by Rose Edmunds
Although George disagreed with my downbeat assessment of the position, he had nevertheless cooked up an alternative strategy as a fallback just in case. He suggested his father may have given the painting to his business partner Novak for safekeeping; Novak had somehow survived the war and Stanislav was his son. In that scenario, principles of fairness and equity would apply, obliging Stanislav to hand over the artwork.
There were several problems with this line of reasoning, not least the known facts. First, we had yet to determine whether Stanislav’s father was indeed Josef Dušek’s partner. Second, in letters George’s mother wrote to the Rev Smithies, she said both her husband and Jan Novak had been killed. So how had Novak avoided execution? Third, we’d be relying on Novak to help prove George’s title at the expense of his own. Since parting a hoarder and his hoard is like prising a nail from a concrete wall, Stanislav’s cooperation seemed doubtful. Still, there was little to be gained by dampening George’s spirits at this stage, so I kept quiet.
We ate, not at the Alcron, but a nearby goulash restaurant, where I gobbled all four of my dumplings to George’s one, washed down with two large beers. After years of avoiding red meat, I’d devoured it enthusiastically while pregnant, and hadn’t yet lost the taste. Once again, I’d taken on vastly more calories than I needed, but no amount of food could fill the void within.
Afterwards, I persuaded a reluctant George to accompany me on a walk.
‘But it’s so cold. I’m a skinny old man and I feel it. It’s alright for you in the fur coat.’
True enough, the February wind was biting, but he had a warm overcoat too and I brushed aside his objections. My coat, a full-length mink, had belonged to George’s late wife Esther, but he’d given it to me after fruitless efforts to pass it on in the family.
‘I’m estranged from my daughter and Caroline refused flat out to wear it,’ he told me. ‘Said she couldn’t be seen in a real fur. So it’s been hanging there uselessly in the wardrobe these past two years, waiting to find a home.’
On this basis, I’d agreed to take it. I didn’t at all consider Ed’s wife a particularly moral person, merely anxious to avoid the disapproval of others in her circle. I had no such scruples—I was a failure, a crazy loser, and no longer cared about anyone’s judgements. Besides, the mink was fifty years old and why should I feel guilt over an animal dead before I was born?
‘I remember this place,’ he said, after we’d walked a few hundred metres.
We stood in front of the National Museum by the statue of St Wenceslas on his horse.
‘At the horse’s tail—I can’t remember the Czech words. People met here. My mother… Can we go back now? It’s freezing.’
I sensed his emotions troubled him more than the cold, but said nothing. It wasn’t so much that old men didn’t have feelings, I supposed, but they hated to show them.
‘OK—fine with me. Night cap?’
I talked him into a brandy, heedless of his protests that it disagreed with him, and we settled on our plan of action for the next day. Fortunately, we’d tracked down Novak’s address via the Globe journalist before we’d arrived, which saved us a huge amount of time. I was to visit Novak, while George met with an English-speaking Czech lawyer. In my view, the sole purpose of George’s meeting was to persuade him that formal recompense would be impossible, even though he had different ideas.
After a few minutes a thin, balding man with metal-rimmed spectacles approached us. He had one of those ageless faces, so could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. Moreover, his tweed jacket and corduroy trousers, unfashionable for any age group, gave no additional clue to his age.
‘Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation earlier this evening.’
He spoke in an upper class drawl, at odds with his nondescript appearance. In fact, he looked so inconspicuous, I hadn’t even noticed him before dinner, let alone spotted him eavesdropping. And although the topic of our discussion wasn’t secret, I would have preferred it to remain private.
‘I happen to be interested in Stanislav Novak and his collection.’
‘Oh, really?’ said George.
‘Allow me to introduce myself—Professor Maurice Beresford.’ He extended his hand first to George and then to me. ‘I’m an art historian. Do you mind if I join you?’
