Stealing Mona Lisa
Page 22
“No Italian would convict a fellow countryman of returning La Gioconda to the land of its birth,” Peruggia said.
The conviction was steadily leaking out of the man, thought Carnot. He slowly got to his feet and stepped to the wall beneath the small window. It was time.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “However, they might convict a petty scoundrel for trying to cheat them.”
“Cheat them?” Peruggia erupted. “I was not trying to cheat anyone.”
“Are you trying to tell me that you were not aware the painting is a forgery? A fake? Surely, you cannot be that naïve.”
“Now you’re trying to trick me.”
“Why would I do that? If the painting were genuine, I wouldn’t even bother to come and see you. I’d simply return with it to France and leave you here to rot.”
“No, it’s not possible,” Peruggia said.
“It’s been appraised by three experts,” Carnot said smugly. “The Italians may not know much else but—excluding yourself, apparently—they know their art.”
“But I never let it out of my sight.” Peruggia said this more to himself than to Carnot. He got to his feet and started pacing, staring down at the cell floor as if it somehow held the truth.
Carnot felt hope stir in his chest. This was the man’s first concrete admission of guilt.
“Never?” he asked.
Peruggia stopped cold. Carnot held his breath. He was almost there.
“Those mongrels!” Peruggia finally said, as much to himself as to Carnot. “They swindled me!”
Carnot smiled in satisfaction.
“Tell me about these mongrels, my friend,” he said, his voice dripping with empathy.
Peruggia turned to Carnot, his eyes narrowing.
“Why?” the Italian said warily. “Why should I tell you anything? What’s in it for me?”
Carnot shrugged in an effort to indicate it was of no great consequence to him.
“Say nothing and you’ll not only go to jail for forgery and fraud but also become a pariah in your own country, a traitor who tried to play a hoax on the people of Italy. And you’ll expose yourself to the entire world as a classic fool in the bargain. On the other hand, tell me everything and you may very well become the national hero you aspire to be … the man who recovered the true Gioconda.”
Peruggia looked up to the small, high window and the gray brick prison walls beyond. Clenching his fist, he slowly raised his arm toward the fading light. Then, in a sudden, violent move, he slammed the side of his fist into the rough stone wall.
And Carnot knew he had him.
Chapter 39
The people who lived in the city of Dijon and in the small villages along the Plateau de Langres could not remember a worse winter. The short days, made even shorter by the dark, dank clouds that hid sun and sky for weeks on end, had taken their toll on the mood of the populace. And now the rains had come again. All night, the heavy precipitation pounded on the roofs, keeping the inhabitants awake. During the day, the rain cascaded down in sheets, turning people into virtual prisoners in their own dark, fetid houses.
Already, the streams and tributaries that flowed into the Seine had become swollen, rushing torrents. People who made their living loading the péniches with wine and goods bound for the Bercy docks and warehouses along the Paris riverfront knew that if this kept up they would be in for hard times indeed. Once the river flooded, it would become too dangerous for navigation.
Everyone agreed. No one could recall a time when there had been so much rain.
Part V
For the rain it raineth every day.
—Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Chapter 40
Since arriving in Paris three weeks ago, Ellen Hart had felt the burden she had carried for almost as long as she could remember ease. She had been surrounded by luxury, attended day and night by a small army of servants, granted every material wish. But all these things had become a millstone around her neck, tethering her to a life she had been forced to choose. Her devotion to her mother had provided her with the only incentive to get through each day; her mother’s death had left her with a heart as heavy as lead, her reason for living suddenly gone forever. Only one hope had presented itself, a distant light on the horizon. Eduardo Valfierno. And that hope had now brought her to Paris where, in spite of an uncertain future, she felt as warm and light as the fluid rhythms of the language that surrounded her. Part of her extensive education as a young lady was learning to speak French, the language of diplomats. Indeed, she had spoken French with her mother many times, and using it now brought back fond memories of those interactions. She even found herself conversing with Julia in French. She imagined that Julia felt the same way as she did, that it was more than a language, it was a different way of thinking, of relating to one another, of living.
Her stay at Madame Charneau’s house in the cour de Rohan had been comfortable and pleasant. The older woman was like a kindly aunt who had done her best to make her feel at home; Julia could have been a younger cousin chatting endlessly about how naïve Émile was and how Diego was always leering suggestively at her, though whether Julia thought the latter was a bad thing or a good thing was sometimes hard to tell. Ellen found the younger woman friendly and amusing, even though they shared little common ground.
The cloistered courtyards and spiderweb of lanes and arcades within steps of Madame Charneau’s front door were an oasis in the midst of the city. The nearby cour du Commerce Saint-André was lined with small shops and businesses, each one more charming and fascinating than the last. Antique shops stood shoulder to shoulder with tiny restaurants, papeteries, tea salons, and chocolatiers. Ellen’s particular favorite was a toy shop with windows festooned with puppets, toy boats, and tin soldiers, all arrayed around a magnificent hot-air balloon, the envelope above the basket so elaborately decorated that it reminded her of a fat Fabergé egg.
