A Masterpiece of Revenge Page 11

  Damn him and his integrity! I found his writing on the subject of forgeries high-handed and self-serving — he had written for example a very long article about that expert who pronounced the van Gogh work authentic. Not only had the poor man betrayed his country and his honor, in Vermeille’s eyes, he had betrayed history itself. The job of the art critic was sacred. Such sanctimoniousness.

  It was while reading that article that I began thinking of ways to make him compromise his unflinching probity. This would not be easy Vermeille was an immensely proud man, as I had discovered in Nice. He held himself to a different standard.

  There was something. Not a flaw, but a vulnerability, I discovered. He adored his son, his only child.

  We would see just how dear his honor was to him when compared to the thing he most valued in the world.

  How would I make him afraid for his son? It was really very simple. Nothing is more terrifying than an invisible enemy, a threat that will not declare itself I didn’t want Vermeille to panic. I needed to unnerve him gradually and inexorably, like a Chinese torture that, drop by drop, would drain his spirit.

  I decided to send him photos of his son. Anonymously. Mailed from all over the map.

  I saw them together once when I was in Paris. They were coming out of an apartment building. Vermeille was laughing at something Jean-Louis had said. They looked as if they were enjoying themselves. It almost made me ashamed of what I would do.

  I learned that Jean-Louis Vermeille was planning to continue his studies in California. A month later I went to Berkeley. I dyed my hair black, then pulled it back into a chignon and put on large horn-rimmed glasses. I decided to pretend I taught at a British university and was visiting Berkeley to give a talk on genetic botany.

  I had taken with me a small but very sophisticated little camera, with a built-in telephoto lens. Locating my prey was not difficult. I found him playing tennis — he was extraordinarily good, of course, good enough to attract attention from spectators. You could see how hard he concentrated on his game. Quietly taking a picture without anyone seeing me was child’s play.

  A couple of days later I took a second photo of him eating lunch on the lawn with some friends. Jean-Louis’s routine was incredibly active. In addition to playing tennis, he surfed and jogged. I managed to photograph him doing both. I had fun with the jogging photo, which I took with my telephoto lens from behind a tree in Charles Lee Tilden Park, on the edge of campus. The area bore an uncanny resemblance to a Lorrain landscape, with its large trees, shrubs, the sun filtering through the leaves, the magical glow of twilight. All I needed was a classical ruin or a figure from myth dancing in the corner.

  Later when the photo was developed, I noticed that something — the reflection of the sun off the lens, perhaps — had made a small red dot on Jean-Louis’s forehead. It looked like it had been caused by a laser sight. I was certain Vermeille would think a gun had been trained between the eyes of his beloved son. It would heighten his anguish. So much the better.

  The day after that I actually met Jean-Louis. I knew this was unwise. What if later he were to see a picture of me in some professional magazine while visiting his father? Was my disguise good enough? Still, I couldn’t resist. He was sitting in the cafeteria where I took my meals. The seat in front of him was vacant, so I sat down and smiled. He smiled back. When I’d finished my milkshake I took out a map of the campus and pretended to look for something.

  “Such a large campus,” I said, sighing. “I’m a little lost. I’m sorry to bother you, but would you have any idea where the botanical library might be located?”

  “No, I have no idea. But here, let me have a look at your map.”

  We both studied the map. He explained that he himself had recently arrived on campus and didn’t yet quite know his way around. We talked about other things — my field, his studies, surfing, the beauty of Northern California.

  I liked him immediately. He was young but very charming. And incredibly handsome. I wished I were ten years younger, so that I could let down my hair and flirt openly, rather than get to know him by subterfuge. I wanted to please him, like an eighteen-year-old — without artifice.

  In any case, I seemed to have succeeded in attracting him, for the next thing I knew he was proposing to give me a tour the following day, which was Saturday, so that I wouldn’t leave Berkeley without first admiring its many beauties. Then he accompanied me all the way to the botanical library, and told me where he lived.

  Later I waited outside his building for a few hours. He came out on his balcony I took another photo.

