A Masterpiece of Revenge (11 page)

Choosing the equipment was such fun. I was like a child in a toy shop. I wanted the most sophisticated gadgets money could buy: X-ray diffractometers, to study the crystalline structure of paint samples; electronic microscopes and ultrasound radiography, to analyze the physiochemical characteristics of materials; chromatographs that use a flame ionizer; an infrared reflectometer and spectroscope; macrophotographic machines.

I was fortunate enough to rent space next to a research laboratory with an ion accelerator and a nuclear ultrasound, replete with a measure chamber for detecting X rays, as well as a special lens system for magnetic focalization.

I know all this impresses you, Papa. You used to take such pride in keeping your business at the cutting edge.

My favorite machine of all was one I designed myself, by modifying an infrared X-ray spectrometer so that it could be put directly on an easel. This permitted me to perform experiments on the work, and make both qualitative and quantitative conclusions about the composition of the paint used by an artist. It holds the work in a vertical position, opposite a goniometer mounted onto a cart. That way I can minimize the size of the samples I need to take in order to study the pigments, strata by strata, on my microscope.

I also love the thing because it puts me in direct contact with the work of art. With a hypodermic needle I extract core samples, consisting of layers of superimposed materials. Naturally I am always very careful to identify the different control points where I've done this. The pinpricks are nearly invisible, even on an enlarged color reproduction of the work under examination.

Over time I compiled an enormous dossier, a veritable data bank with samples from the paintings of all the great masters, as well as some by moderns whose works have been imitated, such as van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso, and Derain.

Really, Papa, it's rather impressive. I undertook an ambitious program combining visual and radiographic examination. The goal was to determine with precision the methods used by each artist in his painting. The macrophotographic apparatus and indirect light allowed me to read the painting's “handwriting,” so to speak. I mean by that the way the paint takes to the canvas, the direction of the brush strokes, the distribution and density of the paint. In other words, all the techniques and motions that make up an artist's secret, and supposedly inimitable, signature.

I loved my work, Papa. I discovered every conceivable means of counterfeiting great artists, and I admired the sometimes prodigious gifts of certain forgers. Many of these copies were masterpieces in their own right.

The most spectacular fraud that I ever came across was an allegorical landscape being attributed to Poussin. It was done along the same lines as
Moses Saved from the Waters
, the painting that launched the age of heroic landscape.

The work was dense with symbols and imagery. The gentle waves of the Nile, which shimmers like a mirror, divide the space diagonally. On one riverbank are tombs, pyramids — the realm of ideas. On the other is the god of the river — the spiritual dimension. In the distance, an aqueduct — man's attempt to control nature. The boat symbolizes the voyage of souls.

I found that Poussin copy really quite moving. Whoever had imitated him had put a great deal of thought into it. He had known that Poussin was an artist of rare sophistication who had always studied his subject deeply before beginning work — which would happen only after he had mastered the visual language necessary to best express a particular scene.

All the tests I did on the painting's surface and on its pigments were favorable, but I'm afraid there were inconsistencies in the brush strokes and in the shading. Almost imperceptible, these inconsistencies, yet enough to reveal that the hand that had created this painting was not Poussin's.

After lengthy investigation, which I undertook personally, I succeeded in identifying the artist. He was Hungarian, and known for his nearly perfect imitations of contemporary and Impressionist works. He had made a mistake in trying to take on a classical painter.

I didn't turn him in, however. Do you know why, Papa? Because I thought that someday I might need his services.

Besides, at the time I was in a very forgiving mood. I was with Peter, the architect. He was incredibly handsome, more handsome even than you, Papa. I had met him at Oxford one magical evening, when I came across him sitting in the moonlight in the Port Meadows, playing Ravel's
Bolero
on his flute.

We came together like visions, soap bubbles, ephemera afloat on the wind. It was all so dreamlike.

