The Last Weynfeldt

by Martin Suter

  But after today he was able to distinguish the two. Lorena’s features were starker, as if drawn with a harder, sharper pencil. Her face was already marked by a life more excessive than Daphne would have led. A longer one too. The skin around Lorena’s eyes was a shade darker and even when she wasn’t smiling, at the corner of her eyes were the fine wrinkles his mother had called “crow’s feet.”

  Weynfeldt was so lost in thought he only noticed the taxi as it pulled up alongside him. He asked to be taken to the office, and was grateful the driver said nothing. He was too polite to fend off chatty people.

  “Was it worth the effort?” Véronique asked immediately.

  “No.”

  “Six Lugardons but it wasn’t worth it?”

  “One Lugardon and five imitations.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry; the woman sounded very convincing. Next time I’ll insist on photos.” She gave him a searching look. When it looked like he would return to his office with no further comment she asked, “Was it okay for me to give Agustoni’s number to that Lorena? She said it was very urgent and personal.”

  “Yes, it was fine, thanks.”

  He could see she was dying to know more. There weren’t many women in Weynfeldt’s life. When she realized no more details were forthcoming, Véronique said, “I’m just popping out; I’ll be right back.”

  “Would you bring me something please; I haven’t eaten.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever you’re having.” He went into his office to continue working on the catalogue.

  A short time later Véronique returned, bringing stuffed bamboo shoots with sweet plum sauce and pork dumplings. “The same as I’m having,” she said, adding, with a rare touch of ironic self-reflection, “but not as much.”

  Rolf Strasser wanted to “discuss something in private” with him, and suggested they meet in Weynfeldt’s apartment. Don’t go to a big effort, he had said.

  Weynfeldt never went to an effort. He left that to Frau Hauser. She would prepare what she called “a morsel”—tiny canapés with salmon, foie gras, roast beef, viande des Grison, lobster garnished with homegrown oat and lentil sprouts and radishes. For dessert there would be more morsels, this time sweet—éclairs, mille feuilles and the whole pâtisserie repertoire, all in dollhouse proportions.

  Weynfeldt had asked Frau Hauser to lay the table in the Von der Mühll room, a small space with a window onto the rear courtyard devoted to the noted Lausanne architect. He had furnished it simply with a walnut ensemble consisting of two uncushioned chairs, a table, and a file cabinet for drawings. Von der Mühll had designed the minimal, right-angled ensemble back in 1924, as furnishings for an office waiting room—at a time, in other words, when Lausanne was still dominated by Parisian Art Deco. Only a handful of experts knew it still existed; even fewer that it belonged to Adrian Weynfeldt.

  On the walls hung works by Paul Zoelli, geometric oils from the same period. Although he had no evidence, Weynfeldt was convinced Von der Mühll and Zoelli must have known each other.

  The room was ideal for a private conversation. And alongside its aesthetic rigor, there was another advantage to the furniture: it was so uncomfortable that any conversation held sitting on it would not be drawn out. Although in this situation that wasn’t an issue. This was undoubtedly about money, and when it was about money Weynfeldt generally gave in sooner rather than later.

  He went to sit in his study till Strasser came. The high plate-glass window let in light from the brightly lit offices which framed four floors of the rear courtyard. In some of them teams of cleaners could be seen, vacuuming, emptying wastepaper bins, dusting telephones and wiping screens. In one office sat a lonely figure working to get ahead; in another a meeting was being held.

  The dim light fell on the walls filled with bookshelves, and on easels holding pictures—Weynfeldt’s own and those he had to write expert reports on.

  He flicked a switch on; a spot threw a beam of light onto an easel in the center of the room. La Salamandre shone out, with its yellows, reds, lilacs, browns and flesh tones, as if the light emanated from the painting itself.

  The picture had been here since he picked it up from Baier. He had told no one that it would be put up for auction. Not even Véronique. He wasn’t sure what was holding him back; the work would give the next auction a whole new impetus. But he had strange misgivings.

