Caravaggio's Angel (8 page)

Or perhaps no second person.

When I got to the airport, the plane was late: there would be a delay of two hours. I wandered into a primitive bar that occupied a section of the shed. With any luck they’d sell magazines as well as drinks – I’d finished my biography, and the wordless hours loomed drearily ahead. The only reading matter on sale, however, was the local paper.
Too many people on the beaches this year
, ran its front page. It reinforced my sense of having crossed some unseen border into another world – some parallel universe in which normal twenty-first-century preoccupations played no part.

Leafing through, I suddenly came upon a picture of the Minister. In his persona as the local senator, he had been opening a local sports hall. The photograph showed him standing on a dais, caught in mid-speech: the caption read,
Minister of the Interior Jean-Jacques Rigaut inaugurates
Meyrignac’s new stadium
.

I glanced at the accompanying article. It mostly consisted of a transcript of the speech: the usual platitudes – thanks to those who had raised the money for this excel-lent new sports facility, thanks to the regional council for its contribution, pious hopes that the stadium would be well used. A paragraph at the end, though, caught my eye. Monsieur Rigaut thought the stadium would be particularly useful for the local youth, for whom regrettably few facilities were available after they left school.
‘Anything is
welcome that may staunch the flow of our youth to the cities. We
need them here – a place without young people is a place with no
future. But what incentive have they to remain? A new sports
arena may help, and we hope it does. But we all know the real
problem: jobs. We need to build up the economy of our region,
and indeed are starting to do so. But it is a gradual process. In
the meantime we must make sure that what jobs there are go to
our own sons and daughters.’

The meaning, though veiled, was unmistakable. It was a barely coded invitation to racism. That must be what Delphine meant when she said he was unpopular. With some, no doubt; with others, very popular indeed.

I shivered, and hoped the plane to raucous, multicoloured London would not be too long delayed.

8

Olivier: Paris, July

The letter came three weeks later, dropping like a messenger from another world into the daily round of meetings, research and policy planning that chiefly occupied my working days. The envelope contained a single small sheet of thick cream paper, folded once. I extracted it, unfolded it, and read:

La Jaubertie, 26th July

Madame,

I understand my mother agreed to loan you a picture owned
by our family. Unfortunately she is not the sole owner, and
the other owners cannot see their way to satisfying your
request.

It concluded with the most formal and distant form of words –
Veuillez, Madame, agréer mes sentiments distingués –
and was signed:
Jean-Jacques Rigaut
.

He must have got my name and address from the business card I’d left with Juliette.

I felt winded, as though someone had punched me in the stomach.

Like all public institutions, the Gallery existed in a continuous state of funding crisis. But this gnawing normality contained gradations of seriousness. In the past few days some lurking bubble of severity had risen to the surface and burst: we were in financial crisis – enough even to war-rant a mention in one or two newspapers. Everyone had been asked to identify possible savings in their particular area; there were rumours of redundancies. Quite how these would be effected no one seemed to know, but if they pro-posed to operate the principle of last in, first out, my own position would be distinctly shaky. So that what had begun as an absorbing project of great personal interest but relatively little importance had suddenly acquired disproportionate political significance.

However, it wasn’t just the professional implications that worried me. It was the letter itself. A letter from a minister was not to be lightly dismissed. But Juliette hadn’t said anything about any co-owners. On the contrary, her letter – I looked at it again, and it hadn’t changed – clearly implied that she alone owned the picture and was entitled to make decisions about it. Who was I to believe?

The answer seemed obvious: Juliette. Jean-Jacques Rigaut was a politician and a bully: on both counts, lying to get his own way came as naturally to him as speaking. It seemed clear there had been an argument about me and my request. That would explain the difficulty Juliette had had in coming to a decision. She’d known that for some reason he was against loaning the picture, and had assumed I was visiting her to ask for exactly that. Now he was determined that whatever his mother said, the loan would not take place.

In that case, what the letter said was untrue. So we could disregard it.

Whether that would be wise was another matter. I couldn’t see Tony Malahide agreeing to it. Jean-Jacques Rigaut was a powerful man, and no one in TM’s position wants to antagonize powerful men. The Gallery had constant dealings with France, on matters far more significant than this. And what about the consequences for Juliette? At her time of life she could do without yet more trouble.

The sensible thing would be to speak to her – to ring La Jaubertie and put the matter before her. Then at least we’d know where we stood. But that might be problematic. Babette was the phone-answerer in that house. And Babette, I was pretty sure, was not my friend. I had a feeling that if I rang, and she answered, the news would pretty soon get back to Rigaut. And not just the fact that I’d called, but an account of any conversation between Juliette and myself. Nothing would be easier than for her to listen in on an extension.

