22

It has been decided that this afternoon’s meeting should take place at Nonie Myerson’s apartment at 200 East 66th Street. It is a little more convenient to Philippe de Montebello’s museum than Sutton Square, and Mr. de Montebello’s schedule is, of course, tight. Even more convenient, in terms of distance, would have been the Carlyle, but Edwee could not be certain that his mother could be got out of the place in time for the gathering, and besides, de Montebello has already examined the painting several times in the past, so the venue of the meeting does not really matter all that much.

Now everything is in readiness, and Nonie has placed a pad of yellow legal cap and freshly sharpened pencils at each corner of her glass coffee table, in case there is a need for notes to be taken. She has efficiently thought of everything, including a silver carafe of ice water and four glasses on the table, all very businesslike. The tall and dark and startlingly handsome Philippe de Montebello arrives punctually on the dot of three, looking, as always, like the European aristocrat he is. John Marion arrives one or two minutes late, and of course Edwee and Nonie have been there well in advance.

After the customary pleasantries, Edwee opens the proceedings.

“I’m sorry, Mr. de Montebello,” he begins, “but my mother won’t be joining us this afternoon. She had promised to be here, but when I called her a few minutes ago to remind her of this meeting, she had forgotten about it completely. In fact, she was still in bed! It’s so sad, the way her mind is going.” He taps his forehead. “It’s the old Alzheimer’s, I’m afraid.”

“She seemed very alert when I saw her a couple of weeks ago,” Philippe de Montebello says.

“Oh, she has some good days,” Edwee says, “but fewer and fewer of those as time goes by.”

“More bad days than good days now,” Nonie says.

“Many more,” Edwee says.

“She even has trouble remembering your name,” Nonie says. “The other day she referred to you as Mr. Monticello.”

“Or sometimes it’s Montecarlo.”

“Or Montessori …”

“Sad,” Edwee says. “But the main thing is that my sister and I know that Mother has had discussions with you about her collection, and that she has proposed turning over certain items to the Metropolitan—whichever items you might wish. Let me say that we are absolutely delighted.”

“Thrilled,” Nonie says.

“In fact, my sister and I have been urging her to do something of this sort for some time. It was at our instigation, really, that Mother sought you out. Our reasons are partly altruistic. We are New Yorkers, born and bred, and our affection for the city’s cultural institutions runs deep. New York has been kind to us, you might say, and we want to repay the people of this city by offering whatever we can to its greatest, most important cultural institution of all, your Metropolitan Museum.”

“My earliest memories as a little girl,” Nonie says dreamily, “are of being taken to the Met by my nanny, and of walking through those galleries, and of marveling at the concentration of sheer beauty assembled under that one roof. I remember I cried when my nurse told me it was time to go!”

“But there is another reason why we’ve been urging Mother to dispose of her collection—to offer it either to you, or to someone else—that is more pressing, and more practical.”

“She can’t even see the paintings anymore,” Nonie says.

“Yes, sad about her eyesight,” de Montebello murmurs.

“But the more practical reason,” Edwee continues, “is taxes. If something should happen to Mother—and, alas, she’s not getting any younger—and the collection went into her estate, and were to be taxed as part of it, the tax effects on her estate could be disastrous.”

“Disastrous,” Nonie echoes.

“I understand,” de Montebello says. “This is a nice little jade elephant,” he says, picking it up. “Very nice.”

“Mmm,” Nonie murmurs.

“Therefore,” Edwee says, “as our mother’s only heirs, we feel that her collection—or as much of it as you’re willing to accept for the Metropolitan—should be donated as quickly as possible. To eliminate the tax threat. It would make my sister and me very sad to see those paintings put on the auction block to pay the taxes.”

“Aren’t there other heirs? What about Mimi and Mimi’s son?” de Montebello says.

“I meant her direct heirs,” Edwee says. “Now, I’m sure there are some pictures in the collection that you’d be willing to accept, while there are others that you might decline.”

“Well, she has several very nice things,” de Montebello says noncommittally.

“Which brings us to the Goya,” Edwee says. “For years, her Goya portrait of the Duchess of Osuna has been considered sort of the flagship painting of Mother’s collection. And, assuming that the Goya is one of the paintings you might want to acquire, we are naturally anxious to be sure that the provenance of the painting is authentic and unclouded, that there are no doubts about its … authenticity.”