  La Salamandre had been reproduced millions of times to be sold as a poster, but the original had remained in private hands since it was painted. And it was a very private image. Not all art was meant to be public. Somehow Weynfeldt couldn’t bring himself to disrupt the intimacy of the scene by releasing it into the public domain.

  He knew this was ridiculous. But why shouldn’t he have the picture to himself for a few days?

  The bell rang. Weynfeldt went to the door and spoke into the intercom. It was Rolf Strasser. He asked him to wait while he came down in the elevator.

  Strasser was drunk. That didn’t surprise Weynfeldt; Rolf was normally drunk by this time. The question was simply which stage of drunkenness he had reached. He had undoubtedly passed through the lucid stage at Agustoni’s, staying for a bottle or two of Brunello with those members of the group who had stamina, making them laugh. He had hopefully seen off the sludgy stage with a late siesta on his studio sofa. He had probably got over the headache stage with an aperitif in his local bar. The question now was whether he was still in the peaceful stage, already in the sentimental stage, or slipping into the aggressive.

  Weynfeldt led him into the Von der Mühll room. Strasser sat on the hard, angular chair with a reproachful look.

  “Would you like a glass of white?” Weynfeldt inquired. He had put a bottle of Twanner to cool and showed Strasser the label.

  “You got beer too?” Strasser asked.

  Strasser drank beer the way other people drink mineral water when they want a brief pause from alcohol. That meant that he wasn’t yet in the aggressive phase. Weynfeldt went to the kitchen for beer. He could have waited till Frau Hauser brought the morsels and asked her to bring beer. But this would have represented another defeat in his long-running, losing battle to prove she wasn’t indispensable.

  He had only just returned with a beer and a glass for Strasser when she arrived with the first tray, and handed him the bottle opener which he had forgotten.

  Strasser took a drink, wiped the froth from his mouth and asked, “How long have we known each other, Adrian?”

  The sentimental stage had begun.

  “When did you return from Vienna?”

  Strasser emptied his glass as he reflected. “About twelve years ago.”

  “Well, that’s how long we’ve known each other.”

  “How long or how short, depending how you look at it.”

  “How do you look at it? Long or short?”

  Strasser poured out more beer. “I feel like we’ve known each other for ages. Longer than just twelve years.”

  “Strange how the same period of time can seem short or long depending which vantage point you see it from.”

  “You know what I hate? When time moves on but you stay stuck in a rut. Like me.”

  “You aren’t stuck in a rut,” Adrian protested.

  “You and your fucking politeness. Of course I’m in a rut. I’m just where I was twelve years ago. What the fuck? Twelve years ago I was further ahead. Then I still had a fucking future!”

  Weynfeldt could see that Strasser’s mood was tipping. There was no point arguing with him. But he couldn’t agree with him either. “I know what you’re talking about. You begin the day and immediately realize you’ve begun hundreds of days like that. That it’ll be like all the days before and to come. Pretty depressing, I know.”

  “With me it’s not just a feeling. With me it’s a certainty.”

  “With me too perhaps, but I try to treat it like a feeling.”

  “If I had your life, I might actually be happy that nothing changed.”

&
nbsp; Once people took this tone Weynfeldt was helpless. He didn’t seek to defend his affluence, and for them to broach the subject he found tactless; there was nothing he could say to ease the awkwardness.

  The fact that Rolf had brought it up was a sign to Weynfeldt that he would soon reveal the real reason for his visit. He helped him out: “Do you have any idea what you could do about it? About the stagnation, I mean, whether genuine or perceived?”

  “New impulses. A clean break. New start. Brainwash. Back to square one.”

  Frau Hauser knocked and came straight in with further morsels. She placed the silver tray on the table and wished them bon appétit.

  Strasser had finished the beer and now switched to white wine. “Where was I?”

  “A new start.”

  “Yes. I have to get out of here.”

  This wouldn’t be the first time Strasser had sworn by this remedy. There had been trips to Italy, the USA, North Africa. With Weynfeldt’s support each time. Adrian didn’t mention this, just nodded sympathetically.