Maurice Beresford—the name rang a bell, although I didn’t immediately recall where I’d heard it. But even before the self-important announcement of his title and clammy handshake, I ought to have identified him as an academic because I’d grown up surrounded by these arty liberal types. I loathed the bloody lot of them and their unique combination of contempt for the wider world and ignorance of it set my teeth on edge. I felt certain Beresford would be no different, but decided to endure his company in the hope of extracting some useful information.
‘Of course not.’ From George’s affable smile, I deduced that he’d warmed to Beresford, and was possibly slightly in awe of him. No doubt the disgusting little man had been hoping for this reaction, but I refused to fawn over him no matter how distinguished he purported to be.
‘We’d be delighted to learn anything useful,’ George continued. ‘Would you care for a brandy?’
‘Oh goodness me, no,’ said Beresford, as if we’d offered him a hit of crack cocaine. ‘I’m lecturing at Charles University tomorrow morning and it wouldn’t do to be woolly-headed. I’d prefer a coffee, but only if they have decaffeinated.’
People of Beresford’s type have no vices—to a man, they are non-smokers who sip at thimblefuls of wine. I reckon I spill more alcohol in a week than these lightweights drink in a year.
‘This is an international five-star hotel—sure they do,’ I said, summoning the waiter. Beresford was evidently unfamiliar with the standards customary in upmarket accommodation.
‘It’s rather grand here for my tastes,’ he ventured, as if reading my thoughts. ‘But Charles University have a grant and if they don’t spend the money, they’ll receive less next year. So it would be churlish to refuse, wouldn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ George replied. ‘Although if you’re not careful, you might get used to five-star luxury. Are you here just to give your lecture?’
‘No. I’m over for two weeks— I arrived yesterday.’
‘And where are you based in the UK?’
‘Wadham College, Oxford.’
Ah yes—now I remembered.
‘You certified the Picasso as genuine didn’t you?’ I said.
‘Why yes.’ He seemed simultaneously puzzled and flattered. ‘But how on earth did you know?’
‘There was an article about George in the Daily Globe, and you were mentioned. Did you read it?’
Beresford grimaced, in the way of a loyal Guardian reader who regarded the Globe as an organ of fascism. George also squirmed, now embarrassed lest Beresford thought him a shameless publicity seeker.
‘My daughter-in-law was behind it,’ George explained hastily. ‘She said it would be beneficial to air my story and get people on my side.’
‘I haven’t seen the piece,’ said Beresford, in snooty tones. This struck me as odd, since he’d been quoted in it, and why bother to speak to a journalist employed by a publication he so disdained? ‘And naturally, I only caught snatches of your conversation, so I’d like to understand your interest in the Picasso more fully.’
Beresford lapped up every detail of George’s story.
‘How fascinating,’ he said. ‘And how sad.’
‘I’m too old to be sad. What’s done is done—you can’t change the past, and at my age there’s plenty of it.’
I suspected this was either a rationalisation or a lie, for George sometimes showed hints of a similar melancholy to mine—a wistful yearning for life to have panned out differently.
‘But in the abstract, it’s a sad story,’ Beresford persisted.
‘I suppose so, yes.’ And then, sidestepping any further dissection of his emotions, George as
ked how one authenticated a work of art.
Beresford was more than willing to expound on the topic at inordinate length.
‘Much of the initial work is scientific—mass spectrometry and so forth—naturally not my area of expertise.’ The way he said this implied a certain lack of respect for such activity, as though it was a poor relation of the later, more subjective, judgements made by him. ‘Small samples of the paints are analysed and compared to pigments from works of the same period and location. In the case of the Picasso, the team ascertained these were of a type used in Europe in the 1930s. Which doesn’t necessarily mean Picasso painted the picture.’
He uttered this last remark as though we mere mortals were unaware of basic logic.
‘In particular,’ he went on, ‘as you may be aware, the portrait is a study of an earlier work by Picasso, although with minor differences. Now, you might argue the modifications point to it being a replica painted by someone else.’
