11

Anthony scrawled a telephone number on a page of his notebook and asked the operator at the Ritz to put him through. Because he was speaking a hasty jumble of English and Spanish he had to repeat his request several times. He had gone into the hotel not only to make the call, but also in search of the protection that the calm, impersonal luxury of the hotel seemed to offer. For a brief moment, he felt sheltered from the real world. In order to calm his spirits and sort out his ideas, he made for the bar and ordered a whisky. Once he had drunk it, he sensed the turmoil die down inside him, but was still no clearer as to the direction he should take in these unprecedented circumstances. A second whisky did nothing to resolve his doubts, but made him even more determined to take the risk. Accustomed to the eccentricities of some of the members of the hotel’s select clientele, the telephone operator dialed the number, waited a few moments, then pointed him toward a booth. Anthony shut the door behind him, lifted the receiver, and when he heard the secretary’s weary voice, said:

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Parker. My name is . . .”

“Stay on the line,” the secretary cut in, suddenly wide awake.

A few seconds later, he heard Harry Parker’s voice:

“Is that you?”

“Yes . . .”

“Don’t say your name. Where are you calling from?”

“From the Ritz Hotel, opposite the Prado.”

“I know where it is. Have you been drinking?”

“A couple of whiskies. Is it that obvious?”

“Not at all. Have another one while I’m on my way. And don’t talk to anyone, is that clear? Not to anyone. I’ll be there in under ten minutes.”

Anthony went back to the bar and ordered another whisky. He felt pleased and yet somehow sorry that he had made the telephone call. He had just finished his drink when he saw Harry Parker come into the bar. Before greeting his compatriot, Parker left his hat, coat, scarf and gloves on the back of an armchair and called a waiter. When the man came over, he slipped a bill into his hand and told him:

“Bring me a glass of port and another whisky for this gentleman. My name is Parker—like the fountain pens. If anyone asks for me, come and tell me in person, without calling out my name. I don’t want my name called out loud for any reason. Is that clear?”

The waiter stuffed the bill into his pocket, nodded briefly and moved off. The young British diplomat turned to speak to Anthony:

“Everybody here keeps an eye on everyone else: Germans, French, Japanese, Ottomans. It’s a joke, of course. Luckily, a tip solves any problem perfectly well. When I first arrived I found it hard to understand, but now it seems to me a wonderful system: it allows the Spaniards to keep wages low, while at the same time making social hierarchies plain. Workers earn half what they should, and have to thank their employers for the other half: that way their subordinate position is reinforced. Anyway, what can I do for you? If I remember rightly, the last time we met you were about to take the train back to London. What made you change your plans?”

Anthony hesitated before answering:

“Something happened . . . I don’t know if I did the right thing by calling you.”

“That we will never know. What would have happened if we had behaved differently, eh? That’s an unanswerable conundrum. For the moment, all we can be sure of is that you did telephone me, and here I am. Take your time, and tell me from the beginning why you called.”

The waiter brought their drinks. Once he had moved away again, Anthony said:

“I won’t ask for your word as a gentleman that everything I’m about to tell you should remain a secret. But I would like to beg you to treat our meeting in the strictest confidence. I’m not turning to you in your capacity as a qualified diplomat, but as a compatriot, and as someone capable of understanding the utmost importance of the matter. I’d also like to add,” he said after a moment’s pause, “that I was not lying this morning when I said I wasn’t involved in any commercial transactions. To tell you the truth, I was asked to come here to advise on the sale of a collection of paintings, but the operation fell through before it had even started.”

“What was the name of the person who contacted you? What nationality is he?”

“Oh, Mr. Parker, you know I can’t reveal that person’s identity. It’s a professional secret.”

The diplomat took a sip of his port, closed his eyes, and murmured:

“I can accept that. Go on.”

“The reason I was invited to Madrid was as you suggested: to help sell paintings outside Spain in order to deposit money abroad so that the person in question and all his family could go into exile if the political situation here demands it.”

“But you just said that the operation never even got started.”

“That’s right. At first I myself advised against the sale of the paintings, not so much for legal reasons as because I thought there was only a remote possibility of them finding a buyer in any country in Europe or America. At midday today, though, things changed . . . in a radical manner.”

“In a radical manner?” the young diplomat said skeptically. “What does ‘in a radical manner’ mean?”

