Paid and Loving Eyes l-16

by Jonathan Gash

  “Est-ce-que à vous, Monsieur?” I asked as best I could when breath let me.

  He was ruminating slyly at my response, said something shifty to Almira.

  “He owns it, Lovejoy,” she said, staring. “But it’s not for sale.”

  “Everything else on the planet is,” I countered. “Ask him.”

  The piece smiled up at me from its bed of polystyrene grot in the crate. The screen’s panel was a wonder, embroidery pristine as the day it was finished, florets in plum on a beige ground. Lovely. Some people say antiques are just inert materials. They’re not. Antiques know what we think of them. Forgeries don’t have feelings, but sure as God the real things do.

  “… Lovejoy.”

  Almira interrupting. “Eh?”

  “He says no deal. Buy the bureau on the truck, or nothing.”

  “Tell him to stuff it.”

  And I went outside to the car. She stayed behind to say no, ta, to Sly. We left, me burned up at having to part from that wonder. I could hardly speak until we’d driven out of the place.

  “That fire screen was magic,” I told her, courageously not weeping. “The bureau on the truck was a copy, modern, of Roentgen’s work. He was famous for his stupendous gliding parts—drawers, doors, rests—and marquetry. He’s become more faked than most Old Masters, especially here on the Continent.”

  “What is the attraction, Lovejoy?” She was driving, perplexed. I sighed. You can’t tell some folk, even if you’re crazy about them.

  “Roentgen’s skill was so terrific that even the makers of automata—you know those little working models?—got him to make their models.”

  “So? Couldn’t you buy that fake bureau, and make more money on it than the genuine fire screen?”

  “Of course.” You have to be patient. “But the antique is alive and beautiful. The other’s a load of dead planks.”

  She was exasperated. “But profit, Lovejoy!” Like I’d never heard of that old thing.

  “Bugger profit,” I said crudely.

  It was several miles before she spoke. We were pulling in to a town car park, quite a sizeable place with Paulie and Philippe Troude just arriving at a cafe and the lovely Monique preceding them in.

  Almira said, “Lovejoy. Are antiques, well, real people?”

  Women can surprise you, even when you think they’ve run out of ideas. “That’s right, dwoorlink. I only wish that real people were real people.”

  I made it sound a joke. But I was only thinking how curious it was that a rare genuine antique like that Georges Jacob screen had turned up in a dump like that village shop, with a superb valuable fake like the Roentgen bureau in the same yard. So I smiled and said I loved her. She smiled back and said she loved me. We were sickeningly sweet.

  “Paulie and Cissie will be so grateful, Lovejoy,” she told me. “I’ll go across with you.”

  Carefully not holding hands, we crossed briskly. No antique shops in sight, so I didn’t care. I wish I’d been more discriminating. It’s foolish to obey women, because they’re usually wrong, but what can you do?

  Paul emerged as we went in. He tried to reach for my hand to say so long. I passed him with an out-of-my-way look. A wimp’s a wimp because he’s determined to stay one. I’d no patience.

  “Where to?” I asked Almira. Except that she was no longer with me. I looked round. She’d gone. And Paul.

  “Monsieur.” A waiter ushered me through a scatter of diners, and from then on it was no game. Couldn’t expect it to be, because antiques never are. But I felt utterly at peace, so serene. Antiques, even if they aren’t mine, are the breath of life. I had to be near them at any price, and felt close.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  « ^ »

  There was a lunatic survey not long since. I read it in Doc Lancaster’s waiting room midst ponging infants and wheezing geriatrics. Two things Make the Heart Sink, the magazine shrieked, “Parting After Sex” and “Meeting Somebody You Want to Avoid”. Well I’m sure the first is wrong; parting after sex is a pretty good idea. But the second is dead on. Bingo-time.

  I entered this little nooky room above the cafe. The Heart Sank as I recognized the bloke seated at a polished table. That is to say, I’d never clapped eyes on him before in my life, but I recognized him all right. He was Superior Officer, fresh from military command of the most exacting kind. I hated him instantly, his ideals, his purity of vision. Nothing wrong with being a soldier, but there’s one sort that chills the blood. They have the light of eagles in their eyes, and smell cannonfire sipping yoghurt with the bishop. They are patriotic, loyal, unyielding. They cost lives—hundreds, thousands of lives. And I’d only one—none to spare for the likes of him.

