by Michel Bussi
Well, I’m not going to complain; if a similar transhumance were to take place here too, in Vernon, I would be the first to groan. I walk a few steps across the terra-cotta tiles of the hall. Pascal Poussin passes in front of me in a gust of wind; I’ve just recognized the director of the museum—he’s said to be one of France’s greatest specialists on Monet and the Water Lilies, along with the eternal Achille Guillotin, the fellow at Rouen Museum. I read somewhere that he’s one of the pillars of the “Impressionist Normandy” operation. A big shot, you might say.
Poussin greets me without slowing down; he may vaguely remember my face. If he concentrated, he would make the connection between this old woman and the one who once came to talk to him about the Water Lilies.
But that was a long time ago.
“I don’t want to be disturbed!” Pascal Poussin calls to his secretary in the hall. “I have a meeting with some police officers from the local station. I won’t be very long.”
The director stops and inspects the entrance hall of his museum. On the ground, painted ladybirds indicate the direction to take between rooms. At the bottom of the stairs, shapeless sculptures are piled up for want of room elsewhere. Pascal Poussin frowns, then closes the door to his office behind him. Through the glass of the front door I can see Inspector Sérénac’s Tiger Triumph T100. The bike is parked on the cobbles of the inner courtyard. The world of the Water Lilies is clearly quite a small one, small as a pond.
I sigh. I’m going to do what everyone else does: I’m going to follow the ladybirds on the ground. The local archaeology to which the whole ground floor is devoted bores me to tears. I look at the stairs leading up to the other floors where the collections of landscape painters and contemporary artists are housed. The monumental staircase is another pride and joy of the museum, and you have to admit that it’s got the works: marble sculptures of rearing horses and tumescent bowmen are planted all over the place, one every four steps, below huge paintings of forgotten archdukes, historic constables and princes that no one would want in their home. I’m worried. They’re so proud of their staircase that I’m not even sure if the elevator works, in this museum devoted to oblivion.
63
While Pascal Poussin carefully examines the Winsor & Newton paint box from every angle, Sérénac and Bénavides keep an eye on his every gesture. Having juddered to a halt in the investigation once more, they are mobilizing every possible expert. Pascal Poussin has been presented to them as the other great specialist on Impressionist painting, particularly in Normandy. The director of the museum had told them that he was snowed under, but had also agreed to grant the police a few minutes. The character in front of them is a perfect match for the profile that Bénavides had imagined on the phone: tall, thin, gray suit and pastel-blue tie; the kind of traveling salesman who ends up either running the Louvre… or doing nothing at all.
“It’s a lovely object, gentlemen. It’s been well preserved, but it’s about a hundred years old. It isn’t worth a fortune by any means, but collectors might be interested in it. It matches the model that many American artists would have used at the turn of the century, but since then Winsor & Newton has become the global standard. Any slightly snobbish or nostalgic painter would dream of keeping his brushes inside one of these.”
Bénavides and Sérénac are sitting on two vintage red velvet armchairs, which are less comfortable than their appearance might suggest. The lacquered wooden feet threaten to break at the slightest wrong movement.
“Monsieur Poussin,” Laurenç Sérénac asks, “do you think there might still be some Monets on the market? Water Lilies in particular…”
The director of the museum has set the box down.
“What do you mean exactly, Inspector?”
“Well, for example, could someone from the area around Vernon possess a painting given to them by Monet? And why not one of the two hundred and seventy-two Water Lilies?”
“When he moved to Giverny, Claude Monet was a well-known artist and each of his works was already part of the national heritage. Monet very rarely gave away his paintings, as they were worth a small fortune.” Teeth flashing, Poussin explains: “Very unusually, he agreed to break with that principle for Vernon Museum. Hence the exceptional value of our tondo.”
