Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  “A pediatrician?”

  “Yes. Who works on doggies’ feet.”

  “Oh. I think you mean a podiatrist, Granny.”

  “That’s what I said. And, meanwhile, Mr. Horowitz has some leases he wants me to sign on the Bar Harbor lots. I was going to go up to Mr. Horowitz’s house to sign them—they need to be in the lawyers’ hands first thing in the morning—but now Itty-Bitty and I have to take the one-ten train up to Mount Kisco. Would you run up to Mr. Horowitz’s place and fetch those papers for me, Mimi? I asked your mother, but she says she’s not feeling herself today. You know what that means. She’s pickled again. I’d ask your father to do it, but he’s so busy.”

  “Tell you what,” Mimi said. “Why don’t you run over to Michael’s place, and I’ll take Itty-Bitty to Mount Kisco?” She was rather pleased with the fact that, during all these family negotiations with him, she had not had to come into direct contact with him.

  “Oh, no, that won’t work,” her grandmother said. “Itty-Bitty will want me with him. If the doctor has to operate or something, Itty-Bitty will want me there.”

  “Why can’t he send a messenger?” she said, trying to think of some way to avoid this encounter.

  “Won’t you do me this little favor, Mimi? I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t so important. He lives on Riverside and Eighty-first. It shouldn’t take but a few minutes. Are you that busy?”

  “No, of course not, Granny. I’ll be glad to do it.”

  “He doesn’t trust a messenger. They come on bicycles. This is too important for a bicycle.”

  “Give me his exact address,” Mimi said.

  “Hi, kiddo,” he said, greeting her breezily at the door of his apartment as though more than two years had not passed since they had last seen one another. He was dressed in jeans and an open shirt, a loosened necktie slung rakishly over his shoulder. He immediately handed her a fat manila accordion envelope, and for a moment, she thought he was not even going to ask her in. Then he said, “Care to step in for a minute? See my place?”

  His apartment was clearly designed to draw an appreciative gasp from a visitor, which was exactly what Mimi did when she entered it. The floor of his huge, cathedral-ceilinged living room was covered, wall to wall, with deep-pile white carpet, and the room was furnished with oversize white sofas and chairs, plumped up with dozens of big white toss pillows. Every surface that was not white was mirrored: mirrored walls, doors, table tops, and lamp bases. An elaborate track- and recessed-lighting system had been installed in the ceiling, and tall, floor-to-ceiling sliding glass doors across the entire west-facing wall opened out onto a wide terrace planted with hedges and fruit trees. Mimi could not help noticing that the trees and hedges were artificial—good artificial, but still artificial. Beyond, there was a sweeping view of the Hudson, the New Jersey Palisades, the towers of Fort Lee, and the twin towers of the George Washington Bridge.

  “It’s beautiful, Michael,” she said. “Not just beautiful, spectacular!”

  He laughed. “Michael Taylor, San Francisco. He’s the climax decorator out there. He asked me, ‘Do you want an old-money look or a new-money look?’ I said, ‘What’s wrong with a new-money look? After all, that’s what it is. Why pretend it’s anything else?’ We knocked out walls all over the place. This room used to be four smaller ones. Taylor likes built-ins. Everything’s built in. Here’s the entertainment center.” He opened a pair of mirrored doors. “TV, stereo, tape deck, concealed speakers.” He opened another pair of doors. “Here’s the communications center. It’s all computerized. Ever see one of these? Brand-new from Sony—a cordless phone.” He swung open a third pair of doors. “Here’s the wet bar—refrigerator, ice-maker. The ice-maker makes ninety pounds of ice a day. Why would I need ninety pounds of ice a day? Hell, I don’t know, but Taylor wanted me to get it.” He moved around the room, opening and closing doors of built-ins. “Anyway, I’m building a house in East Orange that’s gonna make this place look like a dump. I may not be the richest guy in New York yet, but I’m on my way. Can I fix you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I can only stay a minute.”

