“I’m sure you’re right, madam,” said Julian.
“The Chippendale rocking chair is unquestionably a masterpiece, but sadly it would look somewhat out of place in a Beverly Hills mansion. And Delft isn’t to my taste.” She continued to look round the room, until her eyes came to rest on the egg. “But I do love your Fabergé egg.” Julian smiled ingratiatingly. “What does the green dot mean?” she asked innocently.
“That it’s reserved for another customer, madam; an American gentleman I’m expecting tomorrow.”
“What a pity,” she said, staring lovingly at the egg. “I’m working tomorrow, and flying to Paris the following day.” She smiled sweetly at Julian and said, “It clearly wasn’t meant to be. Thank you.” She began walking slowly toward the door.
Julian hurried after her. “It’s possible, of course, that the customer won’t come back. They often don’t, you know.”
She paused by the door. “And how much did he agree to pay for the egg?” she asked.
“Six hundred and twenty-five thousand,” said Julian.
“Pounds?”
“Yes, madam.”
She walked back and took an even longer look at the egg. “Would six hundred and fifty thousand convince you that he won’t be returning?” she asked, giving him that same sweet smile.
Julian beamed as she sat down at his desk and took a checkbook out of her bag. “Whom shall I make it out to?” she asked.
“Julian Farnsdale Fine Arts Ltd.,” he said, placing one of his cards in front of her.
She wrote out the name and the amount slowly, and double-checked them before signing “Gloria Gaynor” with a flourish. She handed the check to Julian who tried to stop his hand from shaking.
“If you’re not doing anything special tomorrow night,” she said as she rose from her chair, “perhaps you’d like to come to my concert?”
“How kind of you,” said Julian.
She took two tickets out of her bag and passed them across to him. “And perhaps you’d care to join me backstage for a drink after the show?”
Julian was speechless.
“Good,” she said. “I’ll leave your name at the stage door. Please don’t tell Millie or Susan. There just isn’t enough room for everyone. I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course, Miss Gaynor. You can rely on me. I won’t say a word.”
“And if I could ask you for one small favor?” she said as she closed her bag.
“Anything,” said Julian. “Anything.”
“I wonder if you’d be kind enough to deliver the egg to the Park Lane Hotel, and ask a porter to send it up to my room.”
“You could take it with you now if you wish, Miss Gaynor.”
“How kind of you,” she said, “but I’m lunching with Mick. . . .” She hesitated. “I’d prefer if it could be delivered to the hotel.”
“Of course,” said Julian. He accompanied her out of the shop to the waiting car, where the chauffeur was holding open the back door.
“How silly of me to forget,” she said just before stepping into the car. She turned back to Julian and whispered into his ear, “For security reasons, my room is booked in the name of Miss Hampton.” She smiled flirtatiously. “Otherwise I’d never get a moment’s peace.”
“I quite understand,” said Julian. He couldn’t believe it when she bent down and kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you, Julian,” she said. “I look forward to seeing you after the show,” she added as she climbed into the back seat.
Julian stood there shaking as Millie and Susan joined him on the pavement.
“Did she give you any tickets for her show?” asked Millie as the car drove away.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Julian, then walked back into his shop and closed the door.
The smartly dressed young man writing down some figures in a little black book reminded her of the rent collector from her youth. “How much did it cost us this time?” she asked quietly.
“Five days at the Park Lane came to three thousand three hundred, including tips, the stretch limo was two hundred pounds an hour, sixteen hundred in all.” His forefinger continued down the handwritten inventory. “The two items you purchased from the jewelry shop came to fifteen hundred.” She touched a pearl earring and smiled. “Meals along with other expenses, including five extras from the casting agency, five autograph books, and a parking fine, came to another nine hundred and twenty-two pounds. Six tickets for tonight’s concert purchased from a tout, a further nine hundred pounds, making eight thousand, two hundred and twenty-two pounds in all, which, at today’s exchange rate, comes to about thirteen thousand three hundred and sixty-nine dollars. Not a bad return,” he concluded as he smiled across at her.
