“I like them. But they will need to be authenticated by a fully accredited art expert before I consider any transaction. And I must have provenance.”
“That is no problem,” I assure him. I can write a statement of how they were given to my mother and then passed on to me.“I would expect nothing less,” I continue, disappointed that the sale can’t happen right here, right now. “It’s perfectly agreeable with me.”
“I’m going to New York next week,” he says. “If you agree, I would like to take them with me for an expert evaluation.”
“Yes, take them with you.”
The die is cast once more. There is no other way. With any luck, he will go to my uncle Pierre, the prominent New York art dealer, and that should settle everything nicely.
All of this takes a half hour or so, and I leave with the drawings I did. Now I have to wait for what comes next. Waiting has never been my strong suit. Waiting eats up my nerves.
A FEW DAYS LATER, I am eating breakfast when I glance at the newspaper lying on the floor. My spoon falls out of my hand.
“What’s wrong with you, Pierre?” Anna exclaims. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
I don’t answer. Instead, with shaking hands, I pick up the paper and read aloud that Interpol and FBI agents have uncovered a worldwide art forgery organization. Three suspects have been arrested in New York, with more arrests expected to follow in other countries. The news doesn’t faze Anna, but I begin to panic.
What if the New York art experts decide that my Matisses are fakes? I don’t trust the art experts. They have been proven wrong before. Now all the police departments of the world are going to be looking for art forgers. What if some zealous Interpol investigator decides to nail me as a criminal international art faker? Based on my past experiences with the Matisse family, I have learned to be ready for the shoe to fall whenever I am involved with them.
My fertile imagination is going wild, and I have gone from being concerned to being scared. The way my luck has been running lately, it’s time to reconsider my strategy and do damage control right now.
I dial two wrong numbers before I finally connect with the everything-expensive art gallery. I’m shaking like a leaf. “Excuse me, may I talk to Monsieur Artsmart? It’s rather urgent.”
“Monsieur Artsmart is still in New York, Monsieur Leroy.” It is the woman whom I first met at the gallery.
“I see. Could you tell him that I am sorry, but I have changed my mind? I do not—I repeat—I do not want to sell my Matisses.”
“All right, Monsieur Leroy. As soon as he returns, I’ll give him your message.”
I HAVE TO WAIT some more, wondering if it will be the police or Monsieur Artsmart who will be contacting me.
I can’t keep it a secret from Anna anymore, especially if the worst happens. I tell her the entire story and why I am nervous now.
“We know your Matisses are authentic, and the art experts know their business,” she says reassuringly.
“I am not too confident about the art experts’ expertise—that’s what concerns me.”
“Well, if you go to jail, I probably can get government assistance,” Anna says.
And then a different catastrophe forms in my mind. What if the art experts declare my dear Matisses to be fakes and they are destroyed? That would be the worst possible scenario.
AN UNSETTLING WEEK PASSES at a snail’s pace with no news. Every time I hear something loud—a police siren, the phone, the doorbell, an alarm clock, whatever—I totally lose my composure.
Finally, the call comes. “Allo! Monsieur Leroy, what do I hear? You don’t want to sell your Matisses?”
“No, I mean, yes! I have changed my mind. I want to keep my Matisses.”
“Well, that’s a shame because we are very interested in acquiring them,” Monsieur Artsmart says disappointedly. “The experts in New York have declared them authentic, and I could offer you a very generous price.”
I want to believe him, but I hesitate. “No, thank you. I will come by tomorrow to pick them up,” I say, hanging up the phone, still scared and unsure of what to do.
The next day is another day of drizzling icy rain. Not only has the heater given up in the car, but the windshield wipers have decided to quit too.
“Do you really want to take the drawings back?” Monsieur Artsmart asks me when I arrive. “At least let me make you an offer.”
“How much do you think they’re worth?” Slowly, I am skating toward thin ice.
“How about six hundred dollars?” he proposes, with an enticing smile.
