Oliver VII (7 page)

The chummy tone, Sandoval decided, though not the Major’s usual style, must be an accessory to the costume. And his curiosity intensified by leaps and bounds. What had
brought Mawiras-Tendal, nephew of the great
revolutionary
hero of Alturia, to put himself through such a
transformation
?

“I, er … you know … I’m here on holiday … ” he replied. “I’m not painting at the moment, just having a look at the world. A man needs to, from time to time. But what about you, Major? Everyone ‘knows’ you’re in Central Africa with His Highness.”

“Sh … sh … ” the Major responded, and looked round in alarm. “I … as for that … I’m actually here in Venice. Business, Sandoval. Business. You know, since I stopped being his aide-de-camp, I have business interests. But I’m delighted to see you here. Because, well, you’ll see what a strange chance it is if I tell you that I’ve been running round all morning looking for a painter, drawn a blank everywhere, and now I bump into you. What luck!”

“A painter? You’ll find plenty of those in Venice. The churches are crawling with them. Any hotel porter could bring you a dozen.”

“Yes, I thought of that. But it matters what sort of painter.”

“Ah, so you’re looking for one with talent,” said Sandoval, his face brightening.

“Well, er, not entirely. Rather, one who can be trusted.”

“Trusted. From what point of view?”

“Someone who would be discreet; someone you could do business with.”

“It seems, Major, you’ve forgotten, from the good old days in Lara, that I am very discreet, and someone you could deal with.”

“Of course, of course, it’s just that … actually, it’s a
question
of your having to paint a Titian.”

“A Titian? I don’t follow. I do only Sandovals. You’ll have to make do with that. Not a bad name, that.”

“Look, what I’m saying … I know you painters
sometimes
—as part of the training—you sometimes copy old masters.”

“Yes, I did when I was younger. So, you need a picture copied?”

“No, anyone could do that. I wouldn’t need you for that. What I’d like is for you to paint the sort of picture that
someone
who didn’t know very much about art might think was a real Titian.”

“Aha, now I get you. Hm … It could be done. You realise of course, the result wouldn’t depend on me but on the
competence
of the person who views it. No real expert would be taken in. But then, who is an expert? What is the actual purpose of this picture?”

“You see, that’s something I can’t tell you, just at the moment. But does that matter, so far as the actual painting is concerned? Surely not. Look, this isn’t a question of art; it a question of serious business. How much would you want for doing it?”

“For you, Major, five hundred lire.”

“Good. I’ll convey your offer to the appropriate quarters. And when could you start?”

“Tomorrow, I suppose. But my hotel room isn’t really
suitable
for painting in.”

“I’ll give that some thought. So then, my dear Sandoval, give me your address. I’ll call on you tomorrow morning and take you where you can create this masterpiece without anyone bothering you. I’m very glad I met you. Till we meet again.”

The next day the Major did indeed appear.

“Good morning, Major,” Sandoval greeted him.

Mawiras-Tendal became suddenly most serious.

“My dear Sandoval, this is where the discretion bit comes in. You must understand, and must never forget for a moment, that in Venice I am not a major. I live here
completely
incognito. None of the people I happen to meet in the course of the day’s business has any idea who I am and what my role was in Alturia. They know me simply as Mr Meyer, and that I came here from Prussia, which accounts for my rather stiff, military bearing. Though, as you can see from the way I’m dressed, I do my best not to be too stiff and military. But it’s not much use. You can’t just wipe away all those years of service.”

Having made his confession, the Major became visibly more relaxed, and less self-conscious than he had been the previous day.

“Allow me, my dear Sandoval,” he went on, “to treat you as an old friend, as if you were still at home. Allow me to relax for a moment into my natural priggishness and stiffness. It would make the time I spend with you into a holiday. I need a break from time to time, or I could never cope with all this civilian ease and informality.”

The Major moved with practised confidence through the tangled labyrinth of streets, while Sandoval quickly lost his bearings. Narrow little streets bent and twisted beside other narrow little streets, with the Grand Canal glinting every so often between the houses. They crossed over little white bridges, from one side of the street to the other and back, with the water swirling blackly in between, as if still
heaving
with the forgotten corpses of past ages. Sandoval had a notion that they might be winding their way through the district behind the Frari, but he could not have taken an oath on it.