“Authenticity?” says de Montebello, sitting forward in his chair. “What makes you question its authenticity, Mr. Myerson?”

“John?” says Edwee to John Marion. “Suppose you tell Mr. de Montebello what you noticed when you and I examined the canvas the other day. Or do you prefer to be called Count de Montebello?”

“Mr. is fine,” de Montebello says.

“Well, actually it was Edwee who noticed it,” Marion says. “It was damned strange. I’ve examined that painting dozens of times, front and back, over the years, and never noticed anything odd about it. But when we took it down the other day, there was a question mark after Berenson’s verification of it.”

“The painting had gotten very dusty,” Edwee says. “That’s why no one noticed it before.”

“Question mark?” says Nonie sharply. “What’s this about a question mark?”

“Instead of ‘vrai—B. Berenson,’ it seems to say ‘vrai?—B. Berenson,’” Marion says.

“You never told me about any question mark, Edwee!” Nonie says.

“Didn’t I?” he says smoothly. “I must have forgotten to mention it to you, dear.”

“That is odd,” de Montebello says. “I examined the painting myself just a few weeks ago and didn’t notice any question mark.”

“Very dusty,” Edwee says again. “That’s why no one noticed it.”

“Very odd.”

“But, as you know,” Edwee continues, “Berenson often verified paintings for Duveen about which he had doubts, particularly if Duveen thought he might lose a sale if he didn’t have Berenson’s imprimatur. Berenson tried to be scrupulous, but sometimes Duveen wouldn’t let him be. Frankly, I’d always had some misgivings about our Goya—the awkward position of Osuna’s left hand, for instance, and a certain daubiness in the execution.…”

“I was never struck by any daubiness,” de Montebello says.

“Well, as an art historian, there was something about this Osuna that bothered me. Let me just say that. But when we discovered the question mark—”

“Who discovered the question mark?” Nonie asks.

“We—”

“It was actually your brother who pointed it out to me,” John Marion says. “But it’s definitely there.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t have given a second thought to the question mark; even the greatest art authorities sometimes have doubts. And none of this would be worth our discussion today, if it weren’t for something my sister recalled the other day. My sister was an intimate friend of Berenson’s, you know, and often visited B.B. at ‘I Tatti.’ Nonie, tell Mr. de Montebello about the curious conversation you had with Berenson that day.”

This is the cue for Nonie’s performance. She sits forward in her chair, smooths the skirt of her new Dior, folds her hands in her lap, and begins.

“It was in the spring of nineteen thirty-nine,” she says. “It was a lovely day, and the hills around Settignano were glorious. B.B. and his darling Mary had invited a group of us to ‘I Tatti’ for luncheon. I was married to Erik Tarcher, my second husband, the actor, at the time, and we drove up from Florence in a rented Fiat. As I say, the day was glorious, but the mood at the luncheon was a little tense. It was nineteen thirty-nine, and the lights were already beginning to go out all over Europe. B.B. was very tense about reports of what was going on in the countries to the north of him. Berenson was Jewish, you see, and there were disturbing reports from Germany and Austria. We talked about these through much of lunch.…

“I remember it so vividly. Greta Garbo was there—darling Greta, with her friend George Schlee. Needless to say, George’s wife Valentina was not there. The Duchess of Windsor was there—darling Wallis. Did you know Wallis, John?”

“Certainly. We handled her jewelry sale in April.”

“Of course. How could I have forgotten that? The Duke was not there. Wallis explained that David had an attack of hives and couldn’t make it. But, if you knew Wallis, you know that David’s attack of hives wasn’t going to keep her from a party. She loved any kind of party. Goodness, how hard that poor woman worked trying to keep that sad little man amused!”

“Get to your conversation with B.B., Nonie,” Edwee says, with a slight edge to his voice.

“And Lady Diana Cooper was there—dear Diana—and Duff. That was the little group, nine of us. Greta and George, Wallis, the Coopers, the Berensons, and Erik and myself. The table had been set for ten, of course, and I remember that B.B. joked that we would keep the empty chair at the table in David’s honor, like the empty chair for Elijah at a seder. He was such a darling man, B.B. Wallis laughed and laughed at that!

