we were never sure—”

  “Alice, I really don’t think—”

  “Why not?” she said defiantly. “You and I had an affair before we were married, didn’t we? Why can’t she have … a lovely affair?”

  “Alice, you’ve had too much to drink.”

  Suddenly her face fell. “What’s wrong?” she said. “What’s wrong with my plan? What’s wrong with having an affair? People have them all the time! She could be fitted for a pessary.”

  “Sit down, Alice, please,” her father said. “There is only one plan that will work. It’s called patience. My father is eighty-seven years old. He can’t live forever—”

  “Oh, no!” Alice cried. “Because he will live forever. He already has lived forever. He won’t die, and you know why? Because he’s too mean to die, that’s why! They’re all too mean to die! Your mother’s too mean to die! Your cousin Nate’s too mean to die! They’ll never die, any of them—as long as there’s a way to torture us.”

  “Alice!”

  “So go ahead: marry him! Forget the affair! Screw everybody! Screw this whole family!”

  “Alice, for Christ’s sake!”

  “Are you going to hit me?” she said. “Go ahead and hit me! Hit me, Henry! I like it when you hit me!”

  “I’m getting out of here,” Michael said. “The hell with all of you. The hell with you, too, Mimi!” He started toward the front door.

  “Oh, no …” She followed him to the door, and her mother moved to stop her, but her father held her back. Mimi followed him out the door, out into the corridor, into the elevator, down the elevator to the lobby, and into the street, clinging to his sleeve, whispering, “No … no … no …”

  “Sorry, but I can’t cut it with those people. Can’t hack it,” and he thrust his jaw sharply outward and flicked a lock of hair back across his forehead.

  “Please, Michael … please …”

  “Can’t … can’t … can’t …”

  On Ninety-seventh Street he headed east. She had no idea where he was going, but she still clung to his arm. His pace increased, as though he was trying to lose her, and she almost had to run to keep up with him, but she still clung to him; and when they reached the river, she thought for a wild moment that he was going to suggest that they both fling themselves into it from the embankment, even though a police squad car was parked nearby.

  He stopped, refusing to look at her. “Don’t you see?” he said. “It isn’t going to work for us. Perhaps it never would have. Too much is going on in that family of yours that we can’t control. It’s over, kiddo. I won’t say I don’t love you. I will say I’ll never forget this. You see, I can’t even say good-bye, because I—I—” His voice broke, and he wrenched his arm from her grip, still not looking at her. “Now let me go,” he said. “It’s over.” He reached in his pocket and pressed a wad of bills into her hand. “Take a taxi, and go home to that crazy-house you live in. Leave me alone now. I don’t want to see you again for a long time.”

  “Then take back your ring!” she said.

  “No! Keep the ring. You hear me? You give me back that ring, and I’ll—I’ll throw it into the East River! That’s what I’ll do—I’ll throw the goddam ring into the East River, and that will be the goddam end of it for goddam everybody. The ring is yours. Now just get out of here and leave me alone.”

  She still has the ring, though of course she never wears it. She showed it to me once. “It’s not a large diamond, is it?” she said. “Of course, at the time I thought it was enormous. I thought it was the diamond as big as the Ritz! Isn’t it funny how, as you get older, things seem smaller than the way you first saw them?”

  A few days later, her mother tapped at her door. “May I come in?” she asked. She stepped inside Mimi’s bedroom and closed the door behind her. “I have some wonderful news, darling,” she said.

  Mimi lay dry-eyed on the bed, on top of the coverlet. She had cried her eyes dry of tears.

  “Guess what, darling!” her mother said, sitting down on the bed beside her. “Your grandfather is giving you the most wonderful trip to Europe. You leave on Friday, so there’s so much we have to do! You fly to London for a week, for lots of theatre, and then to Paris for another week. In Paris, you’ll have tickets to all the couturier shows. Then you go to the south of France, and from there to Madrid, and from there to Florence and Rome. From there it’s to Athens, and then to Istanbul, and finally to Geneva and Lausanne, and you fly home from Zurich. Isn’t that wonderful? A real Grand Tour! It’s his graduation present to you, so, you see, your grandpa’s not all bad! You’ll see everything, the museums, the castles, the cathedrals, and you’ll be part of a lovely group—a very select tour group of young people your age, only twenty young people, from the best schools and colleges in the East! Eight whole weeks! I’m so thrilled for you, darling—envious, too. Because I’ve never been to Europe, never been anywhere … never.…”

  In Paris, there was a letter waiting from her mother.

  Dearest Mimi,

  Jul. 11, 1957

  I know that this has been a difficult time for you, darling, but believe me, things will seem better after time goes by. It is good, I think, to get away from things for a while, and let one’s life come into focus. They say life is short, but life is really very long—too long, it sometimes seems—and you are still so young. Time turns all hurts to scars and in time the scars go away too! And I know that there are some things about our situation here that are difficult to understand, but believe me, there are reasons for everything, even though you may not understand what all the reasons are. Believe me, your Daddy and I want nothing but happiness for you—for the rest of your life.

