The Cézanne Chase (18 page)

“Who did that for you?”

“A new man. In Cannes.”

“What's his name?” Bilodeau asked.

“Aukrust. Peder Aukrust. A perfectly delightful man.”

“Then the painting is with you?” Bilodeau asked warily.

Margueritte's smile broadened. “Of course. Peder is very responsible.”

“I must meet him. It's my business to know the new people. Especially the good ones.”

“You shall meet him. I have asked him to prepare a report on the condition of the self-portrait. I'm afraid there are many small problems with it.”

Weisbord lit a fresh cigarette. “It is in perfect condition.”

“Not so,” Bilodeau said. “I studied it myself. I recommend a new canvas support, and there is mold damage in a portion of the beard. There are also scratches across the background, in the window area particularly.”

“You make it sound as if the painting's in a state of terminal decay,” Weisbord said, whining.

“These are small problems, but they can worsen, particularly the mold, which can be insidious. The spores multiply, and you can't see it happening without a microscope.”

As if not hearing Bilodeau's reasoned explanation, Weisbord continued to complain. “You've cooked up a bad report to justify your low price.”

“Please, Monsieur Weisbord. These are not problems that would have any effect whatever on the painting's value. I merely bring our attention to several defects that must be corrected.”

Unseen by Weisbord or Bilodeau, Peder Aukrust was now standing just outside the room. Margueritte saw him and smiled.

Bilodeau turned to Margueritte. “I have the agreement for the sale of the painting.”

“Let me look at it.” Weisbord began changing his glasses.

“You needn't bother,” Margueritte pulled his hand down the way she might command a child. “I want the Musée Granet to have the painting. They do not have a self-portrait in the Cézanne collection, and I feel very strongly that they should have mine at whatever price they can afford.”

Weisbord coughed painfully. “It's not your painting to do with as you please. Gaston specified that if any painting in the collection is sold, it must be entered for sale at one of the major auction houses. Gaston knew that would be in your best interest.”

“It was always as much my painting as Gaston's. Now that he's gone, it is totally mine. It doesn't belong to “the estate,” as you would like it to be. In fact your only concern is to administer the will that you wrote, arrange for the auctions, and take your big fee.”

“If you give away the most valuable painting in the collection, what will you do with the others?”

“She will not give us the painting,” Bilodeau protested. “We have long-standing offers from two anonymous benefactors to purchase a self-portrait.”

“How much?” Weisbord demanded.

Bilodeau shrugged. “I cannot tell you. They insist the amount be kept confidential.”

“What is their price, Margueritte?” He coughed, and his face turned scarlet.

She glared at Weisbord, hoping a paroxysmal attack might eliminate his meddling forever. “I am accepting their offer and will not go back on my word.”

Weisbord shook his head. “You are stubborn, and foolish, too.” He turned to Bilodeau. “Cézanne's self-portraits will double in value as a result of this mad destruction, and I insist that Madame DeVilleurs adhere to the terms of her husband's will. I remind you that she does not have the right to sell any painting, and further, she cannot convey clear title under the circumstances. In the art world, that is a very important document. The Code is quite clear on this. If she attempts to sell I will file papers to set aside the transfer.”

Tears of anger fell on her cheeks. “Leave, Freddy; go away.”

“Our offer is a fair one,” Bilodeau argued. “Consider that the Musée Granet is where the portrait should hang. Cézanne was born in Aix, he lived there most of his life, the two are inseparable.”

Weisbord coughed, more of a grating rasp. “Explain to your benefactors that I must know how much they will pay. You can assure them their offer will be considered.”

“I will ask. But under any circumstance, the portrait must be part of our Cézanne retrospective, which opens in January.”

“You're not waiting for the tourists?” Weisbord asked in a contemptuous tone.

“We have international sponsorship from Michelin and an American company. The exhibition will be the most comprehensive assembly of Cézanne's work ever shown!” Bilodeau spoke with passion.

Margueritte waited for Weisbord's reaction. A showing in the retrospective would enhance the value of the painting, and yet Bilodeau might be innocently self-inflicting a mortal wound.