  “This is Lovejoy, Monsieur.”

  Troude was pleasant as ever—in fact, I instantly saw Troude in a kindlier light. Beside Monique’s lacquered delectable hardness and the colonel’s crew-cut ramrod stiffness, Troude was almost pally.

  “Monsieur Marimee will control the process,” Monique said, ex cathedra.

  Marimee fixed me with a gimlet eye. Clean-shaven, steel-grey hair, slightly sallow, lean as a whippet, he looked ready to jump from the plane at a cool eight thousand feet. Odd, but the table—a humdrum modern folding job straight from the nosh bar below —instantly took on a desperate polishy appearance, like it was on parade. It’s the effect these blokes have. Of course he had a file. He opened it, threatening me with his eyeballs.

  “You are a criminal.” The English was a bit slidey, but clear with meaning.

  “Not much of one.”

  “You are an ineffectual criminal.” He flipped a page, gave it no glance. I was getting the treatment. Authority ruled; his, nobody else’s. My silence riled him. He rapped, “Answer!”

  “The question…?” I wanted to obey in the meekest manner possible, do his job and exit smiling. Not much to ask.

  Stupid to needle him but I couldn’t help it. He appraised me from under eyebrows borrowed off an albino beetle. Troude fidgeted. He wanted us all to go forward in harmony. Monique was impatient with the entire world. Some women give the impression that an execution is the only way out.

  “Insubordination will not be permitted, Lovejoy.” He got the name right, so his English was wellnigh perfect. “This project requires absolute compliance. No discretion is permitted.”

  He’d nearly said or else. I slipped it in to complete his meaning. Or else he’d shoot me? Then they’d lack a divvy, and they needed one.

  “Very well.” And I added, “Sir.” I saw he said it inwardly with me, satisfaction easing his stalwart frame for a second. His military mind wanted only to talk to chalk, like a superannuated teacher. “What project?”

  “Recovery of items from a location to be specified.”

  “Very well.” The scent of fraud trickled in about here, ponging the nostrils. For recovery read robbery. “Sir.”

  “You are not curious about the items? The location?”

  “I know you will inform me when the time comes, sir.”

  His eye glinted. “You have served?”

  “In an army? Once. I was a famous coward. And ineffectual.”

  No curled lip, but he hated the levity. “Ineffectual criminal and soldier!”

  Troude’s sudden agitation warned me not to reply that maybe the two occupations shared lifestyles. I swallowed it.

  “Is it the Commandant’s wish for me to leave the project?”

  Monique started. Troude almost fainted. Marimee found himself in a quandary. Gratified at the title, narked by having to admit I was valuable, he found refuge in an order.

  “You will continue until the mission is completed.”

  His project had become a mission in half a breath. I sighed. My famous instinct was yowling for me to get the hell out, run like a hare, swim back across the Channel. Cissie was dying in the hospital, believing in my promise.

  “Very well, Commandant.”

  “There will be two phases. The first will be in Paris
and possibly London. The second will take place in a certain location to be notified. Time-scale: immediate, and within three weeks respectively.” He leaned back. The room relaxed slightly. He looked at me hard, hands behind his head. Immediate did not mean instant, it seemed. “Questions are permitted.”

  “I work alone?”

  “No. You will have two assistants in Phase One. Phase Two is not for your ears until One is accomplished.”

  “I will receive enough, ah, tools to carry it out?”

  “Planning has been exemplary for both phases.” He shot to his feet, abruptly showing a non-punitive emotion for the first time. Troude looked wary, Monique irritated at some coming digression. I shrugged mentally. Okay, so I was not to query the perfection of his military mind. I’d not argue.

  “Your nation, Lovejoy, is despicable!” he shouted.

  Eh? Another mental shrug got me through that, but he was boss and implacable threats lay thick all about. I know when to bend with the gale. Marimee marched to the window, clear eyes seeking snipers out there on some distant hill. My whole nation! Maybe France’d just lost to us at cricket, whatever.