  Strasser did mention it: “Not like Italy that time, or North Africa. Then I just wanted to get away from here, anywhere. That was a mistake. I don’t need to get away from here.” He stuffed two salmon canapés into his mouth and swilled them down with wine. “I need to go somewhere!”

  Adrian concurred. “Do you have a specific idea where?”

  “Hiva Oa.” He sounded irritated at having to explain, as if Weynfeldt had asked a stupid question.

  Adrian risked inquiring nonetheless. “Where is that?”

  “Marquesas. The largest of the Marquesas Islands. Gauguin is buried there.”

  “Oh yes. French Polynesia. Pretty far off the beaten track.”

  “Gauguin managed to make a new start there.”

  Weynfeldt said nothing—Gauguin was already very established by this point—except, “True.”

  “Gauguin said, ‘To create something new, we have to go back to our origins, to humanity’s childhood.’”

  Weynfeldt’s favorite Gauguin saying was, “Art is either plagiarism or revolution.” But he held back from quoting it now. He ate Frau Hauser’s morsels in silence—first the savory morsels, then the sweet morsels—and listened to Strasser’s argument for a sojourn on the Marquesas. With every sentence and every glassful he became more enthusiastic, but the threatening undertone crept into Rolf’s voice, which silenced any form of objection or doubt.

  Weynfeldt fixed his eyes on the bridge of Strasser’s nose, a trick he had learned from his father. It gave the person you were talking to the impression you were gazing profoundly into their eyes. At the same time he nodded occasionally in agreement or encouragement, depending on the tone of Strasser’s voice. His thoughts returned to Lorena. He pictured himself with her in Polynesia, both of them wearing big sarongs with hibiscus-flower prints, and fragrant garlands of flowers.

  At some point Strasser leaned back in expectant silence. Weynfeldt knew the moment had come to say, “Well, that certainly makes sense to me. If there’s anything I can do to help realize the plan …”

  According to Strasser’s research the most convenient option was a business class ticket to Papeete, because that way the return flight date could be left open, an important condition for a new start. He could book the connecting flight from Papeete to Hiva Oa when he got there. Or perhaps he would opt to take the ferry. You should arrive by boat on an island where you plan to stay awhile.

  Rolf Strasser estimated the costs at around fifty thousand francs, with the option of a further twenty or thirty, depending on the time limit. As the Marquesas were so far-flung, life on the islands was expensive, and the ongoing costs here in Zurich would continue—studio, insurance, health care, pension etc. This would be a refundable loan with interest obviously; he was certain that on his return he would finally make it big.

  Weynfeldt knew he could neither prevaricate excessively nor agree too swiftly; either could bring one of Strasser’s tirades of hatred down on his head. He took his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled a small silver pen out of the loop in the binding and wrote “Rolf” and “Hiva Oa” and “50,000” and “new start.” Strasser regarded him distrustfully. Finally Adrian shut the little book, replaced it and said, “Sounds very sensible.”

  Strasser filled both of their glasses and raised his to Weynfeldt. “Hiva Oa.”

  “Hiva Oa,” Adrian replied.

  Strasser drained his glass. “Do you by any chance have some slightly comfier seating, in a room that’s not too far from here?”

  Weynfeldt had hoped Strasser would start taking his leave, now the business had been concluded to his satisfaction. But he clearly felt obliged to stay a little longer. Adrian led him down the corridor to the Green Salon, as his mother had called it. The name had stuck, although during the renovation he had consistently avoided the color green.

  They passed his study on the way. When he’d gone to answer the door to Strasser earlier, Weynfeldt had left the door open and the spotlight on. Now La Salamandre glowed in the dark room as if deliberately put on show. Strasser paused, entered the room, stood in front of the painting and stayed there for a good while, saying nothing, till Adrian observed, “Vallotton. Probably going in the next auction.”

  “You mean this Vallotton, this one here, will be put up for auction?”

  Weynfeldt put the strange question down to the level of alcohol in Strasser’s blood, and said simply, “Yes.”

  Strasser left the room. Seen close up he looked pretty tired. “What would you value something like that at?”

  “I’m really not sure, but I think we’ll start at around a million.”

