Vanishing Point

by Morris West

  “But something to remember, yes?”

  “Yes indeed. I’ll be in touch.”

  “À bientôt, my friend—and good luck!”

  6

  IT WAS TWENTY TO FIVE in the afternoon when I left the Strassberger office. I was glad to be out of the place, where I was now isolated and unwelcome. I could not quarrel with Vianney’s desire to distance himself from the Larry Lucas affair. He had a business to run, and the last thing he wanted was to tangle with the Strassberger oligarchy.

  I was less troubled by Claudine Parmentier’s performance than by my own defective judgment of her character—or was it my subconscious desire to play mind games with an ambivalent woman? I didn’t like that thought either. It reminded me too sharply of Alma Levy’s warning that psychic illness was by its nature infectious. Claudine Parmentier, randy and reckless, was an image of Larry in his moods of wild elation. I myself was suddenly trapped in his other world, a winter landscape of self-doubt and fear of the future into which I was about to launch myself.

  These were thoughts too dark to entertain in a hotel suite with a whiskey bottle for company; so I crossed the river and gave myself the simple pleasure of a browse along the bookstalls of the quai. There are few treasures to be found there nowadays, but there is always a double challenge in the hunt. You may just stumble on a treasure, and the bouquiniste may just be ignorant of its value. The odds against either event are enormous. The real pleasures are in the handling of forgotten texts with yellowed pages and scuffed leather bindings, in ruffling through folios of foxed prints and sheaves of student drawings pawned for the price of a breakfast.

  Today it seemed, my luck was out. The only object that caught my fancy was an 1893 edition of Les Trophées, the only book of verse published by José-Maria de Hérédia, a disciple of Leconte de Lisle and one of the greats among the Parnassians. The book was in poor condition, but I wanted it for a sentimental reason, the famous last quatrain of the sonnet on Antony and Cleopatra, which in my youth I had tried vainly to render into English.

  I asked the price. The bookseller named an exorbitant figure. I tried to bargain. He would have none of it; this was a rare and valuable piece. I pointed out that it was in very poor condition. It would fall apart in my hands after a couple of readings. He would have none of that either; the price was fixed. I shrugged and handed it back. What did I need it for anyway? I would still have my boyhood vision of the two lovers, clasped in each other’s arms, seeing in each other’s eyes that “immense sea on which the scattered galleys were in flight.”

  It was at least a romantic thought on which to end a lousy day. I turned away from the miserly bookseller and headed in the direction of the Pont Royal.

  Back at the hotel I paused at reception to tell them of the arrival of Arlette Tassigny and of our departure next morning. Delaunay was busy with a pair of clients. I waved to him and went upstairs to pour myself a drink and make my telephone calls.

  My father had news for me.

  “I called an old friend of mine who has just retired from the Union Bank. He knows everybody who is anybody. I asked him about this Dr. Hubert Rubens in Geneva. He’s an old man now and apparently in his dotage. His son, who has the same name, took over the business, which was founded on deposit funds from German bigwigs during the war years: runaway Nazi money and funds plundered from Jews and other victims of the Third Reich. Some of the depositors didn’t survive the war, so their funds still remained in trusteeship in Geneva. Those who got away to Brazil, Argentina, Uruguay, and the other South American republics continued to invest with Rubens. It’s a tight, very quiet, very discreet business involving much personal service which the big banks don’t really want to touch. Rubens himself is described as very reserved but very punctual in his dealings with the major institutions. He’s respected, too—which is understandable, because he has a high credit rating. He doesn’t need to play games.”

  “But apparently he does.”

  “I’d put it another way. He’s continuing the old game his father played. You are trustee to major estates. A number of them must pass into your unfettered control—just by the accidents of mortality.”

  “Or by premeditated arrangement.”

  “The evidence is that Larry made his own arrangements. You, Carl, premised the sinister interpretation.”

  “Could this old friend of yours arrange a meeting with Rubens?”

