Framed

  “Yes, very much. I’ve been following his work for four or five years and I’ve . . .”

  I’m drunk, I’m going to have to face up to it. And, therefore, short on patience. I wait for her to finish her sentence so that I can set off on another subject. Old Mother Coste is a living encyclopaedia, and I mustn’t miss this opportunity.

  “Do you know Juan Alfonso?”

  She frowns at me, surprised by the change of subject. “. . . Um. . . Yes, vaguely, but I don’t know much about him. . . He’s a Cubist no one had really heard of until very recently. A hundred and fifty of his pieces were sold at Drouot, that’s all I know. Are you interested in Cubism?”

  “No.”

  “When are you going to come back and work for us?”

  “I’ve got one or two things to sort out first, then I’ll see.”

  “Have you heard about what happened at the depot?”

  “Yes, I saw Superintendent Delmas.”

  Linnel comes back with a bottle and shakes Coste’s hand. They exchange a few quick niceties, and she heads off towards the other rooms, apologizing for having not yet seen the exhibition.

  “You see that woman there,” says Linnel, “she’s one of the few really sincere people in this business. She didn’t wait till I got here before liking my stuff.”

  I’m happy to hear him say that. I’d always suspected that my ex-boss really did like what she does.

  “Right, that’s enough of that bollocks, we’ve got behind, pour us a drink!” he says, handing me a glass and a bottle.

  “I can’t. . . I’d rather you poured . . .”

  To clarify the situation, I take my sleeve from my pocket and show him the stump. In spite of myself, this gesture has become the finishing blow to my dialectics.

  “Well that’s not very handy!”

  Delarge is taking his protégé by the shoulders. It’s too late.

  “Alain, we need you for some photos, please excuse us,” he says to me with a smile which makes Judas’s kiss look like a touch of tenderness.

  “I haven’t got time, Edgar, can’t you see I’m chatting to my friend? And my friend is an enlightened art-lover! He really genuinely is!”

  Delarge bites his lip.

  “Stop it, Alain . . . ST-O-O-O-P . . . you’re going too far.”

  “Go and look after your guests, you’ve always been better at that than me . . .”

  “Your . . . friend can cope without you for a minute. And it will stop him asking too many questions.”

  In my clouded mind I felt that was one sentence too many. The exhibition rooms seemed empty, I hadn’t noticed the time passing. I closed my eyes and saw a few shapeless black clouds scudding across my eyelids. I raised my arms slowly and my fist completed its arabesque smack in the middle of Delarge’s face. It had to come out. I grabbed him by the collar to headbutt him two or three times, his nose shattered but my screaming masked his, then I kneed him and kicked him, shaking off the anger that had been accumulating for too long. He fell, not me, and I felt that made things more convenient: I aimed for his head with the tip of my shoe, just one last, definitive . . .

  Didn’t have time, two blokes got me away from him right at that moment, and I howled because I hadn’t satisfied that urge. The one closest to me took the blow, in the tibia, he bent over; the other one grabbed hold of me and slammed me to the floor, my stump slipped and my face crashed down onto the carpet. A punch in the back of my neck crushed it a bit further. I was snatched up by my hair and forced to get up.

  Someone mentioned the police.

  Over in a corner I saw Linnel pouring himself a drink.

  Delarge, who was still on the floor, bellowed an order.

  To chuck me out.

  The two men, who had been watching the door, took an arm each, twisted them round behind my back and dragged me all the way to the Rue du Renard. One of them, in a last spasm of violence, yanked at my hair to jerk my head round.

  I saw a great strip of night sky before taking the side of his hand full in the face.

  *

  I waited a long time, I’ve lost track, a good twenty minutes, before a heroic taxi driver stopped beside this wreck in a tie sitting with his head among the stars waiting for his nose to be good enough to stop bleeding. Before opening the door he handed me a box of tissues.

  “Shall we go to a chemist?”

  “Not worth it.”

  “Where then?”

