Murder Below Montparnasse (32 page)

She had Piotr’s Volodya’s letters to authenticate and give provenance. To her thinking, Yuri never intended for his wife’s son to inherit the painting. But if Huppert knew and it got back to Oleg, repercussions could follow; inheritance issues, a long court case.

But Huppert didn’t let go.
“Un moment.”
He pulled out readers from his pocket and studied it more closely.

“What bothers me is why someone would leave a Modigliani—say it’s real—in a damp cellar for more than seventy years,” Dombasle said. “All of a sudden it reappears, an old man claims it’s stolen but refuses to make a robbery report. He’s murdered, and then after that the art appraiser. But where’s the provenance, or credential of its authenticity, even some mention that this portrait of Lenin ever existed?”

Piotr’s letters to his son explained some of it. Before Aimée could speak, Dombasle shot her a look to keep quiet.

“Lenin’s wife, Comrade Krupskaya, hated Paris—and it wasn’t just the weather. No one knows or will ever know the true story. Just background for you,” Huppert said. “My research paper on
les artistes Russes
in Montparnasse touched on this.”

Aimée wanted to hear something that would lead them to the painting, not an academic lecture. She was running out of time.

“Local Bolshies recounted that Lenin carried on an affair,” Huppert said. “Few knew, but his wife Krupskaya guarded his
reputation and fostered the myth with an iron hand. What papers she didn’t burn she invalidated. Anyone whose silence she didn’t trust got discredited. The comrade-wife had a stake in Lenin, she’d devoted her life to him.”

Huppert paused to wave to his daughter inside.

“The reason this excites me—
faux
or not, it’s a significant work. The bad quality can’t mask the earth tones, that musted luminosity. So much raw energy in the set of his jaw.” For a moment Huppert’s voice changed, sounded far away. “To me this portrait communicates a vulnerable man, maybe even doubtful, on the cusp of something new. A man who could be in love,
non?
” He nodded to himself, studying the Polaroid. “So unlike those ragged greatcoat-leading-the-masses portraits—a powerful persona he promoted, the image Krupskaya fostered until her dying day. Lenin would have rejected this. Rumors of this painting surfaced years ago when Khrushchev visited Lenin’s museum.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“
Le Parisien
reporters discovered—or so they said—an old madam who counted Lenin as a client at her bordello across from the Archives Nationales. Seems he would stop by after a long day of research. Contradicts the Lenin myth, the ascetic father of the people. Why shouldn’t Lenin go for the fruit of the flesh elsewhere, since his wife’s mother had their bedroom and lived with them for years?” He shrugged. “But morality aside, another item came up. More serious.”

Aimée realized she’d been holding her breath. She pulled her coat tighter in the damp chill.

“Twelve years ago, a descendent of Cortot, Modigliani’s first dealer—that relationship was short-lived—brought papers for me to appraise and make sense of. He’d found them in the family château’s attic. A job I do with annoying frequency.” Huppert gave a sigh. His breath fogged in the chilly evening air. “Old collectors die and the family hopes there’s a treasure
stashed.” He paused. “I’m straying. An entry marked ‘unpaid’ in Cortot’s ledger lists a portrait commissioned by Lenin.”

“Would that be in 1910?” Aimée asked.

Huppert thought. Rocked on his heels. Studied her for a moment. “That or 1911. Cortot couldn’t collect the commission. Not surprising since Modi hated painting commissions. He refused, to all his dealers’ despair. But maybe Lenin paid him with a bottle. Who knows? Cortot heard the buzz from the café crowd and sniffed money.”

A couple entered the courtyard. Huppert waited for them to pass. Their laughter echoed off the stone and frightened the cat from the bushes. With the dark-blue smear of sky above the damp foliage, this once-artisanal backwater felt timeless.

When the couple was gone, Aimée asked, “Was there an exhibition of Lenin’s portrait?”

“None documented. The trail dried up,” he said. “Until Pauline. She posed for Modi, fourteen years old at the time, at his second dealer’s. Alas, she’s dead. But fifteen years ago she told me that Lenin and Modi had a known rivalry. But that could be said of all his friends at one time or another—call Modi charming and infuriating at the best of times. Cadged his meals and drinks from drawings, slept at friends’.”

“All for art, you mean?” Aimée asked.

“Forget the tragic romantic,” Huppert said. “Modi produced an incredible body of work. We know so much got lost—drugging and drinking to anesthetize the pain from rampant TB. He was so anxious to hide it, he’d drink even more.”