  If you should see a pretty scarf or a pair of gloves, not too expensive, in Paris, please buy it for me.

  Daddy joins me in love.…

  And, in Madrid, there was a letter from her grandfather, which she read sitting on the steps of the Prado while the others in her group were inside, listening to a lecture on Velázquez.

  My dear Mireille:

  24 July 1957

  I trust this letter finds you enjoying your tour, and making many new friends and having many plea
sant new experiences. Your grandmother and I have always found travel to be a broadening experience, and I am sure you will return home with a deeper understanding of the breadth and richness of our Western culture.

  I understand that your young man made a rather unpleasant scene at your parents’ house that last night, and used crude language. That was of course unfortunate and, though it indicates a certain lack of poise and self-control, it was perhaps understandable under the circumstances. At least it will perhaps help you see why he never could have comfortably been made a part of the fabric of our small family.

  Then, rather abruptly, his tone changed.

  That day in my office, you spoke of love. I am an old man, Mireille, and I have had much experience with love. Will you trust an old man’s experience? Love—first love—always seems the strongest. It can seem so strong as to be overpowering. But what that first love is, Mireille, is a test—a test of stamina, and of character. Though I am not a particularly religious man, I think that love is a test that God, or Life, or however you think of the force that impels us through this life, gives us and waits for us to pass—a kind of endurance test, if you will. Life is a kind of mountain journey, and the first love is the first crest in the path. But over that first crest lies another, and then another, until the mountain is scaled, and all the crests are conquered, and the journey is done.

  “Bad news?” a male voice said. “You look a little sad.”

  “No, not really.”

  “I’ve watched you on this trip,” he said. He was not bad-looking. “You always look a little preoccupied and sad.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’m not neurotic, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “We haven’t actually met,” he said. “My name’s Brad Moore.”

  16

  Edwee has hit upon the perfect technique for gaining access to his mother’s apartment while she is not in it. He literally frightens her out of her house. This morning, for example, he telephoned her to say that he needed to see her on a matter of urgent business concerning her future, needed to see her today, if possible.

  “I’m sorry, Edwee. I’m busy today.”

  “Just for a m-m-minute, M-M-Maman.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s urgent, Maman.”

  “Then tell me what it is on the telephone.”

  “It’s something I have to show you, Maman.”

  “Show me? You know I can’t see. What is it?”

  “Just a legal document that requires your signature. I’ll show you where to sign.”

  “No! No! I’m not signing anything.”

  “I’m going to be in your neighborhood around noon. Let m-m-me pop by just for a m-m-m-minute.”

  “No! I’m going out at twelve. And stop stammering, Edwee! You only do it to annoy me.”

  “Where are you going? Perhaps we could m-m-m-meet.”

  “No! I’m having lunch with Rose Perlman. It’s private.” She had hung up on him.

  Today, however, the plan had struck a slight snag. Patrick, the doorman, had greeted him with his usual cordiality and had been given his usual tip. But George, at the front desk, had hesitated when Edwee asked for the key. “I’m sorry, Mr. Myerson,” he said. “Your mother is indeed out, but she asked that no one be admitted to her apartment. And I’m afraid, sir, that she specifically asked that you not be admitted.”

  At first, Edwee’s expression was one of extreme irritation, but quickly this changed to one of extreme sadness. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh, dear, dear, dear. Isn’t it sad to see how my poor, dear mother is failing?”

  “She seemed perfectly fine this morning, sir.”

  “Oh, she is fine, physically. She has the constitution of an ox. But it’s up here …” He tapped his head. “It’s the old Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid. You see, this is one of the symptoms of the disease. She says exactly the opposite of what she wants. She asked me to come by today at noon and obviously meant to tell you that I was expected, and that you were to let me in. Instead, she told you not to let me in. Sad, but what can we do?” He started to walk away.

  “No, wait, Mr. Myerson. Now that you’ve explained it, let me give you a key.”

  “No, no—you mustn’t do that, George. You have your instructions.”

  “Please, Mr. Myerson, here is the key.”

  His tip to George was larger than usual. In the elevator, he decided that he would keep this key and have a copy of it made before returning it. There are two entrances to the Carlyle, one on 76th Street and one on Madison Avenue. From now on, if further visits are necessary—which they may not be—he will simply use the Madison Avenue door, bypass the front desk, and go directly to the elevators like an ordinary hotel guest. There is always a way to do everything.

  Now, in the apartment, Edwee has been joined by the elegant and urbane John Marion, Chairman of the Board of Sotheby-Parke Bernet, whom he has asked to meet him there. Crouched on the floor, at a safe distance, his mother’s little dog barks at the two men incessantly. “She has some lovely things … lovely things,” John Marion is saying over the dog’s barks. “Every time I see this collection, I’m awestruck.”