  “Sit down,” he said. She sat down on the edge of one of the oversized sofas, with the thick manila envelope in her lap, and he sat opposite her, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his fists. She saw that he had acquired a gold Rolex watch. He studied her intently for a moment, then tossed the wayward lock of sandy hair back across his forehead, jutting out his lower jaw in the same motion. “You’re looking good,” he said. “Marriage agrees with you, I guess.”

  She smiled, and tapped the manila envelope with one finger, and glanced at her own watch.

  “I read about your wedding in the New York Times,” he said. “It was in the Society pages. I guess if you’d married me, it wouldn’t have made the Society pages. ‘From an old Boston family,’ the Times said. That must have pleased your grandfather.”

  “We’re all terribly grateful for what you’re doing for us, Michael,” she said.

  “Nothing to it,” he said. “That’s what I do best—real estate deals. But something’s worrying you, kiddo. I can tell. There are little worry lines around your eyes. What is it?”

  “I admit I was a little nervous about coming to see you today,” she said.

  “I think there’s more to it than that. That’s why I asked your grandmother to send you up here today.”

  “So. Sending me here was your idea. I should have guessed it.”

  “I wanted to see how you were taking all this. You look worried. You look scared.”

  “Scared? Well, it was kind of a shock to all of us, when we discovered the way Grandpa left things in his will.”

  “Tell me something,” he said. “Do you think what your grandmother’s doing, what I’m helping her do, is really going to help that company?”

  “Well, I gather what’s needed right now is capital, and—”

  “What does your husband think? He’s supposed to be a hotshot lawyer.”

  “Brad’s from New England. He’s being very stoic about it.”

  “A cold fish, you mean?”

  “No. He’s very optimistic, actually. He makes a joke out of a lot of it—the legal fees, and so on.”

  “A joke? I wish I could see anything funny about the situation. I think your company’s in more trouble than any of you may realize. I think what your grandmother is doing is great, but I think all she’s doing is sticking her little pinky in the hole in the dike—a hole that’s going to keep getting bigger.”

  “Really, Michael?” she said. “Now you really are scaring me.”

  “Have you ever thought of running that company yourself? You could do it, you know.”

  “Me? But it’s Daddy’s company now, and—”

  “I always thought you were the smartest one in that family. I always thought you were the best of that whole lot. You’ve got brains, and you’ve got taste. Me, I’ve got no taste. This”—he gestured around him—“this isn’t my taste. This is Michael Taylor’s taste. But you’ve got everything that it takes. You’ve got beauty, brains, taste, and class. Anyway”—he jumped to his feet—“you’ve gotta run. But think about what I’ve said. From what I know of what’s going on, your family’s in a very no-joke situation. There’s more needed than sticking the little finger in the dike.”

  He walked her toward the door. Suddenly, at the door, he drew her toward him and, roughly and a little clumsily, kissed her hard on the mouth. “For old times’ sake,” he said, releasing her. “Now beat it, kiddo. I’ve got work to do. But think about what I’ve said, and call me if you need me.”

  All at once she was out the door, and the door had closed behind her.

  22

  It has been decided that this afternoon’s meeting should take place at Nonie Myerson’s apartment at 200 East 66th Street. It is a little more convenient to Philippe de Montebello’s museum than Sutton Square, and Mr. de Montebello’s schedule is, of course, tight. Ev
en more convenient, in terms of distance, would have been the Carlyle, but Edwee could not be certain that his mother could be got out of the place in time for the gathering, and besides, de Montebello has already examined the painting several times in the past, so the venue of the meeting does not really matter all that much.

  Now everything is in readiness, and Nonie has placed a pad of yellow legal cap and freshly sharpened pencils at each corner of her glass coffee table, in case there is a need for notes to be taken. She has efficiently thought of everything, including a silver carafe of ice water and four glasses on the table, all very businesslike. The tall and dark and startlingly handsome Philippe de Montebello arrives punctually on the dot of three, looking, as always, like the European aristocrat he is. John Marion arrives one or two minutes late, and of course Edwee and Nonie have been there well in advance.