Our love took place in a dimension that had nothing to do with our daily lives. Meeting was a way of fleeing reality, not embracing it, eschewing all those bothersome, bodily details — kisses that taste of nicotine, nakedness after love-making, flushing toilets. We wanted to live in allegorical time, not human time. We touched each other without touching.

You can't fornicate with an allegory. You don't put him in your bed, you place him on a pedestal.

This time I didn't abandon myself. And it was because I didn't abandon myself that Peter abandoned me. He went off in search of more fleshly happiness. Oh, how I hated him for this, Papa. Sometimes I wake up in the night with a thousand ideas for revenge spinning in my head.

Being abandoned by Peter sharpened my hunger for a world in which the idealized was possible. The world of art. I started spending all my free time at the National Gallery and in the British Museum. I even bought a flat off Russell Square so that when I was in London I could get to them easily.

I spent hours staring at paintings, and in particular those of Claude Gellée, known as “le Lorrain” and Claude Lorrain. He fascinated me most of all. I read everything I could about him. I wanted to know everything about his methods, his theories, his life.

And that was how I first heard about Charles Vermeille — through his remarkable studies of Lorrain. Vermeille did far more than teach me about Lorrain. He gave expression to my feelings about art itself. In his limpid, graceful prose I found thoughts I believed only I had — he seemed to have discovered the vocabulary for the miracle of creation. He was able to show how a work came to be.

I saw a photo of him in an art magazine and became infatuated. He was a bit old for me, and I knew perfectly well his appeal was as a father figure, but the look of penetration yet kindness was extremely seductive.

I wanted him to feel as I felt. Let it stand at that. I wanted him to look at me one day and recognize something. Deep down, I knew that one day I was fated to meet this Charles Vermeille. You're probably laughing at me, Papa, but I need to tell you everything.

I often thought of writing him, telling him of my admiration. I must have started a dozen letters, then tore them up. Vermeille would have thought I was a lunatic.

The dream of meeting him did not become a reality until later. The occasion was a conference in Nice at which I was invited to speak. Oh, it was such an honor, Papa. Some of the world's greatest historians and curators would be attending. I took precious time away from work to prepare my talk.

Just thinking about that conference fills me with deep shame. But at the time, knowing that Vermeille would be there was exciting beyond words. I imagined all sorts of things — that he would fall in love with me, that he would see we shared a spiritual bond through Lorrain. Perhaps he would adopt me. My fantasies ran wild.

The gala dinner at the end of the convention. Oh my God. I remember doing myself up like a dream. I let my hair down. My turquoise lame dress fit like a glove. A little eye shadow, a little rouge. I had never been so beautiful. When I crossed the filled dining room I could feel the collective gaze of the men.

Except for Vermeille, at whose table Pd been assigned. He looked at me coolly. There was no recognition. Out of politeness, he rose when I arrived at his table, bowed slightly when he took my hand, and pulled my chair out for me. Then he filled my wine glass, smiled, and went back to his conversation.

He clearly felt nothing. I was paralyzed with insecurity. Vermeille was sitting on my right. The man on my left was some squalid little art critic who kept breathing acrid breath down my neck. The room became a jangle of noise — the sounds of glasses and laughter and empty flattery. At our table attention revolved around Vermeille, this man with whom I was supposed to be sharing an intimate sense of connection. I sank immediately into a stupor. I felt mortally tired.

I had wanted to tell Vermeille how close I felt to him, but the words stuck in my throat. I drank glass after glass of wine to build up some courage, and when I did finally open my mouth I babbled like a schoolgirl. I wasn't eloquent, I was pathetic and simpery To this day I haven't forgiven myself. I offered my heart to him on a platter, and he refused it.

Vermeille had looked at me without seeing me. He listened to me without hearing me. I was invisible to him, inconsequential. He didn't take my hand and say, “I've wanted to meet you for so long.”

I barely remember running back to my room. The next morning I caught the first plane back to London.

