'Anything. The name of the junk shop Vachey's supposed to have bought this from would be nice.'
'Where am I supposed to get that?'
I lowered my voice. 'You could try Pepin. He seems pretty forthcoming.'
'Right. Sure. Will do. Well, gotta go.'
I nodded mutely to him as he left, his toothy, cocky grin in place. Pick up Nadia. Lithe, sexy, pretty Nadia. How did the guy do it, I wondered glumly. And where, while I was on the topic of lithe, sexy, pretty people, was Anne right now? Sleeping, no doubt; it was just 4:00 a.m. on the West Coast. In an hour the pale early-morning light would begin to filter through the curtains onto her face. She would stir.
'We are finished?' Pepin asked, having had enough of watching me staring into the middle distance.
'We are finished,' I said. Together we got the painting back up. I had to admit that no one could have handled it any more tenderly than Pepin did.
I was hot from the mild effort, which struck me as odd. Picture galleries usually have rigid climate control systems, and the ideal temperature is generally agreed to be sixty-eight degrees. But it felt more like seventy-four or seventy-five to me. It had the previous night as well, but I'd attributed that to the crush. The air seemed dry too, below the conventional fifty to fifty-five percent humidity, but I was less sure about that.
'Monsieur Pepin, does it seem a little warm in here to you?'
Pepin took this, as he took just about everything, as a personal insult.
'Thank you. Are there other complaints you wish me to convey to Monsieur Va-to Madame Guyot?'
'I'm not complaining, I-never mind, forget it.'
The hell with it, I thought. A few weeks at seventy-four degrees wasn't going to hurt my Rembrandt. Not when you considered that it had apparently gotten along without my expert advice, or anybody's expert advice, for 360-plus years. Junk shops and attics are not known for their exacting temperature controls.
Oops. Did I just call it a Rembrandt? No quotation marks, no 'alleged'? Did I just call it my Rembrandt? Watch it there, Norgren, don't commit yourself before you have to. Even dead, Vachey was likely to have a trick or two up his sleeve.
I thanked Pepin for his help, and went and got Charpentier.
'Frankly, Christopher,' he said as we departed le maison Vachey, I'm glad you're coming with me. You can restrain me if Froger again brings out the savage beast in me.'
I laughed. 'We can restrain each other.'
Chapter 12
Hunching grouchily along with a cigarette loosely wedged in the corner of his mouth, hands in the pockets of his baggy tweed jacket, chin tucked into a wool muffler, and black beret jammed down to his ears-all despite the mild fall weather-Charpentier reminded me of one of those black-and-white photos of postwar France, in which everybody was riding a bicycle, or carrying a baguette, or both, all the while looking Gallic as hell.
Everybody still carries baguettes here, but there aren't so many bicycles anymore, and berets are a thing of the past, worn only by Spaniards and Americans-and a few rare mavericks like Charpentier. Add those Neanderthal eyebrows and the rubbery red nose to the rest of it, and he seemed like a throwback, a workman heading back to the job after his midday tumbler of red wine, crusty bread, and cheese.
I was feeling a bit Neanderthal myself, surrounded as we were by hordes of good-looking, well-dressed university students on their way back to class. Twice a day-for morning coffee and at lunch-the students briefly overwhelmed the otherwise quiet Old City, streaming to and from the cafes and sandwich bars. They are very noticeable too, and not just because of their number. French university students are strikingly different-looking from their American counterparts-languid and trendy in expensive bomber jackets and oversized sweaters with pushed- up sleeves, and meticulously groomed and dressed so as to create the impression of being carelessly groomed and dressed. To my discerning American eye they looked more like walking advertisements for Arpels or Calvin Klein than like serious, legitimate students. Where were their ragged cut-offs, for God's sake, their combat boots, their nose rings? Where were their Frisbees?
'Jean-Luc,' I said, 'did you know Vachey very well?'
'Not very well, no.'
'Really? I got the impression last night you were old friends.' Old acquaintances, anyway.
'No, no, I reviewed some of his paintings many, many years ago when I wrote for ActuelArt. My remarks failed to please him, I'm afraid.'
'Do you mean his show, The Turbulent Century?'
'No. As a matter of fact, I did review The Turbulent Century as well, but, no, I refer now to his own works.'
'His own works?'
He glanced at me, scowling through cigarette smoke. 'You didn't know he once painted?'
'I had no idea. What kind of thing did he do?'
When we stepped out of the narrow, shaded Rue des Forges and into the sunny, open space of the Place Francois Rude with its fountain and outdoor cafe tables, Charpentier seemed to realize the day was anything but wintry. The beret was snatched off his head with one hand and stuffed in a pocket of his tweed jacket, the muffler was tugged from his neck with the other hand and stuffed into the opposite pocket. It made him look a little less anachronistic, but it didn't do anything for the shape of his jacket. And even in the sunshine, he walked as if he were breasting an Antarctic gale.
'Rene Vachey was an artiste with a purpose,' he said, leaving no doubt about his view of 'artistes' with purposes. 'He believed that the Abstractionists had all but killed art. He wanted painting to return to the figurative Cubism of Braque and Picasso-of Leger, for that matter. And that's the way he painted.'
He took an immense pull on the cigarette without taking it from his mouth. A half-inch of it sizzled into ash, drooped, and landed on his lapel. 'Well, he was right about Abstractionism, I'll give him that much.' He paused to unleash a long gust of smoke. 'Painting has been going steadily to hell ever since the 1920s-Mondrian and his damned neoplasticists. Sterile. Nothing but dead end after dead end. You agree, I imagine?'
I did, except that if you ask me, painting's been going to hell for a lot longer than that, ever since Daubigny and his Barbizon group came along, way back in the 1850s.
Sorry, Tony, it just slipped out.
'But of course,' he went on, 'these reactionary movements have no chance. They're nothing but self- indulgent fantasies, impossible of success. Look at the Pre-Raphaelites-and Vachey was no Rossetti, I can tell you.'
'But he was actually good enough to have his own show?'
Charpentier snorted, or maybe it was a laugh. 'How good must you be to have a show in your own gallery? It was an exhibition, with all his usual, tiresome fanfare, of works by the small cadre of neo-Cubists in his circle. I had the questionable privilege of reviewing them for ActuelArt.'
'Not favorably, I gather.'
'They were rubbish. And the six or seven pieces by Vachey himself were laughable-derivative, shallow, pallid, clumsy, uninformed. That is what I wrote, and I was forced to write it again two years later, when he was misguided enough to participate in a second show. Apparently, that review-admittedly somewhat less generous- convinced him that his career lay in the selling of pictures, in which he was already well-established, and not in the painting of them.'
He stopped to deposit his cigarette stub in a waste bin. 'I have always looked upon it,' he said, 'as my single greatest contribution to the welfare of art.'
We stopped at a student-ravaged sandwich bar for its last two ham-and-tomato sandwiches on not-so-crusty bread, then walked a block further down the Rue Dauphine toward the Musee Barillot, Charpentier lighting up again as we left the bar, and pulling in smoke as hungrily as if he'd been without a cigarette for weeks. In France, they