  After the customary pleasantries, Edwee opens the proceedings.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. de Montebello,” he begins, “but my mother won’t be joining us this afternoon. She had promised to be here, but when I called her a few minutes ago to remind her of this meeting, she had forgotten about it completely. In fact, she was still in bed! It’s so sad, the way her mind is going.” He taps his forehead. “It’s the old Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid.”

  “She seemed very alert when I saw her a couple of weeks ago,” Philippe de Montebello says.

  “Oh, she has some good days,” Edwee says, “but fewer and fewer of those as time goes by.”

  “More bad days than good days now,” Nonie says.

  “Many more,” Edwee says.

  “She even has trouble remembering your name,” Nonie says. “The other day she referred to you as Mr. Monticello.”

  “Or sometimes it’s Montecarlo.”

  “Or Montessori …”

  “Sad,” Edwee says. “But the main thing is that my sister and I know that Mother has had discussions with you about her collection, and that she has proposed turning over certain items to the Metropolitan—whichever items you might wish. Let me say that we are absolutely delighted.”

  “Thrilled,” Nonie says.

  “In fact, my sister and I have been urging her to do something of this sort for some time. It was at our instigation, really, that Mother sought you out. Our reasons are partly altruistic. We are New Yorkers, born and bred, and our affection for the city’s cultural institutions runs deep. New York has been kind to us, you might say, and we want to repay the people of this city by offering whatever we can to its greatest, most important cultural institution of all, your Metropolitan Museum.”

  “My earliest memories as a little girl,” Nonie says dreamily, “are of being taken to the Met by my nanny, and of walking through those galleries, and of marveling at the concentration of sheer beauty assembled under that one roof. I remember I cried when my nurse told me it was time to go!”

  “But there is another reason why we’ve been urging Mother to dispose of her collection—to offer it either to you, or to someone else—that is more pressing, and more practical.”

  “She can’t even see the paintings anymore,” Nonie says.

  “Yes, sad about her eyesight,” de Montebello murmurs.

  “But the more practical reason,” Edwee continues, “is taxes. If something should happen to Mother—and, alas, she’s not getting any younger—and the collection went into her estate, and were to be taxed as part of it, the tax effects on her estate could be disastrous.”

  “Disastrous,” Nonie echoes.

  “I understand,” de Montebello says. “This is a nice little jade elephant,” he says, picking it up. “Very nice.”

  “Mmm,” Nonie murmurs.

  “Therefore,” Edwee says, “as our mother’s only heirs, we feel that her collection—or as much of it as you’re willing to accept for the Metropolitan—should be donated as quickly as possible. To eliminate the tax threat. It would make my sister and me very sad to see those paintings put on the auction block to pay the taxes.”

  “Aren’t there other heirs? What about Mimi and Mimi’s son?” de Montebello says.

  “I meant her direct heirs,” Edwee says. “Now, I’m sure there are some pictures in the collection that you’d be willing to accept, while there are others that you might decline.”

  “Well, she has several very nice things,” de Montebello says noncommittally.

  “Which brings us to the Goya,” Edwee says. “For years, her Goya portrait of the Duchess of Osuna has been considered sort of the flagship painting of Mother’s collection. And, assuming that the Goya is one of the paintings you might want to acquire, we are naturally anxious to be sure that the provenance of the painting is authentic and unclouded, that there are no doubts about its … authenticity.”

  “Authenticity?” says de Montebello, sitting forward in his chair. “What makes you question its authenticity, Mr. Myerson?”

  “John?” says Edwee to John Marion. “Suppose you tell Mr. de Montebello what you noticed when you and I examined the canvas the other day. Or do you prefer to be called Count de Montebello?”

  “Mr. is fine,” de Montebello says.

  “Well, actually it was Edwee who noticed it,” Marion says. “It was damned strange. I’ve examined that painting dozens of times, front and back, over the years, and never noticed anything odd about it. But when we took it down the other day, there was a question mark after Berenson’s verification of it.”

  “The painting had gotten very dusty,” Edwee says. “That’s why no one noticed it before.”

  “Question mark?” says Nonie sharply. “What’s this about a question mark?”

  “Instead of ‘vrai—B. Berenson,’ it seems to say ‘vrai?—B. Berenson,’” Marion says.