“After lunch, B.B. wanted to show Greta his art library. She’d never seen it, and was eager to. I, of course, had seen it dozens of times. So, while they were doing that, Wallis and Diana and I took our coffee cups and strolled out into the garden, while Erik and Duff and George and Mary stayed behind, talking politics. I’m sure you remember B.B.’s famous green garden: it was built on terraces sloping down the hillside, away from the house. B.B. was terribly proud of it. We found a seat on a garden bench, and presently B.B. joined us there. I made some sort of casual remark about the lovely day, about the intense greens of the poplars and cypress trees, and said that the colors reminded me of the greens in the sleeves of the Duchess of Osuna’s gown in my mother’s Goya.

“An absolutely stricken look came across B.B.’s face. I have never seen a man wear a more stricken look. He grasped my elbow. ‘The Myerson Goya,’ he whispered. ‘I begged Duveen not to force me to verify that picture. It is most assuredly a fake. It is the worst deception I have ever committed in my life. I pleaded with Duveen not to force me to do this! But Duveen insisted that he must have this sale. The world was in a Great Depression, the art market was in disarray, and he needed the money. He pointed out that I needed the money, too—and it was true! There were doctors’ bills for an illness of Mary’s’—poor Mary would die, you know, a few years later—‘and he threatened to withhold other commissions that were due me if I did not do as I was told. And so I succumbed to the devil Duveen, may he twist eternally in his grave! Dear Nonie, I am so ashamed of what I have done. Can you ever forgive me? Can your mother ever forgive me?’

“I was stunned, of course. I didn’t know what to say. Wallis was the first to speak. ‘Are you certain it’s a forgery, B.B.?’ she said. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘It is a nineteenth-century forgery. Duveen knew this, too. He knew the painting’s provenance.’ I said, ‘I must tell my mother.’ ‘Yes,’ he said with tears in his beautiful eyes, ‘I’m afraid you must.’ That was when Wallis reached out and touched my hand. Wallis was always such a kind, sweet soul. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t do that. It would hurt your mother too much to know that she has been deceived. It would also hurt our dear friend B.B.’s reputation if word got out that he had knowingly taken part in this deception. Don’t tell your mother, Nonie, for everyone’s sake. What difference does it make, after all? Your mother’s happy with her painting. Let sleeping dogs lie.’

“Diana agreed with her. ‘Wallis is right,’ she said. ‘You must never tell her. Too much hurt would be caused by telling her now. Promise us you’ll never tell her.’ And so that’s what I promised them, my dear friends Wallis and Diana, years ago. And I’ve kept that promise to this very day. And when I made it, dear B.B., who was weeping now, bent over me and kissed my forehead, and whispered, ‘Thank you, blessed Nonie.’”

“And so,” Edwee says, after a little pause to let Nonie’s performance sink in, “that is the cause for our concern. We don’t want the Metropolitan Museum to be saddled with a costly fake—the embarrassment, the horrid publicity, if it turned out, later on, that the museum had been deceived too. We felt you should know this now, for your sake.”

“Tell me something,” Philippe de Montebello says. “Did Berenson mention anything about placing a question mark after his verification?”

“To him, there was no question about its being a fake at all! He said it was unquestionably a fake!”

“I see,” he says, rising from his chair. “Very interesting. Obviously, I’ll want to have another look at the painting. And I’d like to bring along some of the museum’s curatorial staff when I do.”

“Of course,” Edwee says. “That will be no problem. Do give Mother a call, and set that up. Poor Mother, of course, may have no idea what you’re talking about, and what you all are doing there. But I’m sure she’ll let you have another look.”

“Well,” Nonie says when the other two have gone, “how’d I do?”

“I think,” Edwee says carefully, “that we may be going to pull it off. That ‘blessed Nonie’ business was a bit much, perhaps. But otherwise … yes, you did a satisfactory job.”

“By the way, where did this question mark come from? Never mind. I don’t want to know. I’ve done my job. Everything I was supposed to do. Now where’s my money?”

“You’ll have it in a few days,” he says.

“How many days?”

“A few. These things take time. Don’t be greedy, dear. And de Montebello’s right: that is a nice jade elephant. So familiar-looking, too.”