This was exactly what I would have argued, had he allowed me to get a word in edgeways.
‘But by close analysis of the brushwork, we can say with greater certainty whether it’s the work of the great man. And finally, there’s the signature, which is compared to other works by the artist.’
‘I see, yes,’ said George.
‘Opining on the brushwork and the signature was my modest contribution to the project,’ Beresford added, with a self-effacing smile. ‘And I’m one hundred per cent confident it’s Picasso’s work.’
Clearly he didn’t believe his contribution was modest, and we were no doubt expected to say so, but I drew the line at pandering to his ego.
‘How can you tell the picture’s a copy, not the original?’ I asked, preventing George from expressing the expected adulation.
It seemed a sensible enough query, but Beresford flashed his twee little smile again, presaging the inevitable crushing put-down.
‘Ah, I’m afraid it’s far too technical for a layman to understand,’ he said, managing to imply that only an imbecile would even ask.
‘But the most intriguing aspect of Novak’s collection,’ he continued, oblivious to, if not revelling in, my irritation and discomfort, ‘is what wasn’t there. Especially if you’re interested in Picasso.’
‘Go on,’ said George.
‘Many of the pieces in Novak’s collection were thought to have been destroyed.’
‘Do tell us more.’
‘By all means,’ said Beresford, tasting his coffee and judging it satisfactory. ‘During the Nazi occupation, the Germans used the Galerie Nationale du Jeu de Paume in Paris as a storehouse for art commandeered by them. More than twenty thousand works passed through the museum before being shipped to Germany. These included masterpieces from the collections of prominent French Jewish families such as the Rothschilds, the David-Weills and the Bernheims. Moreover, the Nazis used the Jeu de Paume's back rooms to store pieces they classified as "degenerate art".’
‘What was degenerate?’ I asked.
‘Let me show you an example.’
He produced a book from his briefcase and opened it at a page showing a red faced, ginger-haired hag with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth.
‘The Puffmutter by Otto Dix,’ he added, with a note of triumph in his voice.
Was this another snub or was I being overly sensitive?
‘Highly degenerate,’ I said, silently congratulating myself on staying off ciggies since my pregnancy.
‘So hundreds of banned works by Braque, Chagall, Dali, Matisse, Picasso and others were kept there during the war. Then in 1942, in the garden of the museum, more than five hundred of these pieces were burned—an act of utter sacrilege.’
‘And many of them have now mysteriously reappeared in Novak’s collection,’ George said, no doubt remembering what he’d read.
‘Indeed so, but not all of them. One in particular.’
He paused for dramatic effect.
‘The original of the picture you’re interested in was painted to accompany a self-portrait of Picasso. They were a pendant pair—I don’t suppose you know what that means.’
I shook my head. If I lied, the prick might ask me to enlighten George, and my failure to do so would be more humiliating than professing ignorance at the outset.
‘A pendant pair is a set of two paintings,’ he said as if speaking to a small child. ‘Typically, pendant paintings are related thematically to each other and are hung beside each other. Picasso’s self-portrait and that of his lover were such a pair, and most unusual. When viewed together, Picasso and Fernande appear to respond to each other on an emotional level. These pieces are unique among Picasso’s work.’
‘I see,’ said George.
‘Unfortunately, they have a somewhat chequered history. Picasso painted them for a rich Russian industrialist who was one of his patrons, mainly during his Blue Period.’
I had never heard of Picasso’s Blue Period but nonetheless nodded sagely, thus denying Beresford yet another opportunity to delight in my lack of knowledge.
‘Then came the Russian Revolution, when the Bolsheviks confiscated the entire collection. The portrait of Fernande resurfaced in Moscow in the early 2000s and was purchased for an extravagant sum by one of these so-called oligarchs.’
The “so-called” was intended to show Beresford’s scorn for this stratum of society. No doubt in his opinion such materialistic philistines should be banned from owning any works of art, since their undeveloped reptilian brains would be incapable of appreciating the nuances.
