By the dim light in the cool of the ancient wine cellar, a trim, grey-haired man in his mid-sixties navigated his way past rack upon rack of some of the finest vintage wines in the country. They were arranged by the glorious regions of France and the individual vineyards that had produced the grapes, from the Loire, Alsace, and the mighty B’s, Bordeaux, Burgundy, and Beaujolais. Pausing to be sure he was alone, he shifted a crate of Rhone Rosé, now filled with empty bottles, to one side. What appeared to be a wall of ancient brick concealed something else, and as he pressed just the right spot, the bricks swivelled just enough to allow him to slip around them and into a darkened room. Replacing the brick facade, he left behind the dusty and dank wine cellar and entered a cool room with a tomb-like silence. If there was any smell, it was the slight odour of paint and chemicals that greeted the nose. The lights revealed an immaculate, tastefully decorated apartment that could easily have been found overlooking the Champs des Mars in the seventh arrondissement of Paris, where in fact the furnishings had, until very recently, been found. He carefully hung up his spotless, white, double-breasted jacket and poured himself a tiny drink from a bottle on a mahogany side table, put on a favourite recording of Eric Satie, and settled into his customary Louis XVI armchair.
The TV reception wasn’t the best, but given the location, what could one expect? The news report was crystal clear, though: a Christmas Day discovery by a Portuguese concierge named Maria at the Musée D’Orsay revealed that the Van Gogh masterpiece, Bedroom in Arles, had been altered, or more likely replaced by an almost identical copy, save for one crucial detail, which the police were not at liberty to discuss. The camera found a reporter with perfectly windswept hair holding a microphone in front of a stern-looking man in a bowler hat and suit.
“Inspector Magritte, all of Paris and art lovers around the world want to know what is happening to our treasured masterpieces. First the Mona Lisa, and now the Van Gogh bedroom. Do you have any clues?”
“Merci, Louise. It’s too early to say, but never too soon for concern,” he said mystifyingly.
The reporter nodded, pretending to understand, as Magritte continued. “An offence against artistic expression, whether it be an alteration to the Mona Lisa or singing the ‘Marseillaise’ out of tune must not be taken lightly.”
“Mon Dieu, they are even more stupid than I could have imagined,” said the grey-haired man, peering in disbelief at his television.
“But Inspector, what methods of detection do the police have in these situations?”
Magritte appeared to be deep in thought as an awkward silence followed. “Louise, we must rise above the landscape of uncertainty and soar beyond the horizon of doubt on the wings of the possible.”
“Good heavens, this is utter madness.” The little man could no longer remain seated and fought back laughter as he stepped closer to the screen in disbelief.
Louise’s bewildered expression was obvious and Magritte seemed to take pity on her. “Considering that Van Gogh used colours as feelings, perhaps we must apply an emotional logic to our investigation, non?”
Switching off his TV and downing the last drops of his drink, the man snorted, muttering to himself. “Fools. They look but they don’t see. I must bring this closer to home for Monsieur Magritte.”
Refreshing his drink, he made his way into a large workroom and flicked a switch that flooded the room with light, revealing canvases of various sizes on easels, all carefully draped with cloth. Everywhere were the artist’s tools: brushes, palettes, sponges, glazes, knives, and varnish. He slipped on a smock and beret and removed the cloth from a small canvas. On a nearby easel sat a photograph of an almost identical work, both depicting an old pair of boots that strangely morphed into a pair of bare feet. The photo and the painting were stunningly alike, with one strange exception. He smiled at his handiwork, took a sip, and began humming a little tune as he picked up a brush and palette.