“Until we resolve the eventual disposition of the painting, I must take possession of it.”

“You will not touch it,” Margueritte said firmly. “Furthermore, you won't file any papers, and you won't set aside the transfer of title.”

Weisbord waved his arms defiantly. “You intend to sell the Cézanne self-portrait in clear violation of the terms of the will,” and with that he started for the gallery. Margueritte stepped ahead of him and began calling for Peder. Weisbord showed surprising strength as he pushed past her and into the gallery and to the wall where the Cézannes were hung. Next to the painting of the farmhouse near Margueritte's childhood home in Salon-de-Provence was a large empty space.

Margueritte gasped. Peder was not in the gallery, nor was he anywhere in the house. She looked out to the driveway and saw that the station wagon was gone.

Weisbord volubly declined to accept the fact that the self-portrait was missing. He thrashed about the house, looking under beds and behind sofas in a vain search. A long, loud coughing attack forced him to stop, and when he recovered, red-faced and breathing painfully, he lapsed into an inconsolable silence. Only when he had searched every conceivable hiding place did he speak to Margueritte.

“You've tricked me somehow, but I will have the last word.” To Bilodeau he said, “It's obvious that you are in on this conspiracy, and I warn you that I will take decisive action if the painting should ever appear inside the Musée Granet.”

The little man stormed off, enveloped in his own angry black cloud. He turned the wheels of his car too abruptly at the end of the driveway and crossed over the edge of a flower garden, flattening what had been a clump of pink and white chrysanthemums.

Gustave Bilodeau had endured Weisbord's outburst in silence and awed surprise. Margueritte comforted him, “Freddy is a mean and stupid man, pay no attention.”

“But he has said that we must never show the painting. What will he do?”

“Talk. He will talk, talk, talk. He will threaten and talk more.”

“But the painting?” Bilodeau asked. “Is it safe?”

“Quite safe,” she said confidently. “And you will have it, just as I agreed. We will play Weisbord's game but not by his rules.”

Bilodeau looked puzzled. He had come prepared to hand a check to Madame DeVilleurs and return triumphantly to Aix with the Cézanne beside him.

“You will have the painting for your exhibition,” she said, a mischievous glint showing in her bright eyes, “and nothing Frédéric Weisbord may say or do will stop that from happening.”

T
here was no mistaking who owned the richly modulated baritone that came from the other side of the well-guarded conference room door. It was a perfect voice, too perfect for Llewellyn's taste, and it belonged to the director of the Metropolitan, Gerard Bontonnamo, who fit the tall, dark, and handsome cliche, with voice to match. So trite, but so damned true, Llewellyn grudgingly conceded. He showed his ID and went into the room where Bontonnamo, all six-foot-five of him, stood at the far end of the room. The director paused while Llewellyn eased himself into a chair.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Llewellyn,” Bontonnamo said with the reproving tone a teacher might use on a tardy student. “I believe you know we are discussing the Cézanne retrospective, and I've just made it abundantly clear that I'm not happy that we're sending our Cézannes to an unprotected little city in the south of France at a time when all this damnable destruction is going on. Frankly, Edwin, I think you'll be well advised to keep yours at home.”

Llewellyn knew that Bontonnamo was not inviting him into a conversation, so he sat back comfortably and put on a benign smile.

“Saurand called me this morning,” the director continued, “and yesterday I talked with Kuntz in Berlin, then Sir Alex in London, and half a dozen others who are, to be blunt, goddamned outraged.” Bontonnamo was well connected to his counterparts in every important museum; all members of a special clique of super-elitists, all highly charged intellectuals who lived in a world of their own. Guy Saurand was
directeur
of the Louvre, which put him on top of the list of Conservateurs des Musées de France. Bontonnamo went on, “We don't have a self-portrait, and you know I'd damned well give a Picasso and a couple of Renoirs for one.” Bontonnamo paused, then continued, “I realize this whole thing is tragic, but it's news. Big news, and the press is having a grand time pointing out that we don't have a self-portrait to protect.”