A throbbing migraine haunted me for three days. It probably had something to do with the half bottle of Scotch I had drunk after this miserable spectacle, in an effort to forget the whole bloody thing. The pain was terrible, blinding me. I cried out every time I tried to move my eyes. I lost the sight in my right eye; the whole side of my face went numb. Oh, it was so frightening, Papa.

I ran to the bathroom to look at my reflection in the mirror, but nothing had changed. I looked the same. There was no disfigurement that I could see. I decided to call my doctor, but my legs would barely carry me to the phone. My hands had become cold and were tingling with pain. Dialing was agony.

The doctor told me not to panic but to come over straight away.

I have never been a hypochondriac. You know that, Papa. I am not the sort of person who scrutinizes every ailment and examines herself minutely all day long, complaining about every small ache and pain. But I will confess I was scared out of my wits when he made me move my eyes from right to left, and asked all sorts of questions that had nothing whatever to do with my eye. He wanted to know if I'd had any childhood diseases such as chicken pox, and at what age, and if I'd ever had difficulty walking, or felt any loss in sensation, or experienced involuntary muscle contractions.

What was so terrifying was that I had been feeling precisely these symptoms for some time. I had thought it was due to exhaustion. The doctor listened with careful attention, then replied that my vision would return in two or three days, but that I ought to make an appointment with an ophthalmologist.

I went immediately for the examination and returned to see my doctor that same afternoon with the results. He looked at them and started to drum his fingers.

“Fine, good. I don't think it's anything serious. My guess is that the optic nerve is in spasm. Probably a simple inflammation. Still, go to see a friend of mine at Radcliffe Hospital. It is important we learn the source of the inflammation.”

I asked him if this was really necessary. He said it was. Best to tend to this immediately.

I went to Radcliffe Hospital. They kept me there for three days, putting me through a battery of tests, each one more horrific than the other. There were MRI scans, spinal taps, blood tests, and reflex examinations. All this for a throbbing optic nerve? I wondered. My eyesight had returned, at least, as had the feeling in my face.

Finally they released me, having told me that the inflammation ought to go away by itself I should live and work normally.

This was a good thing, for I had sunk all my money into my laboratory, and the default of the bank controlling your estate had nearly left you ruined. Oh, Papa. I was so worried I wouldn't be able to keep you at this clinic, and would have to transfer you to one of those dreadful state hospitals where the indigent and abandoned end up. How could I bear that? I needed to find some way to make money. Keeping you here costs five thousand pounds a month.

Before then I had somehow managed to equip the lab and cover the costs of this clinic. I eked out a living from my savings and from what I could get for my services. I knew that in the end the laboratory might go under and that I might have to liquidate everything.

We always had had an easy life, you and I. There was always enough for whatever we wanted to do. After your stroke, I took over your affairs. If there was any problem, I simply dipped into your accounts. They would be mine sooner or later, in any case. I never kept track of how much remained in them. You know perfectly well we never discussed money. That would have been vulgar.

That doesn't mean we shouldn't have talked about it. Or found some way of accumulating more of it. A great deal more. With a heavy heart I sold two small Reynolds I had bought when I was running the company and felt flush. The proceeds meant you could stay in the clinic for another six months. I prayed that would tide us over until I could find a way of replenishing the family coffers.

I knew I would do anything I could to become rich.

I
had never borrowed money from anyone. I'd never had to. But it seemed quite natural that the first person I would think of should be Quentin Van Nieuwpoort. Quentin had been mooning after me since we were at Oxford together. Asking him for help would be a delicate matter, given his feelings for me, but he was, after all, an old friend. A wealthy admirer.

So I thought of him while pacing around my storeroom among all the frames, easels, rolls of that special tissue used to repair damaged canvasses, and cases of dissolvents.

My eye caught a ruined old wreck of a painting I'd bought from Quentin a few years before.

It was shortly after he'd come into an inheritance from a great-uncle who died just short of his one hundredth year and left Quentin a country estate in the Ardennes. Shortly after his great-uncle's funeral, Quentin invited me to come visit. I accepted the invitation. It was October, and I knew how beautiful the Ardennes would be.