16

Edwee has hit upon the perfect technique for gaining access to his mother’s apartment while she is not in it. He literally frightens her out of her house. This morning, for example, he telephoned her to say that he needed to see her on a matter of urgent business concerning her future, needed to see her today, if possible.

“I’m sorry, Edwee. I’m busy today.”

“Just for a m-m-minute, M-M-Maman.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s urgent, Maman.”

“Then tell me what it is on the telephone.”

“It’s something I have to show you, Maman.”

“Show me? You know I can’t see. What is it?”

“Just a legal document that requires your signature. I’ll show you where to sign.”

“No! No! I’m not signing anything.”

“I’m going to be in your neighborhood around noon. Let m-m-me pop by just for a m-m-m-minute.”

“No! I’m going out at twelve. And stop stammering, Edwee! You only do it to annoy me.”

“Where are you going? Perhaps we could m-m-m-meet.”

“No! I’m having lunch with Rose Perlman. It’s private.” She had hung up on him.

Today, however, the plan had struck a slight snag. Patrick, the doorman, had greeted him with his usual cordiality and had been given his usual tip. But George, at the front desk, had hesitated when Edwee asked for the key. “I’m sorry, Mr. Myerson,” he said. “Your mother is indeed out, but she asked that no one be admitted to her apartment. And I’m afraid, sir, that she specifically asked that you not be admitted.”

At first, Edwee’s expression was one of extreme irritation, but quickly this changed to one of extreme sadness. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Oh, dear, dear, dear. Isn’t it sad to see how my poor, dear mother is failing?”

“She seemed perfectly fine this morning, sir.”

“Oh, she is fine, physically. She has the constitution of an ox. But it’s up here …” He tapped his head. “It’s the old Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid. You see, this is one of the symptoms of the disease. She says exactly the opposite of what she wants. She asked me to come by today at noon and obviously meant to tell you that I was expected, and that you were to let me in. Instead, she told you not to let me in. Sad, but what can we do?” He started to walk away.

“No, wait, Mr. Myerson. Now that you’ve explained it, let me give you a key.”

“No, no—you mustn’t do that, George. You have your instructions.”

“Please, Mr. Myerson, here is the key.”

His tip to George was larger than usual. In the elevator, he decided that he would keep this key and have a copy of it made before returning it. There are two entrances to the Carlyle, one on 76th Street and one on Madison Avenue. From now on, if further visits are necessary—which they may not be—he will simply use the Madison Avenue door, bypass the front desk, and go directly to the elevators like an ordinary hotel guest. There is always a way to do everything.

Now, in the apartment, Edwee has been joined by the elegant and urbane John Marion, Chairman of the Board of Sotheby-Parke Bernet, whom he has asked to meet him there. Crouched on the floor, at a safe distance, his mother’s little dog barks at the two men incessantly. “She has some lovely things … lovely things,” John Marion is saying over the dog’s barks. “Every time I see this collection, I’m awestruck.”

“Well, some things are better than others,” Edwee says.

“As in any collection. She considered selling it, you know, after your father died—when I gather there were some difficult financial times. But I’m sure she’s glad she changed her mind. It’s much more valuable than it was thirty years ago.”

“I’m sorry Mother’s not here,” Edwee says. “She was supposed to be, because I wanted her to hear your opinion. But apparently she forgot and went out.” He taps his head. “The old Alzheimer’s, you know. Oh, do be quiet, Itty-Bitty!”

John Marion nods sympathetically.

“Now, let me show you, John,” he says, “what it is that troubles me about the Goya, if indeed it is a Goya.” Using a slender silver pointer, and being careful not to touch the surface of the canvas, he begins to point to details. “If you’ll notice these brushstrokes here,” he says, “in the Duchess’s lace overskirt, and here again in the mantilla, you’ll notice a certain heaviness, a certain daubiness, that is quite uncharacteristic. The paint almost seems to have been smeared on, rather than brushed on, and as you know, Goya’s brushwork was always light and quick. It was these details that first aroused my suspicions.”