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Mimi,” I said to her one afternoon when we were chatting in her office. “All those years before your grandfather died, before it turned out that the old man had squandered most of his money, and your grandmother’s trusts as well, your father earned a good salary with the company—well into six figures, which was good money in the forties and fifties. And yet, when you were growing up, you say your parents never seemed to have any money. You were sent to Miss Hall’s school on an academic scholarship, for instance. Why was that?”

“That,” she said thoughtfully, “is the sixty-four-million-dollar question. If you can find the answer to that one, I’d love to know what it is. I’ve never understood it, either.”

“Your grandmother blames it on your mother’s extravagance.”

“That isn’t true. My mother wasn’t extravagant. We lived very simply. She did her own housework, her own cooking. When she went to the market, she always had a purseful of Green Stamps to paste into those little books. Her clothes, and mine, were always bought at sales. My grandparents were the ones who lived extravagantly.”

“Was your father a … gambler, do you think?”

“Not that I was ever aware of. Wouldn’t you think, growing up as an only child in that household, I’d have noticed it if he was? Wouldn’t I have noticed it if he’d been always at the racetrack, or on the phone with bookies, or whatever? All he ever did, as I remember it, was go to the office in the morning and come home at six o’clock for dinner. They didn’t even have friends in for bridge. Daddy wasn’t a drinker. My mother, of course, was—or is, I should say—an alcoholic. That’s probably what Granny was talking about—the drinking. But that wouldn’t have been enough to do it. One person couldn’t possibly drink a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of whiskey a year, could one? She even shopped for discounts at the liquor store. My father’s finances were always a mystery to me. They still are. After I married Brad, he couldn’t understand it either.”

“Would your mother know the answer, do you think?”

She hesitated. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I think she does. In fact, I’m sure she does. But do me a favor, Jim. I don’t want to try to influence the way you write your story, but I want to ask you an important favor. When you interview her, don’t ask her that question. As I say, she’s a recovering alcoholic. She’s been sober since the middle of May. In fact, her four months’ anniversary is coming up soon. Emotionally, she’s still in a very fragile state, as you saw that night at dinner at my house. If you ask her that question, it will upset her. I know it will, because I made the mistake of asking her the same question when I went out to California with her in May, to check her into the Betty Ford Center. It set her off. It could set her off again. She’s like a ticking bomb on that particular subject. So, when you talk to her, be gentle, Jim. She’s trying, now, to live each day in the present. Don’t try to draw her out too much about the past.”

“I’ll try not to, then.”

“I trust you,” she said. “I don’t know why, but I trust you.”

“Evil forces,” her mother said. “There were evil forces in the world. They ruined your father’s and my lives, like a curse.” They were sitting side by side in the first-class compartment of the wide-bodied United Airlines jet to Los Angeles that day in May.

“What sort of evil forces, Mother?”

“I said evil forces! Evil people,” Alice Myerson said. “What more do you want me to say? Leo died, but then there was Nate. Then Nate finally died, thank God, but then it was too late.”

“Nate?”

“Nate. Your father’s cousin Nate! I don’t want to talk about this anymore, Mimi!”

Mimi had changed the subject. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to do this, Mother,” she said. “I’m terribly proud of you.”

“Decided to do what?”

“The Ford Center. You’re going to feel so much better about yourself.”

“I’m going to try.”

“I know you are, Mother.”

“I’m going to make it work.”

“I know you are,” and Mimi had squeezed her mother’s hand.

But, about an hour out of La Guardia, Mimi got up to go to the ladies’ room, and when she came back, her mother’s tray-table was down and she had ordered a double Scotch.

“Oh, Mother,” she said softly. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t worry,” Alice said. “I’m not going to get drunk. I just need a little liquid courage. This is a big step I’m taking, and I need a little bit of liquid courage to get me there.”

Mimi said nothing but closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. The captain announced over the loudspeaker that they were passing over Indianapolis or St. Louis, or some other dim place, and presently, through half-closed eyes, Mimi saw her mother wave her finger at the flight attendant—a slenderly beautiful black woman with sleek, ebony hair pulled back tightly in a bun—and say, “Two more Scotches, please,” in her most ladylike voice.

“Why, sure, honey!”