I am thinking as fast as I can. I promised Grandfather no more bargain-basement art sales.
“Not a penny less than one thousand,” I reply with the best poker face I can put on.
I have never seen such a huge sum in my entire life. Anna will be delighted. Perhaps this will be the Christmas when we become a real family. There will be money for the kids’ Christmas presents. Maybe a used car to replace our jalopy. And certainly warm clothes for the winter.
“Did you say a thousand dollars, Monsieur Leroy?” he says, feigning doubt.
“Correct. I’ll not part with these masterpieces for a penny less,” I reply, thinking I won’t let Maman and Grandfather down again.
“Deal!” Mister Artsmart says, with a large smile.
As he is preparing the check, he looks at the drawings spread out on his desk. “One can see the hand of the master,” he says almost reverently.
“Unmistakably,” I agree.
My hand is shaking, and my heart sinks as I write the letter of provenance. With check in hand, I stroll out of the gallery as calmly as my jagged nerves allow me. A shooting pain goes down my leg, and I sit in the car until it fades away.
Once again, my imagination begins to spin out of control with what-ifs. If Monsieur Artsmart saw my hand shaking, he may have misinterpreted the reason why. What if Uncle Pierre won’t vouch for me? What if Monsieur Mallard has moved from Chicoutimi, and I can’t get in touch with him?
I drive slowly to the bank, glancing often in the rearview mirror. I can’t see any suspicious cars following me. I enter the bank lobby, walking straighter than I have in months, no doubt because I am scared stiff.
“Are you sure that you don’t want traveler’s checks?” the charming young teller asks me.
“No, thank you!” I answer too loud.
“It’s not safe to carry large sums of money with all the crime around these days,” she says with concern.
I relax and am about to reply, “Nothing to worry about, Miss. I could be the criminal, given this sum of money” but catch myself just in time.
“Nothing to be concerned about, Miss. I’ll be careful.”
When I get home, I hand all the money to Anna. “Give the kids the best Christmas they have ever had. Then hide the rest of the money in a safe place. I don’t want to know where. If the Royal Canadian Police come poking around and asking questions, you are broke and know nothing.”
“You sold your drawings?”
“Yes, some of them.”
“We are rich, Pierre!”
“Don’t be silly, Anna. Not so fast. I might go to jail. But no matter what, you have to promise me that you will not turn the money over to the authorities. It was my inheritance from Maman, and you and the children have a perfect right to the proceeds. If things get tricky, you and the children go back to your parents’ farm in Normandy. Understand?”
Anna understands and agrees.
THE WEEKS PASS and nothing happens. Christmas comes, and the kids enjoy their best Christmas yet. At least if I go to jail, I’ll have the memories of this last holiday with the children to take with me.
During these troubled days, strange visitors call on me in my dreams: the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Interpol, the FBI. They all want to know everything.
Even the Gestapo shows up, accusing me loudly, “Forgery verboten, swine Françouse.”
“Yes, I know. I fooled y
ou before, didn’t I?” I answer defiantly in a moment of rebellious courage.
“Hang him!” I hear someone screaming in the background.
“No! No! No! I am not selling them!”
“Pierre, what’s the matter with you? You’re kicking me like a crazy man!” Anna exclaims, shaking me awake.
“Sorry, dear. I was having a nightmare.”
She turns over and goes back to sleep.
BY THE END OF JANUARY I realize my fears have been unfounded. I laugh harder than I have ever laughed in my life. I do hope that Grandfather is not too mad at me. I still detest what I have done, but I will keep working on my art as I promised Grandfather I would do.
“Tomorrow I am starting my own business, my dear,” I tell Anna. She shakes her head and smiles.
Actually, my first thought is I want to make enough money to buy back my Matisse drawings—a hope that still remains unfulfilled.
I do get an antique restoration and appraisal business up and running in Montreal, and by 1965, I am doing well enough to put away a little savings. As the weather begins to turn colder, Uncle Sam seems to beckon even louder. The border is only fifty miles south of us.
