Caravaggio's Angel (2 page)

2

London, March

‘How clever of you to have spotted it,’ said the Director. ‘I’m not at all sure I’d have realized, myself.’

‘Oh, well, that picture’s always been one of my favourites.’

‘Really?’ He raised his eyebrows. He didn’t quite say
Extraordinary
, but I could sense it hovering there. The St Cecilia was popular with customers at the time: commissioned in 1605 as an altarpiece, it caught the eye of other potential buyers, and the artist made two copies, one for the private collection of his patron Cardinal Francesco Del Monte, one for Marcantonio Doria. But there’s no denying it’s one of his more run-of-the-mill productions. Perhaps he got bored, wanted to move on to something else.

That was one of the many mysteries surrounding
Partir,
c’est mourir un peu.
Why, out of all the pictures in the Louvre, pick that one? It wasn’t famous or symbolic like the Mona Lisa, which had been so resoundingly stolen from the same gallery twenty-eight years earlier. Far from it. At that time, no one thought much of Caravaggio – not even at his his best. Nowadays, of course, the art world can’t get enough of him. So modern, darling – that astounding naturalism and originality, that sense of theatre. And of course that undisguised sexuality – all those pouting boys. But in 1937 the St Cecilia was a second-rank work by a little-regarded painter.

‘I used to look at it when I went to stay with my grand-mother. My mother’s mother. She lived in Paris.’

My grandmother lived on avenue Foch, and she’s the one I have to blame for my monstrous first name. I think my parents hoped that calling me after her would encourage her to leave me something in her will. And so she did: five hundred pounds, or its equivalent in francs, like all the other grandchildren. I was fourteen at the time – I couldn’t understand my parents’ disappointment. Five hundred pounds seemed like a lot of money to me. But none of us ever saw any actual dosh. She very sensibly spent everything before she died. And more. The apartment only just covered the debts. So I was Regina in vain.

‘Why don’t we go to the Louvre?’ said my mother one rainy afternoon. ‘I haven’t been there for years.’ And there it was – love at first sight: my first experience of the trans-forming power of art. At that time I had a sort of ongoing romantic serial story that ran inside my head at night before I went to sleep, and from that moment the Angel was one of its chief protagonists (the other, I need hardly add,
not
being St Cecilia). Of course I knew nothing then about Caravaggio – least of all his supposed sexual orientation. I probably didn’t know such a thing as sexual orientation existed. But whichever way that Angel swung he was a sexy creature. He appears in several of Caravaggio’s pictures, doubtless one of his fancy boys. In this one he is naked to the waist, with pouting lips, gleaming muscular shoulders and macho black-feathered wings. He hangs in mid-flight in the picture’s top left-hand corner, while from the lower right St Cecilia gazes over her shoulder into his eyes. She is dressed as a Roman aristocrat in a rich red silk dress, low-cut and trimmed at the shoulders with white fur, and surrounded by the instruments that denote her identity: in her hands a lute, at her feet a violin and an open music book, behind her a harp. A mysterious ray, possibly the light of holiness, emanates from the picture’s top left-hand corner, suffusing the Angel and bathing St Cecilia in its glow. I remember thinking what a ninny she looked. He was wasted on her. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Later, when I did art history, I naturally gravitated towards Caravaggio. That’s when I first came across
Partir,
c’est mourir un peu
.

Everyone assumed the Surrealists had done it – every-thing about the affair carried their stamp. But they never claimed it, and no one ever knew for sure. In fact it was a while before anyone even noticed it had gone. The thief or thieves left an
On Loan
sign in the space where it had previously hung, and people thought no more about it. Then three days later two photographs were posted to
Le Figaro
. One showed the picture, still in its frame, leaning against the wall beneath the
On Loan
sign; in the second it was unframed but still on its stretcher, propped against the fountain in the Jardin du Luxembourg. Above it a board read:
Partir, c’est mourir un peu, Martyr, c’est pourrir un peu
, which might be translated as ‘To part is to die a little, Martyrs get high a little’
.