She glanced at her watch. “Dear sweet Julian should be arriving at the Albert Hall about now,” she said. “Let’s at least hope he enjoys the show.”
“I would have liked to go with him.”
“Behave yourself, Gregory,” she teased.
“When do you think he’ll find out?”
“When he turns up at the stage door after the show and finds his name isn’t on the guest list, would be my guess.”
Neither of them spoke while Gregory went over the figures a second time, then finally closed his little book and placed it in an inside pocket.
“I must congratulate you on your research this time,” she said. “I must admit I’d never heard of Robert Adam, Delft, or Chippendale before you briefed me.”
Gregory smiled. “Napoleon once said that time spent on reconnaissance is rarely wasted.”
“So where does Napoleon stay when he’s in Paris?”
“The Ritz Carlton,” Gregory replied matter-of-factly.
“That sounds expensive.”
“We don’t have much choice,” he replied. “Miss Gaynor has booked a suite at the Ritz because it’s convenient for the Pleyel concert hall. In any case, it gives the right image for someone who’s planning to steal a Modigliani.”
“This is your captain speaking,” said a voice over the intercom. “We’ve been cleared for landing at Charles de Gaulle airport, and should be on the ground in round twenty minutes. All of us at British Airways hope you’ve had a pleasant flight and that you enjoy your stay in Paris, whether it be for business or pleasure.”
A flight attendant leaned over and said, “Would you be kind enough to fasten your seat belt, madam? We’ll be beginning our descent very shortly.”
“Yes, of course,” she said smiling up at the flight attendant.
The attendant took a second look at the passenger and said, “Has anyone ever told you that you look just like Gloria Gaynor?”
A GOOD EYE
8
There have been Grebenars living in the small town of Hertzendorf, nestled in the Bavarian hills, for more than three hundred years.
The first Grebenar of any note was Hans Julius, born in 1641, the youngest son of a miller. Hans worked diligently as a pupil at the town’s only school, and became the first member of the family to attend university. After four years of conscientious study, the young man left Heidelberg with a law degree. Despite this achievement, Hans did not hanker after the cosmopolitan life of Munich or even the more gentle charm of Friedrichsville. Rather, he returned to the place of his birth, where he rented a set of rooms in the center of the town and opened his own law practice.
As the years went by, Hans Julius was elected to the local council, later becoming a freeman of the town as well as an elder of the parish church. Toward the end of his days he was responsible for establishing the town’s first municipal museum. If that had been all Herr Grebenar achieved, commendable though it was, he would have gone to his grave unworthy of even a short story. However, there is more to be said about this man because God had given him a rare gift: a good eye.
Young Grebenar began to take an interest in paintings and sculptures while he was at university, and once he’d seen everything Heidelberg had to offer
(several times), he took every opportunity to travel to other cities in order to view their treasures.
During his bachelor years he put together a small but worthy collection, his limited means not allowing him to acquire anything of real significance. That changed the day he prosecuted Friedrich Bloch, who appeared before the court on a charge of being drunk and disorderly.
Herr Grebenar wouldn’t have given the uncouth ruffian a second thought had Bloch not described himself on the court sheet as a painter. Curiosity got the better of the prosecutor, and after Bloch had been fined ten marks, an amount he was ordered to pay within seven days or face a three-month jail sentence, Grebenar decided to follow him back to his home in the hope of finding out if he painted walls or canvases.
Over the years, Grebenar had come to admire the works of Caravaggio, Rubens, and Bruegel, and on one occasion he had even traveled to Amsterdam to view the works of Rembrandt at his studio, but the moment he set eyes on his first Bloch, Child Pushing a Wheelbarrow, he realized that he was in the presence of a remarkable talent.
An hour later, the lawyer left Bloch’s studio with an empty purse but in possession of two self-portraits in oil, as well as Child Pushing a Wheelbarrow. He then went straight to the guild house, where he withdrew a large enough sum of money to cause the clerk to raise an eyebrow.