  “Your tabloids speak of losing your empire, as if it was mislaid on your London buses! The truth?” He swivelled, fixed me, swivelled back, an animaloid gun turret. “The truth is you gave it away! You proved spineless in the crunch!”

  This sort of stuff bores me to tears. Who the hell cares? So obsessional historians score points off one another. It’s no big deal.

  “Your immigrants retain their national identities, n’est-ce-pas? Each group as distinctive as they were in Hong Kong, Kenya, India. Like,” he sneered without showing whether his lip was really curled or not, “the so-wonderful Americans.”

  “I think it’s what they want to do,” I said lamely. He’d seemed to be waiting for an answer.

  “It is behaviour without soul, Lovejoy! In France, we blend immigrants! They become French. We fight for principle! As we fight for our language. English is barbaric, a degraded hybrid! India alone claims six thousand of your ”English“ words. Your music is bastardized, assimilating Trinidadian…” I won’t give the rest, if that’s all right. It’s a real yawn. For God’s sake, I thought as my mind switched off his claptrap, if a tune’s nice, sing. If it’s not, don’t. It’s not exactly a proposition by Wittgenstein, for Christ’s sake.

  His assault when it came frightened me off my chair. He leaned at me, yelling, “And you don’t care!”

  “Er,” I said, returning. I’d almost shot out of the door. “Well, I know some folk do. There’s a lot of interest in ethnic dances and whatnot…”

  “You surrender your national heritage!”

  What the hell was he on about? I was here to shift some antique silver, and the nutter earaches me over reggae and steel bands? Troude caught my despair, shot Monique an appealing glance. She intervened. Her luscious mouth moved.

  “Lovejoy. You will receive daily orders from the assistants of whom Monsieur Marimee spoke. Depart for Paris immediately.”

  “Very well.” Assistants who rule? If her mouth said so. I’d do anything for it.

  Marimee controlled himself. His outburst done, he sat with fixed calm. I didn’t like this. Serenity’s not that sudden. It comes like a slow glow from a candle. His tranquillity burned up like an epidemic. Wrong, wrong. The bugger was barmy. “Immediately now or eventually now?”

  She almost smiled, but didn’t. “Maintenant, Lovejoy.”

  “Very well. Good day, Commandant.”

  As I reached the door Marimee spoke with clipped precision. “I regret to inform you that Madame Anstruther died at twenty-three hours precisely.”

  “Eh?” I halted. I didn’t know any Anstruthers. Except I did. Paul Anstruther. And of course Mrs. Cissie Anstruther. I looked back at them, hand on the knob. Waiting stupidly for some sort of qualification, perhaps. Like, well, Lovejoy, not quite as in dead dead.

  Troude was looking at the threadbare carpet. Marimee’s eyes were opaque, done this a thousand times before along established lines, no need for any kind of display. Monique was looking at me curiously. Every time she stared it was as if I was seeing her for the very first time, a kaleidoscopic woman. This time’s look was quizzical: how will you react?

  “Very well, mon commandant,” I said, and left. Useful old phrase, very well. Stands for a million different things. I’ve often found that.

  When I got to the car park, Almira’s motor had gone, of course. And Troude, Marimee, Monique Delebarre, were already motoring away from the cafe into the thin traffic. I’d lost an ex-wife, my wealthy mistress, any means of transport, finance, and I was alone in a strange land. I felt a desperate need of two assistants, with orders. They were to be here immediatement, for Phase One had begun, according to Colonel Marimee.

  They arrived about ten minutes later. Life went downhill, with variations.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  « ^ »

  You never know with new people. You meet them, and form instantaneous judgements. Mine are always wrong. I’m truly gormless. If I met Rasputin I’d think him St Cuthbert and only clue in when the body count increased. Like my assistants, when finally they arrived. Nobody can be as wrong as me. They proved it.

  Standing idly by the traffic lights, I wondered if Colonel Marimee was as militarily superefficient as all that. I mean, I was here, poised like a greyhound in the slips, ready for this phoney antiques scam, and where were my two assistants? Luckily, French drivers don’t let you cross, so I didn’t feel out of place waiting. I reasoned that ice-cold Marimee had planned this little interlude as a kind of initiative test. These military minds think straight lines. The last time I’d done one of these what-nexters they’d put me down in the Yorkshire moors in the deep midwinter so I’d die. I’d saved myself by kipping with some cows in a byre until daylight. The sergeant put me on jankers a fortnight for cheating. See what I mean? But here, lacking cows and initiative, I loitered, hoping my assistants would finally get fed up and come for me.

