Caravaggio's Angel (26 page)

He studied me for a while. Unlike Manu his lips were thin and firm: when as now he pressed them together, they almost vanished. ‘Ah, now I understand. This is a black-mailing exercise.’

‘You could look at it like that,’ I agreed. ‘But then, you should know.’

His head jerked up. ‘
Moi?
’

‘You said a minute ago that no one can know what’s going on inside another person’s head. Well, I think you knew pretty well what was going on in your brother Antoine’s head the day he died.’

He didn’t reply at once, but got up and, profiled in the many mirrors, turned to look out of the window. Then he turned slightly, and in those same mirrors our eyes met. After a minute he said coldly, ‘So what exactly do you want from me, madame?’

‘That’s easy. What I’ve wanted all along. I want the pic-tures for my exhibition. All you need do is give the Louvre the green light.’

That surprised him. He’d been expecting – what? Political lectures, demands that he drop out of the presidential race? At the very least, the promise of his brother’s old job at the Louvre. A surprise appointment . . . And now – this puny little request. Art history. What sort of person was this, who would go to such lengths and then so signally fail to take advantage of the opportunity when it arose? Our eyes met again. ‘You did all this just for
that
?’ he said softly.

‘That’s my job,’ I said. ‘I do pictures, not politics. It isn’t as though I’m being asked to vote for you. I noticed that that little riot you started did wonders for your poll figures, by the way.’

He turned and approached the sofa where I was sitting, his hands clasped in front of him, visibly restraining him-self from – what? Hitting me, strangling me? I wondered what it would feel like, and what would happen then. Suddenly, disconcertingly, I felt that familiar, insistent tingle between my legs. What would happen if I took those hands and directed them to the spot? I thought of that President of the Republic who died
in medias res
with the mistress of the moment . . . Rigaut was behind me now, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. If I looked up our eyes would meet –

With an effort I pulled myself back from these fantasies. For all I knew he had the place covered by hidden cameras: tit for tat, and
au revoir, madame
. If you show mine, I’ll show yours. Sitting up very straight I said, ‘In any case, there’s no reason not to lend them now. They both belong to the Louvre, there’s no money in it for you any more.’

He moved away. ‘True enough, unfortunately. So why not just say so to begin with?’

‘Sheer pleasure,’ I said. ‘I wanted to enjoy a little power, for once. You of all people should understand that.’

He raised his hands in dismissal, or agreement.

I rose to take my leave. ‘So no more obstacles to those loans.
Entendu?
And no black marks hanging over any-one’s career.’

He nodded. ‘Not that that kind of thing is anything to do with me.’

‘Of course not. But even so . . . And don’t forget what will happen otherwise.’ Now we’d got so lovey-dovey, it seemed a good idea to reinsert a little chill. I held out a hand. ‘
Au revoir
, Monsieur le Ministre.’

He ignored it, turned on his heel, returned to his desk and reapplied himself to his papers. He must have had some sort of bell-push there, for a second later the door opened to reveal the official who had guided me here. ‘Please take Madame to reception,’ Rigaut said, not look-ing up. ‘
Au revoir, madame
. Good luck with your show.’

Back in London, I notified Joe of my continued existence. And then I put in a call to Charlie Rey at the Louvre. The redoubtable Madame Desvergnes tried to deflect me, but I told her it was essential to Charlie’s career that I speak to him and, on the off-chance I might be telling the truth, she put me through.

Charlie sounded furious. Doubtless he’d hoped never to think about the St Cecilia or hear my voice again.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong,’ I said, ‘but I believe I’m right in thinking a certain obstacle has just been removed? Do tell me if it hasn’t, and I’ll get through to the person in question and let him know you didn’t get the message.’

That did it. As in a dream, I heard him admit that yes, something of the sort had indeed happened.

‘So we can go ahead after all?’

‘I suppose so. Please deal with it through my assistant. You’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot on my plate just now.’