Where did this lead? “You mean Pauline knew of the painting?”

Huppert expelled air from his lips. Shrugged. “Apparently Modi complained to her about Lenin. Called him a fanatic who covered up his own doubts to convince himself.”

“Doubts over what?”

“Fanatics must prove something to themselves and
others,” Huppert said. “He challenged Lenin at la Rotonde one night, burned Lenin’s newspaper—that we know from documents.”

“Some kind of duel?”

“Pauline heard him say, ‘I will show the real you. I only paint truth.’ And he did, she said. Lenin hated the portrait.”

Again, Huppert studied the Polaroid. “He’s holding what could be a booklet. At the time, an infamous manifesto against Marx’s ideology circulated among the Bolsheviks. It refuted everything Lenin stood for. Who’s to say he’s not holding it here? Or agreed with parts of it, suffered doubts, ideological turmoil? That would have created a scandal. Maybe he recovered his zeal or had to later take power. Lead the Revolution. But here Modi slammed it in his face.”

“What difference does it make today?” Aimée said. “The USSR doesn’t even exist anymore.”

Huppert checked his watch. As if he needed to leave but couldn’t tear himself away from this Polaroid.

“Communists in Russia venerate Lenin, keep his reputation unsullied—the government pays lip service to Marxism. No poster boys left after Stalin,” he said. “What’s embalmed in the Red Square mausoleum isn’t just waxed fruit to the older generation, or to the government who want to keep the ideology alive. The French Communists and trade unions take pride in the fact that Lenin lived and formulated his theories here. The cradle of the Revolution.”

This put a new spin on things. Still, she wasn’t sure how it could matter now.

“You’re saying Modigliani’s painting of Lenin could have had political implications?” Dombasle asked, stepping closer. “Rippling through the Kremlin, debunking the Lenin myth, tossing the textbooks or something?”

Huppert shrugged. “In 1910, Lenin was one among many exiles, no one special, banished to the edges of Paris, living on
scraps among a small Russian community. Back then, Trotsky had more followers.”

“So you’re saying …?”

“Lenin hated Trotsky. Thought he’d clawed his way to prominence, used whatever means he had to recruit followers.”

Aimée still didn’t buy it. “Who cares now?”

“What if this painting’s implications threaten an ideology?” Huppert insisted. “Think who stands to lose if Lenin’s unmasked. That’s sacrilege. Of course, that’s the infamous diatribe against Marx. But to know, I need to see the painting.”

“You mean Modigliani sabotaged Lenin?”

“Modigliani painted the truth he saw in people. He never compromised. Wealthy patrons came out ugly and fat. To him, Lenin was a pedantic Russian nursing one drink all night. Just one man among many exiles.”

Dombasle’s phone trilled. He turned away to answer it. Now or never. Aimée forced herself to speak.

“Do you know the fixer?”

Huppert’s brows rose. “She’s involved?”

Her mouth went dry. “It’s not clear,” she managed. “But do you know her?”

“Very connected and out of my league,” he said. “That’s all I know. Ask Dombasle.”

Maiwen, his daughter, appeared at his side. “Did you watch me, Papa?”

“Bien sûr, ma puce,”
he said, now the adoring father.

Maiwen skipped ahead and Huppert hesitated. “The art world’s a deep sea: currents, whirlpools, sucking tides. Amateurs navigate at their peril.”

Like she didn’t know that?

“In over my head, I know. Not my choice,” Aimée said, “but you’re salivating even contemplating this.”

His shoulders stiffened.

She’d hit home.

“You think it’s real,
n’est-ce pas?
”

“Branches grow the way the tree leans,” Huppert said. “Even in this bad Polaroid, such recognizable brushstrokes, the bold colors … it is prototypical of work from the period when he shared the studio with Soutine, in 1910. Yet this painting is so … so personal, unique, unlike anything else.” Huppert stared at her.

“Papa, we’re late,” called Maiwen from the entrance.

“When you find the Modigliani, as I sense you will, may I see it? Just once?”

Aimée slipped her card in his jacket pocket.

“Connect me to the fixer,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”

She didn’t know if they would talk. But she did know he’d scored right on one thing. She would find the Modigliani.

It didn’t ride on money or prestige; it was a way to find her mother. And save her own life.