The Major came to a stop before an immensely old house
In Venice every house is immensely old, as old as anyone can conjecture, in those long-forgotten centuries. But this house was not simply ancient, it was near-derelict. Sandoval was oppressed by the feeling that the inhabitants had not for many decades had the money to spend on a decent
spring-cleaning
.

“The Palazzo Pietrasanta,” the Major announced. “Of course, it’s as much the Palazzo Pietrasanta as I am Meyer.”

But he left this cryptic remark unexplained. They went inside, passed through a courtyard, narrow but lined with columns, then up a once rather fine staircase to the second floor, where they came into a room that might, in Venice, have passed for well-lit, the windows not being directly
overshadowed
by any kind of building across the way.

“You can work here in peace,” said the Major. “A colleague of mine will be here any moment now. He’ll give you
everything
you need. And please, never forget what I said, about myself. And, you in fact … are no longer the famous painter you are in the real world. You’re a penniless down-and-out acquaintance of mine, someone I picked up yesterday, and very glad to have a job. I’ll explain all this later. Ah, here’s Honoré.”

A young man in black trousers and a knitted sweater had appeared, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a
knowing
, cheerful, thoroughly untrustworthy look on his face. He spoke French, taking it for granted that every painter knew the language, a common assumption in those years before the war, when Paris dictated the tone. He addressed Sandoval as
tu
, in the popular Parisian manner.

“So here you are, me old dauber,” he began, and held out his hand, smiling. Then he looked him closely up and down, frowned and turned to the Major. “What sort of toff have you brought here, old chum? Can he paint?”

“Of course. He’s a very good painter. Had an exhibition in Munich. They bought three of his pictures, he tells me. What’s so toffish about him? What do you mean by this … Sandoval, why are you all dressed up?”

“An inheritance,” he replied bashfully. “I got two suits and a trunk.”

“Ah, well … ” said Honoré. “I’m sure Meyer has already told you what this is about, though his explanations … The fact is, we need a Titian. It doesn’t have to be as really swanky as if Titian had done it himself, but a good, solid piece of work, my lad. The boss knows a thing or two about pictures and he’ll beat you over the head if you paint us a whole lot of trash. And don’t put anything modern in it! None of this atmosphere, or contour, or vanishing point, or I dunno what! Well, you know more about that than I do. The sort of
picture
that a bloke, let’s say some American guy, might think that one of the big dogs had painted in the old days.”

“And are there any instructions about what I put in the picture?”

“Of course, I nearly forgot. A woman, holding a sort of dish. Because, you know, Titian has a famous picture of a woman with a bowl, er … a bowl of salad.”

“Fruit salad,” the Major added.

“That’s it, old man. Everyone knows that picture. People think all he ever painted was women. You must know the one of the woman with the dish.”

“Of course.”

“So that’s why it mustn’t be the same. She must hold the dish on the other side.”

“Fine. That’s easily done. What about the dough?”

“Ja, good point. The boss says five hundred is a lot of money for a woman with a dish. Two hundred is more than enough.”

“Two hundred?” yelled Sandoval, in a show of
indignation
. “What are you thinking? For a name like mine!”

“What name? Sandoval? Never heard of it. Anyway, this picture isn’t one of yours. It’s a Titian.”

“But it’s my work.”

“Well, to show you what sort of people you’re dealing with, you can have three hundred. Will that do?”

“It certainly won’t. But I’m doing this for my good friend Meyer, and because I’m here on holiday and I’ve nothing else on at the moment. So, what’s the advance?”

“My, you brought a real fussy one here, Meyer! I knew straight away you were too well dressed. My dear maestro, in our line of business there are no advances. We work in the tourist trade. We fleece foreigners who turn up in Venice. You mean to say that Meyer—such a fine, capable gent—hasn’t told you why we need this picture?”

“No, not a word.”

Honoré grew serious.

