Shades of Fortune (35 page)

“Hmm,” Marion says, peering closely at the painting.

“And then there is the angle of the left hand. It hangs at a rather awkward, clumsy angle, don't you think? The hand is not only in an awkward attitude. The flesh around her rings puffs out too much. Now notice the eyes. Do you see how they appear to be ever so slightly crossed?”

“Maybe the Duchess had puffy, awkward hands and crossed eyes,” Marion says easily.

“Goya did many paintings of Osuna,” Edwee says. “None of them show crossed eyes or puffy fingers.”

“Could it be our Duchess had gained a bit of weight?”

Edwee's laugh is gentle and knowing. “If so, John,” he says with a touch of patronage in his voice, “two other verified portraits of her, one painted immediately before, and another done very shortly after this portrait was
allegedly
painted, do not show it. But it is really the clumsy
positioning
of the left hand that bothers me the most.”

“Even Goya may have had a bad day.”

“As you know,” Edwee continues, “Goya worked very rapidly. He could complete a portrait such as this one in two hours or less. Also, he never farmed out detail work, such as hands, to apprentices. And he was always particularly adept with hands.”

“Hmm,” Marion says again.

“Now, if you'll give
me
a hand,” Edwee says, “let's lift Her Grace off the wall. There's something else I want to show you.”

Together they lift the heavy frame from the wall and place it on the floor. “Let's turn it over,” Edwee says, and they do so. “Now, as you know,” he goes on, “Mother purchased this painting from Duveen, and Berenson authenticated it. Never mind that Spanish painters of this period were not Berenson's metier or field of expertise; that's beside the point. Let's grant that Berenson knew
some
thing about Goya's work.”

“Well, yes …”

“And so, look here,” Edwee points. “Do you need a glass?” He starts to fish his magnifying glass from his pocket.

“No, I can see fine.”

“Then look at this. You'll see the handwritten words, ‘Vrai—B. Berenson.' Someone like Charlie Hamilton, of course, could tell us whether this indeed is written in Berenson's hand, but it appears to me to be. But
look:
after the word
vrai
, there is a question mark! What Berenson actually wrote here was ‘vrai?—B. Berenson.'”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Marion says, looking at the handwriting closely. “I've examined this painting, front and back, at least a dozen times over the years and never noticed a question mark.”

“The painting has been hanging here for nearly twenty years,” Edwee says quickly. “It had gotten very dusty, particularly on the back, where these hotel maids of course never dusted it. The other day I was in here and took the painting down and began dusting around the signature with a camel's hair brush. That was when the question mark appeared, under the dust.”

John Marion whistles softly. “I'll be damned,” he says again. “Damned if I ever noticed that.”

“Well, there it is,” Edwee says. “Apparently Berenson was doubtful. What else could it mean? It was when I found the question mark under the dust that I decided I'd better bring you in on it, with your expertise, which, after all, is far greater than mine. I, after all, am only an art historian. You are an appraiser, and probably the finest in the world.”

“Edwee, I don't know what to say,” he says.

“Damn. I wish Mother had remembered this appointment with us today. She should be made aware, at least, that there's a problem. But Mother forgets everything anyway, so perhaps it doesn't matter. Now there's one other thing I ought to mention.”

“What's that?”

“My sister, Nonie. She knew B.B. intimately and often visited him at ‘I Tatti.' When I mentioned my suspicions to her, she recalled a conversation she had with him in the nineteen forties about this very painting. I want you to hear the details of this conversation from Nonie, who remembers it in some detail. May I suggest that you and I meet with Nonie at the earliest date convenient for the three of us?”

“Certainly. I'd be interested to hear what she has to say.”

“Good. And once you hear what my sister has to say, then we'll decide how to proceed from there. You see, she was the only one in the family who knew B.B. My mother never met him, and neither did I. But Nonie knew him intimately, and he often confided things to her. Do you know Philippe de Montebello?”

“Of course.”