“Hmm,” Marion says, peering closely at the painting.

“And then there is the angle of the left hand. It hangs at a rather awkward, clumsy angle, don’t you think? The hand is not only in an awkward attitude. The flesh around her rings puffs out too much. Now notice the eyes. Do you see how they appear to be ever so slightly crossed?”

“Maybe the Duchess had puffy, awkward hands and crossed eyes,” Marion says easily.

“Goya did many paintings of Osuna,” Edwee says. “None of them show crossed eyes or puffy fingers.”

“Could it be our Duchess had gained a bit of weight?”

Edwee’s laugh is gentle and knowing. “If so, John,” he says with a touch of patronage in his voice, “two other verified portraits of her, one painted immediately before, and another done very shortly after this portrait was allegedly painted, do not show it. But it is really the clumsy positioning of the left hand that bothers me the most.”

“Even Goya may have had a bad day.”

“As you know,” Edwee continues, “Goya worked very rapidly. He could complete a portrait such as this one in two hours or less. Also, he never farmed out detail work, such as hands, to apprentices. And he was always particularly adept with hands.”

“Hmm,” Marion says again.

“Now, if you’ll give me a hand,” Edwee says, “let’s lift Her Grace off the wall. There’s something else I want to show you.”

Together they lift the heavy frame from the wall and place it on the floor. “Let’s turn it over,” Edwee says, and they do so. “Now, as you know,” he goes on, “Mother purchased this painting from Duveen, and Berenson authenticated it. Never mind that Spanish painters of this period were not Berenson’s metier or field of expertise; that’s beside the point. Let’s grant that Berenson knew something about Goya’s work.”

“Well, yes …”

“And so, look here,” Edwee points. “Do you need a glass?” He starts to fish his magnifying glass from his pocket.

“No, I can see fine.”

“Then look at this. You’ll see the handwritten words, ‘Vrai—B. Berenson.’ Someone like Charlie Hamilton, of course, could tell us whether this indeed is written in Berenson’s hand, but it appears to me to be. But look: after the word vrai, there is a question mark! What Berenson actually wrote here was ‘vrai?—B. Berenson.’”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Marion says, looking at the handwriting closely. “I’ve examined this painting, front and back, at least a dozen times over the years and never noticed a question mark.”

“The painting has been hanging here for nearly twenty years,” Edwee says quickly. “It had gotten very dusty, particularly on the back, where these hotel maids of course never dusted it. The other day I was in here and took the painting down and began dusting around the signature with a camel’s hair brush. That was when the question mark appeared, under the dust.”

John Marion whistles softly. “I’ll be damned,” he says again. “Damned if I ever noticed that.”

“Well, there it is,” Edwee says. “Apparently Berenson was doubtful. What else could it mean? It was when I found the question mark under the dust that I decided I’d better bring you in on it, with your expertise, which, after all, is far greater than mine. I, after all, am only an art historian. You are an appraiser, and probably the finest in the world.”

“Edwee, I don’t know what to say,” he says.

“Damn. I wish Mother had remembered this appointment with us today. She should be made aware, at least, that there’s a problem. But Mother forgets everything anyway, so perhaps it doesn’t matter. Now there’s one other thing I ought to mention.”

“What’s that?”

“My sister, Nonie. She knew B.B. intimately and often visited him at ‘I Tatti.’ When I mentioned my suspicions to her, she recalled a conversation she had with him in the nineteen forties about this very painting. I want you to hear the details of this conversation from Nonie, who remembers it in some detail. May I suggest that you and I meet with Nonie at the earliest date convenient for the three of us?”

“Certainly. I’d be interested to hear what she has to say.”

“Good. And once you hear what my sister has to say, then we’ll decide how to proceed from there. You see, she was the only one in the family who knew B.B. My mother never met him, and neither did I. But Nonie knew him intimately, and he often confided things to her. Do you know Philippe de Montebello?”

“Of course.”

