Shades of Fortune

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  This morning’s letter from Philippe de Montebello had contained everything he could have asked for—well, almost everything. “Dear Mr. Myerson,” it began.

  I visited your mother on Thursday afternoon with four members of my curatorial staff, at least two of whom are considered experts on the Spanish painters of Goya’s period. I must tell you that both my Goya experts are convinced that your mother’s portrait of the Duchess of Osuna is authentic, and that the curious “question mark” you noted following Berenson’s signature was added later, and in another hand.

  There had been a heart-stopping moment when Edwee read this sentence, but then he read on.

  On the other hand, in light of your sister’s account of her meeting with M. Berenson at his villa several years after your mother acquired the painting, and the fact that at least someone has questioned the authenticity of the painting, we feel that the position of the Museum must be to decline your mother’s most generous offer. We hope that this will not disappoint your mother or yourself.

  Disappoint! Edwee thinks. Ho-ho! Ha-ha!

  Needless to say, out of consideration for your mother and her advanced age and certain infirmities, I do not plan to tell her the precise reasons why we are declining her gift, since the reasons might cause her undue distress. Rather, I am writing her separately today merely to say that, while we deeply appreciate her offer, the Museum feels that it already has a sufficient representation of Goya’s work, and that due to such considerations as insurance costs, shortage of hanging space, etc., we are respectfully declining her offer.

  Yours sincerely,

  Philippe de Montebello

  His mother, when he had phoned her this morning, had also seemed in an unusually chipper and cheerful mood and surprisingly willing to see him when he told her he had something he wanted to discuss with her. “Do come by, Edwee,” his mother said brightly. “I’d love to see you. It’s been a coon’s age. I’ll be right here all morning.”

  “Good morning, Patrick!” he said to the doorman as Patrick held the door open for him.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Fine day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Good morning, George,” he said as he passed the front desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Myerson. Your mother’s expecting you.”

  All the way up to the twentieth floor, Edwee whistled a little tuneless tune.

  “Come in, Edwee!” his mother called when he rang the bell. “The door’s off the latch.” As he opened the door to her apartment, the sheer glass curtains against her open windows billowed into the room from the westerly breeze, billowed like white sails on an open sea, billowed and flapped and gusted into the sitting room where she has been sitting, waiting for him, wearing her pearls.

  “It is you, isn’t it, Edwee?” she says.

  “Yes, M-M-M-Maman.”

  “Come in, come in.”

  Immediately, Itty-Bitty begins barking shrilly, crouching, her rear in the air, forepaws extended, barking, growling, snarling at him. But the minute Edwee steps from his mother’s entrance foyer into her sitting room, he stops in his tracks. “Where is it?” he gasps.

  “Where’s what, dear?”

  “The Goya! Where is it?”

  “What Goya, dear?”

  “There!” he screams, pointing at the empty wall, at the pale rectangle against the yellower wall, where it had hung. “It was right there! It hung right there! It’s always been there! What have you done with it, Mother?”

  “Well, you know I can’t see,” his mother says. “So I don’t know what you’re talking about, Edwee.”

  “What have you done with your Goya, Mother?”

  “You see, you don’t stammer when you don’t want to,” she says. “Sit down, Edwee. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “God damn it, Mother—what have you done with your Goya?”

  “Don’t swear, Edwee. It’s rude. What are you talking about?”

  “Your Goya! Where is it?”

  “Goya?” she says thoughtfully. “You mean the painter, Goya? I’ve never owned any Goya, Edwee. I considered buying one years ago, but I changed my mind. Mr. Montecarlo, from the museum, was here the other day. He admired my Monet, my Cézanne, my little Renoir still life, my Degas dancers—but he never mentioned any Goya.”

  “You’re lying, Mother! Don’t try to pull that stuff on me! It was right there!”

  “Well, whatever used to be there must be still there, because nothing’s been moved out of this apartment since I moved in, so you must be thinking of something else, because I’ve never had any Goya. You must be thinking of something else.”

  “I am not thinking of something else!”

  “The little Renoir still life maybe? As you know, I’m old, and you know I can’t see.”

  “I think you can see!” he says. “And you know exactly what I’m talking about! Where is it, you bitch?”

  His mother rises from the sofa to her full height and, touching her pearls, faces him. “If you’ve come here to be rude and nasty to me, Edwee,” she says, “then I don’t want to talk to you anymore. You can just go.” She turns quickly and walks to her bedroom door, opens it, and closes it behind her with a small slam. He hears the bolt in the lock.

  He runs to the door and begins pounding on it with his fists. “What have you done with it?” he screams. “What have you done with my Goya? What have you done with it, you stupid, senile, selfish, disgusting old bitch! I’m going to put you in a nursing home!”

  “Get out of here, Edwee,” he hears from behind the door. “Get out of here before I call Security.”

  He continues banging on the panel of the door. “Bitch! Bitch! Horrible old bitch that I hate!”

  “I’m going to call Security.”