Over the next six weeks, fifteen of these teasing photo-graphs appeared. The picture seemed to be engaged in a sort of dance, zigzagging from one side of Paris to the other: beside the canal de l’Ourcq, on a stone picnic table in the forest of Fontainebleau, at St Germain-en-Laye, propped against a baluster on the great terrace overlooking Paris, in front of a market stall in rue Mouffetard . . . By this time, of course, the police were involved. But they never caught the photographer/thief at his audacious work. It was whispered, though no one knew quite where the whisper started, that all the photos had been taken before anyone even realized the picture had gone. There was nothing on the usual art-theft grapevines – the inevitable gossip, of course, but no real information. The insurance company offered a reward for any information leading to its recovery. But no one replied.

And then one day towards the middle of June, it re-appeared. When the attendant arrived, the canvas, no longer on its stretcher but otherwise undamaged, was waiting for him on a chair. Beside it was a sheet of paper. On one side, a typed message said
Thanks for the loan
; the other bore the familiar punning couplet:
Partir, c’est mourir
un peu, Martyr, c’est pourrir un peu.

The same day, an anonymous booklet appeared in all the left bank bookshops. On the cover, the mysterious legend was splashed redly over a hitherto unseen photograph of the picture, propped against an anonymous white wall. Inside, without comment, was the sequence of photo-graphs that had been sent to
Le Figaro
.

About a month later, on 12th July, the affair took a further and decidedly sinister turn. That day the body of the Surrealist poet and painter Robert de Beaupré was dis-covered hanging in his studio at 72 rue d’Assas. On the table beside the body lay a copy of the pamphlet, and a note which read:
Partir, c’est mourir un peu
.

After that people assumed Beaupré had stolen the picture, though of course he might simply have co-opted the incident for his own ends. Either way, his death gave the affair a certain poetic completeness. André Breton’s subsequent essay on the beauty of violent death became one of Surrealism’s classic writings, and Beaupré took his place in the Surrealist suicides’ pantheon. As for the book-let, it soon became a collector’s item. Only one hundred were printed, of which most soon vanished, as such things do. The copy I had found at the fête was one of the few that remained.

At the auction house, that would have been the point: rarity equals cash. But I’d got tired of the money bit. Surely there had to be more to art than what it was worth? From where I presently stood, in a dingy office with a view of rooftops and drainpipes and unimpeded aural access to the soundstage that is now Trafalgar Square, my pamphlet possessed ramifications and possibilities. If one were to bring the three versions of the Caravaggio together, they might make the core of a good small exhibition. They had never been seen together, and the Surrealist link offered rich possibilities for associated exhibits. When I got back from Caroline’s, I spent the morning concocting a proposal. Then I forgot about it, and took on enough work to drown thought.

I found the Director lurking by a window – one of three, he could take his pick. Sir Anthony Malahide, no less, though no one called him that – he was either Tony or TM. The younger staff members tied themselves in knots to avoid addressing him by name. I, however, had no difficulty in this respect. He’d been a graduate student when I was in my first year at university. We’d even had a mild flirtation, though it never came to anything. Sex wasn’t his bag, or not of any variety I could offer. Anyhow, he wasn’t my age-group. Even in his twenties he was middle-aged. Now he really was middle-aged, it suited him beautifully. ‘Oh, Reggie,’ he said, his rising intonation suggesting, as always, that this wholly expected and prearranged visit was in fact a delightful surprise. ‘Thanks for coming. I’m afraid I don’t seem to see very much of you – you know how it is . . . I hope you’re enjoying life here?’

‘Absolutely,’ I said politely, which as far as professional life went was perfectly true. ‘Glad you liked my idea.’ That was when we had the conversation about my grand-mother.

He emerged from his window and sat down behind his desk, a vast mahogany number. On it there was a copy of my proposal, something that looked like, and almost certainly was, a Roubiliac bust, and a phone. Nothing else. He tapped the proposal. ‘What do you think?’