  The last photo I took on the little dock where Jean-Louis took me for a walk before dinner at a North Beach bistro. It was around eight in the evening. The light from the setting sun gave everything a golden hue, eerily like the colors in The Port of Naples. The depth of the horizon, the slightly choppy waters, the port itself. Then Jean-Louis walked right up to the water’s edge and stood for a moment on the loading dock and gazed at a boat in the distance. Again, he didn’t see me take the picture.

  I imagined what Vermeille would think when he saw it. I knew he would notice the parallels between the photo and the Lorrain painting. An amateur would have seen them.

  I must say, Papa, that I spent a wonderful evening with Jean-Louis. Oh my! I would have loved to have stayed in Berkeley for longer. I probably would have slept with him. But I needed to get back home to set in motion my little plan.

  The first thing to do was send Vermeille the photos, one by one. I decided upon the order, leaving the Lorrainesque photos for last, of course. The rest was easy. I was doing a fair amount of traveling at the time and I simply dropped them in the mail wherever I happened to be.

  At first, I was amused by the idea of Vermeille looking at these photos, his brows furrowed, pacing nervously in his study, trying to think of who could possibly be responsible for them. I knew for certain that he would phone Jean-Louis and ask him who had taken it. Then he would have put it up somewhere, kept it in sight. He was vain about his son. With good reason.

  His worries would really begin with the second photo. Vermeille was the sort of father who fretted. Suspicions would start to preoccupy him, keeping him from concentrating on his own work. He would dread going down to fetch his mail every morning.

  The third photo would come as a shock, a very rude shock. Though I am childless, I could imagine the pain. Interesting, isn’t it? It was precisely because I am childless that I could put Vermeille into such pain. I often wondered, Papa, how you would have felt had this happened to you. I’m afraid to know the answer.

  Vermeille wouldn’t have any idea what to make of the photographs. They would not just preoccupy him, they would obsess him. He would feel powerless. What can you do about an invisible threat? Impotence and rage would grow with every passing day. I could picture him, waiting for the phone to ring.

  The fourth photo would turn him into a caged animal. The press clipping I’d included about the death of Onassis’s son would terrify him. He would be prepared to sell his soul to save his son.

  The clipping was gratuitous, I realize that. But I couldn’t help it. I wanted this man on his knees. He would pay for having ignored me. His exalted integrity would turn to ash.

  Keep your eyes open a little longer, Papa. I’m not finished with my confession.

  How I made that poor man suffer! And yet, in the final analysis, it was because I admired him so much. I tried so hard to justify what I was doing. I told myself he was guilty. Guilty, first of all, of resembling you. Guilty of loving his son like a mother would. Guilty for being so sure he knew the truth. Guilty because he was about to prove himself a hypocrite and authenticate a fake.

  The fifth photo, of Jean-Louis jogging, would begin to open his eyes. The Lorrainesque look of the landscape might have been an accident, a coincidence, but it very easily could have been intended. Something would happen in his mind. The penny would drop. He would believe he had seen the photograph before.
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  This part of the game I rather enjoyed. It added a touch of class to what was really a fairly unpleasant business.

  The whole time this was happening I watched my reflection in the mirror, looking for changes. I expected to see an evil leer, a malicious glint. If anything, I seemed to have become more beautiful. My eyes were clearer and brighter.

  The sixth photo, of the port of San Francisco, Quentin’s phone call, and hearing about the painting would dispel any lingering doubt in Vermeille’s mind. He would believe his son’s life depended upon his issuing a certificate of authenticity.

  He has. So, I’ve won, Papa. The news is here in my hand. The money will mean that we can spend happy days together, you and I, here in this beautiful clinic. I will be more at peace with myself.

  Perhaps I will begin to paint again.

  Final Touches

  On a chilly December evening, a day before a major auction was to be held at Sotheby’s in New York, Charles Vermeille landed at Kennedy Airport. He had taken the Concorde as a special treat.