Despite the persistent rain that had plagued Paris during the last few weeks, almost every other day she would walk to the river and cross the Petit Pont onto the Île de la Cité. The year-round flower market running along the quai aux Fleurs on the northeast bank of the river never failed to lift her spirits. Ellen had missed the summer with its wild olfactory concert of natural perfumes and fragrances played by a profusion of jasmine, dahlias, and myrtle; and autumn when an endless variety of chrysanthemums held court. But even now, in the dead of winter, Mediterranean greenhouses and the far-off gardens of Chile contributed to an abundance of bouquets, each arrangement trying to eclipse its neighbor.
Indeed, Ellen had brought back so many flowers and potted plants that Madame Charneau sometimes complained with a smile of feeling giddy from the aroma. Thank goodness the American woman didn’t become as obsessed with Sunday’s Marché aux Oiseaux. The last thing she needed was a house full of canaries, finches, and cockatiels!
Émile visited from time to time, mostly to confer with Madame Charneau. When she was in the house on these visits, Julia seemed genuinely pleased to see him. Émile rarely showed any overt signs of enthusiasm toward Julia, but Ellen suspected that he also enjoyed these encounters. Still, the meetings were often cut short when Émile announced that it was time to be getting back to Valfierno’s house.
She had not seen Valfierno since the day they had arrived together in Paris three weeks ago, and though her excursions and observations were a distraction, she still found herself hoping that he would pay her a visit. She would hear a motorcar in the courtyard and her heart would beat a little faster, but when no knock came on the door, the disappointment she felt was palpable.
And so, finally, she had taken matters into her own hands.
Through Émile she had requested a meeting with Valfierno at his house. He had replied that he expected to be visiting the cour de Rohan soon and he could see her then, but Ellen persisted. The rendezvous was finally set for three o’clock in the afternoon of the coming Saturday.
Madame Charneau had offered to take
Ellen to Valfierno’s house, or at the very least have Émile come and fetch her, but she had insisted on going by herself. She preferred it that way. She had his address and general directions and would be able to find the house. And she wanted to be alone with her thoughts on the way over.
She left the cour de Rohan a little after one o’clock with plenty of time to spare. Thankfully, the morning rain had stopped, though the sky was still overhung with gray, brooding clouds. Crossing the Petit Pont to the Île de la Cité, her attention was drawn momentarily to a group of young people—students from the Sorbonne judging by their fashionably bohemian outfits—looking with interest at the river. She peered over the side briefly to see what they might be looking at. The water had taken on a dark gray pallor, and a few young boys were down on the lower quayside sloshing through ankle-deep water. She watched for a moment before turning and continuing on.
Reaching the island, she glanced up at the great cathedral as she walked toward the Pont Notre-Dame. Reaching the Right Bank, she turned east along the river, then crossed the place de l’Hôtel de Ville. The large square at the foot of the palatial city government building—usually alive with activity—lay empty and forlorn, a sheen of rainwater reflecting the murky cloud cover above. Continuing on, she soon found herself in one of the oldest parts of Paris, the Marais.
Within only a few minutes, she became completely lost in the labyrinth of streets snaking about like an urban maze. This old and unfashionable district of the city had escaped the massive redesign of Paris by Baron Haussmann fifty years earlier by dint of its lack of importance and its general reputation of squalor. Its twisted warren of narrow medieval lanes, laid out without the benefit of rhyme or reason, still confused and tantalized the unwary traveler.
No wide boulevards dominated by walls of uniform five-story edifices and mansards could be found here. Instead, each building seemed to have been erected in a different time, for a different purpose, in a completely different style. Large, gated hotels particuliers cloistered by high walls loomed beside tiny cafés; narrow apartment buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, broken only by miniature parks bustling—even in the gloomy weather—with noisy, spirited children; bearded Eastern European Jews plied their trades within a myriad of leather and jewelry workshops; butchers and fishmongers displayed their wares in dozens of small establishments open to the street; bookshops, magasins d’antiquités, and galleries, their wooden façades painted in bright red, blue, and green, teetered along the petit trottoirs. This was a world apart from the broad, open boulevards of the New Paris.
Not that the Marais was all industry and squalor. Many of the city’s bourgeoisie preferred the atmosphere of the old city to that of the renovated, modern city. And the living was much cheaper here, not to mention far more colorful.
At first, Ellen felt completely disoriented by the puzzle of lanes and alleyways, but despite the sporadic outbursts of rain that forced her to seek shelter beneath handy archways or awnings, she found herself enjoying being lost on the streets of Paris. In fact, she had never felt freer in her life. To turn this way and that, to jostle people on the thin ribbon of pavement, to marvel at all the wonders around her, filled her with excitement and anticipation of what she might encounter around the next sharply angled corner.