“I wonder if we should invite Phil to our meeting, too. Mother has—tentatively—offered this painting to the Met. I'm sure you know how highly I esteem the Met. I would hate the thought of the Met being given a picture that was a fake. Do you think we should invite Phil to our meeting, John?”

“I can ask him, if you'd like,” he said. “But let me give you a little tip, Edwee. When you meet him, don't call him Phil. Philippe is a rather formal fellow who doesn't mind being called Count de Montebello. He is, after all, a French count.”

“Yes, then let's ask him. In the meantime, I think we should keep this in strictest confidence. This city we live in is so prone to gossip. If the museum people, or, God knows, the press, heard so much as a rumor that this painting is a fake before we're sure it is, they would turn it down, and that would be … weli, if it turned out that our suspicions were without foundation, that would be a great tragedy for the museum-going public of the city of New York. And I couldn't bear to have that happen. So until we meet with my sister and de Montebello, let's keep this matter strictly between ourselves.”

“Certainly.”

“I'll find out what my sister's calendar looks like and call you as soon as I know.”

“Have you got the money?” he asks her a little harshly. “Have you got the cash?”

“Well, of course I don't have it in
cash,
” Nonie says. “It will take a few days. You don't come up with sums of money like that in cash. Checks have to clear banks, that sort of thing. But the deal's been set, the money's been promised, and I'll have it for you in a few days.”

“Your message on my machine didn't say nothing about promises. Your message said ‘Have secured necessary funds.'
Secured
. Secured means secured.”

“Surely you can be patient for a few more days, Roger.”

“How long have I been patient with you, Nonie? Three weeks? A month?”

“Well, now it's only a question of days.”

“How'd you get it, anyway?”

“I think I'd rather not say, Roger. Let's say it was a private business arrangement with an old friend.”

“There's nothing funny about it, is there?”

“Funny? What do you mean, funny?”

“I mean, you got it in a strictly legit way, didn't you? I can't handle any money that wasn't got in a strictly legit way, you know. I don't want dirty money, narcotics money, stuff like that.”

“
Narcotics
money! Honestly, Roger, where would I have access to something like narcotics money?”

“Okay. As long as you're sure it's strictly legit. I don't want any trouble with the feds.”

“It is, I assure you, strictly legit, as you put it. Strictly.” She pauses. “Can you come by for a drink tonight? Sevenish?”

“Sorry, I'm busy. Call me when you've got the money. And by cash I mean a certified or cashier's check.”

“You're not being very nice to me, you know!” she says angrily. “You're not the only spot currency trader in town, you know!” And she slams down the receiver. And then, just in case he might be going to call her back to apologize for his rudeness, she takes the receiver off the hook and leaves it off.

But, she thinks, the trouble is, the question is:
Is
the deal she has struck with Edwee strictly legit? At first, Edwee's scheme seemed to her no more than a little harebrained, not actually dishonest, and if he was willing to pay her for participating in it, she would do so, in the spirit of nothing ventured, nothing gained. Who knew? The scheme might work and get him his precious Goya, and, up until now, she had not really cared whether the scheme would work or not. But suddenly she is not so sure. If it
does
work, will she have been a participant in some form of grand larceny?

Up to now, her only concern was whether Edwee would keep his end of the bargain. She has never entirely trusted Edwee. And so, this time, to ensure that Edwee will not try to wiggle out of his promise, she insisted that they put it in writing, as a letter of agreement, a contract between the two of them. Each has a copy, with both signatures. That way, if Edwee welches on his commitment, she can expose him for the fraud he is. That was
smart
, she thinks.