  After getting through customs, he took a taxi to the Carlyle. He always stayed there, enjoying the calm and elegance of this Manhattan institution. It was perfectly located for visits to the Metropolitan Museum and was a fairly easy walk to Sotheby’s as well.

  He got up early the next morning feeling physically refreshed — the Concorde had dramatically reduced jet lag, of course — and decided to walk down to Sotheby’s. The sky was like lapis lazuli, and New York, particularly on a splendid morning such as this, was pure pleasure to him.

  When he entered the enormous concrete and glass structure that was the new Sotheby’s, Vermeille noted that the uniformed guard scrutinized him carefully. He realized that he must appear anxious, lacking his usual self-possession. He decided he needed to take a few minutes to compose himself before confronting his colleagues from the art world, so he went down to the lower gallery.

  On display were posters announcing upcoming sales at Sotheby’s auction houses around the world. And, to commemorate its most glorious moments, Sotheby’s had done beautiful reproductions of van Gogh’s Irises and Doctor Gachet, Picasso’s portrait of Fernandez de Soto and his Les Noces de Pierrette, as well as Renoir’s Au Moulin de la Galette, the originals of which had commanded record prices at auction.

  Vermeille sipped an espresso he picked up at the little cafeteria. After a moment, he felt more in command of himself, and headed back to the wide granite staircase leading to the second floor.

  He was halfway up when a voice stopped him.

  “Hello, Charles!”

  Vermeille turned to see Egon Adalbert, who promptly grabbed his hand and began pumping it. He hadn’t seen Adalbert in weeks, and, since he had been one of the people Vermeille had first suspected about the photographs, he was at a loss for words.

  “I was certain you would be here. Not every day that a Lorrain goes up for sale, is it my friend? Particularly one that you yourself have authenticated.”

  Adalbert was brandishing a Sotheby’s catalog on whose cover was, in glorious full color, The Port of Naples.

  Vermeille managed to say, somewhat unenthusiastically, what a pleasant surprise it was to see his old colleague before Adalbert launched into a discussion of the work and its truly miraculous discovery. Vermeille found the man’s smugness intolerable, and continued to climb the steps leading into the central hall.

  Everything was gray — the walls, the carpeting, and the columns — presumably to act as backdrop to the objects being put up for auction. The mahogany counters leading to the main sales room were stacked high with catalogs.

  Peter Mansfield, one of Sotheby’s vice presidents, was standing near the door to the room. He courteously greeted Adalbert and directed him toward the front row, where a seat had been reserved for him. When he spotted Vermeille, Mansfield seemed slightly embarrassed, as if he wanted to tell him something. But the crowd was beginning to press forward and there was no time. One of his assistants escorted Vermeille to his seat in the third row.

  The room held around five hundred, and it was filled. Dozens of people, not finding a free chair, positioned themselves along the sides and at the back. Those without invitations and late arrivers massed outside in the hall in front of television monitors so that they could follow what was happening. Camera crews were setting up equipment in preparation for this historic sale, which was set to begin at 10:15.

  The buzz of conversation was nearly deafening. Exclamations and salutations in every language sailed around the room. Facing the center aisle, on a small stage surrounded by long gray curtains, the first painting that was going up for auction was hanging. To its right was a podium. Actually, rather than a podium, it was an ecclesiastical-looking hexagonal pulpit with a canopy. On either side of the pulpit were tables covered in the same gray material, on which sat telephones and computer screens. Elegantly dressed assistants stood ready to take orders from buyers in Tokyo, London, Geneva, and Paris, or to inquire whether a seller would accept or reject a bid.

  Over them all was an enormous screen on which currency conversions would be displayed. The screen was still blank at this point, showing only the words “All Conversions Approximate.”

  From where he sat, Vermeille had an excellent view. He knew many of the faces present, and nodded his hellos. His eyes landed on Jane Caldwell, whose red hair seemed more flamboyant than ever. Next to her sat Quentin Van Nieuwpoort.

