Pilgrim (57 page)

Shame on Homolle and his lackeys!
read one headline, and in the item that followed, the Minister and his curators were accused of glazing the
Mona Lisa
in order to mask the fact that the original had been stolen or damaged and had been replaced by a fake. Homolle’s response to this was to issue a statement to the effect that
you might as well pretend one could steal the towers of Notre Dame de Paris!
In a few days’ time, he would regret these words.

Because of the influx of tourists from abroad, the Louvre was inundated with visitors. By ten o’clock in the morning, Pilgrim and Forster could barely move when they entered the overcrowded Salon Carré, where the
Mona Lisa
was hung between Correggio’s
Mystical Marriage of Saint Catherine
and Titian’s
Allegory of Alfonso d’Avalos.

As it turned out, though it had been primarily the
Mona Lisa
that drew such large numbers of people, there was another spectacle taking place in the Salon which kept them there for an uncharacteristically long time. A man was shaving.

Forster ascertained that the man’s name was Roland Dorgelés. M. Dorgelés was a Parisian novelist of some repute. He and his valet had arrived with the appropriate paraphernalia at about 9:45 a.m. There
was a camp stool, a bowl, a jug of hot water, a razor, brush and shaving soap and a large white towel in which the writer had draped himself.

His “mirror” was a glazed self-portrait by Rembrandt. The scene was both amusing and outrageous—and was intended by Dorgelés as his protest against the glass-covered paintings. It certainly caught the attention of the press, where the novelist would be depicted at his toilette in several cartoons.

Pilgrim, shadowed by Forster, moved through the room at an enforced leisurely pace because of the crowds. He was determined to be seen, and to have Forster seen, by as many of the security guards as possible. He had also announced himself by name as he entered the museum and had presented his card, requesting that it be delivered to the chief curator, whose name was Emile Moncrieff. Moncrieff would recognize the name instantly—which was Pilgrim’s intention.

He barely glanced at the
Mona Lisa
, noting at once that the portrait was now behind glass. This worried him. One could not simply smash the glass and pull away the painting. One would have to work from the rear of the frame.

It had been his initial intention to destroy her on the spot. But this presented the problem of a quick arrest and, if nothing else, a forced return to Zürich. This would not do. There were other works of art to destroy. There was a whole world of chaos he wanted to achieve. He must at all costs remain at large.

He had told Forster at breakfast that one essential
result of their Saturday-morning visit—besides the impressing of their presence on the staff—was the memorization of distances between the entrance to the Salon Carré, its exit and what lay beyond that exit—the various escape routes. He was physically aware of his age and knew that he would not be able to manage running for any great period of time, especially if stairs were to be involved.

It had occurred to him that, while Forster escaped with the painting, he himself might saunter away from the event and still achieve the streets before the theft was discovered. It was at this juncture that he intended to take advantage of his knowing that the Louvre was always closed on Mondays.

Before leaving, he approached one of the uniformed staff and inquired if Monsieur Moncrieff were available. The answer being yes, Pilgrim and Forster were ushered into the executive quarters and told to wait. Within minutes, Moncrieff appeared—an overly effusive, scented and coiffed man in his forties, who greeted Pilgrim like a long-lost friend. They had, of course, never met—except by reputation. The chief curator on Pilgrim’s earlier journeys to the Louvre had since died and Moncrieff, it appeared, had been his protégé.

Speaking French, Pilgrim wondered politely if Monsieur Moncrieff would be averse to allowing a private visit on Monday, when—because of the closing—there would be no crowds to stand in the way of Pilgrim’s close scrutiny of one or two paintings about which he intended to write.

But certainly not. And did M. Pilgrim wish to be attended by M. Moncrieffor one of the other curators in his quest for information?

On any other occasion, most certainly but for the present, a private viewing would be sufficient.

Moncrieff invited Pilgrim and Forster into the sanctum of his office, where he wrote and signed a waiver which could be presented on Monday morning at the main entrance.