But the only trouble with
that
is, she reminds herself now, that if she exposes Edwee as a fraud, she will have to expose herself as a part of the fraud, and where will that leave her? Flapping in the high winds of some very embarrassing publicity. She wonders whether Edwee had perhaps thought of that, too, when he so willingly affixed his signature to the agreement she drew up in her best quasi-legal manner. Art fraud, she thinks. There has been a lot in the newspapers lately about art fraud. This, of course, involved art dealers who were passing off forgeries as original works. What Edwee is proposing to do is sort of the opposite. But is that art fraud, too? Is that just as reprehensible, even illegal? If the museum found out, could it come back to them—with a lawsuit, perhaps—claiming that it had fraudulently been prevented from receiving a piece of art to which it had been entitled? Could there be more than just unpleasant publicity? Could there be … legal action? Legal action involving millions of dollars? Would it be like the Mayflower Madam? Would she go to jail? What would the press call Nonie Myerson—the Heiress Art Thief? The Goya Grabber? The Metropolitan Manipulator? A shiver of very real fear now chills her at the thought of the mess that she has let Edwee get her into.

Her best hope, perhaps, is that Edwee's scheme will
not
work. They are meeting with John Marion and Philippe de Montebello on Tuesday. She knows what she is supposed to say, and she is not too worried about that part of it. After all, as Edwee says, it
could
have happened, and there is no one in the world who could possibly prove, or stand up and swear, that it didn't. And Edwee has promised to pay for her performance, whether it works or not.

But what if it
does
work? What might happen next? And then, to top everything off, what if Edwee tries to wiggle out? How will she defend herself? She wishes she had consulted a lawyer, or some third party as a witness, before signing that contract, which could turn out to be as worthless as yesterday's newspaper.

Have I been tricked again? she asks herself, and another shiver of fear assails her.

She wishes, prays, right now that Roger is trying to telephone her from wherever he is, that he is sitting there, angry and frustrated by the repeated busy signal, prays that he is sitting wherever he is, just as uncertain and frightened as she is, but she still does not return the receiver to its cradle.

From Jim Greenway's notes:

I could not help noticing that Mimi did not quite seem herself today. When I was with her, she seemed a little distant and preoccupied, and from time to time I saw a small and quite uncharacteristic frown cross that lovely face of hers. Something, I think, is weighing on her mind—something that she is not willing, not yet, at least, to tell me about.

Of course, I'm certain that she's under a strain as the launch date of her new fragrance approaches. A lot of money has been invested in this, and I know how badly she wants “Mireille” to be a success. At the same time, the optimism about the success of “M” is running very high among the others in her office, where everyone seems confident that the “Man with the Scar” campaign is going to be seen as some sort of landmark in the advertising business. Mark Segal, her ad director, is positively giddy with excitement about it, and this excitement of his has had a trickle-down effect on everyone of the 16th floor, right down to the secretaries, the receptionist, and the boys in the mailroom.

We screened a rough cut of the first (redone) commercial today, and I must say I agree with Mark—that it's brilliant, fucking brilliant, as he keeps saying. There's something about the scar that does …
what
, exactly? It makes him, the model, look not really sinister, but somehow a little threatening, in a bedroomy sort of way. It gives his face a Paul Henreid sort of crookedness, and I kept thinking of Henreid lighting up two cigarettes at once for Bette Davis in
Now, Voyager
. It gives him a Bogey sort of face, the young Bogey, crossed with whatever it was that stirred women's vitals when George Raft appeared on the screen. Mark says the scar gives the model “
cojones
”—balls. Maybe that's it. But from watching the expression on Mimi's face, it was hard to tell whether she was pleased or not.

Meanwhile, Mark has come up with a publicity idea that strikes me as damned clever. It is sort of the “Does She, or Doesn't She?” idea from the old Clairol ads, but in this case it will be “Does He, or Doesn't He?”—does he, or doesn't he really have a scar? During the first few weeks of the campaign, Mark wants to do a publicity blitz that will focus on that question, to keep the public wondering about the scar and, naturally, talking about the ads and talking up “M.” Of course, the success of this will depend on keeping the real Dirk Gordon under wraps for a while, but, considering what they're paying him, this should be no problem.

In the end, naturally, it will be revealed that the scar was in fact created by makeup—cosmetics from Miray, the company that can make women beautiful as easily as they can make a pretty-boy ugly! Brilliant, effing brilliant, as Mark would say. But, again, from her faraway look, it was hard to tell whether Mimi agrees or not.