“T
HE
ANTIQUAIRE
SAYS
tonight,” Dombasle said. He lingered at his red Fiat, a two-seater that reminded her of a large insect. A sixties classic and the size of a closet. “BRB’s handling logistics.”

“And your role?” Aimée asked, surprised. Didn’t he mastermind this?

“Let me set you straight,” he said. “I’m a recovered academic, an art historian, herded into the police academy, then right into administration of the art recovery unit. Our unit assembles evidence and decides whether there’s a case. I’m not often in the field.”

“So chatting up art dealers and crooks at the flea market—”

“A sideline,” he interrupted. “But I met you.” Grinned.

“Bottom line, you’re a
flic
,” she said.

“Job requirement. Dinner?”

“I’m late.” Her phone showed two calls from Svetla the
Russian bodyguard. Her date. “Thought you had a vernissage to go to.”

“True. Hors d’oeuvres tonight by a three-star chef.”

“Enjoy.”

“The buy’s at ten
P.M
. Where can I pick you up?”

Good question. “Call me.”

She could have sworn disappointment crossed Dombasle’s face.

Aimée checked her messages. Svetla had left the name of a bar and the time for their
rendez-vous
. It was the last thing she wanted, but when she called Svetla back, her phone went to voice mail. Great. She hoped it wasn’t a leather bar. But first she had a stop to make.

M
AREVNA—AN APRON
tied around her waist over a T-shirt with
IT’S BETTER IN THE UKRAINE
—nodded to Aimée. She set down a bowl of maroon borscht with a dollop of cream topped by dill in front of an old man, the only diner at Le Zakouski, then jerked her thumb to the back. Aimée followed her into a narrow galley kitchen where an old woman wearing a babushka chopped onions.

“Cigarette break,” Marevna said.

The woman, her eyes tearing, nodded without looking up.

Marevna lit a Sobranie from a black box and offered Aimée one. Tempted, she glanced at the gold band, the pink paper. She figured she deserved it. One drag wouldn’t kill her.

Marevna took a long drag then passed it to Aimée. “Finish it.”

The jolt hit her lungs and her brain at the same time. A moment of clarity. Then she wished she hadn’t.

“So important but you forget last night?” Marevna’s pink-lipsticked mouth turned down.

Like she could have helped it?

“Bad men, Marevna. Better you don’t know.”

Marevna took one look at her and nodded. “Right. I don’t want to. But what’s this so urgent?”

Aimée stubbed out the Sobranie and handed her the sealed envelope. “First we need to steam it open.”

Back in the kitchen, Aimée held the envelope over the steaming pot of borscht on the stove. She wondered if it was worth using this short time she had for Marevna to listen to the recording she’d made of the diva and Tatyana. Probably just champagne-fueled ramblings. She decided against it.

The old babushka kept slicing onions, tears trailing down her wrinkled cheeks. The smell of dill and alcohol emanated from a gray-haired man snoring on a stool by the pantry.

“Who’s he?” Aimée asked.

“Lana’s uncle. Never called you, did he?”

Aimée shook her head, careful to keep her fingers away from the steam as she moved the envelope flap back and forth over it. “The old Trotskyist. Guess he didn’t have much to say.”

“But he did,” Marevna said. “He knew that Yuri. Kept saying old Trotskyists never die, they just go underground. Or into the government.”

What did that mean? “Care to enlighten me?”

Marevna reached above the ledge near a set of dusty red Russian nesting dolls. Pulled out a newspaper,
Socialist Daily
, dated November of last year.

“He never sober very long, but he want to show you this,” Marevna said. “Said Trotsky group met underground at Saint Anne’s hospital during the war.”

That wouldn’t help her. “I’m interested in the seventies.”

“The operating room functioned in the bomb shelter then. One of the orderlies was a Trotskyist and a Jew. He hid there—many others, too. Trotskyists kept meeting there after liberation. Still do, as far as he knows. Said to tell you.”

Taped to the back of the envelope with yellowed cellophane tape was a note.

“What’s this note say, Marevna?”

“Lenin left in 1912 in hurry to Zurich. Entrust—that’s how you say?—to him, Piotr. Made him swear on his mother’s life never open or show this to anyone. Lenin say keep for me.” The edges of the envelope flap curled up and Aimée pulled it away from the steam. Everything smelled like borscht here; no doubt her jacket would reek.

“Can you read this and give me the gist of it?”

“Gist?”