Mimi is not sure how many more drinks her mother had ordered after that because, somehow, she had genuinely managed to sleep. But she remembers waking to hear the cockpit announce that passengers seated on the right-hand side of the aircraft would have an excellent view of Pike’s Peak, and she remembers her mother poking her in the shoulder and saying, “Wake up! Wake up! You’re only pretending to be asleep. Pike’s Peak! Don’t you want to see Pike’s Peak?” Across the aisle from them, a businessman in a grey suit, doing briefcase work in his lap, stared momentarily at Alice, then tapped the papers in his lap with the head of a pencil. “Two more Scotches,” Alice had called to the flight attendant.

The flight attendant had eyed her dubiously. Returning with the pair of miniatures, she had said, “This will be last call, ma’am.”

“Last call? What do you mean last call? We’re only halfway there. We’re only at Pike’s Peak!”

The flight attendant’s smile had been intense. “Last call for you, ma’am,” she had said.

“Why do you think I fly first class? With a first-class seat I’m entitled to as many drinks as I want!”

“I’m sorry, but FAA regulations permit us to use our discretion and refuse service to any passenger who appears to be intoxicated.”

“Intoxicated! Mimi, am I intoxicated?”

Mimi, her eyes still closed, her head back on her seat, said through clenched teeth, “Yes.”

“This is outrageous! The president of this airline will hear from me about this! Do you realize who I am? Which airline am I flying?”

“This is United Airlines flight one forty-two,” the flight attendant said.

Across the aisle, the grey-suited businessman snapped his briefcase shut, rose, and moved his seat to one that was vacant two rows behind them, in the smoking section. Mimi heard him mutter, “Drunken bitch.”

“What did that man just say to me?” Alice said. Then she said, “Well, luckily for you, Miss Last Call, or whatever your name is, I happen to have brought my own bottle,” and she reached into her purse and removed a silver flask.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but FAA regulations prohibit passengers from drinking alcoholic beverages from their own supplies,” and she reached for the flask.

“Don’t you dare touch my flask!” Alice had cried, clutching it to her bosom. “This is mine. It is a sterling-silver flask given to me by my late husband, Henry Myerson! And do you know who he was? Only the president and chief executive officer of the Miray Corporation, that’s all! Ever hear of the Miray Corporation? And do you know who this young lady with me is? Only the present president of the Miray Corporation, my daughter, Mimi Myerson. She was on the cover of Time!”

“Please serve her the drinks she wants,” Mimi said to the stewardess. “It’s the only way.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but FAA regulations do not permit—”

Then Alice apparently changed her mind. “Never mind,” she said. “Just bring me a Coca-Cola.”

“Certainly, ma’am.”

But when the flight attendant returned with the glass of Coca-Cola, Alice had taken it and then poured its contents onto the carpeted floor of the plane beside her, retaining the ice cubes with her fingers. Then she refilled the ice-filled glass with whiskey from her flask. “Thank you very much!” she had cried, triumphant.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I cannot permit—”

“Look at her!” Alice cried. “Look at Miss Last Call! Look at her nails! Look at her lipstick! She’s not even wearing Miray products! She’s wearing some cheap stuff, I can tell. Typical nigger!”

The flight attendant stared at Alice for a moment with expressionless eyes, saying nothing. Then she turned and walked toward the front of the plane, opened the door to the cockpit, stepped inside, and closed the door behind her.

“There!” Alice cried out to no one in particular. “That got rid of Miss Last Call!”

Beside her, Mimi closed her eyes again.

Presently, the cockpit door reopened and the stewardess re-emerged, followed by a tall young man in a dark blue uniform with three gold stripes on his sleeve.

“Do we have a little problem here?” he said in a pleasant voice.

“Yes! We certainly do! Your stewardess tried to steal my priceless heirloom antique sterling-silver flask!”

That was when Mimi left her seat and walked back to the middle of the plane where there was a telephone.