“I wonder if we should invite Phil to our meeting, too. Mother has—tentatively—offered this painting to the Met. I’m sure you know how highly I esteem the Met. I would hate the thought of the Met being given a picture that was a fake. Do you think we should invite Phil to our meeting, John?”

“I can ask him, if you’d like,” he said. “But let me give you a little tip, Edwee. When you meet him, don’t call him Phil. Philippe is a rather formal fellow who doesn’t mind being called Count de Montebello. He is, after all, a French count.”

“Yes, then let’s ask him. In the meantime, I think we should keep this in strictest confidence. This city we live in is so prone to gossip. If the museum people, or, God knows, the press, heard so much as a rumor that this painting is a fake before we’re sure it is, they would turn it down, and that would be … weli, if it turned out that our suspicions were without foundation, that would be a great tragedy for the museum-going public of the city of New York. And I couldn’t bear to have that happen. So until we meet with my sister and de Montebello, let’s keep this matter strictly between ourselves.”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll find out what my sister’s calendar looks like and call you as soon as I know.”

“Have you got the money?” he asks her a little harshly. “Have you got the cash?”

“Well, of course I don’t have it in cash,” Nonie says. “It will take a few days. You don’t come up with sums of money like that in cash. Checks have to clear banks, that sort of thing. But the deal’s been set, the money’s been promised, and I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

“Your message on my machine didn’t say nothing about promises. Your message said ‘Have secured necessary funds.’ Secured. Secured means secured.”

“Surely you can be patient for a few more days, Roger.”

“How long have I been patient with you, Nonie? Three weeks? A month?”

“Well, now it’s only a question of days.”

“How’d you get it, anyway?”

“I think I’d rather not say, Roger. Let’s say it was a private business arrangement with an old friend.”

“There’s nothing funny about it, is there?”

“Funny? What do you mean, funny?”

“I mean, you got it in a strictly legit way, didn’t you? I can’t handle any money that wasn’t got in a strictly legit way, you know. I don’t want dirty money, narcotics money, stuff like that.”

“Narcotics money! Honestly, Roger, where would I have access to something like narcotics money?”

“Okay. As long as you’re sure it’s strictly legit. I don’t want any trouble with the feds.”

“It is, I assure you, strictly legit, as you put it. Strictly.” She pauses. “Can you come by for a drink tonight? Sevenish?”

“Sorry, I’m busy. Call me when you’ve got the money. And by cash I mean a certified or cashier’s check.”

“You’re not being very nice to me, you know!” she says angrily. “You’re not the only spot currency trader in town, you know!” And she slams down the receiver. And then, just in case he might be going to call her back to apologize for his rudeness, she takes the receiver off the hook and leaves it off.

But, she thinks, the trouble is, the question is: Is the deal she has struck with Edwee strictly legit? At first, Edwee’s scheme seemed to her no more than a little harebrained, not actually dishonest, and if he was willing to pay her for participating in it, she would do so, in the spirit of nothing ventured, nothing gained. Who knew? The scheme might work and get him his precious Goya, and, up until now, she had not really cared whether the scheme would work or not. But suddenly she is not so sure. If it does work, will she have been a participant in some form of grand larceny?

Up to now, her only concern was whether Edwee would keep his end of the bargain. She has never entirely trusted Edwee. And so, this time, to ensure that Edwee will not try to wiggle out of his promise, she insisted that they put it in writing, as a letter of agreement, a contract between the two of them. Each has a copy, with both signatures. That way, if Edwee welches on his commitment, she can expose him for the fraud he is. That was smart, she thinks.

But the only trouble with that is, she reminds herself now, that if she exposes Edwee as a fraud, she will have to expose herself as a part of the fraud, and where will that leave her? Flapping in the high winds of some very embarrassing publicity. She wonders whether Edwee had perhaps thought of that, too, when he so willingly affixed his signature to the agreement she drew up in her best quasi-legal manner. Art fraud, she thinks. There has been a lot in the newspapers lately about art fraud. This, of course, involved art dealers who were passing off forgeries as original works. What Edwee is proposing to do is sort of the opposite. But is that art fraud, too? Is that just as reprehensible, even illegal? If the museum found out, could it come back to them—with a lawsuit, perhaps—claiming that it had fraudulently been prevented from receiving a piece of art to which it had been entitled? Could there be more than just unpleasant publicity? Could there be … legal action? Legal action involving millions of dollars? Would it be like the Mayflower Madam? Would she go to jail? What would the press call Nonie Myerson—the Heiress Art Thief? The Goya Grabber? The Metropolitan Manipulator? A shiver of very real fear now chills her at the thought of the mess that she has let Edwee get her into.

