Pointed pupil on an electric green iris, like the eye on an old radio, cold smile but a smile all the same, Victoire had thus moved into Rue d’Amsterdam.
She had come without bringing much, just a small valise and a bag that she had left near the door, as if in a train station locker for an hour. And in the bathroom, apart from her toothbrush, a minuscule case contained three foldable accessories and three travel-size beauty products.
She remained there, spending most of her time reading in an armchair, facing the muted television. At first she spoke little, at least as little as possible for her, answering each question with another question. She always seemed on her guard, even when no outside threat justified it, though sometimes her distrustful air in fact threatened to inspire hostile ideas. When Ferrer had company, she always seemed to be one of the guests; he almost expected to see her leave at midnight with the others, but she stayed, she stayed.
Among the consequences of Victoire’s presence at Ferrer’s were more frequent visits from Delahaye, still as negligent as ever about his appearance. One evening when he showed up at Rue d’Amsterdam, even more shockingly dressed than usual—shapeless parka with sides flapping against green jogging pants—Ferrer decided to say something just as he was about to go, and pulled him aside for a moment on the landing: Don’t take this the wrong way, Delahaye. He explained that it would be preferable for his associate to dress a little better when he was at the gallery, that an art dealer had to take care of his appearance. Delahaye looked at him uncomprehendingly.
“Put yourself in the collector’s shoes,” Ferrer had persisted in a low voice, again pressing the timer switch of the hall light. “He’s come to buy a painting from you, this collector. He’s hesitant. And you know what it means to him, buying a painting, you know how afraid he is of wasting his money, of missing his big chance, of passing up the next Van Gogh, of what his wife might say, all of that. He’s so afraid that he doesn’t even see the painting anymore, you see what I mean? The only thing he sees is you, the dealer, you in your dealer clothes. So it’s your appearance that gets put in the picture, you get me? If you’re wearing pauper’s clothes, it’s your poverty he’ll put up there. Whereas if you’re dressed impeccably, it’s just the opposite, and so it’s good for the painting, so that’s good for everyone and especially for us. You see?”
“Yes,” Delahaye said, “I think I see.”
“Good,” said Ferrer, “well, see you tomorrow.”
“You think he understood?” he asked a moment later, without expecting a reply; but Victoire had already gone to bed. Turning off the lights one by one, Ferrer entered the dark room and, the following afternoon, he appeared at the gallery wearing a chestnut-colored tweed suit, striped shirt (navy on sky), knitted brown-and-gold tie. Having arrived earlier, the ill-shaven Delahaye was still wearing the same outfit, still more frayed than the night before—enough to make you think he’d slept in it, just look at that shirt!
“I think things are moving forward with the Nechilik,” said Delahaye.
“The what?” said Ferrer.
“That boat,” said Delahaye, “you know, the boat with the antiques. I think I’ve found some good informants.”
“Oh, right,” Ferrer said evasively, distracted by the bell at the entrance. “Look sharp,” he hissed, “someone’s here. Réparaz.”
They know Réparaz. Réparaz is a regular. He earns enormous amounts of money in business, in which he gets enormously bored; it’s just that it’s not exhilarating every single day to have the world monopoly on Smartex. The only enjoyment he ever gets is when he comes to buy art. And he also likes being advised, told about the latest trends, brought around to meet the artists themselves. One Sunday when Ferrer took him to see the studio of an engraver near Porte de Montreuil, Réparaz, who never left the 7th arrondissement except to cross the Atlantic in his private jet, became positively giddy going through the 11th. Oh, what architecture, what an exotic population, incredible, I’d gladly do this with you every Sunday. Terrific. Had a great time, old Réparaz. But it didn’t keep him from belonging to the hesitant category. At the moment, he was sniffing around a fairly expensive large yellow acrylic by Martinov, moving closer, standing back, moving closer again, etc. “Hang on,” said Ferrer, still in a whisper, to Delahaye, “watch this. I’m going to give him the old downplay routine. They love it.”
“So,” he went, sidling up to the Martinov, “you like it?”
“There’s something there,” said Réparaz, “there’s really something there. I find it, you know, how can I put it.”
“I know, I see what you mean,” said Ferrer. “But actually it’s not very good. Frankly it’s far from the best in the series (it’s a series, by the way), and besides it’s not entirely finished yet. Aside from the fact that, between you and me, Martinov is a bit pricey.”
“Hmm. Really. Well,” said the other, “personally I find that there’s really something going on with that yellow.”