“I’m beginning to wonder about you, Meyer.”

He drew the Major to one side and whispered a long
rigmarole
in his ear.

“Now, come, come,” said the Major, with a loud laugh that strove for cheerful informality. “I’ll put my hand in the fire for Sandoval. We can trust him absolutely. The only reason I didn’t tell him is because I thought it better if you people did.”

“You know what, the best thing would be if the boss saw him and talked to him direct. I can’t take the
responsibility
, and nor can you. He’ll be here any minute. Come on, Sandoval. And watch how you speak to him. The boss, you know, isn’t just trash like you and me, or this Meyer. He’s a genuine toff, a real gent. You have to call him Count. Count St Germain.”

They found Count St Germain in one of the rooms on the first floor. He was sitting in a large armchair reading a newspaper. Seeing Sandoval, he rose and took a few steps forward, then halted ceremoniously and waited. He was a large-faced man, of powerful build running a little to fat, with clean-shaven, rather ugly, but wonderfully expressive features. He reminded Sandoval of a cardinal, a cardinal as represented on the stage of the Comédie Française. When he began to speak the impression grew steadily stronger: he spoke the pure, magniloquent French of the actors of that great theatre. From the very first moment Sandoval felt that he was in the presence of a distinguished person.

“This is the painter, Count,” said Honoré. “Would you please have a word with him? The fact is, this Meyer hasn’t told him what it’s all about. It would be better if you could explain it yourself.”

St Germain offered Sandoval a seat and the others
withdrew
. For some time he chatted politely about Venice,
listening
with interest to Sandoval’s ideas about what mattered in art, and approached the real subject only gradually. He seemed to have been making up his own mind first, and speaking openly only when he had become persuaded of Sandoval’s trustworthiness. Sandoval realised he had been weighed in the balance, and found insubstantial.

“My dear young friend,” the Count observed, “you seem to be a remarkably sympathetic and straightforward sort of man. My unerring instinct tells me that we have
nothing
to fear from you and can admit you to our plans with confidence. We’ve just begun a major project whose fate will depend on certain crucial factors. We are in fact carrying out a patriotic duty. A patriotic duty to the home of every true art-lover, to Italy, or indeed, if you like, to old Europe itself.”

Sandoval waited in suspense to see what might follow this splendid preamble.

“As a painter, you will surely be aware of the danger
hanging
over our ancient, our most venerable, part of the world. You must be aware of it, and you must also feel sincerely concerned about it.

“I refer to the threat from America. This threat is very direct—and I’m now thinking specifically about the way it affects us art-lovers personally. What I mean is, within a
decade
or two, the Americans, the
nouveaux-riches
of that brash new culture, will reach the point where they have amassed unimaginable sums of money, and with it they will want to lay their hands on timeless treasures of art. As you know, over the last couple of decades a new and in every way more dangerous type, the American art collector, has been popping up all over Europe. These people scour the most beautiful countries of our continent, and wherever they find old
pictures
for sale they pounce on them, snap them up and take them home on huge ships, to a country where they will
decorate
restaurants and other such vulgar establishments. Those pictures, in our opinion, are lost forever, as far as Europe is concerned. It isn’t just one Guido Reni, Velázquez or Murillo going astray. That wouldn’t bother me at all. But what would be much more painful would be the great Italian and German primitives. And now they want to get their hands on the Holy of Holies, Titian. Fate has led one of these pirates to us, a certain Viking by the name of Eisenstein. He’s made his fortune buying and selling shirt collars, or some such item of domestic utility, and now he’s here in Venice, prowling around with the intention of grabbing a Titian. Now, our clear duty is to pluck Titian from the grubby claws of this American. In us he has met his match. The moment we realised that he was the sort of American who could never
be talked out of wanting the great master—who would stop at nothing to achieve his vile purpose, but was prepared to rob and plunder to get it—we decided to mislead him in the interests of our sacred cause, as Dante did, when he threw sand down the throat of Cerberus: we dedicated ourselves to throwing a spurious Titian down the throat of this particular Cerberus to save the real thing from him. Do you take my meaning, young man?”