I sat down myself, in a large leather armchair. He knew what I thought. That was why I was there. But it was always like that with Tony. Before you could start the actual minuet there were necessary flourishes to be got through, bows and curtseys and ornamental figures. ‘I think it could be rather good,’ I said, after due consideration.

‘The Louvre,’ he went on, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘You’ll need to talk to Antoine Rigaut. He’s in charge of their Italian collection. Do you know him?’

‘I know the name, obviously. I don’t think we’ve actually met.’

‘Oh well, I can help you there. And the Getty should be fairly straightforward. About this other one, though. Private hands, I think you say.’ He pulled the proposal towards him and put on his spectacles. Another dance move: he knew perfectly well what was in it.

‘Yes.’

‘Any idea where?’

You had to hand it to old Tony. He might seem vague, but of course that was just a front – vagueness doesn’t get you the top job. And true to form he’d unerringly fingered the weak point in my apparently seamless proposal. There certainly
were
three versions of the picture. The commission for the Santa Cecilia altarpiece was documented, as was its removal by Berenson three hundred years later. We know Del Monte had one because the Barberini family paid 900 scudos for it when the Del Monte collection was sold after the Cardinal’s death in 1655. And when the Getty bought theirs, that was the first time it had left the Doria palazzo since its well-attested delivery there by the painter himself. Two of these pictures were shown in a Caravaggio exhibition at an independent gallery in 1952, soon after his return to fashion: the one now in the Louvre and the Del Monte/Barberini version. The exhibition’s catalogue, how-ever, listed only a ‘private collection’, with no further details. Since this was in Paris, it seemed possible the collection might be in France. But the gallery’s owner had died in 1990, and I hadn’t yet been able to locate anyone else who had had anything to do with the show. There were no auction records for such a picture, and it had made no further appearances. Nor was it on any registers
.
Finding it would be just the kind of coup that draws the public: long-lost picture identified, the newspapers would be all over us. But without it, my exhibition didn’t really exist.

I looked him in the eye. ‘I think I may be on its track.’

‘Good. Excellent. Let me know how it goes. As soon as you find it, we can set a date.’

‘Should I pursue the others in the meantime?’

‘Why don’t you? Then when the time comes we’ll be ready to go.’

Now that the business part of the interview was over he actually looked at me (rather than my feet, or the view of Trafalgar Square) for the first time since I’d entered the room. ‘I gather you split up with Joe.’

‘Yes – in September.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I always thought you two seemed rather well suited. Ah well.’ He grinned, and for a second became once more the young man I’d known. ‘Perhaps this’ll help take your mind off it. Best of luck. And don’t forget to keep me up to date.’

The Surrealists were great believers in chance and co-incidence. And that was how I saw the pamphlet: a sort of rainbow, a sign of hope from heaven. Something to cling on to. Even if it didn’t lead me back to Joe, it might be a way to get over him. All I need do was follow its trail – with any luck to the third Caravaggio, or we were sunk. ‘You’re not still on about that exhibition of yours?’ people would say later. They clearly thought I was slightly unbalanced, and they were probably right. What pushed me on during those months had very little to do with rationality.

I assured the Director that I’d keep him abreast of every development, and left his office feeling better than for weeks.

3

Paris, June

Joe and I had agreed not to contact each other for six months – ‘to let things simmer down,’ as he put it. I bit my lip and held out, though his by-line was a constant painful reminder that somewhere in the city he continued to flourish. When the six months ended, he didn’t phone. I let a week pass, then grew tired of waiting and called him at work. It was so easy. Just press a few buttons, and there he was, as though we’d never parted. He sounded surprised and not particularly pleased to hear me.

‘Oh, Reg – I thought we’d agreed we wouldn’t do this?’

‘We said six months.’

‘Did we? Christ, is it really that long? I suppose it is . . . Well, how are you doing? OK?’

Restraining myself from emotional outbursts, I told him about the exhibition. Things were not going smoothly. I’d put in my requests to the Louvre and the Getty – in principle would they loan their versions – and in principle they’d agreed. But the missing picture was still missing. And just last week, halfway through June, my opposite number at the Louvre had indicated that some mysterious difficulty had arisen. I hadn’t been able to sort it out by phone or email, or even make out what it was. All anyone would say was that there was ‘
un petit problème
’. But though small, it seemed distressingly obstinate. I was going to have to go over and deal with it in person. Confront their top man.