Before replying, Anthony cleared his throat and stared intently at his whisky glass. He was on the verge of making the most important revelation of his life, and was sorry he was having to do it to a person he did not know, someone who clearly lacked the necessary finesse to appreciate the magnitude of what he was about to say, and in very different surroundings to those he had imagined for his moment of glory.

“It involves a Velázquez,” he said finally, with a lengthy sigh.

“Oh, indeed,” replied Harry Parker, without showing the slightest enthusiasm.

“Not only that,” Anthony went on, discouraged, “but it’s a Velázquez that hasn’t been cataloged, one that was totally unknown until now. No one knows of its existence apart from its owners, and now you and me.”

“Does that make it more valuable?”

“Of course, much more valuable. And not just from an economic point of view—because there’s more. Are you an art expert, Mr. Parker?”

“No, I’m not, but you are: tell me everything I need to know.”

“I’ll try to explain the essential as briefly as possible. Everything is known about Velázquez’s public life: he was born and brought up in Seville, came to Madrid as a young man and was appointed the court painter by Philip IV. He died of natural causes aged sixty-one. He never took part in any palace intrigues; never had any problems with the Inquisition. All this, as I said, relates to his professional life. By contrast, little is known of his private life, although it appears there is not much to know. He was married in Seville at nineteen to the daughter of his master, and had two daughters; his marriage was exemplary, and there is no evidence of any dalliances. If Velázquez had gone astray in this or any other way, his rivals—those who envied his fame and privileges—would have quickly broadcast the fact in order to undermine him. In addition, unlike many other painters of his kind, Velázquez never painted his wife, or used her as a model. Not even at the start of his career, when he painted everyday scenes using people around him. He visited Italy twice: the first time he was away for a year; the second, almost three. He did not take his wife with him, nor has any correspondence between them been found. Velázquez was a good-looking man with many advantages, and, as is plain from The Toilet of Venus in our National Gallery, he had an eye for female beauty.”

Anthony paused to make sure the other man was following his explanation, but Parker had half closed his eyes and appeared to have dozed off.

“I say,” Anthony exclaimed in astonishment, “aren’t you interested in what I’m telling you?”

“Oh, yes, yes, forgive me. I’ve just remembered some business I have to attend to tomorrow, tomorrow morning . . . you know how it is, work and all that . . . but I’m listening, I’m listening. What did you say about the National Gallery?”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Parker. I’m describing Diego de Silva Velázquez’s private life to you.”

“Look here, Whitelands, have you really made me leave my home in such a great hurry at an inconvenient time in the depths of winter, simply to suggest that perhaps Velázquez was not the perfect husband his biographers claim? I have to admit that we diplomats never disdain the secrets of the bedchamber, but honestly, I can’t see what interest there can be in the womanizing of some good-for-nothing who kicked the bucket three hundred years ago.”

Carefully placing his glass of whisky on the table, Anthony Whitelands straightened in his seat.

“I find your attitude deplorable, Parker,” he protested. “I will not allow you to be so scornful about my knowledge, or to question my assertions—and least of all, to call someone like Velázquez a ‘good-for-nothing.’”

“What assertions?”

“My assertions as to the importance of the painting. Look here: what I saw a few hours ago is not only an authentic Velázquez of the highest quality, which by itself would be a sensational discovery, but it is an extraordinary addition to the history of painting in general. I’ll give an example to help you understand. Imagine that one fine day a Shakespeare manuscript falls into your hands: a work comparable in quality to Othello or Romeo and Juliet. One which in addition contains biographical elements that can resolve the enigmas surrounding the Bard’s life? Would that be of interest to you, Mr. Parker?”

The young diplomat, who had sat through this diatribe gazing at the floor, raised his eyes and peered around the room. Then, still without looking at Anthony, he replied:

“Mr. Whitelands, what does or does not interest me is irrelevant. I have not left the comfort of my home to acquire new interests. I’m here to discover what you are interested in. And don’t be so sensitive or hotheaded, if you don’t want to tell everyone what they should not be hearing. For the love of God, even a child could see I’m merely putting you to the test. If you lose your calm, you don’t stand a chance. And now, if you can turn your thoughts away from your beloved painter for a few moments, tell me what it is you want from me in all this.”