23

Exhibits: London, June

The Director laid out the various items I’d brought and studied them intently. ‘Extraordinary,’ he said, more than once, as I told him my story – the pamphlet, the switched pictures, Lindsay’s reports and the one from the Louvre, the xerox of the 1928 photograph. I explained that at one time there had been a little difficulty regarding the loans: Antoine Rigaut’s unfortunate death had held things up at the Louvre while the ‘owner’ of the real Caravaggio had been afraid that if the story came out he’d be forced to exchange his excellent picture for the inferior copy. But now, by a happy chance, both belonged to the Louvre, and there were no more problems. Dr Rey, the acting head of pictures, (‘Charming fellow!’ the Director put in, and I didn’t contradict him) – Dr Rey had assured me that all difficulties had been overcome, and that both his St Cecilias were at our disposal whenever we might choose to borrow them.

‘Well, what shall we say? How about, I don’t know, a year next June? It won’t take up very much space, even with all the ancillary stuff – just a room, really, isn’t it? That would give you eighteen months, a bit more. We don’t want to leave it too long – don’t want any of this leaking out before we’re ready, do we? And you won’t want to wait indefinitely to publish . . . Think you can do it?’

As we both knew, an exhibition of this kind, even a small one, takes a good deal of setting up, even after every-thing’s agreed. Insurance and transport must be arranged. A catalogue must be prepared, its essays commissioned, its pictures selected, its printing scheduled. The exhibitions department must select a space and prepare a design. But he was right. Both for the reasons he’d outlined and for others of which he was happily unaware, we didn’t want to delay any more than was necessary.

So there I stood, on a warm June evening, dressed in my best and waiting for the first guests to arrive. Behind me and on either side, four St Cecilias gazed up at four Angels, who extended one, three or (in two cases) two fingers in blessing. Of the four, Freddie Angelo’s, the
originario
, was the finest, with a quality of detail unmatched in the other three, though the Jaubertie version ran it close. The Getty’s picture, the last to be painted by Caravaggio himself, seemed by comparison a little faded, as though by then the artist had been running out of steam. Even the Angel looked slightly tired, while the Saint, poor girl, appeared exhausted. Along the remaining wall the abducted picture conducted its photographic dance across Paris. In a dark booth interested punters could sample the optical effects about which Freddie had written such an informative essay for our catalogue. And in a central glass case lay the pamphlet itself, along with contemporary newspaper cuttings and photographs of the protagonists. Emmanuel Rigaut, at twenty-two, looked unnervingly like the grand-son who now bore his name. Robert de Beaupré, fiery dark eyes burning out of the photo, seemed tragically young. Juliette appeared twice, once in her convent girl’s uniform, looking anonymous, and again as a full-fledged beauty, in one of the famous photos taken by Rigaut soon after they were married. She looked divinely happy, leaning back on a hillock of sand and laughing in the sunlight – a happiness that would soon be obliterated, and never truly regained.

This was the day of the first opening party, the one for the VIPs, the people who had made the exhibition possible and a few illustrious others, to be followed by dinner. Tomorrow there would be a press show, with information packs prepared by the publicity department, then a couple of Friends’ days, and finally the show would open to the public.

Even before the exhibition opened, it seemed clear its effect was going to be all I’d hoped and more. I’d already given a number of interviews – to the Sunday broadsheets,
Vogue
, the
Art Newspaper
– and
Front Row
was booked for opening day. There had been television enquiries from people wanting to do drama-doc reconstructions, and in-vitations to give keynote papers at two conferences. We were all set for a big hit. Caravaggio’s Angel had remembered our long friendship. Just one more detail, and we’d be quits.

The party was due to begin at six thirty, with speeches at seven. Several hours ago it had been six fifteen; now it was six sixteen. ‘Relax’, said a voice in my ear.

I jumped several inches off the ground, nearly braining Joe, who had arrived early.

‘I am relaxed.’

He took my hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘So you are. Can’t wait to see our boy.’

‘You promised to be discreet, remember.’

‘Oh, I will, don’t worry.’

We spent a lot of time together these days, at his place or mine. What went on in the intervals? We didn’t ask. Here, after all, we still were.

‘Looks good,’ he said, indicating the exhibits.

‘Thanks. My big night.’