‘Anyone I should know?’ Joe asked politely. I knew that tone of voice – just filling in time till he could decently hang up.

‘I don’t expect so. Antoine Rigaut. He’s a friend of Tony Malahide’s.’

‘Rigaut?’ He suddenly sounded interested. ‘Is he related to the Interior Minister?’

‘The Interior Minister?’

‘The one that’s been mouthing off about the riots. You must have noticed.’

Naturally I’d noticed. The French banlieues were ablaze, and the rioters, feeling their strength, had begun to move their protests to city centres. Some minister – presumably the one Joe had in mind – had been making inflammatory remarks. I was due in Paris the following Tuesday, and had been wondering whether I’d have to postpone my trip.

‘His name’s Rigaut,’ Joe said. ‘Jean-Jacques Rigaut. A right bastard. He’s aiming for the presidency, of course. Well, they all are. But he obviously thinks this is his big moment. He’s as crooked as they come, but no one will say anything. They’re all watching their backs in case he actually comes to power.’

‘I didn’t know you were interested in French politics.’

‘I’m interested in politics. You can see the same sort of thing happening here. It’s a sort of low-level civil war.’

‘I don’t imagine they’re related. There are probably thousands of Rigauts in Paris.’

‘You never know,’ said Joe. ‘They may be. See what you can find out, anyhow.’

It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love. But at least it was an excuse to speak to him again.

As it happened, Jean-Jacques Rigaut was on the news that night – and of course, this time I noticed his name. Otherwise he was unmemorable, a suave figure in expensive casuals uttering reassuring platitudes against some neutral background. It was the usual kind of interview – the kind that tells you absolutely nothing.

Tuesday’s early morning news said nothing about riots, so I assumed Paris was open for business as usual. London was dull and muggy with promises of rain: the nation’s television screens would soon be filled with pictures of plastic-covered tennis courts. But in Paris the sun shone. I took the metro from Gare du Nord to Châtelet, had a pizza and a bock on a café terrace, then strolled along the river towards the Louvre and my meeting.

The person I’d been dealing with was called Marie-France Dachy. We were due to meet at two thirty. But before that, I thought I’d pay St Cecilia a quick visit to check she was still safely in place. However, when I arrived at the spot she wasn’t there.

Surely this was the room?

Was this the problem they wanted to discuss – that she’d been stolen, again?

A second later, through the doorway opposite, I glimpsed a corner of the familiar composition – violin, music, harp, the saint’s red dress. There must have been a general rehanging of that section. I breathed again.

When I arrived in front of the picture, it was oddly disappointing. Compared with its neighbours – the Card-Sharps and the Gipsy Fortune-Teller, both so brilliantly observed and executed – the St Cecilia seemed rather un-interesting: a touch wooden, lacking drama and fluidity. If I hadn’t known it was impossible – the picture came via Berenson, for God’s sake, and he’d taken it from the church it had been commissioned for – I’d almost have thought it was by another artist.

Well, even Caravaggio had his off days – or perhaps it was just me getting older. I’d recently experienced similar letdowns rereading novels that had entranced me in my teens. But it didn’t matter. This wasn’t an exhibition about a painter’s best works. It was about all sorts of quite other things – repetition, resonances, contrasting aims and traditions. I moved on, into a room of Dutch interiors, sat on a bench and called Marie-France. I told her where I was, and she said she’d be with me in five minutes.

I’d never actually met Marie-France – all our dealings had been via email or telephone. She had one of those quick, clear French voices, and I’d expected a person to match – neat, compact, sharply dressed. But she was quite unlike my imaginings. Far from being trim and brisk, the person who now approached was plump, bespectacled, and artistically clothed in a sort of reddish-brown surplice, with a matching bandanna and an African-looking neck-lace of large dark-brown seeds – cocoa-beans, they looked like – and gold wire. When she saw me she smiled, but no smile could disguise the look of alarm that crossed her face. Evidently she too was the victim of disappointed expectations. ‘Régine!’ she exclaimed, shaking my hand. ‘How delightful to meet you at last. Somehow I’d imagined you younger.’