Her best hope, perhaps, is that Edwee’s scheme will not work. They are meeting with John Marion and Philippe de Montebello on Tuesday. She knows what she is supposed to say, and she is not too worried about that part of it. After all, as Edwee says, it could have happened, and there is no one in the world who could possibly prove, or stand up and swear, that it didn’t. And Edwee has promised to pay for her performance, whether it works or not.

But what if it does work? What might happen next? And then, to top everything off, what if Edwee tries to wiggle out? How will she defend herself? She wishes she had consulted a lawyer, or some third party as a witness, before signing that contract, which could turn out to be as worthless as yesterday’s newspaper.

Have I been tricked again? she asks herself, and another shiver of fear assails her.

She wishes, prays, right now that Roger is trying to telephone her from wherever he is, that he is sitting there, angry and frustrated by the repeated busy signal, prays that he is sitting wherever he is, just as uncertain and frightened as she is, but she still does not return the receiver to its cradle.

From Jim Greenway’s notes:

I could not help noticing that Mimi did not quite seem herself today. When I was with her, she seemed a little distant and preoccupied, and from time to time I saw a small and quite uncharacteristic frown cross that lovely face of hers. Something, I think, is weighing on her mind—something that she is not willing, not yet, at least, to tell me about.

Of course, I’m certain that she’s under a strain as the launch date of her new fragrance approaches. A lot of money has been invested in this, and I know how badly she wants “Mireille” to be a success. At the same time, the optimism about the success of “M” is running very high among the others in her office, where everyone seems confident that the “Man with the Scar” campaign is going to be seen as some sort of landmark in the advertising business. Mark Segal, her ad director, is positively giddy with excitement about it, and this excitement of his has had a trickle-down effect on everyone of the 16th floor, right down to the secretaries, the receptionist, and the boys in the mailroom.

We screened a rough cut of the first (redone) commercial today, and I must say I agree with Mark—that it’s brilliant, fucking brilliant, as he keeps saying. There’s something about the scar that does … what, exactly? It makes him, the model, look not really sinister, but somehow a little threatening, in a bedroomy sort of way. It gives his face a Paul Henreid sort of crookedness, and I kept thinking of Henreid lighting up two cigarettes at once for Bette Davis in Now, Voyager. It gives him a Bogey sort of face, the young Bogey, crossed with whatever it was that stirred women’s vitals when George Raft appeared on the screen. Mark says the scar gives the model “cojones”—balls. Maybe that’s it. But from watching the expression on Mimi’s face, it was hard to tell whether she was pleased or not.

Meanwhile, Mark has come up with a publicity idea that strikes me as damned clever. It is sort of the “Does She, or Doesn’t She?” idea from the old Clairol ads, but in this case it will be “Does He, or Doesn’t He?”—does he, or doesn’t he really have a scar? During the first few weeks of the campaign, Mark wants to do a publicity blitz that will focus on that question, to keep the public wondering about the scar and, naturally, talking about the ads and talking up “M.” Of course, the success of this will depend on keeping the real Dirk Gordon under wraps for a while, but, considering what they’re paying him, this should be no problem.

In the end, naturally, it will be revealed that the scar was in fact created by makeup—cosmetics from Miray, the company that can make women beautiful as easily as they can make a pretty-boy ugly! Brilliant, effing brilliant, as Mark would say. But, again, from her faraway look, it was hard to tell whether Mimi agrees or not.