Sérénac seems to be satisfied with the answer. Sylvio Bénavides, recalling the excited comments of the curator at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Rouen, is less convinced:
“Forgive me, but didn’t Monet constantly have to negotiate with his neighbors, the people of Giverny, in order to build his pond and preserve the landscape as he wanted to paint it? Is it just possible that he might have bought the agreement of his neighbors with the promise of a painting?”
Poussin doesn’t bother to conceal his outrage and makes a show of consulting his watch.
“Listen, Inspector. The Impressionist era wasn’t prehistoric! At the start of the century there were newspapers, notarized files, the accounts of municipal councils. All of these documents have been examined by dozens of art historians. No exchange of this kind, absolutely none, has ever come to light. But people will always go on making up stories!”
The director starts to get to his feet. Bénavides is fascinated by this attempt to bring their conversation to a speedy conclusion. He waits in vain for Laurenç Sérénac to come to his aid.
“And what about theft?” asks Sylvio.
Pascal Poussin sighs.
“I don’t know where you’re going with this. Claude Monet was organized and lucid until the end of his life. His paintings were listed, classified, and recorded. When he died, his son Michel never suggested that there was so much as a single canvas missing.”
The museum director’s fingers dance a nervous jig on the paint box.
“Inspector, if you haven’t been able to solve a crime that took place just one week ago, I doubt you would be able to find the missing link in a hypothetical theft that might have taken place before 1926…”
Right hook. Bénavides takes the blow. Sérénac climbs into the ring.
“Monsieur Poussin, I presume you’ve heard of the Theodore Robinson Foundation?”
For a moment the director seems to be wrong-footed by this arrival of reinforcements. He adjusts the knot of his tie.
“Of course. It is one of the top three or four art foundations in the world.”
“And what do you think of it?”
“What do you mean, what do I think?”
“Have you ever had any dealings with them?”
“Obviously! What a question. The Robinson Foundation is unavoidable as far as anything to do with Impressionism is concerned. The three ‘pros,’ as their slogan has it: prospection, protection, promotion.”
Bénavides nods and Poussin continues:
“A good third of the paintings ever shown in the world have to go through them. A foundation like that doesn’t care about somewhere like our museum in Vernon, as you can imagine, but for operations on a large scale… A fortnight ago I was in Tokyo for the international exhibition ‘mountains and sacred paths,’ and who was the main sponsor?”
“The Robinson Foundation!” Sérénac says like a contestant on a quiz show. “It’s a bit of an octopus, this foundation, don’t you think? It seems to have many tentacles.”
“What do you mean?”
Bénavides joins in. “Well, to someone who doesn’t know much about the art world it could look as if this foundation, which shifts millions of dollars, is a little more interested in juicy business deals than the noble and disinterested defense of art…”
Bénavides straightens up, smiling with false naïveté. He is pleased to note that his double act with Sérénac is getting better, like tennis partners that are becoming more experienced. Pascal Poussin is starting to lose his nerve. Again he glances at his watch before replying.
“Well, to someone such as myself who does know a bit about art, the Theodore Robinson Foundation is an old and respectable institution, which has not onl
y been remarkably good at adapting to the international market, but has also always been faithful to its initial aim: to find and support the best new talent from a very young age.”
“You’re talking about the Young Artists competition?” Sérénac cuts in.
“Among other things. You can’t imagine the number of new artists the foundation managed to find who are now internationally recognized.”
“So, everything comes full circle,” Sérénac concludes. “In short, the Robinson Foundation looks after its investments, old and new.”
“Exactly, Inspector. And is there anything wrong with that?”
Sérénac and Bénavides both shake their heads in a perfectly synchronized movement. Poussin looks at his watch yet again and finally stands up.
“So,” he says, holding out the paint box. “As I told you, Inspectors, I can’t tell you very much that you don’t already know.”
The moment has come. Sylvio Bénavides decides to fire his last arrow.
“One final question, Monsieur Poussin. Can you tell us anything about the rumored black Water Lilies? The last painting that Monet is said to have painted a few days before he passed away, reflecting the colors of his own death?”