After a light lunch he returned to court, where he discharged the artist’s fine, which caused several more raised eyebrows, because he had successfully prosecuted the miscreant only that morning.
When the court rose later that afternoon, Grebenar, still wearing his long black gown and wing collar, took a carriage back to the artist’s home. Bloch was surprised to see the prosecutor for a third time that day, and was even more surprised when he handed over the largest number of coins the artist had ever seen, in return for every painting, drawing, and notebook that bore Bloch’s signature.
Herr Grebenar did not come across Friedrich Bloch again until the artist was arrested a year later, on the far more serious charge of attempted murder.
Grebenar visited the artist in prison where he languished while awaiting trial. He informed an incredulous Bloch that he was willing to defend him against the charge of attempted murder, but should he get him off, he would require a rather unusual recompense. Bloch, having gone through all his money, agreed to the lawyer’s terms without question.
On the morning of the trial Herr Grebenar was inspired; he had rarely experienced a better day in court. He argued that as at least twelve men had been involved in the drunken brawl, how could the constable, who had arrived some time after the victim had been stabbed, possibly know which one of them had been responsible for the crime?
The jury agreed, and Bloch was acquitted on the charge of attempted murder, although he was found guilty of the lesser offense of drunken affray and sentenced to six months in prison.
When Bloch was released, Herr Grebenar was waiting for him in his carriage outside the prison gates. Grebenar outlined his terms during the journey to the artist’s home and Bloch listened intently, nodding from time to time. He made only one request of his patron. Grebenar readily agreed to supply him with a large canvas, several new brushes, and any pigments and powders he required. He also paid Bloch a weekly stipend to ensure that he could live comfortably, but not excessively, while carrying out his commission.
It took Bloch almost a year to complete the work and Grebenar accepted it was the weekly stipend that had caused him to take his time. However, when the lawyer saw the oil painting Christ’s Sermon on the Mount he did not begrudge the artist one mark, as even an untutored eye would have been left in no doubt of its genius.
Grebenar was so moved by the work that he immediately offered the young maestro a further commission, even though he realized it might take him several years to execute. “I want you to paint twelve full-length portraits of Our Lord’s disciples,” he told the artist with a collector’s enthusiasm.
Bloch happily agreed, as the commission would ensure a regular supply of money for years to come.
He began his commission with a portrait of St. Peter standing at the gates of Jerusalem holding crossed keys. The sadness in the eyes of the saint revealed how ashamed he was for betraying Our Lord.
Grebenar visited the artist’s home from time to time, not to study any unfinished canvases, but to check that Bloch was in his studio, working. If he discovered the artist was not at his easel, the weekly stipend was suspended until the lawyer was convinced Bloch had returned to work.
The portrait of St. Peter was presented to Herr Grebenar a year later, and the prosecutor made no complaint about its cost, or the amount of time it had taken. He simply rejoiced in his good fortune.
St. Peter was followed by Matthew sitting at the seat of Custom, extracting Roman coins from the Jews; another year. John followed, a painting that some critics consider Bloch’s finest work: indeed, three centuries later Sir Kenneth Clark has compared the brushwork to Luini’s. However, no scholar at the time was able to offer an opinion, as Bloch’s works were only seen by one man, so the artist grew neither in fame nor reputation—a problem Matisse was to face two hundred years later.
This lack of recognition didn’t seem to worry Bloch so long as he continued to receive a weekly income, which allowed him to spend his evenings in the alehouse surrounded by his friends. In turn, Grebenar never complained about Bloch’s nocturnal activities, as long as the artist was sober enough to work the next day.
Ten months later, James followed his brother John, and Grebenar thanked God that he had been chosen to be the artist’s patron. Doubting Thomas staring in disbelief as he placed a finger in Christ’s wound took the maestro only seven months. Grebenar was puzzled by the artist’s sudden industry, until he discovered that Bloch had fallen for a steatopygous barmaid from a local tavern and had asked her to marry him.