  Vermeille was struck at once by the beauty of Jane’s profile. He had often thought that profiles were the most revealing angles of vision. Too few realized what they looked like in profile, and made double chins by lowering their head. If they arched their head in the wrong way, a wattle of loose skin dangled from their throats. The little signs of letting go.

  He could tell that Jane Caldwell was not among those who let themselves go. She held her head erect, her shoulders back. Her forehead was high and proud. Her magnificent hair was pulled back and up, revealing large temples. An artist would want to draw that head, thought Vermeille. Perhaps not the earlobes. How easily can beauty be marred by so small a feature.

  When their eyes met for a second, Vermeille believed he could see a provocative gleam in her green eyes. He couldn’t be sure. He forced himself to maintain an expression of complete neutrality, showing no surprise at seeing her here in New York, or seated next to Van Nieuwpoort. Caldwell’s financial interest in the Lorrain sale was supposed to be a secret.

  At precisely 10:10, the principal auctioneer, a specialist in old masters, entered the room to discreet applause. He walked to the podium like an orchestra conductor, and with slow ceremony took his place on the stand. He gazed out at the crowd for a moment, then picked up the ivory hammer and struck it three times.

  The room immediately fell silent. The assistants, like so many acolytes, riveted their gaze on the audience, alert to the slightest movement.

  The sale was beginning.

  To dignify — and benefit from — the sale of a Claude Lorrain, and to attract buyers of the highest quality and deepest pockets, Sotheby’s had planned on selling thirty or so paintings at this auction. Each was a work of considerable value. Some of them were of exceptional quality.

  Following well-established tradition, there was a slight delay before the first painting went up for auction. This gave time for the late-arriving VIPs to make their way to their reserved seats.

  The work in question was Virgin and Child Surrounded by Saint Jerome and Saint Sebastian. It was an altarpiece, painted sometime around 1500 by Pietro Di Domenico of Sienna. That, at least, was the opinion of Sotheby’s, as indicated by the asterisk preceding the name. A note at the bottom of the catalog page sent readers to the glossary, where the auction house carefully defined the difference between a work done by the artist — whose name was in large print — and the paintings “attributed” to the painter, either by his “workshop” or “school,” or “after the manner of” or “in the style of.”

  Despite these s
ubtleties, it was a superb work. The bidding quickly mounted to $118,000, nearly double what had been predicted.

  This boded well for the next work, a still life by Versailles great decorator Jean-Baptiste Monnoyer. The set at the front of the room turned, and as if by magic the Madonna altarpiece disappeared, replaced by a picture of an enormous and overflowing vase of multicolored roses, lilies, and wild flowers.

  The painting was projected to go at between $80,000 and $120,000. Bidding started at $60,000. Two or three hands went up. The price leapt quickly by increments of $10,000. When it reached $130,000 only two bidders remained. One, a well-known French dealer, offered $140,000. Her competitor shook his head.

  The auctioneer scanned the crowd for a few seconds, and then brought down the hammer. Sold.

  That painting disappeared and in its place appeared a work of even greater quality: a view of the port of Recife, painted in 1649 by the Dutch artist Franz Jansz Post, who had accompanied Count Johan Maurits Nassau-Siegen to Brazil. Few documents of this expedition survived and most of Post’s works were in museums. The Louvre owned four.

  The painting was valued between $300,000 and $500,000. A Dutch collector, determined that Post’s painting should stay in its home country, bid the higher amount and got it.

  A Brazilian museum, however, got its revenge a few minutes later by offering $684,000 for a panoramic view of the same port of Recife, painted in 1647 by Gillis Peeters, an artist who had gone with Count Naussau-Siegen on his quixotic trip to establish a Dutch realm in northern Brazil.

  Sotheby’s displayed consummate skill at varying the paintings up for auction, and at stimulating the interest of the buyers.

  Some of the works failed to reach their minimum price and were taken out of auction. Others doubled or even tripled their estimated worth. A large portrait of Countess Czernin, painted in 1793 by Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun during her exile in Vienna, did not reach its estimated worth of $500,000. Neither did two views of Venice’s Grand Canal by Bernardo Bellotto.