What did she mean, that such a slight exhibition as mine could only be the work of some junior person? I smiled stonily, and followed her down through labyrinthine basement corridors to her office, a small, airless, white-painted box with just enough room for a desk and two chairs: the usual behind-the-scenes squalor. ‘Welcome to my palace,’ she said, indicating one of the chairs. ‘Coffee?’

The coffee came from a machine, and was terrible. I took a sip, put it down, and said, ‘So tell me about this problem. What is it, exactly?’

Marie-France looked flustered and began telling her seeds, perhaps invoking the help of some voodoo goddess. ‘Normally this kind of thing is quite straightforward,’ she said unhappily.

‘So I thought.’ The words came out sounding rather stern. But stern was what I felt. What Marie-France needed was a swift injection of backbone.

‘We lend pictures all the time. It was all going ahead. And then last month there was a departmental meeting.’ She paused, as though wondering how to put whatever it was she had to say next. ‘And he said no. We couldn’t lend it after all, out of the question. Just like that, wouldn’t discuss it.’

‘
Who
said this?’ For God’s sake.

‘Monsieur Rigaut.’

I couldn’t believe it. ‘He said
no
? But he’s only just said yes. What’s going on?’

‘He didn’t say.’

‘Didn’t you ask?’

She shook her head, and the seeds clattered menacingly. ‘He wasn’t in that sort of mood. He’s been very touchy lately. He just moved the meeting on.’

I couldn’t believe this. It was crazy. I told her so, and she raised her hands in a gesture of helplessness. ‘I thought, a week, I’ll go and see him, he’ll be in a better mood, I can find out what’s going on. There must be a mistake. There’s no reason – we’ve lent Caravaggios before – we’ve lent
this
one. It’s unheard of.
Tout à fait inouï
.’

‘But he must have given you some reason.’

‘He didn’t, that’s what I’m telling you. He just announced it. And now he’s gone off somewhere.’

‘Gone off? Where to?’

She shrugged miserably. ‘No one seems to know. I kept thinking, tomorrow he’ll be back, I’ll speak to him before Régine comes. But he’s still away.’ She shook her head complicitly, inviting me to share a sigh at the wicked ways of this evil old world, in which impossible men put blame-less underlings in untenable positions. But I didn’t feel inclined to sympathize. I was trying to take in the full extent of this disaster. If we couldn’t borrow the Louvre’s picture, then my exhibition was done for. Of course Rigaut’s unreasonable behaviour wasn’t Marie-France’s fault. But I didn’t feel sympathetic. In fact it was all I could do not to kick her. I’d feel better, and she might even stop sighing and go on to kick someone else. Kick and kick again, until the kick finally reached its rightful destination. That way, eventually, something might get done. Or not. Probably not.

‘Is he often like this?’

‘Not really. He’s unpredictable, everyone knows that, but not unreasonable. You can work with him.
Normalement
. But this –
c’est tout à fait anormale,
’ Marie-France said. Beneath that arty exterior, she was clearly hot on normality.

‘Has anyone tried to find him?’ I asked.

‘Of course. His secretary rang him at home, nothing. And his mobile is turned off.’

‘How about his wife?’

‘He isn’t married.’

‘His partner, then?’

‘Obviously, I don’t know him that well. But just at present, I believe there’s nobody. He lives alone.’

‘Where, as a matter of interest?’

‘I’m not sure,’ Marie France said. It was obviously a lie: her face had turned beetroot-red.

‘His secretary must know,’ I insisted.

She shook her head firmly. ‘It’s no good. He’s not there.’

‘Has anyone been round to see?’

‘I’m sure they have.’ She fingered her seeds again. Perhaps she was saying a little prayer that I’d go away. I couldn’t understand why she hadn’t tried to stop me coming in the first place. Nor, now, could she – that was pretty apparent.