  I’ve already been thinking about that as I’ve sobered up, lying on the ventilation grill above Rambuteau station. In the little sleeve for my travel pass I found the address of the only man I know who would really be able to dress a wound. My nose is hurting and I’ll only entrust it to a doctor. Right now, I really hope he isn’t married.

  “Rue de la Fontaine-au-Roi.”

  “We’re off.”

  I throw away the sticky red mass that can’t absorb any more blood and tear off another handful of tissues.

  “I’m being careful with your upholstery,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m not fussed, if it had been puke I wouldn’t have taken you. I can’t stand vomit.”

  The whole way there he didn’t try to find out why my nose was pissing blood, and he left me on the doorstep to number 32. I appreciated the quality of his silence.

  Briançon, fourth floor, left. The stairwell smells of piss, and the light doesn’t work. Through his door I can hear music playing softly, oboe, perhaps. I ring the bell.

  “Antoine . . .?”

  The red all down my shirtfront means I don’t have to speak; I go in.

  “But what. . .? Sit yourself down.”

  I keep my head tilted back and he sits me down, then walks round the room for a bit before coming back with everything he needs to clean up my face.

  A compress burns my nose.

  “Is it broken?” I ask.

  “If it were broken, you’d know.”

  “It’s standing up well considering everything it’s been subjected to this year . . .”

  “Have you been in a fight?”

  “Yes, and it felt good. You’re right, Doctor, with a bit of determination you can overcome handicaps, I flattened two of them, just like that. As if I were all there. And when I was all there I never flattened anyone.”

  “Do you think you’re being funny?”

  While we waited for my nose to clot we sat in silence, for a good fifteen minutes. Then he took off my jacket and shirt and put a clean sweatshirt on me. I accepted everything, quite docile, everything except the drink.

  “I’ve been waiting for you to come and see me,” he said, “but under different circumstances.”

  “But I often think of you. I’m making progress.”

  “If you really want to make progress you’d do better to come and see me at Boucicaut. There are all sorts of physiotherapy equipment there. You’d only need three months.”

  “Never. It’ll come of its own accord, it’s like love. We’ve only just met, and right now, I’m only flirting shyly with my left side. Then we’ll get to trusting and helping each other, and one day it’ll be a firm, loyal couple. Takes time.”

  “Wasted time. Have you found a job?”

  “A policeman’s already asked me that.”

  He pauses deliberately.

  “Has your attacker been found?”

  “Not yet.”

  “And is there a connection with what happened this evening?”

  For a moment I almost blurted it all out to him, in one go, to get it all into the open. If I hadn’t had my face smashed in, I’m sure I would have spewed out all the bile inside me.

  “None at all. I was drunk and I tested the patience of some people a bit stronger than me. But I wouldn’t have missed it for anything in the world.”

  A long silence. The doctor is looking at me differently now and shaking his head gently.

  “You take it too well, Antoine.”

  “Can I stay here?”

  “. . . Um. . . If
you like. I’ve only got this sofa.”

  “Perfect.”

  Once he had found some sheets and a pillow for me we said goodnight to each other.

  “Slam the door as you go out, I’m bound to leave before you do. Come and see me soon, and don’t wait till you’ve got blood all over your face.”

  I didn’t add anything to that. Once he had shut the door to his bedroom I was sure I would never see him again.

  *

  Sleep took a long time coming, and even then it didn’t last long. I left at about five o’clock in the morning without even bothering to write a thank-you note to Briançon. I thought the night air would do me some good and that my nose needed to be in the cold. If I drag my feet, I can get back to the Marais in about half an hour by going up the Rue Oberkampf. Longer than I need to picture how I’m going to get through the coming day. The doctor’s right, I’m feeling all right, almost calm, and I shouldn’t be. I’ve already forgotten the punches: the ones I dealt and the ones I took. One day it will cost me my nose, but it won’t have any more effect on me than this. A hand, a nose, mental health. In the state I’m in . . .