It was eleven in the morning. In half an hour I was due to meet curators from other publicly funded collections to prepare for an upcoming discussion with the Arts and Culture Minister; after that, an introductory essay I’d written for a catalogue needed a final proof-reading. But how could I concentrate on proof-reading with that letter burning a hole in my brain?

I reached for the file box into which I dropped every-thing connected with Caravaggio and rummaged for the piece of paper with Manu’s number. At the other end, the phone shrilled – once, twice, three times, four times. No answerphone today, apparently. I was about to replace the receiver when he answered. He’d probably been sitting by it all the time, trying to make up his mind whether or not to ignore the call.

‘
Allo, oui?
’

As on that other occasion, I’d so taken it for granted he wouldn’t be there that the sound of his voice threw me momentarily into confusion.

‘
Allo?
’ said the voice again, sounding impatient.

‘Manu? It’s Reggie Lee. You remember – I came to see you.’

‘Ah, Régine, of course. How are you? Are you making progress?’

‘On some fronts. That was what I wanted to talk to you about. I went to see your grandmother.’

‘Yes, she told me. And was it interesting?’

‘Of course. You know perfectly well it was.’

‘Good.’

‘She agreed to lend the picture.’

‘Yes, she told me that, too.’

‘But now I’ve just had a letter from your father saying it’s impossible. He says she doesn’t own it, and the other owners won’t agree to lend.’

‘Ah.’ He didn’t sound particularly surprised.

‘Is it true?’

‘It’s possible. You never know, with my father.’

‘Would it be worth trying to talk to him?’

There was a silence at the other end. Then Manu said, ‘No. I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

‘Really? Why not?’

‘You could say he’s not naturally co-operative.’

‘Do you think perhaps I ought to wheel in the Director of the Gallery?’

‘No. That wouldn’t be a good idea.’

‘Why not?’

‘Fortunately for you, you don’t know my father. My advice is, keep it that way. Think what’s already happened,’ he muttered, his voice so low I could hardly make out the words.

‘What?’

But once again he evaded me. ‘What’s so important about this exhibition anyway?’

That of course was unanswerable. Once you start asking questions like that, all action becomes impossible. What’s so important about anything at all apart from eating, keeping dry and warm and helping others do the same? ‘Nothing, really,’ I had to admit. ‘It’s my job, that’s all. It’s what I do.’

‘Then take my advice. Drop it. Exhibit something else. He’ll never agree.’

‘But –’

‘Forget it,’ Manu said. ‘Just forget it. And forget him. OK?’ And he put the phone down.

Think what’s already happened
– what was
that
supposed to mean?

I stared at the phone for a minute, then dialled Joe’s mobile. If I didn’t talk to someone sensible about all this I’d go mad, and who else was there? Besides, it was an excuse to get in touch. I hadn’t spoken to him on my return from Meyrignac – from his point of view there hadn’t been much to report. But this was different. This might be interesting.

‘You think he’s lying?’ Joe said. ‘But why would he do that?’

As usual the sound of his voice made me long to see him. But he’d made it clear he didn’t want to meet. I’d heard rumours he’d taken up with someone else – some-one in television. ‘I suppose because he doesn’t want to lend the picture.’

‘That’s obvious. The question is, why . . . You’d think it might be a feather in his cap – look, I’m not just an oik, I actually own Art. In any case, if he’s lying he must realize you’ll find out. It could be damaging if it got out. I’m surprised he’d take the risk for – well . . .’

‘For something so insignificant.’ I finished his sentence for him. ‘He doesn’t care, presumably.’

‘So if he is lying, there’s something bigger behind it. Well, well . . . Have you seen today’s papers?’

I had. Rioting had broken out again, this time in the suburbs around Lyons, and the Interior Minister had made a speech denouncing the rioters. If they didn’t like it where they were, why not try life elsewhere? He’d hinted there might be funds to meet the expenses of anyone planning to leave.

‘He’s trying to set himself up as the new strong man,’ Joe said. ‘Perhaps you’re messing up his arrangements. Though I can’t imagine how. Were you thinking of going back?’

‘To Meyrignac? I can’t think quite what I’d do there. I don’t want to put the old lady in a difficult position.’

‘Sounds to me as though she’s already in one. Well, if you change your mind, let me know. We might be able to help with the expenses. It’s all background.’

Later that day, riffling through the back pages of my diary to find a name, I noticed a phone number in the pages covering my stay in Meyrignac. It was Delphine’s: Delphine, whose husband was also a journalist, and who came from those parts.

‘Delphine? It’s Reggie Lee – you remember, I stayed with you a while ago. To go to La Jaubertie?’

‘Régine – of course . . . Are you coming back?’

‘It’s possible. I’m looking for someone who can tell me about the Rigauts.’

‘What did you want to know?’

‘That’s the problem, I’m not quite sure. I wondered – you said your husband comes from St Front?’

‘Olivier? Yes, but I’m afraid he’s not here just now.’