  Their motor was a mundane thing. It passed, dithered, pulled in. Two roaring forties, him balding and specky; she smiley and talkative. They had a dozen maps out. I barely gave them a look, then a faint chime bonged deep in me. I bent down to peer inside their car. On the back seat was a very, very interesting chair, tall, thin, with six cross-struts for back support. Genuine Astley Cooper! I knocked on the window. I must say, they put on a good act.

  “Yes?” the driver asked. His wife nudged him. “Owz?”

  Scotch, thank God. Out of the declension jungle! “Hello,” I said. “Lovejoy.”

  He glanced at his wife, probably checking that I was the right bloke. They probably had photographs of me in the glove compartment. Sensible to make sure, really. I could be anybody. “Could you please guide me to the Paris road?”

  “We never get the maps right,” his missus said, smiling.

  Good cover! Shrewd. I beamed. “I could show you,” I said loudly, to show the world this wasn’t prearranged. A really accidental encounter, tout le monde! “If you’d give me a lift.”

  “I’m not sure…” he said, doubtful. I thought that was overdoing it, but the bird shoved him affectionately.

  “Och, away, Gerald! Simplest thing to do!” He undid the rear door and I climbed in. “Mind that crofter’s chair, Lovejoy. It’s very valuable.”

  “Lilian,” Gerald reproved as we pulled away. Why did he want her to be so circumspect? The antique was his signal, after all. Well, we all were treble secret I supposed.

  “Och, he’s all right!” Lilian said of me, warm.

  “Astley Cooper,” I said, smiling my thanks. She was bonny, as well as a superb judge of character. “Not a crofter’s chair. Not a farthingale chair.”

  “It’s a Regency spinning chair,” Lilian said. She adjusted her vanity mirror to see my face.

  “Nor that, love. Sir Astley Cooper was a surgeon, knighted for operating on the Prince Regent. He designed this chair to teach little
children to sit upright.” They went silent. An odd pair, these, seeing we were on the same side. Had I missed some code word? “The other names are daft. Nice to see one of Astley Cooper’s chairs left plain. Goons nowadays decorate them with everything but Christmas lights.” I chuckled, but on my own.

  The motor swerved violently. An open tourer shot close to us, horn blaring. A girl shook a fist at us, furious, blonde hair streaming. The young bloke with her was straight off some telly advert for South Seas surfing.

  “Bloody idiot,” I muttered. The tourer’s lights were flashing. Both youngsters seemed angry, though Gerald was driving with a Briton’s usual guarded suspicion. “That was their fault.” Criticize other motorists, you’re in.

  “I’m obeying the rule of the road,” Gerald said anxiously.

  “Course you are,” Lilian said, her pride stung. “Always impatient. Same as at home.”

  The tourer dwindled ahead. In newfound comradeship we relaxed into those where’re-you-from and heavens-my-auntie’s-from-there conversations that substitute for instant friendship.

  “We’re looking at places,” Lilian said, too smooth by far as Gerald reasserted his motor’s rights. “For time-share holidays.” Aha. Their cover story.

  “Good idea, time-share,” I said, thinking pretence the party line. Maybe the car was bugged? “I’m hitchhiking.”

  The journey was pleasant, they eventually relaxed. Banter-time as we rolled —Gerald never raced—towards Paris. Luckily, I saw a Paris sign before they did, pointed it out as if I’d known all the time. They’d started up a small travel business. “Everything will be leisure, hen, in ten years.” Lilian was emphatic, but in a practised kind of way I couldn’t quite accept somehow. Still arguing about prices, the cost of renting a shop front in Glasgow…

  “Dearer in East Anglia,” I challenged, to get her going. Women hate admitting that other people suffer more expense.

  “You live there? And you think that’s dear? You come up to Clydebank, you wouldn’t know what’d hit you for prices! Gerald bought a…” The motor straightened after a small swerve, with this time no flashy youngsters cutting us up while overtaking. “… a share in a tour operator’s. It cost the earth…”