  He leans against the door. Near him, on the floor, Itty-Bitty still crouches, barking noisily, snarling, growling. Edwee steps toward her, and the little dog shies away, snarling and snapping angrily, but Edwee moves faster and seizes the little dog by its collar and its tail. While the little dog screeches and struggles in his grip, trying to bite him, Edwee strides to the open window and flings the dog out. The sheer glass curtains billow outward now, outward into the bright New York morning.

  In the sudden silence that follows, Edwee Myerson leaves quickly.

  He is well out of the apartment, well out of the Carlyle, when, perhaps ten minutes later, George from the front desk telephones Granny Flo Myerson to tell her the dreadful news.

  Part Four

  A HOMECOMING

  25

  “I finally had a chance to speak to your uncle Edwee today,” Brad says.

  “Oh?” she says. She has momentarily forgotten what it was that he wanted to speak to Edwee about. They are sitting in the living room of the apartment at 1107 Fifth Avenue, having their customary before-dinner cocktail. On late-summer evenings such as this, Mimi likes to use as little artificial light in this room as possible, letting the sunset colors, reflected from the lake, refracted by the glass prisms, and echoed by the colors in the abstract paintings (the Morris Louis, the Youngerman, the Jasper Johns) supply the only flashes of color in the otherwise all-white room, adding to the room’s feeling of floating in space above the park. “I forget,” she says. “What was it you …?”

  “About this apparent interest in your male model—what’s his name?”

  “Dirk Gordon. Oh, yes.”

  “I’m a little worried about Uncle Edwee, Mimi.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well, Edwee’s never been exactly the most … stable person, has he? And when I talked with him today, I actually wondered if he was losing his mind.”

  “Seriously, Brad?”

  “He was quite irrational—hysterical, almost. He went on and on about Granny Flo’s having hidden a painting from him. Her Goya. He says she’s taken it off the wall and is hiding it somewhere … from him.”

  “She’s giving that painting to the Met. That�
�s probably where it is. They’ve already collected it.”

  “No. He says he’s had a letter from the museum, and he says that they don’t want it. He says your grandmother had a letter to the same effect.”

  “That’s strange. I thought they’d kill to get that painting.”

  “Anyway, now it’s disappeared. And he wants us—or you, specifically—to get it back. For him. He kept referring to it as ‘my Goya.’”

  “That’s ridiculous. It’s always been Granny’s Goya. Everybody knows that.”

  “And now you’re supposed to find out where it is, and get it back.”

  “Well, I certainly have more important things on my mind right now than worrying about where Granny’s Goya is.”

  “I told him that. That was when he really became irrational. That was when he began to threaten.”

  “Threaten? Threaten what?”

  “I mentioned your male model. Edwee has—or at least claims he has—a pornographic videotape, featuring your model, Mr. Gordon. He says it could be potentially embarrassing to your Mireille campaign if he were to release it.”

  Mimi is silent for a moment. Then she says, “I see. Thank you, Uncle Edwee. I needed this.”

  “Could it be? Embarrassing to you?”

  “Well,” she says, “they say Joan Crawford made porno films before she became a star. They say they’re collectors’ items now. She lived it down. Vanessa Williams posed in the nude for Bob Guccione. She lost her title, but she bounced back. But right now … well, the timing couldn’t be much worse, could it? If he’s telling the truth. What do you think I should do, Brad? Oh, god damn you, Edwee!”

  “Well,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about it. First, there’s the possibility that he’s lying. There’s the possibility that he’s gone completely off his rocker. But I think we should face the possibility that he’s got something. There are things we could do, legal steps we could take. We could bring in the FBI—this, after all, is a blackmail threat. But that could generate publicity. It could also take time. You don’t have a lot of time before your campaign breaks—”

  “A week and a half.”

  “We could demand to see the alleged tape. Or we could help him find where the damned Goya is—which is what he wants. Or we could simply call his bluff, and do nothing.”

  “Which do you think?”

  “I told him that I refused to take his threat seriously unless I could see the tape.”

  “And what did he say to that?”

  “He hung up on me.”

  “You see? I think he’s bluffing.”

  “Perhaps. We’ll see.”

  They sit in silence for a while as the room grows darker. Mimi reaches out and switches on a lamp. “Well, thank you, darling, for trying to help out with this,” she says at last. “Thank you for putting up with this … this family of thieves and varlets that I seem to have. The Magnificent Myersons! We’re quite a bunch, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, it’s been worth it,” he says with a small smile.

  “Has it? Has it really, darling?” In the distance, the telephone rings, and presently Felix appears at the door.

  “Mr. Michael Horowitz for you, ma’am.”

  “Oh, yes. I need to talk to him.” She rises and steps into the library to take the call.

  “Michael,” she says. “Thank you for calling back.”

  “Hi, kiddo. Sorry to call you at home, but your message said it was important.”

  “It is,” she says. “I’m calling to ask you a favor, Michael.”

  “You sound in a little better mood than you were in the last time I saw you.”

  “Actually, I’m not.”

  “Then shoot. What’s the favor?”

  “I see you’ve bought tickets to my launch benefit.”

  “That’s right.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “It sounded like a good party,” he says. “And it’s for a good cause.”