And the multitude of distractions kept her mind off the apprehension she felt about her upcoming meeting with Valfierno. She had wanted time to consider what she was going to say to him, but the more she thought about it, the harder it became to come up with something. All she knew was that somehow she had to find out once and for all what his true feelings were. She had grown up in a culture where directness was considered the height of rudeness, but she was tired of such games—for games were what they were—and, if she had to, she would simply ask him if he cared for her. So why did she feel that something so simple would be the most difficult thing she had ever done?
She occasionally stopped to politely ask for directions, but the answers were of little help. Everyone seemed to have the attitude that it was inconceivable that she wasn’t familiar with the area and therefore shouldn’t really need directions in the first place. And so, it was rather disconcerting that when she mentioned rue de Picardie to a butcher arranging his meats in front of his narrow shop on rue de Bretagne, he impatiently pointed to a street corner barely halfway up the block.
“C’est là, madame,” he said in a tone that suggested that only a fool would not know she was already there, “c’est là!”
And she was more than a half hour early.
* * *
The editorial cartoon depicted a group of Louvre guards standing defiantly in front of the empty space where La Joconde had once hung. The head guard protests, “It couldn’t be stolen, we guard her all the time, except on Mondays.” Valfierno was considering whether to divert himself by reading an editorial in Le Matin deploring the ineptitude of the museum’s security when the clang of his front door knocker drew his attention.
He pulled out his pocket watch. Not yet even 2:30. Knowing of Ellen’s anticipated visit, Émile had left earlier for the marketplace at Les Halles, so Valfierno was alone in the house, and he had not expected Ellen to arrive so early. He had made a point of avoiding her since their arrival in Paris. He had thought it would be best for both of them that way. He could have easily left her in New York. Her threats, such as they were, had little weight. But they had provided him with justification for the decision to bring her with him—a very bad idea by all sensible reckoning, but something nonetheless that he was glad to do. Still, he could afford to find room only for his desire to help her; any other feelings would jeopardize everything he and the others had worked so hard for.
He walked to the first-floor window. Looking down, he caught a brief glimpse of a woman standing beneath the small overhang above the front door.
Though he had been trying to prepare himself all day, Valfierno felt his heart race.
Walking down the stairs, he reminded himself that he would do whatever was in his power to help her, but no more.
He paused at the door, allowing himself the brief joy of anticipating seeing her face again. He reached out and turned the knob.
“Eduardo,” the woman said as the door swung open, “I thought you were going to keep me standing out here on the pavement all day.”
“Chloe,” Valfierno exclaimed, stunned.
The last person he would have expected to see at his door was the wife of the art dealer Jean Laroche, the man who had set a gang of street thugs on him so many years ago, possibly at his wife’s suggestion.
“Well?” she said coquettishly. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“I’m actually expecting someone.”
“Are you, now? Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil your little tête-à-tête, but surely you won’t deny an old friend a few minutes of your time.”
Valfierno hesitated, glancing down the narrow empty street.
“Of course not,” he finally said. “Please, come in.”
Chloe stepped into the foyer, giving him a flirtatious glance as she passed him. She stopped and turned, taking in the surroundings as she removed her black silk gloves.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” she said, coyly flashing her pale blue eyes. “It wasn’t easy to find you, you know.”
“What a delightful surprise that you did,” Valfierno said evenly. “And how is Monsieur Laroche?”
“Oh, didn’t you hear? He died. You see? I’m in mourning.”
She executed a little pirouette to show off her black dress, perfectly fitted from her ample bosom to her wasplike waist. Her hips were delightfully accentuated by the fashionable small hoops beneath the fabric. Somehow, Valfierno thought, she always managed to be both petite and buxom at the same time.
“You have my condolences, madame.”
“Thank you,” she said with wry sarcasm, “but I already have all the condolences I need.”
“How did your husband…”
Valfierno was about to inquire further into the matter but thought better of it.
“Well,” he began, “as I mentioned, I’m expecting someone.”
“Please, Eduardo,” she said coyly, “just five minutes of your time and I’ll be gone. I promise.”
After a brief hesitation, he indicated a small sitting room just off the foyer.
They sat down, Chloe on a small settee, Valfierno on an upholstered chair. She gathered herself together like a flower arranging its petals and looked him straight in the eye. She had the face of one of those bisque portrait dolls they sold at La Samaritaine, round and exquisitely proportioned with large, expressive eyes.
“And so,” Valfierno said, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“Ah, yes. Well, it’s very simple, really. My husband—being an art dealer—left behind lots of … well, you know, paintings and little sculptures and other such things, and now I need help to dispose of it all.”
“Then you have come to the right place,” said Valfierno brightly. “Within walking distance of this house you will find at least a dozen of the best art dealers in Paris.”
“But I was hoping that I could prevail upon you to help me. In fact, I am convinced we would make ideal business partners.”
“Alas, madame…”
“Chloe.”
“Chloe. I have retired from that business, and though I am grateful that you thought of me, I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer. Well, it really has been delightful to see you.”
Valfierno began to rise from his chair.
“You’re right, of course,” she said. “It’s such a boring business. I can’t wait to get as far away from it as possible, which brings me to the real point of my visit.”