  Rolf Strasser didn’t stay much longer. Soon after this he willingly let Weynfeldt put him in a taxi, with one of his vouchers to cover the fare.

  People were sitting at the tables outside one of the bars in the city center, perched with their drinks on the windowsills, leaning against the wall, as if it were the middle of summer.

  “And it’s only February,” the taxi driver said.

  Strasser didn’t reply. He had no desire to start yet another conversation about the weather, climate change, the Kyoto Protocol, George Bush, Al Gore, Iraq or the trend towards hybrid vehicles. He had other problems.

  He fished a Chesterfield out of his pocket and went to light it.

  Without uttering a word, the driver tapped against a sign on the dashboard. It said, THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING.

  Strasser kept the cigarette in his mouth, unlit. The bastard, he thought. What a bastard! Takes me for an idiot. I can’t bear to part from the painting. As accurate as possible, please. So I won’t realize it’s not my Salamandre anymore, the one which has been with me my whole life. My whole life! Sob, sob!

  The bastard. For eight thousand! A hundred and twenty hours work! At sixty-six francs an hour. For an artist! And then he wants to auction the copy and keep the original. He can play tricks on a dope like Weynfeldt. But not on Strasser. Not on Strasser. The bastard!

  They had left the center behind them now and were driving though the quiet streets of the villa district. Strasser lit the cigarette.

  The driver took his foot off the gas. “This is a no-smoking taxi.”

  “But I’m not a no-smoking passenger,” Strasser snapped.

  “I’ll say it again.”

  “Just drive. We’re nearly there.”

  The driver braked abruptly. “Sixteen eighty.”

  Strasser made no reply, simply a gesture implying he should keep driving.

  “Sixteen eighty,” the driver repeated, with studied calm.

  “Drive on.”

  The driver held out his open hand to Strasser in silence. Strasser opened the door and made to step out. But the planned haughty exit degenerated into humiliating slapstick: he had forgotten to release the seat belt.

  By the time he had found the catch, the driver’s hand was already on it. “Sixteen eighty.”

  Strasser flung him one of Weyn
feldt’s signed vouchers. “Put whatever price you want on it.”

  The driver looked at the paper. “Behaves like a rock star but can’t even pay for a taxi himself.” He released the seat belt; Strasser got out, slammed the door and said, “Asshole!” The taxi drove off.

  The street rose steeply. The upstanding villas of the city’s upper classes stood dreaming behind precise hedges and mature front gardens. Here and there a window was lit, but no one could be seen; the rooms facing the street were mainly bathrooms, kitchens and utility rooms. Up above in the attics were the maid’s rooms, rarely used now.

  He took a shortcut, part footpath, part steps. In white letters on a blue enamel sign, the path was named Bienensteig—“bee rise.” He began panting after a few feet.

  I think we’ll start at around a million. Complacent rich kid! I think! I’m not quite sure yet. Maybe we’ll start a few hundred thousand higher or lower. It’s not a big deal. It’s only money.

  Strasser paused, bent with his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. Perhaps he would quit smoking on the Marquesas. Jacques Brel was buried there. Lung cancer.

  We’ll start at a million and take it from there. Two million, three million, many millions, whatever. But let’s palm Strasser off with eight thousand. The old bastard.

  Strasser began climbing again, slowly this time, controlling his breathing.

  He would ask for ten percent, that was fair, he thought. Not ten percent of the hammer price, he knew his limits. But ten percent of the estimate. If it fetched two or three little million francs that was thanks to Vallotton. But the fact that this could happen at all, that it could fetch even one million, was thanks to Strasser.

  The path returned to the street it was shortcutting. He recognized Baier’s house from a long way off. It rose, ghostly, from its garden of conifers and acid-loving plants. Except for the diagonal row of windows marking the stairway, it was dark.

  A car approached, maintaining the required speed limit, blinding Strasser briefly, till the driver noticed him and switched off his brights. It was a Bentley with an almost inaudible motor, a vision which made Strasser so mad he raised his share by a percent. One hundred and ten thousand, not one hundred, was the sum Strasser would make Baier promise him, if he didn’t want to be busted.