  Delarge is a bastard, and Linnel is mad. But, given the choice, I did the right thing by thumping the first. And I’m pretty sure I’ll have another go soon if he doesn’t tell me what he knows about the Objectivists. That’s the difference between Delmas and me. Delarge would always find some way to keep a policeman busy, with his lawyers and his connections. He would have to be seriously in the shit to feel worried. And all I’ve got to confront him with is my left hand. But it seems to be responding better and better.

  I went up the stairs in a muck sweat, gasping for breath, with heavy legs. My arm isn’t the only thing that has atrophied. On the corner of the desk I spotted a sheet of white paper rolled into the carriage of the typewriter, and I felt inspired. This time, after the absurd events I had just experienced, I felt like brutal disparate images. An arbitrary juxtaposition of elements that ultimately produce a meaningless violence. Surrealism.

  Dear you two

  From now on my life is as beautiful as the chance encounter between a glass of champagne and the stump of an arm on a burned canvas. Viva la muerte.

  I lay down, just for a moment, but sleep crept up on me and I sank into oblivion.

  While drinking a cup of coffee I looked through the press pack the hostess had given me. Nothing very new, except for a little paragraph on the history of the relationship between the dealer and the artist. It’s almost believable:

  “Edgar Delarge first took an interest in Alain Linnel’s work as early as 1967, and it was more than a discovery: it was a passion. He did everything he could to bring the young artist to the public eye. This is also the story of a long personal friendship. Alain Linnel has proved his loyalty too by refusing offers from the most prestigious galleries.”

  The telephone rang. My mother. She wants to come up to Paris, on her own. Bad timing, I’m planning to go to Amsterdam for a few days with a friend. It would be a shame to miss each other. She’ll put it off till next month. Big kiss and I’ll write.

  And for now I’ve still only got the heading.

  Since yesterday Delarge can count me amongst his enemies. Linnel is another, in his own way, but that’s nothing in comparison to the relentless determination of that girl, the journalist from Artefact. She almost stole the show from me yesterday with her public accusations. I’ve spent a good part of the day trying to get her on the telephone, at her newspaper, and I was clearly not the only one. Towards the end of the afternoon she deigned to reply in the same aggressive mood as the day before.

  “Good evening, mademoiselle, I was at the private view yesterday evening and . . .”

  “If you’re part of the Delarge camp you can hang up straightaway, two lawyers in the same day is enough, I know what constitutes slander . . .”

  “No, not at all, I wanted . . .”

  “Are you one of the people who’s been had? You’ve bought an Alfonso and you’re starting to ask yourself questions? Buy next month’s Artefact.”

  “No, that’s not it either, I wanted . . .”

  “Well, what do you want? Say it! I’ve got other things to get on with!”

  “Can’t you shut your mouth for a minute, damn it! I got dragged outside last night too, and I was streaming with blood and so was Delarge, is that good enough for you?”

  Slightly stunned silence on the other end. She cleared her throat a couple of times. Her voice softened a little.

  “I’m sorry. . . I went with a friend from the paper and I asked him to stay till the end. He told me about the fight . . . was that you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it to do with the Cubist?”

  “No. Well. . . I don’t think so . . .”

  “Can we meet?”

  Two hours later we’re sitting face to face at Le Palatino, a bar not far from my apartment, and the only place in the area where it feels good to lose yourself after midnight. Her name is Béatrice and yesterday she didn’t give me time to see her pretty striking face, her dark hair, her curvy figure and especially her smile. To make sure it stays on her face as long as possible I’ve clamped my bad arm down the side of my body.

  “I’m glad you called me, I was sorry I didn’t know how to get hold of you when I heard what happened at the end of the evening. I’m interested in anything that can damage Delarge.”

  “It’s a good thing not all art critics are like you.”

  “That’s not really my job, I leave that to the pen-pushers. Have you ever understood anything in art criticism?”

  Since yesterday, yes, a bit, and that was thanks to Linnel. But I say no.