Pilgrim was extremely grateful and would never forget Monsieur’s kindness.

Much hand-shaking and bowing and an offer to summon a cab if one was required.

Pilgrim said no—that he had his own transportation. His feet.

Moncrieff escorted them from the executive offices and walked with them to the great courtyard beyond—La Place du Carrousel. In doing so, he said that regrettably, they would not be entirely alone on the Monday morning. Some security staff would of course be in place and—because it was an off day—there were one or two house painters and artisans who came in on such occasions to make repairs and touch up damaged or aging plaster.

This would be no problem, Pilgrim told the chief curator, but he was grateful for the information.

At noon, Pilgrim and Forster passed through the portals and out onto the Quai du Louvre, where Pilgrim said: “we shall take our luncheon on the other side. What a splendid day! What a splendid, informative,
brilliant day! If only it was the season for oysters, I would eat a dozen!”

5

Jung had already driven off to Zürich in the Fiat by the time Emma descended for her breakfast on the morning of Wednesday, July 3rd.

It was a sultry, midsummer day and at nine o’clock, already windless and humid. Windows had been opened in the hopes that a cool breeze might blow in from the lake, but it was not to be. The air was totally without movement. A thousand candles could have been lighted and not one of them would have been extinguished.

Lotte had been to the garden and, having asked Frau Emmenthal for permission, had cut a bouquet of one dozen roses—pink and white and red and yellow—which greeted Emma on the breakfast table. Emma, thinking Carl Gustav had placed them there, burst into tears.

When Lotte appeared with the coffee pot, Emma said: “look what my husband has left me. Aren’t they beautiful. I’m the luckiest woman alive. Someone loves me.”

Lotte bobbed and said nothing. When she returned to the kitchen and sat at the table, she was disconsolate.

“She will thank Doctor Jung and I will be in trouble.”

“No you won’t,” said Frau Emmenthal and patted
the girl’s hand. “You’ve made a lovely gesture and it will raise her spirits. I can protect you from Doctor Jung. He will understand. In the end, he will thank you.”

In the dining-room, Emma lighted an uncharacteristic cigarette and drank her coffee.

I want to see the smoke
, she was thinking,
rising about the roses—mellowing the view. And the gardens—and the sound of songbirds singing in our trees…

And way, way off above the lake, the gulls adrift on stillness itself and the mountains in their mists that define all this, the stillness I have made of smoke and silence.

Smoke and silence.

All would be well.

Surely, if there are roses, all will be well.

We shall one day have another child, she thought—and, thinking, reached out to touch the nearest petals of the bouquet.
If only…

Do not say that. Do not think that ever again. Never.
If only
is a deadly phrase. It means you have given up. And you have not given up. You merely wanted to. Damn you! Damn you. Damn me. I will never give up.

She stubbed the cigarette.

There was orange juice. There was a brioche. There was apricot preserve. There was muesli, which she ignored. And there was the paper—
die Neue Zürcher Zeitung.

Emma drank the orange juice, broke the brioche into quarters, ate two of them with butter, one of them with the apricot preserve and set the last aside for the birds, as Carl Gustav had told her Mister Pilgrim used to do with his morning toast.

When all of this had been done, she poured another cup of coffee and lighted a second cigarette. (
How wicked I am today!
) She then sat back and opened
die N.Z.Z
.

Emma sputtered.

Coffee drops fell to the napkin in her lap.

There was a headline three inches deep.

M
ONA
L
ISA
STOLEN
!

She let the paper fall to the tabletop.

I don’t want to know this
, she thought—already knowing, before she read another word, what had happened and who had perpetrated the crime.

At last she raised the paper again and confronted it—reading details only, skipping all the theories, all the accumulated speculations and most eye-witness accounts.

It had happened the day before yesterday, Monday, the day on which by tradition the Louvre was closed every week to the public. “Someone”—possibly with one or more accomplices—had entered the Salon Carré, where the
Mona Lisa
was hung, and absconded with the painting, possibly during a fifteen-minute interlude during which the only guard on duty in the Salon—a substitute for the regular guard—was taking his leisure in the W.C., where he smoked a cigarette.