These air-to-ground telephones are gadgets, at best, and have a long way to go before they are satisfactory media for human communication. Making a call involved inserting a credit card, then listening to a computerized voice repeating, “Please … wait … for … the … dial … tone,” again and again. The dial tone sounded, then disappeared, then sounded again, and disappeared again, as the robot’s voice continued to instruct the caller to please wait. Finally, when Mimi had a recognizable human voice, which could have been a man’s or a woman’s as it bounced across the scarps of the Sierra Madre Mountains, at the other end of the connection, Mimi had to shout into the receiver to make herself heard. “Is this the Betty Ford Center?” she had shouted. “Is this the Ford Center?”

“What? Who is this?”

“It’s Mimi Myerson,” she yelled. “I’m Alice Myerson’s daughter. We’re on the plane. My mother is drunk.”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“My mother, Mrs. Myerson, is drunk! What should I …?”

“No. Not if she’s drunk. She can’t register here unless she’s sober.”

“Then what should I do?”

“No … sobriety to register … hotel … Los Angeles or Palm Springs. Bring her here tomorrow,” she heard the distant, crackling voice saying. “Sobriety … condition at admission. Do you want us to …” But the rest of the conversation became unintelligible.

“I’ll call you from Los Angeles!” Mimi said, and replaced the headset.

And when she parted the curtain to return to the first-class section, she saw her mother. She was kneeling on her seat now, her arms across the back of it. She had taken off her blouse and was cupping her breasts in her hands, saying to the grey-suited man behind her, “Don’t you like my tits? What’s the matter with my tits? Don’t you think I have pretty tits? Don’t you think my tits are as good as Marilyn Monroe’s?”

The stewardess and the young first officer were struggling with her, trying to cover her shoulders with a blanket, and the stewardess was saying angrily, “Cover yourself up, woman!”

The grey-suited man was on his feet. “May I please change my seat to tourist class?” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir. Economy class is completely full.”

“How much more of this shit do we have to put up with?” the man said. “I demand a refund on this ticket!”

“You can take that up with the passenger service agent when we reach Los Angeles, sir.”

“Refund!” Alice cried. “I’m the one who should be entitled to a refund! For abuse, mistreatment, insults … party poop!”

“She’s my mother,” Mimi said. “The best thing to do when she’s like this is to ignore her.”

“Ignore me? Why should I be ignored? Because I was an unwanted child? Is that it? Because my mother didn’t want to have me because she was afraid I’d spoil her famous figure? Because I was supposed to be an abortion, but it was too late? That’s true! She told me so! Afraid I’d spoil her famous figure! Well, what do you think of these tits of mine? Party poop! This old party poop is trying to pretend he doesn’t think I have great tits!”

“Cover yourself up, woman! Ain’t you got no shame?”

“If you’d served her the drinks she wanted, this wouldn’t have happened,” Mimi said. “Anyone who’s dealt with alcoholics knows that.”

“Our FAA regulations state—”

Eventually, they had been able to subdue her, strap her in her seat belt, and cover her upper body with a blanket, because she refused to put on her blouse. Throughout the rest of the trip, though, she continued to scream and shout and sob, while Mimi sat rigidly beside her.

When they were finally parked at the jetway at LAX, the captain announced, “Will all passengers please remain seated, and with their seat belts fastened, for just a few more moments while we attend to some airport business.”

That was when two uniformed airport policemen (the captain had apparently radioed ahead about the problem) boarded the plane, moved quickly to where Alice Myerson was seated, and, showing remarkable teamwork, snapped handcuffs about her wrists, and carried her, kicking and screaming, out of the plane and down the jetway.

And so Alice had not spent the night in a hotel. She had spent it in the drunk tank of the Los Angeles County Jail, and Mimi had spent it in an anteroom outside, waiting for it to be morning in New York, when she called her husband and arranged for a local lawyer to handle her mother’s bail and release and to apply whatever leverage was possible to persuade the reporter from the Examiner who covered the police blotter not to publish a story about the episode on Flight 142.

It was early afternoon before all arrangements had been made and Mimi and Alice were able to enter the hired limousine that was to drive them over the mountains to Palm Springs.

Beside her, in the back seat, Mimi’s mother was a huddled, disheveled, red-eyed figure.

“It was all your fault, you know,” she said once. “You got me started thinking about all those things long ago. You started it.”

But Mimi, who had had no sleep the night before either, said nothing as the big car made its way down out of the mountains toward the desert valley floor below.

Finally, her mother said, “I’m sorry,” and began to cry.