  “For you? I think that would be a mistake. If you pursue this plan of yours—”

  “I am pursuing it, Father.”

  “And if your premise is correct, then sooner or later Rubens will come to you. Or you will be introduced to him.”

  “You’re probably right. I confess I’m not too confident of my own judgment just now.”

  “That’s healthy.”

  “I’ve had an odd sort of day.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  I told him at length and in detail about Vianney and Claudine Parmentier. As usual he listened in silence, asked a few curt questions, and then delivered judgment.

  “Vianney is right. He is not part of the family. He doesn’t believe we should be pursuing Larry. Therefore, he declines to be involved. He’s running our business in Paris and running it well. Let him do that. Demand what service you need and forget the rest of it. As for this Parmentier woman, are you sure you weren’t tripped up by your male vanity?”

  “Very probably. How would you have handled it, Father?”

  He laughed, a big full-bellied chuckle.

  “To tell you the truth, Carl, I don’t know. I’ve managed men all my life. As for women, your mother has always managed me. As a bachelor you’re a natural prey to women who are much cleverer than we are. But if you’re open to a little advice, I’d suggest you make your peace with Mlle. Parmentier before you leave Paris. You can’t afford—we can’t afford—a declared enemy in the camp. Besides, whom else do you have?”

  “No one except Arlette, and I refuse to involve her.”

  “You have Corsec. Already we’re paying them a lot of money, which they’re eager to keep. Squeeze them for every service you can get.”

  “I’ll be talking to Andrescu after we’ve finished this call. Make sure to note that I check out of Le Diplomate tomorrow morning. I pick up my documents and then go underground. We won’t be able to have this kind of conversation too often.”

  “Be careful, Carl, and remember always we love you—I love you!”

  “I love you too, Father.”

  Confessions of love were rare between us. This one had its own special poignancy. It was an acknowledgment of risk and danger, which were the more threatening because they were too vague to be defined. They came into much clearer focus when I talked to Alma Levy. I had to tell her not to send any documents to the office in Paris but to give me the gist of them on the phone. She had little to add to her first summation. Larry’s reveries and fantasies were a geography of soul states, not of voyages he would choose to make. The surprise came when I told her Larry’s suspected location was a villa on Lake Garda. There was anxiety in her voice too:

  “If we are talking of foul play, of Larry as target and victim, he is most vulnerable of all in a clinical situation. If acute symptoms of either mania or depression are demonstrated, drugs can he used, quite legally, to control the patient. In unscrupulous hands drugs then become a weapon.”

  I reminded her of the opposite argument which she herself had put to me. Larry had a chameleon talent for evasion and manipulation. Would not the survival odds favor him?

  “They would—unless he is hit for any reason by an acute episode.”

  “Could such an episode be induced?”

  “Only by someone who understood how fragile he is—a nagging wife, an importunate lover, a professional psychiatrist like myself.”

  “It’s only a short time since his disappearance. He’s still on the move. I doubt anyone would have had time to set the scene for that kind of drama.”

  “Unless
the scene were already set for similar cases…which, I agree, is pushing the laws of probability. Now tell me about yourself.”

  “I’m fraying at the edges. I’m beginning to start at shadows and see villains behind every bush. I could use a good laugh and some happy loving.”

  “Then grab it while you can, Carl Emil. You can spend so long in a sickroom that you forget the fresh air and sunlight on the lawn!”

  I was beginning to be bothered by the elegiac tones of these farewells. It was a relief therefore to hear the brash trumpeting of Giorgiu Andrescu.

  “We’re in, my friend! We’re in and living with the Simonetta family by way of their New York operation! It was easy. We’re asking them for travel and accommodation quotes on client conferences, individual vacations, incentive executive packages. We’re working on-line with them from our own terminals. Our continental people will have similar access in the European area. We can keep them interested for quite a while, while our hackers go searching their files. Give us a few days and we should have a movement pattern for Larry Lucas as well as his new alibi. We’ll put you into the system as soon as we have your document numbers and a travel schedule.”