  “Well, some things are better than others,” Edwee says.

  “As in any collection. She considered selling it, you know, after your father died—when I gather there were some difficult financial times. But I’m sure she’s glad she changed her mind. It’s much more valuable than it was thirty years ago.”

  “I’m sorry Mother’s not here,” Edwee says. “She was supposed to be, because I wanted her to hear your opinion. But apparently she forgot and went out.” He taps his head. “The old Alzheimer’s, you know. Oh, do be quiet, Itty-Bitty!”

  John Marion nods sympathetically.

  “Now, let me show you, John,” he says, “what it is that troubles me about the Goya, if indeed it is a Goya.” Using a slender silver pointer, and being careful not to touch the surface of the canvas, he begins to point to details. “If you’ll notice these brushstrokes here,” he says, “in the Duchess’s lace overskirt, and here again in the mantilla, you’ll notice a certain heaviness, a certain daubiness, that is quite uncharacteristic. The paint almost seems to have been smeared on, rather than brushed on, and as you know, Goya’s brushwork was always light and quick. It was these details that first aroused my suspicions.”

  “Hmm,” Marion says, peering closely at the painting.

  “And then there is the angle of the left hand. It hangs at a rather awkward, clumsy angle, don’t you think? The hand is not only in an awkward attitude. The flesh around her rings puffs out too much. Now notice the eyes. Do you see how they appear to be ever so slightly crossed?”

  “Maybe the Duchess had puffy, awkward hands and crossed eyes,” Marion says easily.

  “Goya did many paintings of Osuna,” Edwee says. “None of them show crossed eyes or puffy fingers.”

  “Could it be our Duchess had gained a bit of weight?”

  Edwee’s laugh is gentle and knowing. “If so, John,” he says with a touch of patronage in his voice, “two other verified portraits of her, one painted immediately before, and another done very shortly after this portrait was allegedly painted, do not show it. But it is really the clumsy positioning of the left hand that bothers me the most.”

  “Even Goya may have had a bad day.”

  “As you know,” Edwee continues, “Goya worked very rapidly. He could complete a portrait such as this one in two hours or less. Also, he never farmed out detail work, such as hands, to apprentices. And he was always particularly adept with hands.”

  “Hmm,” Marion says again.

  “Now, if you’ll give me a hand,” Edwee says, “let’s lift Her Grace off the wall. There’s something else I want to show you.”

  Together they lift the heavy frame from the wall and place it on the floor. “Let’s turn it over,” Edwee says, and they do so. “Now, as you know,” he goes on, “Mother purchased this painting from Duveen, and Berenson au
thenticated it. Never mind that Spanish painters of this period were not Berenson’s metier or field of expertise; that’s beside the point. Let’s grant that Berenson knew something about Goya’s work.”

  “Well, yes …”

  “And so, look here,” Edwee points. “Do you need a glass?” He starts to fish his magnifying glass from his pocket.

  “No, I can see fine.”

  “Then look at this. You’ll see the handwritten words, ‘Vrai—B. Berenson.’ Someone like Charlie Hamilton, of course, could tell us whether this indeed is written in Berenson’s hand, but it appears to me to be. But look: after the word vrai, there is a question mark! What Berenson actually wrote here was ‘vrai?—B. Berenson.’”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Marion says, looking at the handwriting closely. “I’ve examined this painting, front and back, at least a dozen times over the years and never noticed a question mark.”

  “The painting has been hanging here for nearly twenty years,” Edwee says quickly. “It had gotten very dusty, particularly on the back, where these hotel maids of course never dusted it. The other day I was in here and took the painting down and began dusting around the signature with a camel’s hair brush. That was when the question mark appeared, under the dust.”

  John Marion whistles softly. “I’ll be damned,” he says again. “Damned if I ever noticed that.”

  “Well, there it is,” Edwee says. “Apparently Berenson was doubtful. What else could it mean? It was when I found the question mark under the dust that I decided I’d better bring you in on it, with your expertise, which, after all, is far greater than mine. I, after all, am only an art historian. You are an appraiser, and probably the finest in the world.”

  “Edwee, I don’t know what to say,” he says.

  “Damn. I wish Mother had remembered this appointment with us today. She should be made aware, at least, that there’s a problem. But Mother forgets everything anyway, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Now there’s one other thing I ought to mention.”

  “What’s that?”

  “My sister, Nonie. She knew B.B. intimately and often visited him at ‘I Tatti.’ When I mentioned my suspicions to her, she recalled a conversation she had with him in the nineteen forties about this very painting. I want you to hear the details of this conversation from Nonie, who remembers it in some detail. May I suggest that you and I meet with Nonie at the earliest date convenient for the three of us?”