  “You never told me about any question mark, Edwee!” Nonie says.

  “Didn’t I?” he says smoothly. “I must have forgotten to mention it to you, dear.”

  “That is odd,” de Montebello says. “I examined the painting myself just a few weeks ago and didn’t notice any question mark.”

  “Very dusty,” Edwee says again. “That’s why no one noticed it.”

  “Very odd.”

  “But, as you know,” Edwee continues, “Berenson often verified paintings for Duveen about which he had doubts, particularly if Duveen thought he might lose a sale if he didn’t have Berenson’s imprimatur. Berenson tried to be scrupulous, but sometimes Duveen wouldn’t let him be. Frankly, I’d always had some misgivings about our Goya—the awkward position of Osuna’s left hand, for instance, and a certain daubiness in the execution.…”

  “I was never struck by any daubiness,” de Montebello says.

  “Well, as an art historian, there was something about this Osuna that bothered me. Let me just say that. But when we discovered the question mark—”

  “Who discovered the question mark?” Nonie asks.

  “We—”

  “It was actually your brother who pointed it out to me,” John Marion says. “But it’s definitely there.”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to the question mark; even the greatest art authorities sometimes have doubts. And none of this would be worth our discussion today, if it weren’t for something my sister recalled the other day. My sister was an intimate friend of Berenson’s, you know, and often visited B.B. at ‘I Tatti.’ Nonie, tell Mr. de Montebello about the curious conversation you had with Berenson that day.”

  This is the cue for Nonie’s performance. She sits forward in her chair, smooths the skirt of her new Dior, folds her hands in her lap, and begins.

  “It was in the spring of nineteen thirty-nine,” she says. “It was a lovely day, and the hills around Settignano were glorious. B.B. and his darling Mary had invited a group of us to ‘I Tatti’ for luncheon. I was married to Erik Tarcher, my second husband, the actor, at the time, and we drove up from Florence in a rented Fiat. As I say, the day was glorious, but the mood at the luncheon was a little tense. It was nineteen thirty-nine, and th
e lights were already beginning to go out all over Europe. B.B. was very tense about reports of what was going on in the countries to the north of him. Berenson was Jewish, you see, and there were disturbing reports from Germany and Austria. We talked about these through much of lunch.…

  “I remember it so vividly. Greta Garbo was there—darling Greta, with her friend George Schlee. Needless to say, George’s wife Valentina was not there. The Duchess of Windsor was there—darling Wallis. Did you know Wallis, John?”

  “Certainly. We handled her jewelry sale in April.”

  “Of course. How could I have forgotten that? The Duke was not there. Wallis explained that David had an attack of hives and couldn’t make it. But, if you knew Wallis, you know that David’s attack of hives wasn’t going to keep her from a party. She loved any kind of party. Goodness, how hard that poor woman worked trying to keep that sad little man amused!”

  “Get to your conversation with B.B., Nonie,” Edwee says, with a slight edge to his voice.

  “And Lady Diana Cooper was there—dear Diana—and Duff. That was the little group, nine of us. Greta and George, Wallis, the Coopers, the Berensons, and Erik and myself. The table had been set for ten, of course, and I remember that B.B. joked that we would keep the empty chair at the table in David’s honor, like the empty chair for Elijah at a seder. He was such a darling man, B.B. Wallis laughed and laughed at that!

  “After lunch, B.B. wanted to show Greta his art library. She’d never seen it, and was eager to. I, of course, had seen it dozens of times. So, while they were doing that, Wallis and Diana and I took our coffee cups and strolled out into the garden, while Erik and Duff and George and Mary stayed behind, talking politics. I’m sure you remember B.B.’s famous green garden: it was built on terraces sloping down the hillside, away from the house. B.B. was terribly proud of it. We found a seat on a garden bench, and presently B.B. joined us there. I made some sort of casual remark about the lovely day, about the intense greens of the poplars and cypress trees, and said that the colors reminded me of the greens in the sleeves of the Duchess of Osuna’s gown in my mother’s Goya.