Pascal Poussin looks Sylvio up and down, as if listening to a child who has just claimed that he’s bumped into some elves in the garden.
“Inspector, art isn’t a matter of fairy tales and legends. Art has become a business. There isn’t the slightest foundation for this story about a funereal self-portrait; there isn’t the least bit of evidence for it except in the overheated imaginations of the type of lunatic who also believes that a ghost haunts the corridors of the Louvre and that the true Mona Lisa is hidden inside the Hollow Needle of Étretat.”
Uppercut! Bénavides is knocked out. Sérénac pauses for a moment behind the ropes, then leaps back into the ring:
“I suppose, Monsieur Poussin, that the presence of several dozen masterpieces in Monet’s house and studios, stashed away in dusty attics and cupboards, is also a village myth.”
Pascal Poussin’s eyes gleam strangely, as if Sérénac has just revealed a dangerous secret.
“Who told you that?”
“You haven’t answered my question, Monsieur Poussin.”
“No, it’s true. Monet’s house and his studios are private spaces. Even though I’ve often visited those spaces in my capacity as an expert, you will easily understand that an answer to your question is a matter of professional confidentiality. On the other hand, permit me to ask you again. Who told you this?”
Sérénac smiles widely.
“Monsieur Poussin, you will easily understand that an answer to that question is also a matter of professional confidentiality!”
For a few seconds, a heavy silence falls on the room. Then, finally, the two inspectors get up, and the antique chairs creak with relief. The director of the museum walks them to the door and then closes it behind them.
“Not a very chatty fellow, that director,” Bénavides observes in the hall as they look up at the tondo of Water Lilies.
“And he seemed to be in a hurry, I would add. Tell me, Sylvio, you seem to have made some progress in terms of your knowledge of art. Do I take it your interests are no longer limited to barbecues?”
Bénavides chooses to take the remark as a compliment.
“I’m gathering information, Chief. I’m trying to pull together evidence from the very best sources. But it hasn’t helped me to see things any more clearly. Quite the opposite.”
They go outside into the cobbled courtyard of the museum. In front of them, some barges are traveling up the Seine. On the right bank is the Old Mill, a strange old house that has been balanced for centuries above the river on two abandoned piers, and always seems to be on the point of collapsing into the gray water.
“Do you still have your sheet of paper with the three columns?” Sérénac asks.
Sylvio blushes and extracts it from his pocket.
“Well, Chief, yesterday I tried something else, another way of putting the clues together. It’s just a sketch, but—”
“Show me!” says Sérénac.
The inspector barely gives his deputy time to unfold the page before snatching it from his hands. He lowers his eyes and sees a scribbled triangle with different names written on it. He runs a hand through his hair, perplexed.
“OK, so what is this weird pyramid, Sylvio?”
“I… I don’t really know,” Bénavides stammers. “Maybe it’s just another way of thinking about the case. Since the beginning, we’ve always been confronted with three different sets of clues that go off in different directions: the Water Lilies, Morval’s lovers, and the children. Perhaps it’s a different way of formalizing things. Why not imagine that the closer you get to the center of the triangle the greater the evidence of guilt…”
Sérénac leans against the plinth of the statue that dominates the entrance to the museum. A bronze horse.
“Formalizing everything… It’s a bit crazy. Do you really think you can solve this investigation with some kind of Cartesian method?”
He rests a damp hand on the bronze rump.
“So, if I follow you correctly, in the middle you would put the Theodore Robinson Foundation and that girl from Boston, Aline Malétas… Hmm… The only problem is that the director of the museum seems to be seriously trying to put us off the idea of a connection to the Water Lilies, or some other canvas by Monet painted antemortem.”
“I know. And I find his idea of professional confidentiality a little strange.”
“Me too. But I have even more trouble believing the surreal story about dozens of forgotten Impressionist paintings being hidden in the attic of Monet’s house since his death.”