James the son of Alphaeus appeared just weeks before their first child was born, and Andrew, the fisher of men, followed soon after their second.
After Bloch, his wife, and their two children moved into a small house on the outskirts of Hertzendorf, Philip of Galilee and Simon the Zealot followed within months, as the rent collector needed to be paid. What pleased Grebenar most was that the quality of each new canvas remained consistent, whatever travails or joys its creator was going through at the time.
There was then an interval of nearly two years when no work was forthcoming. Then, without warning, Thaddaeus and Bartholomew followed in quick succession. Some critics have suggested that each new canvas coincided with the appearance of the latest mistress in Bloch’s life, although there is little or no historical evidence to back up their claims.
Herr Grebenar was well aware that Bloch had deserted his wife, returned to his old lodgings, and was once again frequenting the alehouses at night. He feared that the next time he came across his protégé it would be in court.
Grebenar only needed one more disciple to complete the twelve, but when no new canvas had appeared for over a year and Bloch was never to be found in his studio during the day, the lawyer decided the time had come to withhold his weekly allowance. But it was not until every alehouse in Hertzendorf had refused to serve him before his slate had been cleared that Bloch reluctantly returned to work.
Five months later he produced a dark, forbidding image of Judas Iscariot, thirty pieces of silver scattered on the floor round his feet. Historians have suggested the portrait mirrored the artist’s own mood at the time, as the face is thought to be in the image of his patron. Grebenar was amused by Bloch’s final effort, and bequeathed the twelve portraits of Christ’s disciples to the town’s recently built museum, so that they could be enjoyed by the local citizens long after both the artist and his patron had departed this world.
It was over a game of chess with his friend Dr. Müller that Grebenar learned his protégé had contracted syphilis and had only months to live—a year at the most.
“Such a waste of a truly remarkable talent,” said
Dr. Müller.
“Not if I have anything to do with it,” retorted Grebenar, as he removed the doctor’s queen from the board.
The following morning Herr Grebenar visited Bloch in his rooms and was horrified to discover the state the artist was in. He was lying flat on his back, fully clothed, stinking of ale, his arms and legs covered in raw, pustulous scabs.
The lawyer perched on the end of the bed. “It’s Herr Grebenar,” he said softly. “I’m distressed to find you in this sorry state, old friend,” he added to a man who was only thirty-four. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Bloch turned to face the wall, like an animal who knows death approaches.
“Dr. Müller tells me you’re unable to pay his bills, and it’s no secret you’ve been running up debts all over town and no one will grant you anymore credit.”
Not even the usual cursory grunt followed this observation. Grebenar began to wonder if Bloch could hear him. The lawyer leaned over and whispered in his ear, “If you paint one last picture for me, I’ll clear all your debts and make sure the doctor supplies you with any drugs you need.”
Bloch still didn’t move.
Grebenar saved his trump card until last, and when he’d played it, the artist turned over and smiled for the first time in weeks.
It took Bloch nearly a month to recover enough strength to pick up a paintbrush, but when he finally managed it, he was like a man possessed. No drink, no women, no debts. Just hour after hour spent working on the canvas that he knew would be his final work.
He completed the painting on March 17, 1679, a few days before he died, drunk, in a whore’s bed.
When Grebenar first set eyes on The Last Supper he recalled the final words he had spoken to the artist: “If you achieve what you are capable of, Friedrich, unlike me you will be guaranteed immortality.”
Grebenar couldn’t take his eyes off the haunting image. The twelve disciples were seated round a table, with Christ at the center breaking the communion bread. Although each one of the Apostles sat in different poses and leaned at different angles, they were unmistakably the same twelve men whose portraits Bloch had painted during the past decade. Grebenar marveled at how Bloch had achieved such a feat since once they had left his studio, the artist had never set eyes on them again. Grebenar decided there was only one place worthy of such a masterpiece.