I stood up. ‘Well then, that seems to be that.’

Marie-France looked relieved. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Oh, so am I,’ I assured her in my crispest voice. ‘Is there anyone else I could talk to? Who’s his deputy?’

‘It’s Charles Rey, but –’

‘Charlie Rey – of course, I heard he’d got a job here.’

‘You know him?’ She sounded alarmed.

‘For years,’ I assured her.

In fact that was a little misleading: we’d met once or twice at conferences years ago – during one particular meeting in Ghent, I recalled being puzzled, and rather put out, that he hadn’t made a pass. I still remembered my first sight of the great Van Eyck altarpiece, with Charlie in full excited explicatory flow.

She shook her head firmly. ‘He won’t be able to do any-thing about this. It’s a matter for the head of department.’

‘But he’s a colleague. He might know where Monsieur Rigaut lives.’

Marie-France’s round face reddened once again. She looked as though she might be about to burst into tears. ‘Really, I’m sure there’s no way he could help.’

I could have sworn she knew more than she was telling me. Perhaps Rigaut had confided in her – ‘Now, Marie-France, I’m trusting you to deal with this – get rid of the woman, there’s a good girl’ – something like that, and she was afraid that if it emerged she
hadn’t
dealt with me, that I’d persisted in asking awkward questions, she’d be marked down as a loser, her promotion prospects blocked . . .

‘I’ll take a chance. Why don’t you tell me where his office is? Is he on this floor?’

If we had to work together again I’d be sorry I’d been so brutal. But she could hardly pretend she didn’t know where her colleague’s office was. After a minute she gave in. ‘If you go down the corridor and turn left it’s on your right. His name’s on the door. Shall I come with you?’

And muddy the waters? I’d met people like Marie-France before. You have some perfectly straightforward request, some clear line of thought, and then they come along and throw grey mists over everything. ‘No, thanks, I’ll be fine.’

It was by now three o’clock: not exactly early in the day. Even so, some people might still be out at lunch. But perhaps today was a sandwich-at-the-desk day. I walked down the corridor as instructed, and passed a door whose nameplate read
Dr Antoine Rigaut
and below that
Dr
Charles Rey
. I knocked, a little surprised. Surely Rigaut would have an office to himself?

‘
Entrez
,’ called a female voice.

Inside, a smartly dressed middle-aged woman looked at me inquiringly from behind a crowded desk. To her right and left were two doors, one, presumably, leading into Rigaut’s office, one into Charlie’s. So only the secretary was shared.

‘
Bonjour, madame
. Is Dr Rey around?’

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. I came from London today to see Monsieur Rigaut about a loan for an exhibition. There’s been some sort of misunderstanding, and I hoped he and I could sort it out, but I understand he’s not around just now. Charlie and I are old friends and I thought it might be a good idea to speak to him. If he’s available, obviously.’

‘Unfortunately he isn’t. He’s out this afternoon. He may pop back at the end of the day. You could try again around five thirty.’

‘Thanks. Perhaps I will. I don’t suppose you know where Monsieur Rigaut is?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘I hope nothing’s wrong,’ I said politely.

‘I expect he’ll turn up. He’s gone away somewhere and forgotten to tell us, that’s all. It happens . . . Shall I tell Charlie you called?’

I pulled out a business card and put it on the desk. ‘Perhaps you could give him this?’ Perhaps you could give him this?’

‘Of course.’ The secretary read out, ‘Dr Regina Lee.’

‘That’s me. I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’

‘Desvergnes. Janine Desvergnes. I look after . . .’ She gestured all-embracingly. Clearly this was, in all but name,
her
department.

What now? The afternoon, that should have been so satisfyingly and enjoyably filled with detailed discussions, stretched ahead. I wondered whether to ask Madame Desvergnes for Rigaut’s address – she must certainly know it. But she might not want to divulge the information, and then indirect methods might be more difficult to implement. I said, diffidently, ‘I don’t suppose you have a Paris telephone directory I could look at?’