  “Is that all? Michael, please be honest with me. Let’s be honest with each other. We used to be honest with each other. I know you’ve been buying up our stock. I know you’ve approached certain cousins of mine and offered to buy up their stock. You’re trying a takeover, aren’t you? There’s already been talk in the industry about something happening at Miray. People have noticed the way our stock’s been reacting. They’re asking questions. They know something’s behind it. It won’t be long before the financial press gets wind of this, and when that happens there won’t be anything that you or I can say or do about what they print. But do me a favor, Michael. At least give me a chance to make a counterproposal to my stockholders before you make your announcement. I mean, there used to be a certain amount of ethics and etiquette in business, didn’t there? If we’re going to fight, let’s fight like ladies and gentlemen.”

  “Or like the lovers we used to be,” he says.

  “Please, Michael. I’m quite serious.”

  “You keep talking takeover, Mimi. I told you before: I’m buying Miray for my portfolio because I think it’s a good company. I’m also buying International Harvester for the same reason. If that’s made your stock go up, well, that’s good for me, and it’s good for you, too, isn’t it?”

  “Michael, I just don’t believe you. Please be honest. I mean, you have every right to want to take over my company. I respect that right, it’s a fact of life in today’s marketplace. And I have every right to do what I can to stop you. But, please, don’t use my party as some kind of forum to announce your intentions. I would consider that a very unkind and very unfair thing to do.”

  “I was planning to come to that party as a private individual,” he says, sounding hurt. “Purely as a private individual. I wasn’t planning to make any announcement there.”

  “Are you sure? Is that a promise? Because the focus of this party has got to be my new perfume—and my new ad campaign. And the library. That’s why I’m giving it. The focus can’t be turned to Michael Horowitz and his plans, whatever they are.”

  “Look,” he says, “you’re giving this party. You’re the hostess. If my hostess doesn’t want me at a party, I won’t be there. That’s all there is to it. I’ll give my tickets to somebody else.”

  “Even your presence at the party could add fuel to the rumors, Michael. The press will be there. They could ask you questions.”

  “Don’t you think I know how to handle the press? Anyway, I just told you. If you don’t want me, I won’t be there. I don’t go to parties where I’m not wanted. I’ve just been disinvited, kiddo.”

  “I can’t prevent you from going, Michael. It’s just that I want everything to be perfect on the seventeenth.”

  “And I want everything to be perfect for you. But, frankly, Mimi, you disappoint me.”

  “Why?”

  “Did you really think I’d use your party to make some kind of grandstand play, and steal your thunder? Did you really think I’d jump up on the stage, grab the microphone, and say, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you’re looking at the next president of Miray’? Because if you thought I’d do a thing like that to you, you don’t understand me very well, or know me very well at all, and that makes me kind of sad.”

  “But Michael, it’s just that—”

  “I’d never rain on your parade, Mimi. I thought you knew that. Frankly, the real reason I wanted to come was because I thought it would be fun to see you at work. That was the only reason, Mimi. Remember, years ago, I said I thought that you were the one who should run that company? I always sort of thought that my suggestion might have had something to do with what you’re doing now, and the kind of woman you’ve become. Anyway, that’s what I liked to think. And I just thought it would be kind of fun to watch you in action. That’s all it was. Honest.”

  “But you see—”

  “Haven’t I always tried to help you and your family out? Have you forgotten all of that? I’ve always thought I had your best interests at heart. Even when it was only a broken skate lace.”


  What he is doing, she thinks, is what is known in the business as “credentialing himself”—reminding her of past services rendered and future favors owed.

  “Then what about Grandpa’s diaries?” she says. “Why are you holding on to them? Isn’t it to put some kind of pressure on me?”

  There is an audible sigh on the other end of the line. “Those damn diaries,” he says. “Why would I want them? To hurt you? No. To prevent you from being hurt by some not very pretty things you’ll find in them. I told you that. If you want them so badly, you’ll have them. I’ll have them wrapped and shipped over to your office in the morning.”

  “Well, in that case, Michael—”

  “If there’s one thing I am, it’s a man of my word. I just didn’t know you had such a low opinion of me, Mimi. That’s what hurts.”

  “In that case, please come to the party, Michael. I apologize for what I thought.”

  “No, you’ve pretty much taken all the fun out of it for me, kiddo.”

  “Please. Please, I want you to come.”

  “No, no.…”

  “Oh, please. I’m sorry.” She realizes she is completely reversing herself. “Please come to the party.”

  “That you’d think that I’d get up on the stage, and—”

  “I don’t think that now.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it.”

  “Please.”

  “You think I’m a really rotten person, don’t you?”

  “No, I don’t! Please be there.”

  “I’ll think about it,” he says again. “You kind of hurt me just now.”

  She replaces the receiver in its cradle, wondering: Have I been manipulated? Has he bamboozled me again?

  In the living room, she finds Brad standing at a window, looking out, one hand deep in his trousers pocket, the other holding his cocktail glass, and for a moment she is tempted to go to him, hook her hand into the space between his sleeve and jacket, and stand there with him for a moment, watching the gathering darkness and the lights coming up on the West Side. But something about his solitary stance deters her, and instead she sits in one of the twin sofas under the lamplight.