  “You’re clever fellows, George! Now see what you can tell me about the Villa Estense, near Sirmione on Lake Garda, Italy. It’s supposed to be a luxury resort owned and operated by Simonetta. It’s possible Larry is staying there before moving on. His itinerary has been arranged by Falco himself. He had someone to look after him in Paris, a young woman from the Paris office, Liliane Prévost. Obviously the rest of the itinerary was arranged from Milan. I’m heading there as soon as I’ve got my new papers and established my banking arrangements.”

  “Good! We have an office there. Use it. I’ll contact Sergio Carlino and tell him to expect you. He’ll also inform us and you about the Villa Estense. If you need a companion for cover or for company, he’ll arrange that too.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. Thanks, George.”

  “All part of the service. This is only the beginning. Fun, isn’t it?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I could think of better ways to enjoy myself; but at least he was ending the day’s drama on an up beat. I thanked him with warmth and sincerity and hung up.

  There remained only one nagging thought: How to tidy up the situation with Claudine Parmentier. I was still toying with it when my telephone rang. Arlette was on the line.

  “Chéri, the end of my day is a mess—but a beautiful mess. I want you to share it with me. It will do you enormous good. I am at the Galerie Céline. There is an exhibition which begins at eight. Céline Audran, the patronne, is an old friend of mine whom you haven’t met. The artist is a young Tahitienne who has been studying at the Beaux Arts. This is a talent to knock your eyes out: wild colors and figure drawings like the best of the Baroque and a sensuality which will have the viewers chewing the carpet.

  “Céline has asked me to introduce her work on the Côte this summer. I think I’ll do better there than Céline will in Paris. You know what competition is like here, and the snobs will give this artist a rough time at the beginning because she’s young and a woman and a colonial from the Pacific. Also, they won’t like the feminist dialectic, which is a little heavy in places. “Please will you come? We’ll have champagne and canapés and a late supper afterward with Céline and the artist and a few friends. At least it will get you out of that business suit which I hate. Say yes.”

  “Yes! Yes! Yes! I’ll be happy, happy, happy! Now where do I find this Galerie Céline?”

  “It’s in the rue de Montalembert. Number nineteen. You can’t miss it. There’s a quite splendid Polynesian nude in the window. She’s been getting a lot of attention from the passersby. It’ll be good to see you! Don’t let me forget my valise when we go to supper. See you at eightish. Je t’aime, chéri.”

  I was only too happy to go. I was sick of the business world I had been inhabiting under sufferance, sick of Larry Lucas, and sickest of all of my own crotchety company. It would be a treat to slip back into the casual anonymity of a vernissage at a less-than-fashionable gallery where a bad review wouldn’t break an artist and a modest sale or two might make a big career. Besides, an eight o’clock rendezvous gave me time for a shave and a long hot bath, with a sip or two of whiskey to lift the heart and open it to young encounters—even with a feminist dialectician from Polynesia!

  Even with all that I arrived early. Arlette was happy to have me at her side. Her colleague, Céline, welcomed me and then handed me over to the artist herself, a big Gauguinesque beauty whose explanations were only a shade less vivid than the paintings themselves.

  “In the tropics there is a perpetual problem for the painter. In clear weather the sea is so vivid, and by comparison the rain forest is so dense and shadowy, they tend to cancel out the contrasts, even while you are observing them. The sea becomes like a tourist postcard. The forest is dark, lush, and oppressive. Life slows down. Distinctions blur. One becomes sluggish. But here in Paris, away from it all, I have been able to hold it in my mind’s eye, clear and fresh, the forms distinct—especially the woman forms and the flow of the bodies hidden under those ugly great colored sacks which the missionaries brought. You are a painter, they tell me. You come from America, how does all this hit you? Be open with me, please! I can’t bear to be patronized!”