My back has a better idea. Sunny Florida. I have secured immigration visas for Anna and myself, so I have what I need to fulfill my childhood dream.
AS WE PREPARE to leave Montreal, I receive a long letter from an unknown lady—Madame Annie Leroy. While we’ve been living in Canada, we hear through Anna’s parents that both of the Leroy grandparents have died, two years apart. These two strangers had accepted me into their home and hearts, and I was forever grateful for their kindness and love. So when I see the last name Leroy on this letter, I am momentarily confused.
Dear Pierre, the letter begins.
It is Annie Leroy, the third wife of Camille Leroy, writing me. Actually, the way she describes her husband as a wonderful man, I think she must have him confused with someone else. Could there be two Camille Leroys?
Well, it seems that Grandfather Leroy has thrown a tricky curve in his will. He has given half of his Normandy property to his son and the other half to me. I am deeply touched by the old gentleman’s gesture.
“Would you be so kind to contact the lawyer in France to sort things out?” she asks. “We can’t get anything done without synchronizing with you.”
Suddenly, Camille Leroy needs me. It’s a good thing I am not his real son. If I were like him, he might really be in trouble right now.
I write the French lawyer and say that I don’t want anything from the Leroys. Camille Leroy can have everything. I sign the necessary documents and turn over all my rights to Camille. Then I write Madame Leroy the third, telling her exactly what my position is in regard to the family, any family for that matter. I have no Leroy family, no Matisse family, and no father.
Finally, in mid-November 1965, our little family gets into a Pontiac station wagon, towing a small utility trailer with all our worldly possessions behind it. We are leaving Canada, never to return. I have a wife, four children, a broken back, and seven thousand hard-earned US dollars in my pocket.
What I need now is more courage, I think. Suddenly, courage comes from my youngest son, Peter, who says, “Uncle Sam, here we come!”
31
WHAT’S UP
What is life, but a series of inspired follies? The difficulty is to find them to do. Never lose a chance: it doesn’t come every day.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
RIGHT AWAY, I implement phase one of my master plan to bring Anna and me closer together. We head to Florida for a couple of weeks of family vacation, during which I look for possible employment to resettle. Unfortunately, there is not much available. What attracts me to this location is it’s the same latitude as the French Riviera, giving it the same light that Grandfather Matisse painted by. The right light is critical for any artist. This is where I feel at rest and want to remain. However, it’s not to be just yet. I now have a job waiting for me in Texas.
We drive to Houston, where I have been contracted as a consulting ébéniste for the architectural reconstruction of a French castle. The castle had been bought by a rich Texan, taken apart piece by piece in Europe, and brought to the United States. For two months, I make sure it is put back together accurately. Now I launch phase two of my plan.
I have a surprise for Anna and the children—a two-week vacation to Normandy, when this job is completed. It will be a number of firsts for the children—their first time flying, their first time seeing Paris, their first time meeting their Normand grandparents and other family members from Anna’s side. All in all, a great adventure for everyone.
While Anna and the children are enjoying Normandy, I fly to Algiers to finalize all the inheritance paperwork for Camille Leroy. Et voilà! I am glad that he is out of my life once and for all.
When we return to the United States, we land in New York and head to Boston, which will be our new home. I am going to start my job with Mass Motion Picture, as well as being a stock photographer in Boston, shooting landscapes, weddings, or whatever I’m asked to do.
My enemy, the Back, returns, and for two full months, I am in agony. I can only walk on all fours. Somehow I patch the back up for the thousandth time, but I know I need to slow down. As a photographer, I often have to stand for long hours and carry heavy electronic flashes and cameras, so my job is in jeopardy.
My marriage with Anna has been on the rocks for a long time. We never grow as close as I always hoped. Taking a turn for the worse, we first separate and eventually divorce.
Divorce is a failure, and I can’t stand failure. But even more devastating is that I lose my children, and it’s killing me. I leave them in God’s care, often asking Him to protect them. These are very dark times for me, and some days I really must fight to go on.
