by Mark Forgy
Opposite this side illuminated by the incandescent glow of public attention lurked a sinister inverse of Elmyr’s principle of prestige by association. Fernand Legros remained living proof and a constant reminder of the notion of guilt by association and personal testimony to Elmyr’s unerring ability to make devastatingly poor decisions about people. In today’s vernacular, I want to describe him as a “head case” and “stalker” for his unremitting obsession to destroy Elmyr.
There were no outward signs that anything unseemly occurred for those few hours of glory at his exhibition, but a menacing plot was unfolding simultaneously, winding its way through the Spanish courts like poisonous vapors. Legros and his battery of lawyers contrived a means of guaranteeing Elmyr’s public disgrace. Fernand’s stamina for revenge now was more vigorous than ever and indissolubly linked to his own happiness. Nothing galled him as much as Elmyr’s success. The hatred Legros once bore his former lover and expressed in the candid, shocking letter he wrote Elmyr, now paled next to his desire to ruin him.
The Spanish government, then known for its capacity to dispense justice harshly and expeditiously, had dealt with the legal issues of Elmyr’s case years before. If they had a case against him, it is unlikely they would have demonstrated any compunction against swiftly placing him in prison if found guilty of some punishable crime in connection to his career as an art forger. Fernand tried and failed on two previous attempts to get Spain to extradite Elmyr to France. Each setback only hardened his determination, hoping his third try would be an evil charm. He also learned from his prior mistakes and now constructed charges against Elmyr that would offer the Madrid courts no clear room to escape their new demand. Incidentally, the accusations incriminated Fernand as well. He alleged that Elmyr supplied him with the fake customs stamps used to move works of art from France across international borders. His documented admission and complicity to a criminal act and its ramifications displayed the kind of absence of forethought usually associated with sociopaths and schizophrenics. Self-destructive consequences rarely deter zealots, and Fernand could not see beyond his blind obsession.
The extradition process is neither simple nor easy. It requires the cooperation of a country’s Department of State or Foreign Ministry to initiate a demand. Then, the courts determine if the demand conforms to the existing extradition treaty between the two countries. The genesis of this entire scheme was uniquely Legros’s idea. If the French government had any substantive grounds for demanding Elmyr’s extradition, it would have done so nine years earlier. Rumors long circulated that Legros was blackmailing two French ministers who had connections to him via their reputed homosexuality. Besides, if Elmyr ever testified in French court, it could only lead to more incendiary scandals in the art community that no one desired, except Legros, as any publicity, good or bad, would only fuel his irrepressible megalomania.
Elmyr’s feet hardly had time to alight once more, as the euphoria of the Madrid show had overwhelmed him so, when a phone call cast an instant pall over his joyful mood. His lawyer in Ibiza informed him that Madrid received a new demand for his extradition. A hearing scheduled for December 7, 1976, before a tribunal of judges in Palma, Mallorca, would decide his fate. A friend referred him to one of the best attorneys in Palma. Two weeks before the hearing, I accompanied Elmyr to meet with him to discuss the matter. He agreed to defend Elmyr, and together we formulated a strategy that sounded persuasive and provided the despondent artist a ray of hope.
I have a haunting recollection of how time changed during that twoweek period. It thrust me into an altered state, like being in a car accident. This is perhaps the closest analogy to what I experienced. The sense of foreboding was palpable, and the other-worldliness so eerie that it still gives me goose bumps when I think of it.
A thick gloom shrouded our lives, and we once more assumed a zombie gait, like in a George Romero movie. Every bit of cheer residing in his body and mind at the zenith of his Madrid show vanished. The cellular memory of that moment gave way to deeper remembrances of his wartime pain and torture; his face wore the mask of tragedy. My paltry attempts at morale boosting were unconvincing; the pervasive sense of doom exposed the worthlessness of my words. We knew the reason why our spirits collapsed.
I no longer recall if the stranger’s visit occurred around the time of the first or second extradition demand, although his timing was less consequential than his message. After leaving La Falaise, Elmyr rented a home in the countryside near San Jose. Situated on a hillside with views of terraced groves of almond trees stretching to the sea, it was the picture of pastoral tranquility and beauty. It was also hard to find for anyone unfamiliar with the area. Any unexpected knock at the front door always surprised us, as it did the morning the visitors arrived. Elmyr went to the door to find a man he did not know and a woman with whom he was slightly acquainted. He invited them in, and they went into the sun-filled living room. Their somber demeanors presaged the purpose of their call. The man proceeded to tell Elmyr that he had knowledge of a plot by Fernand Legros directed at him. He told Elmyr, “If you ever go to jail in France, you will be killed. Legros has a contract out on you already.” Given our brush with him in Geneva and his attempt to lure Elmyr into that rented house for the phony television interview and the hired thugs, we had every reason to believe this person’s claim. No matter how believable his menacing pronouncement was, Elmyr’s response was abrupt. “I will not be threatened in my own home,” he admonished them, “please leave.” It was too late, though; the pathogen of distress instantly found its host—as Legros fully intended with this harbinger of dire news. Against the backdrop of Fernand’s tireless efforts to orchestrate Elmyr’s demise, it was impossible to expel the grim foresight from our thoughts.