And I know that Mimi is also very preoccupied with the details of her launch party, which will be on September 17. This will be a big, fancy affair at the Pierre, and the invitations are already at the printer, and the guest list is being drawn up. All the department store heads and all the buyers will be invited, of course, along with the editors and writers from the fashion press, plus the usual members of the Manhattan social zoo: Vreeland, Pat Buckley, Judy Peabody, Brooke Astor, Susan Gutfreund, and the rest. And there’ll be the usual Big Question, which no one will know the answer to until the last minute: Will she or won’t she show up? Jackie, that is. Half of Mimi’s office staff, it seems, is working on the guest list, adding names, taking others off.

But I must say Mimi brightened up considerably when I mentioned that I’d like to interview some of the people whom the family call “the Leo cousins.”

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “Yes, I think you should talk to them, Jim. After all, it’s no secret in the industry that there’s one whole branch of my family that doesn’t speak to the other branch. And, frankly, I’d like to know what’s behind all this myself—why Grandpa had Leo’s portrait painted out.”

Then she made a surprising suggestion.

“What would you think,” she said, “if I came along with you when you do these interviews? Would that cramp your journalistic style too much? Maybe you could be just the one to help me break the ice with them. After all, it’s ridiculous for this sort of family feuding to go on for nearly fifty years! All the offending principals are dead, and surely it’s high time that their offenses, whatever they were, should be forgiven. Maybe if I went with you, I could convince them that I’m not the ogre they’ve been brought up to believe I am. Maybe you could provide me with a toe in the door to these people who, after all, are stockholders of this company. Could I be a tagalong, Jim? What would you think of that?”

I told her I would be delighted to have her come along with me, that it would be my pleasure.

“I can give you all their names and addresses,” she said. “I’m sure they’re all perfectly nice people, though there’s one who’s not quite right in the head.”

When I left her, she seemed in a much brighter mood, anticipating our trips to the various surrounding suburbs.

Why does it please me to be able to put her in a brighter mood?

Then, no sooner had I got back to my apartment than I had a telephone call from her Granny Flo, in a very agitated state.

“I’ve been invaded, Mr. Greenway!” she cried. “I’ve been invaded again! Edwee’s been in my house again, I can smell him! I know how my own son smells, and I can tell he’s been here again, snooping around. George, at the front desk, denies it, but I know he’s lying. What are they trying to do to me, Mr. Greenway—all of them? George talks to me as though I’m teched in the head, as though I’ve lost my marbles. But I haven’t lost my marbles! George talks to me like I’m a child—talks to me like someone telling a child there’s no such thing as the bogey man. But there is a bogey man, and his name is Edwee Myerson! Edwee and someone else, because I can also smell another man! And if that isn’t proof enough, there’s the way Itty-Bitty’s been acting, jumping all around, yip-yip-yipping, trying to tell me something’s wrong, and then, suddenly, lifting her little leg against the leg of my chair and weeing! Itty-Bitty never does that unless something has been going very wrong. Help me, Mr. Greenway, help me. You’re the only one I can trust. I’m surrounded by enemies! My own home isn’t safe anymore!”

I asked her what I could do to help.

“Talk to Nonie,” she said. “I think Nonie knows what’s going on. Talk to Nonie, and see if you can get it out of her what they’re trying to do, because Nonie isn’t on my side, either!” Then, holding out the carrot at the end of the stick, she said, “Don’t forget, there’s a lot more things I could tell you, Mr. Greenway—a lot more! You’ve only just scratched the surface, Mr. Greenway, with the things I could tell you about this family!”

And so I called Nonie and asked to see her. She was polite, but a little cool. “Of course, I should be delighted to see you, Mr. Greenway,” she said in her cultured-pearls voice. “But this week is just not turning out to be a ruling week for me. My poor calendar is simply chockablock. Call me next week, darling, and I’ll try to set aside some time for you.…”

And so, inevitably and willy-nilly, it seems, I am being drawn deeper into the personal problems of this family in which at the beginning I had only a detached, professional interest.

And yet I don’t find myself resenting this involvement. I am beginning to feel as though I am one of them.