Anthony paused to try to clarify his thoughts. The bar had started to go round and round to the rhythm of the music. He would gladly have given in to this pleasant sensation, but knew he had to express himself as clearly as possible in such a delicate matter.

“Look, there’s someone, a curator at the National Gallery. His name is Edwin Garrigaw; from a good family, highly respectable; he was my tutor at Cambridge, and by now must be getting on in years. At Cambridge he was known as Violet or something similar, but if you tell anyone that, I’ll deny I ever said it . . . Well, this gentleman, Edwin or Violet or whatever, is an expert in Spanish painting: Velázquez, Murillo, Ribera, that sort of thing. This means that in the past we have clashed on several occasions—though not personally, of course: articles in specialist reviews; an exchange of letters to The Times. Our arguments were always polite, although occasionally he was both sarcastic and mocking, because he doesn’t like me. I suspect he thinks I would like his job, and I won’t deny that a few years ago the idea did occur to me . . . but it’s not about that now. In the end, I don’t like him much either: if you want my opinion, I think he’s a snobbish old fuddy-duddy, and yet I have to admit he knows his stuff, and so I . . . I’ve written him a letter . . .”

Taking a bulky envelope out of the inside pocket of his jacket, he made as if to hand it over to his companion. At the last moment, however, he drew back and stared at it. Tears started to brim in his eyes.

“For goodness’ sake, Whitelands, get a grip,” muttered the diplomat when he saw the other man’s sudden outburst of emotion. “Your attitude is embarrassing. Would you care for another whisky?”

He signaled to the waiter, who, correctly interpreting his gesture, went to bring them another glass of whisky as quickly as possible. By the time it arrived, Anthony had recovered his composure, and was wiping his glasses on a handkerchief.

“I’m sorry, Parker,” he said, his voice still shaky. “It was . . . it was just a moment’s weakness . . . I’m all right now. The letter,” he went on, sipping his drink, “the letter is addressed to Edwin Garrigaw, and is only to be handed to him if something should happen to me. You understand, I’m sure. I’m giving it to you on that condition. If I should . . . if anything should happen to me, if unforeseen circumstances prevent me . . . I’m referring to the Velázquez. It is not to stay hidden any longer for any reason whatsoever; the world has to know of its existence, and by hook or by crook it must end up in England. Edwin will know how to do that. And if he can’t, then make sure they dig up Lord Nelson or Sir Francis Drake, because we have to have that blasted painting at any cost—do you understand, Parker? At any cost. That painting is worth more than all the Rio Tinto mines. Have you got it, Parker? Have you understood the nature and importance of your mission?”

“Yes, my good man. It’s not complicated. I have to give this letter to a chap in London.”

“But only if something happens to me, right? Otherwise, definitely not. And if, for whatever reason, you have to give Violet the letter, don’t forget to tell him I was the one who discovered the painting and verified its authenticity. Don’t allow him to keep the painting and the glory all for himself. If something should happen to me . . . then at least, Parker, at least I’ll be remembered with dignity . . .”

“Don’t worry, Whitelands,” the young diplomat cut in hastily, seeing tears well up again in his companion’s eyes. “Your letter is in good hands. And let’s hope I never have to deliver it. But now, tell me, what are you thinking of doing?”

“The letter . . .”

“Yes, yes, the letter; if something calamitous should happen to you; I’ve got all that. But for the moment you are still alive, and nothing will happen to you if you don’t go sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted. That’s why I’m asking: What are you thinking of doing now? About the painting, I mean.”

Anthony stared at the counselor blankly, as if the question were completely absurd. After a while he drew his hand across his face and said:

“Do? I . . . I don’t know. I haven’t thought about it yet.”

“I follow you. Anyway, what you do is none of my business. But, since you called me and have put your trust in me, I think it is my duty to return that trust with a word of friendly advice.”

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say. But I’d prefer not to hear it. Don’t be offended, Parker. You’re a good man, and I’m really grateful for your coming out like this. In fact . . . in fact you’re the only friend I have in the world . . .”

Seeing his emotional compatriot about to burst into tears again, the young British diplomat gently picked up the letter from the table and slipped it into his pocket. He got to his feet and said:

“If that’s the case, Whitelands, I’ll give you my advice anyway. Go back to your hotel and sleep it off. You’ll see everything more clearly in the morning, and tonight it’s best if you don’t talk to anyone else.”