The guests were arriving now – the Director of the Getty, who happened to be in London, the Italian cultural attaché, the Director of the Tate, a couple of television pundits, the author of a recent book on Caravaggio, a famous painter, a few of the ultra-rich and ultra-generous. I’d asked Manu, who hadn’t replied, and Olivier, who had – very sorry, he couldn’t make it, too far (he was working in Bordeaux for a PR company), no time. And very little inclination, I’d have thought. I didn’t blame him. I wondered if he’d found a new partner – he hadn’t said anything about that – and how the kids were doing. Nothing had ever been found out about Delphine’s death: the other driver had vanished (had anyone ever looked for him?) and she’d become another road-accident statistic. My very own. If I hadn’t been so clever-clever, dropping my little bombshell in Olivier’s ear, she’d still be alive now. If, if. If Olivier hadn’t pursued me, or my story, to London. If Jean-Jacques Rigaut hadn’t been a psychopath . . . I’d sworn never to forget her. But to my shame, she kept dropping to the back of my mind. From time to time, in a rush of guilt and sorrow, I thought of her, but those moments were already less frequent. Soon, despite my best intentions, she’d recede into a shameful oblivion, interspersed with sporadic moments of painful remembrance.

Here now was Charlie Rey. We exchanged a cool little airkiss before he moved hurriedly on to more congenial company. He was followed by Freddie Angelo, pink cheeks shining, red braces just visible beneath a tremendously chalk-striped jacket. In his wake stepped a grey-suited Japanese, perhaps – why else would he be here? – the mysterious owner of the fourth Caravaggio, though whether the one for whom Freddie had been acting when we met, or a buyer subsequently found, I didn’t know and could not, just at that moment, ask.

‘Freddie! Lovely to see you!’

‘Darling, wouldn’t miss this for anything. Isn’t it wonderful? Congratulations. Let me introduce Mr Furuichi, Reggie Lee. You should have seen her face when I showed her your picture. I can tell you, she’s an absolute
terrier
.’ Or was that terror? Mr Furuichi looked bemused. He gave a little bow.

Waiters were circulating with champagne. I took two glasses and handed one to Mr Furuichi. I noticed Freddie’s eyes sliding round the room, checking who was here, and felt mine insidiously follow. Charlie Rey, I noticed, was deep in conversation with TM. And there were David and Caroline! This was a big day out for Caroline, the girls were staying with friends, she’d bought a new dress specially. We waved frantically and I rushed over to them. What do they always say –
Without X and Y the show/book/film could
never have happened . . .
But we’d hardly had time to remind each other of the fatal school fair when, inevitably, I was whisked off to meet some financier, a big contributor to emergency appeals who had to be kept sweet and who wanted to know all the detail – what came from where, how I’d found it all. And suddenly, as I was in the midst of giving him the edited story, it was time for the speeches, an opening few words from the Director, followed by the catch of the evening: the French presidential hopeful, Jean-Jacques Rigaut, who was of course (I heard someone whisper to his wife) Emmanuel Rigaut’s son. Didn’t you know?

When I looked round for him he hadn’t seemed to be there, though his office had confirmed that he was coming. They’d been enthusiastic – just the kind of thing to do his image good, remind people of the Surrealist connection, a bit of cultural resonance, always goes down well in France, one of the few countries where intellectuals actually go into politics – Poincaré, Malraux. Wonderful what the right gloss can do for the innately flaky. Not that Monsieur Rigaut could be described as flaky. On the other hand, he was sometimes in danger of appearing rather – well, brutal. But brutes don’t open art exhibitions, do they? Firm yet wide-ranging, that was the message. They’d send a photographer.

The Director tinkled his glass, and everyone fell silent. ‘My lords, ladies and gentlemen . . .’ He gave his usual urbane and polished performance, deftly thanking all concerned, outlining the show’s
raison d’être
, and finally introducing – yes, there he was after all, how had I missed him? A head taller than the rest of the crowd, snappily dressed today in a white silk polo-neck under a perfectly cut navy suit, Gallicly elegant. I wondered if he spoke English. It didn’t matter – most of this crowd probably understood French.

‘
Mesdames, messieurs
. . .’