“I know what you mean. In any case, the Dupains aren’t automatically connected with the children or the illegal art trade, particularly the husband. I’m putting them in a blind corner, along with Amadou Kandy.”
Sérénac goes on looking at the sketch with interest. Sylvio Bénavides exhales discreetly with relief. In an earlier version of his triangle he had written the name of Laurenç Sérénac halfway between the point marked “lovers” and the point marked “Water Lilies.” Suddenly Sérénac looks up and stares at him strangely. Sylvio rests a finger on his drawing.
“Which leaves the girl in the blue smock, the one we haven’t identified. In my triangle I’ve put her somewhere between the lovers and the children…”
“This story about a kid is turning into an obsession of yours. At least you’re consistent, I suppose…”
“What more do you want, Chief? A birthday card intended for an eleven-year-old with a strange quote by Aragon, and now a child’s handwriting on the paint box. An eleven-year-old killed in the same manner as Morval, but in 1937. An unidentified mistress who may have had a child with him, a child that would be about ten years old now, but unacknowledged by Morval…”
“Hmm. At any rate, no eleven-year-old could have picked up the forty-pound rock that shattered Morval’s skull. And what are you going to do with this ragbag of clues?”
“I don’t know. I can’t shake off the idea that one of Giverny’s children is in danger. I’m aware that it’s ludicrous, and we’re not about to wrap all the children of the village up in cotton wool. But still…”
Laurenç Sérénac claps him affectionately on the back.
“We’ve talked about this before; it’s your dad-or-dad-to-be syndrome. And by the way, is there still no news on the maternity front?”
“A dead calm. The baby’s due anytime now. I try to drop by as often as I can, with a pile of magazines that Béatrice inevitably throws in my face. ‘It’s all fine, we just have to wait, she’s not dilated at all yet, it’s too soon for a Caesarean, it’s the baby who will decide, what else do you want me to say?’—that’s what the midwives keep telling us all day long.”
“Are you going there now?”
“Well, yes.”
“I’m sure you a
re, Sylvio. Any other man would be burning up his last nights as a singleton with alcohol, dope, or poker, but not you! Say hello to Béatrice from me, she’s a terrific girl, you deserve her!” He rests his hand on his shoulder. “I assure you, you’re the last good man on this planet! I’m on my way back to hell.”
Laurenç Sérénac looks at his watch. 4:25 p.m.
He puts on his helmet and climbs onto his Triumph.
“Each to his own vanishing line…”
Sylvio Bénavides watches his superior driving away. As the Triumph disappears around the corner of the houses on the Seine quays, he wonders whether, in the end, he was right to delete Laurenç Sérénac’s name from the list of suspects.
64
On the first floor of the Vernon Museum, the window of Room 6 looks like another painting. The right bank of the Seine, which can be seen through the window, admirably prolongs the framed landscapes of Pourville, the sunset over Veules-les-Roses, Château Gaillard, the Place du Petit-Andelys, the Seine at Rolleboise.
When Inspector Sérénac’s Tiger Triumph passes across the painting, I grant you, it’s a bit of an explosion in this Impressionist setting. I see his motorcycle crossing from one side of the Vernon Bridge to the other, turning right, traveling along the Seine toward Giverny, just where the last bend of the river disappears from view.
Of course, that stupid inspector is flying toward his sweetheart.
Unwise. Unaware.
I move into the next room, the one with the wood paneling, the room reserved for drawings. I confess, it’s my favorite! Over time, I’ve almost ended up preferring Steinlen’s drawings to the paintings of the great masters. I love his caricatures, his portraits of workers or beggars painted in the gutter, those scenes depicting the ordinary lives of nameless people captured in pastel in just a few moments. I take my time, I linger over each sketch, I taste each line like a sweet melting under the tongue. Because it’s the last time, my last visit, my goodbye to Steinlen, every detail must be savored.