Llewellyn smiled inwardly at the remark, knowing full well that even though New York's Museum of Modern Art had a Cézanne self-portrait, the media had rarely potshotted at the Met for not having one. It was, rather, vintage Bontonnamo, once again asking for a loan of Llewellyn's self-portrait. The downside of all this was that with his painting scheduled to leave the country, Llewellyn was about to lose the argument that his grandfather's will restrained him from loaning it.

There were five other people in the room, four seated at the table and one who was standing looking bored, as if he had heard the director's speech before. Curtis Berrien was chief registrar of the Metropolitan, a high-ranking position of considerable power and authority. No painting entered or left the premises without a member of the registrar's office inspecting it, recording its source, and corroborating its condition with a member of the curatorial staff. When a painting or any piece of art was put on loan, a release was given in the registrar's office, which was in turn responsible for packaging, shipping, and arranging for proper insurance while the object was in transit and while on display. In most instances a painting on loan would be covered by a blanket policy carried by the borrowing museum; however, this would not be the case with the Musée Granet—all loan contributors were responsible for their own insurance. Even the major corporate sponsors of the retrospective—names like Kodak and Michelin—had not offered to pay for the insurance. Premiums had increased substantially and might go even higher if the assault on the portraits was not resolved. Berrien had argued against participating in the retrospective a year earlier, but even he had not anticipated the tragic losses. Now his arguments were being given a second hearing.

Llewellyn and Berrien were friends, an important ingredient in their relationship. Berrien could be gruff, even insensitive at times, but it was his blunt way of speaking his mind. He could be exciting, too; daring, and adventurous, as in going off on an exploration of Tibetan art in rarely explored parts of China. His bold personality frequently was reflected in the way he dressed, which today was a blue-and-white striped shirt and brilliant red suspenders. He had a strong body, stood five-eleven, and weighed a stocky 190 pounds; he had a large head that had a bald spot on top ringed by salt-and-pepper hair cut short. The skin was deeply wrinkled on the back of his stout neck, and his nose was off line, a casualty of his determination to be
on the boxing team at the Maritime Academy. After a four-year hitch in the maritime service he enrolled at Emory University, where he picked up a law degree, a wife, and traces of a Southern accent.

Bontonnamo's speech ended. His final exhortation was that extra and exhaustive precaution must be taken in the packaging and shipment of all paintings going to the Granet, all of which underscored his resolve to go ahead with the Met's participation in the big show.

Berrien waited until the door closed. “You heard the man. It might be a damned stupid decision, but for now that's the way it is.” He stepped to the head of the table and gestured toward Llewellyn. “For those of you who haven't met our guest, this is Mr. Edwin Llewellyn. He's one of our elective trustees and serves on the acquisitions committee. Let me add that he's our friend, and as you heard from the director, Mr. Llewellyn owns a Cézanne, a painting that grows more famous every day. I've seen it, and in my opinion it's the best of the whole damned lot.” Llewellyn was amused. Berrien was not an art scholar, but his enthusiasm was authentic.

Berrien continued, “Lew, these are some of my people. I think you know my assistant, Helen Ajanian.”

A woman with heavy eyebrows turned toward Llewellyn. Helen Ajanian had been assistant to Berrien's predecessor and had been with the Metropolitan for thirty years. She smiled pleasantly at Llewellyn, an expression that belied the fact that she was known as “top cop.” It was Helen Ajanian who enforced the strict rules of the registrar's office.

“Next is Harry Li.”

Born in Taiwan, Li had been educated at the University of California at Berkeley. His black hair fell across the edges of large, dark-rimmed glasses. Beneath hair and glasses was a handsome, if delicate, face with Eurasian features. He nodded and grinned simultaneously.

“Over there is Jeff Kaufman.”

The young man thrust his hand across the table and vigorously shook hands with Llewellyn. Kaufman said that he had heard about the Llewellyn portrait and was looking forward to getting it safely to France.