‘The self-portrait was sold in the 1930s by Stalin to help finance the Soviet economic miracle and bought by a prominent French Jewish family. The Nazis later seized it and it’s believed to have been among those burned in Paris.’
‘Well perhaps it was,’ I suggested. ‘Because Novak doesn’t have it, does he?’
‘But don’t you see? Novak’s father had access to the pictures in the museum. Isn’t it likely he would take the original self-portrait if he already had the study of the other painting?’
‘How do you know he owned the copy first?’ I asked.
For once, Beresford treated my question with the respect it deserved.
‘Frankly I don’t, but there must be a chance I’m right.’
He turned to George, as a thought occurred to him.
‘I say, it’s a long shot I know, but I don’t suppose you have any documents that might shed some light on the provenance of the study—letters from Picasso to your father and so forth? It would help your case if you had, and might also lend some credibility to my theory about the self-portrait.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said George. ‘And fascinating though your story is, it’s irrelevant to me. My sole concern is the picture I remember.’
‘Naturally, but I thought you should be aware of the bigger issues at stake. And if you happen to glean any information, I should be most grateful if you’d keep me informed. The rarity of the piece alone would make it one of the greatest art discoveries of the century.’
‘So are you thinking Novak might have another stash of artworks elsewhere?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
Since Novak was an inveterate hoarder, this seemed a distinct possibility. But what puzzled me was why Beresford couldn’t look into the matter himself without our help.
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ I said.
‘The man’s as mad as a March hare. I visited his apartment a few days ago and the chap wouldn’t even answer his door, even though I heard him moving around inside.’
That didn’t surprise me—hoarders don’t respond favourably to visitors ringing the doorbell.
‘Then I waited for him to come out of the flat—three hours in the freezing cold.’
‘And what happened?’
‘He was extraordinarily insulting and disrespectful then sent me packing.’
In an instant, Novak rose in my estimation. Still, disrespect or not, Beresford’s attempts were at b
est half-hearted given the importance he placed on the matter.
‘Yes, I share your frustration,’ said George, before I could challenge Beresford. ‘I wrote to him, setting out the details of my claim, and asking how he came by the picture. But he didn’t reply. All I know is what he told the Czech tax authorities, as reported in the press. But Amy will try to talk to him tomorrow.’
Beresford peered at me over the top of his glasses. ‘And good luck with that, my dear, but I fear you may have bitten off more than you can chew.’
I found the “my dear” deeply patronising, and was even more insulted by Beresford’s assumption that I’d fail. My polite veneer was wearing off fast.
‘So why ask for my help then, if I’m not up to the task?’ I asked, squaring up for an argument.
George must have detected my annoyance, as he rapidly stepped in to head off the looming confrontation.
‘It was only a suggestion. And Amy has such charm I have considerable faith in her ability to obtain the necessary information.’
Disarmed by this show of support, I was obliged to shut up, and even Beresford backpedalled slightly.
‘I’m not asking you to do anything you wouldn’t as part of your enquiries. But should you happen to come across anything useful—well, it would be a real feather in my cap to unearth such an important work.’
Ah yes I’d forgotten—as much as these tweedy types disavowed the pursuit of material wealth, they were ruthless when it came to enhancing their standing in the academic world.
‘Is that why you’re here?’
‘Oh no—my authentication work is more or less complete, and finding the other painting is no more than a little pipe dream. On this visit, I’m giving two lectures, but mainly I’m liaising with the co-author of my upcoming book. We have a few anomalies to iron out before we go to press, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.’
Again, I prickled at Beresford’s patronising tone. My ignorance of editing art books was matched by his inexperience of the commercial world, but I didn’t rub his nose in it every two minutes. I resolved not to share any information with him, particularly as I couldn’t care less about the other Picasso. My sole ambition was to solve George’s mystery and weave the tattered shreds of my life back into something more durable.