“Of course,” Ferrer conceded, “I’m not saying it’s bad. But still, it is a little high-priced for what it is. If I were you, I’d have a look at this one instead,” he continued, indicating a work composed of juxtaposed aluminum squares painted light green, hanging in a corner of the gallery. “Now this one is interesting. It’s going to go fairly steep before long, but for now it’s still quite reasonable. See how light it is? It’s clear. Luminous.”
“All the same, it’s not much,” said the captain of industry. “I mean, it doesn’t really show you much.”
“You might think so at first glance,” said Ferrer. “But at least when you come home and find that on your wall, you don’t feel attacked. There’s always that.”
“Let me think about it,” said Réparaz, leaving. “I’ll be back with my wife.”
“It’s all good,” Ferrer said to Delahaye, “you’ll see. He’s definitely going to buy the Martinov. You have to argue with them sometimes, give them the impression they’re thinking for themselves. Hm, here comes another one.”
Forty-eight years old, tuft of hair clinging to his lower lip, velvet jacket, a frame wrapped in brown paper under one arm, smiling broadly and named Gourdel, the “other one” was a painter whom Ferrer had represented for ten years. Bearing a canvas, he came to get news.
“It’s not going too well,” answered Ferrer in a weary voice. “You remember Baillenx, who bought one of your paintings? He brought it back, he doesn’t want it anymore. I had to take it back. There was also Kurdjian, you remember him, who was thinking of buying something. Well, he’s not thinking anymore, he’d rather buy an American. And then you have two big ones that were auctioned for practically nothing, so honestly it’s not going well at all.”
“Right,” said Gourdel, who was smiling less broadly as he unwrapped the frame. “Well, I’ve brought you this.”
“You have to realize it’s partly your fault,” Ferrer continued without even glancing at the object. “You screwed everything up when you decided to give up abstract and go representational on me. I had to change my whole strategy for your work. You know it causes a ton of problems when a painter changes all the time. People expect one thing, and then they get disappointed. You know as well as I do that everything gets labeled, it’s easier for me to promote something that doesn’t move around too much, otherwise it’s a disaster. You know perfectly well how fragile all this is. You don’t need me to tell you, you already know what I’m saying. Anyway, I can’t take this one right now, I have to unload the others first.”
A pause, then Gourdel hastily rewraps his frame, nods to Ferrer, and leaves. Outside he runs into Martinov, who’s just heading in. Martinov is a young man with innocently cunning eyes; they exchange a few words.
“That asshole’s trying to shove me in the closet,” says Gourdel.
“I can’t believe that,” consoles Martinov. “He knows what you’re doing, he has faith in you. He’s got some artistic sense, after all.”
“No,” says Gourdel before heading off into the bland daylight, “nobody has any artistic sense anymore. The only ones who ever did were the popes and kings. Since then, nobody.”
“So you saw Gourdel,” said Ferrer.
“I just ran into him,” said Martinov. “Things don’t seem to be going too well.”
“He’s a complete wreck,” said Ferrer. “Sales-wise he’s not going anywhere at all, he’s nothing more than a symbolic leftover. You, on the other hand, are doing just fine. Someone just came by a while ago, who’s certainly going to take the large yellow. Apart from that, what are you working on these days?”
“Well, let’s see,” said Martinov. “I had my vertical series. I’m giving two or three of them to a group show.”
“Hold on a minute,” said Ferrer, “what’s this about?”
“Nothing,” said Martinov, “it’s just for the Deposit and Consignment Building.”
“What?” said Ferrer. “You’re doing a group show at the Deposit and Consignment Building?”
“So what?” said Martinov. “What’s wrong with the Deposit and Consignment Building?”
“Personally,” said Ferrer, “I think it’s ridiculous that you’re showing at the Deposit and Consignment Building. Ridiculous. And a group show to boot. You’re devaluing yourself. Take my word for it. Anyway, you can do as you please.”
It was therefore in a fairly bad mood that Ferrer listened to all the general information that Delahaye had for him about Boreal art: the Ipiutak, Thule, Choris, Birnirk, and Denbigh schools; Paleoarctic cultures that succeeded each other between 2500 and 1000 B.C.E. When Delahaye began comparing materials, influences, and styles, Ferrer was less attentive than when he started talking numbers: indeed it seemed more and more likely that this abandoned shipwreck business, if it proved to be true, might be worth the trip. Now for the moment it hadn’t proven to be anything, for lack of more precise information. But it was now in the last days of January and in any case, Delahaye reminded him, even if we knew more, weather conditions prevented them from leaving before spring, when, at those high latitudes, daylight breaks.