  She was a prickly one, as Arlette had warned me—and the Parisians were going to be nibbling like piranhas at her fragile self-esteem. I chided her gently.

  “Why should you think I’d patronize you? I’m an academic architectural painter. This work of yours is free, open, alive. You’re managing to do what Van Gogh and Gauguin did and, strangely enough, the Englishman Turner. You’ve caught the light and fixed the color and you’ve rendered the body forms beautifully. My compliments!”

  “If you were a buyer, which one would you choose?”

  “If you wanted me to remember you—painter to painter—which one would you choose for me?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Your question wasn’t fair either.”

  “I know. I’ll have to get used to keeping my mouth shut and waiting on the pleasure of the clientele. It’s hard when you come from the colonies to the big city. They make it hard—even your peers at art school.”

  “Smile and ignore them and hang on to the belief in your own talent. Think what you do. You’re offering people a handhold on the mystery of creation.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “You do it. Therefore you know it.”

  We paused by a small canvas: a young woman naked, leaning on the carved prow of a ceremonial canoe, staring across a sunset ocean, her body lighted from the side by the last rich glow. The painter watched me in silence as I studied the canvas. She asked no questions. She waited until I asked her.

  “Would you have Céline put a sticker on that for me, please?”

  “You like it that much?”

  “Enough to want to live with it. That’s the test, isn’t it, for a picture or a lover?”

  “You’re my first buyer.”

  “That’s my privilege.”

  She laid her big hand lightly on my wrist and went hurrying back to Céline. The gallery was beginning to fill up now. I took a glass of champagne and moved into a quiet angle next to Arlette to watch the new arrivals. It wasn’t what you would call a buying audience. There was a scattering of second-string critics, a few older artists, mostly local denizens, and a gaggle of young intellectuals eager for free champagne and the chance to air their opinions.

  “You bought the canoe girl,” Arlette said. “That was a good choice. It was also a generous encouragement.”

  “Can you take it back to Nice with you, please? We’re moving out of Le Diplomate tomorrow, and I’m going to be on the road soon after.”

  “And of course you’re going to explain why!”

  “But not here.”

  “Very well. So tell. Am I right or wrong
to take on our young Tahitienne?”

  “Absolutely right—so long as she can run the gauntlet and last the distance. If you’re handling her, why not bring her down to the coast during the summer and let her soak up some clean sunlight?”

  “That’s a great idea! I’ll talk to her about it—and to Céline.” She cast a knowing eye about the room, which was rapidly filling up. “It’s a good turnout, but I don’t see too much real money. A couple of good reviews would help—but I’ll bet my summer sales will be three, four times Céline’s.”

  Just at that moment a new group of guests arrived at the door. As they paused to sign the visitors’ book and grab a glass of champagne, I recognized Claudine Parmentier with a woman companion. I retreated into the shadowed corner and drew Arlette with me toward Céline’s small office. Arlette protested.

  “What are you doing, Carl?”

  “Don’t ask questions! Just come with me.”

  The door of the office was ajar. We sidled through and closed it. Céline and her staff of two were busy receiving guests and working the room. I explained hurriedly to Arlette.

  “Claudine Parmentier from our office has just come in. I don’t want her to see me here until I know whom she’s with. I want you to go out again, check the visitors’ book, and tell me the names above and below hers.”

  “But why, for God’s sake?”

  “Please, chérie. I’ll explain everything later. Just do as I ask, now!”

  It seemed an age before she came back. She had identified the name above that of Claudine Parmentier. It was a male, Philippe Cardamatis. The one beneath it was female, Liliane Prévost. I uttered an angry curse and tried to reason with this sudden mischance. Arlette stood watching me in silence, waiting for my explanation. I had no time to frame one. I had a simple choice: confrontation or flight. Confrontation was out of the question. All my carefully constructed cover would be blown in the first encounter with Liliane Prévost and Claudine. Flight meant an immediate exit and the ruin of Arlette’s business evening.