Palma
Elmyr spent enough time with his lawyer to accord him a warm respect that bordered on friendship, given the brevity of their acquaintance. This sentiment was mutual. Every signal one can display to convey this impression evidenced in his voice, eyes, body language, and conviction of opinion. Together these powerful alloys steeled his absolute belief in his client’s innocence. Nothing bleeds through the fabric of courtroom rhetoric and ritual as does the unvarnished truth; the canon of Spanish law would be his persuasive artillery. We expected, or hoped, this would be a formidable last line of defense against the relentless Legros.
We arrived the evening of December 6. I had been in Mallorca many times before, but this time there was not a shred of joy connected to the trip. We were both subdued as we dined lightly at our hotel that evening. Neither of us could muster any small talk to distract from the import of the coming day. All I could think of was the constant refrain of FDR’s famous words in response to the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor: “…a day that will live in infamy.” Every American school kid knew the date, December 7, 1941, as well as October 12, 1492, Columbus’s discovery of the new world. Why did the hearing have to occur on December 7, a historically disastrous day? It was a hugely wretched omen, I thought. I never mentioned it, as I could feel his pain.
The following morning, the hearing lasted about three hours. Elmyr’s lawyer laid out a compelling argument, citing obscure passages and precedents of case law that would normally have prevailed if this had been a trial. Unfortunately, it was not. The attorney representing the State succinctly defused the forceful eloquence of Elmyr’s defense by reminding the judges three times that “we are not here to discuss the guilt or innocence of Señor de Hory, but only determine if the demand for extradition conforms to the treaty that exists between France and Spain.” The scope of their decision was so narrow, it would have been easier to suck all those tomes of Spanish law through a straw. Legros counted on the diabolical simplicity of this strategy to achieve his goal.
During the flight back to Ibiza, I did my best to be upbeat and supportive. Elmyr went through an emotional wringer the previous two weeks, sleeping little; the exhaustion in his face and eyes was painfully obvious, and I did not know how t
o comfort him. A week before, we were at the home of one of his Hungarian friends in Ibiza. They proposed to have a party over the holidays and wanted to know if we would be available. Elmyr calmly replied, “If I am still alive, I will come.” His response disarmed everyone, because no one really expected anything to come of this latest legal maneuvering of Legros. It was as though Elmyr had already slipped into a quiet resignation in the way someone terminally ill accepts their fate when all other avenues of recourse are exhausted.
Friday, December 10
Elmyr spent much of the previous two days writing letters to his friends. I knew they were farewell letters. My pep talks must have sounded hollow, yet I could not grasp the calamity at hand. My denial of the looming danger did little to buffer Elmyr from what was looking more like a preordained fate. That prospect was simply outside the realm of possibility, I thought. Elmyr asked me to bring some of his lithographs downstairs to the dining room. As he stood before his sturdy Spanish Renaissance table, he signed them one by one. “I want you to have these,” he said, “but if they are not signed they will be worth much less.” I witnessed his last artistic testament and felt the blood drain from my veins. No, this could not be happening, I kept telling myself. That afternoon we went to the notary’s office in Ibiza town. Here, he signed a simple declaration making me his sole heir. I still refused to see this as an act of surrender, but rather the sort of perfunctory precaution travelers take in opting for flight insurance, thinking the chances of crashing are miniscule.
Saturday, December 11
A good friend of ours, Evelyn Archer, knew personally two of the judges that heard Elmyr’s case in Palma. She said she would speak to them and that we should call her Saturday morning. It was a beautiful sunny morning, the kind of morning rich with promise that good weather imparts to the soul. I kept my fingers crossed as I drove over the dusty road to the narrow main highway that ascended to the hilltop village of San Jose. Next to the church, a pay phone stood ready to use. For a long silent moment I sat, trying to collect my thoughts that ricocheted in my head. My usually steady hand held an old envelope with Evelyn’s number scribbled in pencil on the back. The paper’s edges trembled in my hand, the same way Prosky’s auction catalog had in Elmyr’s hands long ago. It was time to make that compact with a God I did not believe existed. If the news were good, I would become a believer. If it were bad, it would confirm my atheism. I was open to negotiation, like a good agnostic. A week before I had met John Derek and his not-yet-famous wife, Bo, at the plaza in front of this church. They were going to come for lunch, but Elmyr had to cancel. The extradition matter still lay before him, and he could not muster the enthusiasm to entertain anyone. In my entire life, I have never dreaded making a phone call as much as I did at that moment.
Slowly, I walked to the pay phone, picked up the receiver, and dropped some coins into the slot—then dialed the number on the envelope. Evelyn answered. I said “This is Mark,” and asked if she had heard anything. Her voice began to waiver, and then she began to cry. Through her emotional distress, she said the judges expressed their regrets, but could do nothing but accede to the extradition demand. It was beyond their control. Tearfully, I thanked her for giving me the hard news. I never saw or spoke to her again, but there is not one second of that call I will ever forget.