I MARRY AGAIN—this time to a lovely Scottish lady named Christiane.
Finally, like it or not, I have to see a doctor for my back. I cannot survive with the trouble it’s given me. His prescription? “Above all,” he says, “you need rest, sun, and a lot of swimming to patch up your back.”
“How about Florida, Doc?”
“Florida would be perfect, Pierre.”
That settles it. I’m going back to Florida no matter what. Chris and I will work our way south from Boston in our Volkswagen. We’ll take whatever jobs we can find along the way to move us toward the southern coast. In 1968, we go to a prestigious employment agency in New York City, and within an hour are on our way to the Waldorf Astoria in Manhattan for an interview with Madame Violette. She and her husband, retired Rear Admiral Violette, need a cook/maid and chauffeur/butler at their home in Annapolis, Maryland.
After we answer questions in person with Madame Violette, she calls her husband, who continues interviewing me on the phone. He is originally from Louisiana and speaks perfect Parisian French, having seen action in France and England during World War II. He asks me about my war experience and explains that the person he is looking to fill the position must also be an armed garde du corps—bodyguard. That sounds adventurous to me. Chris and I are offered the positions, and the next day we drive to the mansion, which overlooks Chesapeake Bay.
Among the rear admiral’s personal pleasures are a seventy-foot yacht, a complete photo studio and lab in the house, a Minox spy camera, and a Rolls-Royce, his favorite car. In fact, he loves the car so much that he prefers driving it, which I learn immediately.
A few days after I start, I am the passenger instead of the chauffeur when the rear admiral decides I need a more appropriate wardrobe for my position. He drives us to a haberdashery in Washington, DC. When we pull up to the curb in the Rolls, a man immediately comes out of the store, graciously opens the door for me, and whisks me inside, leaving the rear admiral to park the car. Rear Admiral Violette is not amused, and from that time on, whenever we have somewhere to go, he pulls the car over a few blocks away from our intended destination and has me switch seats so he can be the one with t
he grand entrance.
As interesting as the job with the Violettes is, I still want to get to Florida, so after a few months, my wife and I find jobs in DC. Chris is a secretary, and I am an architectural draftsman. Unfortunately, my back problems put an end to this career and prevent me from accepting the Smithsonian’s offer of a prime position in their antique furniture department that comes with a fabulous salary.
Chris and I finally arrive in the Sunshine State, after about a year on the road.
FOR WHATEVER REASON, I am always being blessed. When I go to the unemployment office to look for a job, I notice that the state of Florida has a posting for a cartographer. I can read a map and even draw one if necessary. I am confident that the job is mine.
The unemployment counselor doesn't agree. “You aren’t qualified,” he says, after reviewing my initial questionnaire.
“You’re not qualified to judge whether or not I possess the skills for the job,” I tell Mr. Know-It-All. “Just send me on the interview.” A few minutes later, I leave the office with the information I need.
The job opening is in the property appraiser’s office, located in the Orange County courthouse. When I sit down with the human resources person, once again I am about to be dismissed for not having the right credentials.
I am not giving up yet. “Do you think they would have sent me here if I was not qualified? Just let me speak with the manager of the department.” I win round two and am introduced to George.
“George, I need this job. I am a good worker who learns fast.”
“Pierre, you don’t have the proper knowledge and skills for the job. But that’s beside the point. I don’t do the hiring. My boss, Mr. Ford Hausmann, does. He is not here today, but he is so ignorant about the job that if you come back on Monday, I am sure he will hire you.” I follow George’s advice and just as he predicted, I hit it off with Mr. Hausmann and am hired on the spot.
I am forty-one years old. The trick now is to hold on to this job and to heal my back with a good dose of sun and swimming. I apply to become a US citizen, pass the test, and am sworn in with a roomful of others, all of us proud to call ourselves Americans.
The Missing Matisse Page 30