are just inert materials. They’re not. Antiques know what we think of them. Forgeries don’t have feelings, but sure as God the real things do.
“… Lovejoy.”
Almira interrupting. “Eh?”
“He says no deal. Buy the bureau on the truck, or nothing.”
“Tell him to stuff it.”
And I went outside to the car. She stayed behind to say no, ta, to Sly. We left, me burned up at having to part from that wonder. I could hardly speak until we’d driven out of the place.
“That fire screen was magic,” I told her, courageously not weeping. “The bureau on the truck was a copy, modern, of Roentgen’s work. He was famous for his stupendous gliding parts—drawers, doors, rests—and marquetry. He’s become more faked than most Old Masters, especially here on the Continent.”
“What
“Roentgen’s skill was so terrific that even the makers of automata—you know those little working models?—got him to make their models.”
“So? Couldn’t you buy that fake bureau, and make more money on it than the genuine fire screen?”
“Of course.” You have to be patient. “But the antique is alive and beautiful. The other’s a load of dead planks.”
She was exasperated. “But
“Bugger profit,” I said crudely.
It was several miles before she spoke. We were pulling in to a town car park, quite a sizeable place with Paulie and Philippe Troude just arriving at a cafe and the lovely Monique preceding them in.
Almira said, “Lovejoy. Are antiques, well, real people?”
Women can surprise you, even when you think they’ve run out of ideas. “That’s right, dwoorlink. I only wish that real people were real people.”
I made it sound a joke. But I was only thinking how curious it was that a rare genuine antique like that Georges Jacob screen had turned up in a dump like that village shop, with a superb valuable fake like the Roentgen bureau in the same yard. So I smiled and said I loved her. She smiled back and said she loved me. We were sickeningly sweet.
“Paulie and Cissie will be so grateful, Lovejoy,” she told me. “I’ll go across with you.”
Carefully not holding hands, we crossed briskly. No antique shops in sight, so I didn’t care. I wish I’d been more discriminating. It’s foolish to obey women, because they’re usually wrong, but what can you do?
Paul emerged as we went in. He tried to reach for my hand to say so long. I passed him with an out-of-my-way look. A wimp’s a wimp because he’s determined to stay one. I’d no patience.
“Where to?” I asked Almira. Except that she was no longer with me. I looked round. She’d gone. And Paul.
“Monsieur.” A waiter ushered me through a scatter of diners, and from then on it was no game. Couldn’t expect it to be, because antiques never are. But I felt utterly at peace, so serene. Antiques, even if they aren’t mine, are the breath of life. I had to be near them at any price, and felt close.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
« ^ »
There was a lunatic survey not long since. I read it in Doc Lancaster’s waiting room midst ponging infants and wheezing geriatrics. Two things Make the Heart Sink, the magazine shrieked, “Parting After Sex” and “Meeting Somebody You Want to Avoid”. Well I’m sure the first is wrong; parting after sex is a pretty good idea. But the second is dead on. Bingo-time.
I entered this little nooky room above the cafe. The Heart Sank as I recognized the bloke seated at a polished table. That is to say, I’d never clapped eyes on him before in my life, but I recognized him all right. He was Superior Officer, fresh from military command of the most exacting kind. I hated him instantly, his ideals, his purity of vision. Nothing wrong with being a soldier, but there’s one sort that chills the blood. They have the light of eagles in their eyes, and smell cannonfire sipping yoghurt with the bishop. They are patriotic, loyal, unyielding. They cost lives— hundreds, thousands of lives. And I’d only one—none to spare for the likes of him.
“This is Lovejoy, Monsieur.”
Troude was pleasant as ever—in fact, I instantly saw Troude in a kindlier light. Beside Monique’s lacquered delectable hardness and the colonel’s crew-cut ramrod stiffness, Troude was almost pally.
“Monsieur Marimee will control the process,” Monique said,
Marimee fixed me with a gimlet eye. Clean-shaven, steel-grey hair, slightly sallow, lean as a whippet, he looked ready to jump from the plane at a cool eight thousand feet. Odd, but the table—a humdrum modern folding job straight from the nosh bar below —instantly took on a desperate polishy appearance, like it was on parade. It’s the effect these blokes have. Of course he had a file. He opened it, threatening me with his eyeballs.
“You are a criminal.” The English was a bit slidey, but clear with meaning.
“Not much of one.”
“You are an