In fact, like most French politicians, he spoke English with impressive ease. He made the obligatory remarks about how flattered to be here, then moved on to the pictures – quite a detective story, we should congratulate Dr Lee (here he caught my eye and bowed slightly, while people clapped and I blushed and acknowledged him.) And yes, damn it, the rush was still there: in spite of every-thing, and after all this time, I still fancied him like mad. And could have sworn, as we exchanged complicit smiles across the room, that he fancied me right back. Not that there would be much opportunity to test that out now.

Appropriate, he went on, that both pictures should now be safely at the Louvre, or perhaps safe was not quite the right word (polite laughter). Then he talked about his father – how tickled he’d be to see himself enshrined as Official Art. He did not, I noticed, mention his mother, though she’d originated the joke, if joke was the word, that had, after all these years and so many adventures, landed us all here in this room today. Meanwhile he was delighted to declare the exhibition open – rather, it struck me, as though it was a garden fête.

Soon it would be time for the restaurant party to leave. There’d be thirty-five of us, what with spouses and partners. Rigaut was coming, his office had informed us, though he’d have to leave early. We’d booked tables at the Oxo Tower, where even if you don’t like the food or the company you can enjoy the wonderful view. The publicity girl began rounding people up, telling them where to go.

‘Will you be coming?’ I asked Joe.

‘Of course. Why ever not?’

‘I thought you had to file –’

‘Oh, that!’ He laughed. ‘I did it before I came. Gave Pascal the nod, too. Though there was a bad moment when I thought our man hadn’t made it . . . Not that it’d have mattered, but we’d have had to change things round a bit and it wouldn’t have been so poetic. They’re really going to town. I got them to do me a mock-up. Want to see?’ He scrabbled in his pocket and brought out a folded sheet.

‘I can’t look at it now!’

‘Just the headline.’

I saw a photo of the St Cecilia surmounted by a head-line:
Caravaggio’s Killer Picture
. The opening lines read:
The
publicity surrounding the new Caravaggio show at the National
Gallery has concentrated on a Surrealist jape involving two of
the pictures. What has not been told is a far more sinister story
. . . I wondered what Pascal had done. Knowing
Le Monde,
something more restrained and intellectual
.
And of course more political. It was his country, after all.

‘He’ll kill me.’ The cliché took on a sudden terrifying new life.

‘You’re the last person he’d kill. Too obvious.’

The publicity girl shepherded us into a fleet of taxis, and ten minutes later we arrived at the restaurant. We’d booked tables out on the terrace, and half London glittered beneath us. For any number of reasons I’d have liked to be seated as far as possible from the star guest, but the publicity girl had insisted. ‘It’s your show! You put it together. All this stuff about his father – he’s sure to want to talk to you about it.’

‘No, he won’t. It’s the last thing he’ll want to talk about.’

‘Don’t be silly, Reggie, of course he will. All right, I’ll put you on the opposite side of the table, if that’s what you really want.’

‘How about Joe?’

‘Sorry, he’s not a VIP, he’ll have to go on one of the other tables.’

There was the usual milling about while people identified their namecards. At the other end of the terrace, a party of cityboys was in full bray. Suddenly I found myself beside Rigaut. He nodded, and we shook hands.

‘
Bonsoir, madame
. So, you have your exhibition.’ He still had my hand in his, and now gave it an extra little shake.

‘I’m most grateful, monsieur.’ All I could think of was the contact of our two hands.

‘Grateful!’ He laughed and finally let me go. ‘You should go into politics. A formidable operator. My
chef-de-cabinet
, perhaps!’

People were taking their seats now. The Director came over. ‘Let me show you where you’re sitting,’ he said to Rigaut

‘Ah yes, though I’m afraid I shan’t be able to stay long.’ He turned to me. ‘Madame Lee – aren’t you coming?’

‘I don’t think they’ve put us together.’

‘
Ah, non, quel dommage, j’insiste!
’

That was a strange evening – one of the strangest I ever spent. Having insisted on my sitting beside him, Rigaut hardly spoke to me, as TM busily introduced him to the rest of the table. But as we exchanged pleasantries with the other guests, our attention was concentrated on each other. First, as if by chance, our legs brushed, then finally, all ambiguity abandoned, remained in a contact so dis-tracting that all other activity – conversation, eating – became almost impossible. Once I felt his hand on my wrist. And through it all I knew (though he did not) that nothing further would ever happen between us.