  “Neither have I. The only thing I’m interested in is the money. Contemporary art doesn’t exist without money. I’ve always wondered how a picture of three blue balls on a beige background can go from nothing to a hundred grand from one year to the next. Well. . . I’m oversimplifying. . . I’ve made pricing my speciality, and it’s fascinating. I love my work.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “Have you ever read Artefact? I have a whole page every month, I sort of argue a point or I try to talk about all the things that usually get hidden, and it gets me into quite a lot of trouble – fraud, a sudden rise in prices, unreliable estimates, fluctuations influenced by fashion.”

  “Alfonso?”

  I’ve gone a bit too quickly, and she’s sensed it.

  “Here I am, talking away . . . and you’re not saying anything. It took me a year to put together my story on Alfonso, and I didn’t do that just to have it squeezed out of me a fortnight before it’s published.”

  “You’re not running any risks with me, I’m not a journalist and I find painting profoundly boring.”

  “What then? Why Delarge?”

  I felt that we were getting into a game of suspicious moves and countermoves, where the winner would have learned the most while giving the least away. And it was going to cost us some time.

  “Delarge is hiding things which may have nothing to do with your business with the Cubist. Let’s make a deal: I’ll tell you my story, and you tell me about your case. We might meet somewhere in the middle. I’ll start if you like . . .”

  She let me finish, silent, serious and without a trace of a smile. I didn’t miss anything out, I don’t think. The gentleman with the Stanley knife, the hospital dispatched in a couple of sentences, Delmas, the depot, the Objectivists (whom she’d never heard of), Nico’s death, the leaflet and Delarge. I didn’t mention billiards and the future I’ve lost, she wouldn’t have understood. I didn’t think of the consequences. As a conclusion, I ostentatiously brought my arm down onto the table and she looked searchingly into my eyes.

  To allow us a pause, I offered her another glass of Saumur Champigny.

  And I suddenly realized I was talking to a girl. A young woman even. As I looked over her curves and her smooth face again, I rediscovered old reflexes. A sort of restra
int, policing my every move, but this was completely hypocritical given the fact that, when she got up to buy some cigarettes a moment later, I did everything I could to get a look at her legs. All the contradictions are there – at last I recognize myself. We drank together, in silence, each waiting for the other to make up their mind to talk.

  She did.

  “I’m going to seem stupid with my Cubist business . . .”

  She started to laugh, in a kind way, and I put my arm back down onto my knee – out of some idiotic sense of decency.

  “Have you ever heard of Reinhard?” she asks.

  “The auctioneer? He was there yesterday.”

  “I know. Nearly two years ago Delarge announced the sale of virtually the entire output of one Juan Alfonso, a Cubist painter who was completely unknown. With that sort of sale you have to go through an auctioneer who is supposed to authenticate the works, to specify the pricing system and introduce the works to buyers at Drouot by publishing a catalogue. Reinhard handled it so brilliantly, so professionally, that one hundred and fifty pieces were sold in two days.”

  Coste was pretty well informed.

  “Collages, paintings, adorable little sculptures – they were all typical of Cubism, more Cubist than the Cubists, if you see what I mean. The catalogue itself is a masterpiece of ambiguity, no precise dates are given for Alfonso’s career; all it does is put forward hypotheses, with plenty of ifs and buts. And that’s all it takes to get one over a client base more worried about moving in the right circles than anything else. Everyone’s happy, except for Juan Alfonso, who never existed.”

  “Sorry?”

  “Alfonso is a con trick straight out of Edgar Delarge’s imagination. It’s much cleverer and more lucrative than just coming up with some fakes. He has the work done by a Cubist specialist, and I can tell you that fifty years after their time they’re far from glorious. Reinhard whips things up a bit, and the game is won. In my file I’ve got expert witnesses and an exact reconstruction of the set-up they used to put on the trick. Delarge and Reinhard are a couple of crooks. With what I’ve got here, they’ll go down.”