‘Still in Paris? Surely these are the holidays?’

‘He comes and goes.’ Judging by her tone of voice, these comings and goings were arranged to suit Olivier’s convenience rather than Delphine’s. ‘He’s due back at the weekend. If you want to speak to him I can give you his Paris number.’

I dialled. The phone was picked up almost immediately. ‘
Oui?
’

‘Olivier Peytoureau?’

‘
Oui
.’

I launched into the usual explanation – name, place of work, the exhibition. Delphine. ‘One of the pictures I’m interested in is in St Front, at La Jaubertie. But they don’t want to lend it, or rather Monsieur Rigaut doesn’t. The old lady agreed, but he’s just written to say it’s all off, she can’t lend it unless he goes along with it, and he doesn’t.’

‘You could ask him why not,’ said the voice at the other end reasonably.

‘Apparently it’s not as easy as that . . .’

‘No, that figures.’

‘It seems to be part of some sort of family quarrel. Delphine said your family’s from Meyrignac – the old lady seems to have been involved with your great-uncle, is that right? So I wondered if you might have any idea what might be going on. Or know anyone who could help me find out. Then I might be able to do something about it.’

‘It’s possible,’ he said slowly. ‘Perhaps we should meet. Will you be coming over sometime soon?’

The budget wouldn’t really stand endless trips to France. On the other hand, I felt reluctant to ask Joe for money unless I really had to. ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘I could come to Paris. That would be easier than St Front.’

‘Okay, but I’m leaving Friday. Shan’t be back for a couple of weeks after that.’

Today was Tuesday. Tomorrow was impossible, filled with commitments of various sorts. So was Thursday, but I could put those off. ‘Thursday?’

‘You really want to know this stuff!’ Peytoureau sounded amused.

‘I really do.’

‘Lunch?’

‘That would be good.’

‘I’ll see you at the Voltaire, then. Quai Voltaire. Twelve thirty.’

The Voltaire’s frontage, slipped in amongst a group of high-class antique shops, was so discreet that you had to look twice: yes, it really was a restaurant. The interior was dim and old-fashioned, with red plush banquettes and white tablecloths. The maître d’hôtel pointed out a table at the back of the room where a youngish man, perhaps in his early thirties, was reading a newspaper. As I approached he stood up and held out his hand. He had black curly hair, cut short, and very bright black eyes, slightly slanted, like a faun. Also in the faun tradition, he was thick-set and not particularly tall: a rugby player’s figure.

Neither the place nor the man before me fitted the slightly alternative character I had for some reason – per-haps because his wife ran a country b. and b. – ascribed to Olivier Peytoureau. He wore a well-cut cream suit with a black T-shirt, and was clearly at home in this distinctly bourgeois restaurant, most of whose tables were occupied by business lunchers. The Voltaire had been his choice, not mine, but he was doing me the favour, so this one was on me. And this was an expensive place – far beyond my tiny Caravaggio budget. I’d just have to foot the bill myself, and pretend I was back at the auction house.

‘An
apéro
?’ He grinned cheerfully across the table, clearly enjoying (as who does not?) the prospect of an excellent lunch at someone else’s expense. ‘A kir? A
coupe de champagne?
?’ He held up his glass. ‘The champagne’s excellent here. Let me order you one.’

I glanced at the list of drinks. A glass of kir cost four euros, champagne, five. ‘I don’t think so, thanks. I’m hot, I’ll have a mineral water.’

‘You’re probably right, one really shouldn’t drink too much at lunchtime. Especially in this weather.’ He studied the menu. ‘Let’s order, then you can tell me what this is all about. I can recommend the oysters here, they’re excellent. Direct from Normandy. Do you like oysters?’

‘It’s years since I had any,’ I prevaricated truthfully.

‘Now’s the time to try again, then. Unless you’d prefer something else?’

I looked at the menu. Oysters did not figure on any of the the
prix fixe
possibilities. ‘I think perhaps I’ll just have one thing. I’m not very hungry. But you have oysters, if you want. I’m quite happy to watch.’

‘Well, then, I think I will. Sure I can’t persuade you?’ He looked at me with one eyebrow raised – a trick that as a child I thought particularly stylish, and tried endlessly, and fruitlessly, to master. In fact you can’t: it’s like waggling your ears, something you’re born with, or not. It gave him a rather consciously charming expression of amused inquiry that I found illogically annoying. ‘This is on me, by the way,’ he added. ‘Or rather, my employers. I can smell a story in here somewhere. I’m a journalist – did Delphine tell you?’

I nodded. ‘But she didn’t tell me who for.’

‘It’s a scandal sheet, you almost certainly won’t have heard of it. Very sensationalist and downmarket, very successful. I want to move, but the pay’s too good. I’m looking for a golden way out that will buy me a good job somewhere a bit more reputable.’