I sat in the car, staring at the sunlit, whitewashed side of the church. It looked like a giant primed canvas awaiting an artist’s colored brush, only I knew the canvas would remain untouched. Elmyr waited for me at the house; I had to return, but I would do anything to avoid telling him the news he sensed was coming. It was that feline sense that death is near, that prompts the cat you love to hide because it knows it is vulnerable and about to die. These were the unspoken signs I saw in Elmyr’s eyes, gait, and voice. His restless soul was preparing to leave its corporeal world, and I was powerless to intervene. I could only watch, feeling miserably inadequate and confused. Confused because I expected there to be fairness in life where none exists. These were events wildly out of my control and Elmyr’s. It had nothing to do with the things he taught me such as social graces and art, things our finite minds could handle—like rules we create for our own artificial reality.
The good weather did not bring a good day, and I had to explain why. I turned the ignition key and listened to the faint hum of the car’s engine, then put it in gear as though these were motions completely new to me. On the way back to the house, the slow crunching sound of the tires rolling over small rocks was all I could hear. My delayed return augured what he, anticipating the bleak consequences, already knew. Arriving at the path that led up to the finca, I turned off the car’s motor and for a moment listened to the wind, watching it move the green December grass and the branches of nearby trees.
My entire body felt leaden from this burden as I walked to the front door. I found Elmyr in the living room, sitting in his leather easy chair. Dressed in his pajamas and camel-colored cashmere robe I bought for him at Harrod’s in London, it was unusual to see him unshaven. Still, he had his customary bowl of tea between his hands. The instant our eyes met, he knew the dismal truth. Collapsing in the chair opposite his, I cried loudly, as I had never cried before. He gestured to me to calm myself, as he did not want his housekeeper to hear my sobbing. Disappearing into the kitchen for a moment, I could hear him speaking to the neighbor woman who eagerly cleaned the house three days a week for the extra income that helped her family and made life a little easier. In his inimitable, faulty Spanish that always made me smile, he informed her in a subdued voice that he would not need her for the rest of the day.
She left the house quietly. When we were alone, we continued to sit in the familiar, comfortable easy chairs, facing one another as we did countless times before, but never in such a dark moment of grave finality. I could see he had transcended that plane of sorrow and regret, now speaking to me in a tone of fatherly concern that denoted the deep caring for a son leaving home. He knew my strengths and weaknesses and focused on what I needed to do in the coming days and weeks, rightfully aware of the void his absence would create in my life. I had to be observant of my obligations, carry out his last wishes, and convey his regrets with the solemn dignity of someone unable to attend an important social function due to unfortunate but unforeseen circumstances.
A stack of sealed letters in their Wedgwood blue envelopes from his favorite Bond Street stationery shop lay on the table between the chairs. Every name on every one evoked a flood of memories. I had to be careful so my tears would not stain any of them. With a note of newfound urgency in his voice, he said, “I must go now.” I followed him upstairs to his bedroom. His white terrier, Moody, followed us up. Wherever Elmyr went, his dog was always nearby. He then gave me a small leather bag, telling me that he put his rings, watch, and a few other items in it that I was to keep with me. Tears once more flowed down my face as we embraced each other. Moody jumped onto his bed, wagging his tail, staring at his friend in loving adoration. Elmyr then bent over and kissed the dog’s head, stood up, and gestured to me to back up. “Please,” he said, “don’t make this harder for me than it already is.” I left his room. Moody lay at the edge of his bed with his head hanging slightly over its side, ready for his master to come back to bed. His last words echoed in my head, as they were the last words I heard him speak. He then took a fatal dose of barbiturates and cognac.
I went back downstairs dazed from grief and disbelief. Elmyr parried all my suggestions to flee the island if the government granted his extradition. He had two counterfeit passports the ex-bookie Talbot had procured for him to use in an emergency. This dilemma met that threshold. “No,” he countered, “I will not run to be hunted down by a pack of dogs!” The ignominy of that thought was unbearable to him, especially in the aftermath of his Madrid exhibition. It would be tantamount to spitting on the hard-earned acceptance he struggled to achieve all his life. He preferred a more stoic, honorable end like the Japanese Bushido, orchestrating his own exit
from life. He vowed he would not go back to prison, especially facing the prospect of his own murder, as the mysterious visitor prophesized months earlier. The events of the last month, rife with irony, spiraled downward from the summit of his personal success and glory to his tragic and untimely suicide.
In my grief-stricken vigil, I sat in the leather chair, staring at the vacant seat opposite me, knowing he would never occupy it again or share his inexhaustible stories with me. Through large sliding glass doors, I watched the sun move around a tree. The shadow of its trunk became a natural sundial that I never before noticed. I left the house and drove to Ibiza town about twenty-five minutes away, intending to see our dear friend Monique at her real estate office. Of the many great friends we had, she was and remains today one of the people I steadfastly admire and adore. I needed to be with someone and had to tell her what Elmyr had done. I found her and her partner, Henri, at their real estate office and informed them of his intended suicide. She wanted to go the house immediately and I explained his wishes, although she insisted we prevent his death. He adamantly rejected the odium of arrest and the spectacle of being dragged off in handcuffs, yet the thought of losing him was equally unbearable. Her insistence won out, so we ran back to the car and drove back to the house. Henri followed in his vehicle.