Emma lighted her own cigarette, smiled and took a deep pull of smoke.
It’s what we all do under stress…

When the discovery of the painting’s absence was first made, it was some hours later. The assumption had been that
La Gioconda
was away in the Photography Annex being photographed. This often happened.
On the Tuesday, a witness—who happened to be a painter by the name of Louis Béroud—remarked that
when women are not with their lovers they are apt to be with their photographers
.

Emma skipped ahead, turning pages furiously, until she came to the next salient details.

By noon on the Tuesday, all the necessary inquiries had been made regarding the Photography Annex and the laboratory where paintings were taken to be cleaned. The
Mona Lisa
was nowhere to be found. Plainly, she was gone.

At this juncture, the sûreté and the gendarmerie had been notified and the Louvre immediately filled with more than a hundred policemen.

The painting, which had been secured to the wall by means of four iron pegs, had clearly been removed by an expert who had brought the appropriate implement with which to loose it from its place. And not only this, the culprit had also brought whatever was required to release the canvas itself from its frame. The frame and its glass were discovered in one of the stairwells leading to an emergency exit.

Pilgrim
.

It could only be Mister Pilgrim. Emma had “known” he was going to Paris. Now, she “knew” why. How, it barely mattered. She had read him in both senses: his journals, and his personal angst as Carl Gustav had related it.

What would the outcome be? If Pilgrim were truly mad, he might destroy the painting. Yet this was unthinkable—not from Pilgrim’s point of view, Emma
realized, but from the point of view of western civilization at large. The
Mona Lisa
was seminal. She was the centrepiece of all painted thought. She was the goddess of perfection and the patron saint of attitude. A woman’s integrity depended on her protection. Men so deeply feared her, it could not be told what magic powers she possessed. No man, Emma thought, has ever understood her—but every woman has.

No man but Pilgrim.

She was the very air he breathed.

Oh, do not—do not—do not do this
, Emma prayed.

And yet, Pilgrim wanted so desperately to die. Would the destruction of a painting—of this painting—this one painting release him? He believed with such vehemence that he himself had been La Gioconda that he might well think that, like Dorian Gray, if he plunged a knife through the portrait’s heart, it would bring about his own longed for death. What if Wilde had also known? What if Wilde had been privy to Pilgrim’s dilemma, and had fashioned his novel on the basis of what he knew? After all, they had been friends—they had confided in one another, and Pilgrim had mourned for Wilde as one mourns only for those one trusts. The words
Dorian Lisa
presented themselves. And
Mona Gray.

She lighted a final cigarette. The smoke rose. The roses, having been cut, and warmed by the interior air, leaned forward in their bowl and opened wider. Their scent was overwhelming—wondrous and rich and provocative—but Emma watched them with dismay. We cut and kill everything, she thought. We cut and
kill everything that stands in our way. Just as Carl Gustav cut and killed me. Just as I cut and killed my child. Just as Mister Pilgrim will cut and kill
La Gioconda
. Because she stands between himself and eternity.

At the Clinic, Jung—not knowing of the theft—went to the third floor and let himself into Suite 306.

The useless pigeon cage was still there—its doors standing open, the very symbol of Pilgrim’s escape—a symbol so blatant and indiscreet that Jung had to smile.

He looked about the rooms. Some drawers had not been closed—nor the doors of the armoire—nor one of the windows, where a few doves and pigeons had gathered expectantly.

Jung inspected the bureau and found a brown paper bag of stale crumbs, with which he fed the birds.

In another drawer, he found the photograph Pilgrim had removed from the silver frame that now was emptied, lying face down, where he had placed the photograph of Sybil Quartermaine.

The photograph in Jung’s hand showed the head and shoulders of a sad but beautiful woman—the person Pilgrim had described as
the woman who claimed to be my mother
.