It was the first time that the Rt. Hon. Barnaby Damson had been summoned to the Prime Minister’s office in the Houses of Parliament. Damson waited outside while efficient private secretaries strode past, none giving him the time of day. Everyone knew that Damson’s ministry was a political backwater, at best a stepping stone to greater things, at worst a place of no consequence. Once upon a time, members who were either hopeless or hopeful were sent to Northern Ireland; now they went to the Department of Culture.
After a forty minutes’ wait, Damson was shown into a room the size of a tennis court. The PM sat at the very end and Damson’s shoes squeaked loudly as he made his way on the parquet floor towards the stately desk.
“Bit like being called before the Provost at ‘school,’ ” Damson remarked.
“For God’s sake don’t mention ‘school,’ ” the PM hissed. “Eton was supposed to prepare us for life, not hang a rope of guilt around our necks. Now, why are you here?” he asked crossly.
“You asked to see me.”
“What for?”
Damson’s hopes rose and fell simultaneously; he was not being promoted or demoted.
“Is it to explain about the painting, The Improbability of Love?” Damson suggested.
“Of course. Now start from the beginning. How do you pronounce the chap’s name?” the PM asked.
“Watteau—it rhymes with French for boat,” Damson replied.
“Boat, moat, float, John o’ Groat?” said the PM, mystified.
“The French word for boat is bateau,” Damson pointed out. He pronounced the word in a perfect French accent, “V-A-T-T-E-A-U.”
“Vat—what?”
“Think of ‘What Ho,’ ” Damson suggested.
“What Ho! He must have been Bertie Wooster’s kind of painter,” said the PM.
“Hilarious. What a good joke, sir,” Damson said, thinking about his promotion.
“So what’s the subject matter?”
“Two lovers in a woody glade.”
“Is it pornographic?” the PM asked nervously.
“Not at all. I have a reproduction in my pocket.” Damson took a folded piece of A4 out of his pocket.
“Art is a minefield, isn’t it?” the PM said.
Damson nodded and laid the picture out on the desk. “You see, it’s not rude—just a man looking at a beautiful woman.”
The PM looked at the picture closely. “Not much to write home about, is it? Kind of thing Great-Aunt Maude would have liked.”
“It has integrity and beauty,” Damson said.
“I never liked art much,” said the PM.
“Really?”
The PM got up and walked around his office. Looking out of his window he saw four distinct groups of protestors shouting about the price of bread, the failure of education, foreign policy in the Middle East and the collapse of the National Health Service. They looked insignificant on the grass rectangle, dwarfed by government buildings on two sides, the Supreme Court opposite and Westminster Abbey behind, but the PM knew that together they encapsulated the mood of the country: there were less than twelve months till the next election and his ratings had collapsed.
“I need a patriotic story. Can this picture deliver a positive message?” he said, striding around his office. “Plucky little Britain snatches the work from under the noses of foreigners. Your government has saved a great masterpiece for the nation.” The PM had gone quite pink around the gills. “What do you think?”
“That is a brilliant idea.”
“Thank you, Plum.”
“It’s Damson actually,” Damson said quietly.
“What is this thing worth?” the PM asked.
“It’s worth what someone is willing to pay for it. There is a market consensus that gives us a kind of guide figure.” Damson thought the moment had come to educate his Prime Minister a little bit.
“For God’s sake stop talking in riddles,” said the PM. “How much?”
“The low estimate is one hundred and eighty million.”
The PM put a hand to his chest. “One hundred and eighty million pounds? Is it painted on gold?”
“No, just plain old canvas,” said Damson.
“I could buy a warhead for that. A bit of a warhead, anyway.”
“It is a lot,” Damson agreed. “The French are determined to buy it. I have heard they are prepared to spend up to three hundred million pounds.”
“Three hundred million! That is exactly the amount of money they received to bail out another collapsing bank. Over my dead body are those frogs getting my painting.”
“It is a French painting,” Damson pointed out.
“It’s on our bloody soil now: that makes it a British painting.”
“Do we have the money?” Damson asked.
“Not exactly; well, not at all, actually. What else can we do?”
“We can refuse an export licence and hope to find a white knight willing to buy it and donate it to the country.”
“Who the hell would do that?” the PM asked.
“Someone who might want an honour.”
“Can we get away with an OBE?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Knighthood?”
“Unlikely.”
“I can’t give away peerages these days without every bloody select committee and newspaper going after me.”
“The problem, sir, as you know,” said Damson, “is that art, rather like gold, has become another kind of currency. With the euro gone to pot and the yen in free fall, many see art as a safe investment.”
The PM strode around the office. He had the disconcerting habit of clicking his fingers loudly and every so often an alarmingly loud crack of knuckle broke the silence.
Damson looked out of the window at the demonstrators, who, catching sight of a figure in the window, waved their placards with gusto.
“I’ve made a decision,” the PM said decisively. “I had better get on to MI6—tell them to sort it out.”
“They can’t exactly storm an auction house; we’re not the Congo,” Damson said nervously.
“It’s highly unlikely the Congo has an auction house. Our Foreign Office, however, has a secret service.”
“James Bond to the rescue!” Damson said, doing his rather fine Sean Connery impersonation.
The PM looked furious.
“That was a joke,” Damson said quickly. “No idiot would think of sending in James Bond.”
The PM raised his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t they?” he said coldly. “Actually, that was exactly what I was thinking. Only these days James Bond is called Darren Lu—second-generation Chinese—deadly, I am told.” The PM looked at his watch and sighed.
“See you later, Plum,” the PM said, dismissing his minister, and turning his back.
This time Damson didn’t put him right. To be remembered by the wrong name might turn out to be a blessing in disguise.
Behind the heavily guarded walls and the monumental gates made of four Ionic columns flanked with windowless walls, of the French President’s official palace, the Elysée, the Council of Ministers had been called to an emergency meeting. They walked quickly through the majestic ceremonial courtyard. Though all had visited before, most were still cowed by the grandeur of the French Classical style, the exquisite wall hangings, the carefully chosen paintings and ornaments.
For once, the President did not keep his Cabinet waiting. He strode purposefully into the room, flanked by two aides.
“In two days’ time in London a painting will be sold at auction.”
The Minister of Culture smiled—it was he who had informed his president.
“The painting is by the French master Antoine Watteau, the founder of the Rococo movement and one of the greatest we have produced,” the President told his colleagues. “For those whose art history is a little sketchy, Watteau died in 1721, the year before this palace was completed. To repatriate this picture to its country of origin and to hang it in this palace will send out the clear and deafening message that France is a country of pre-eminent cultural importance and wealth. At a time when we are suffering from the greatest economic crisis in our history, when our banks are collapsing, lines of credit are defaulting and our bonds are failing to attract takers in the markets, buying this picture will prove that France is still to be reckoned with. We are not finished. We have not even begun. We will buy the picture. Whatever the cost. Vive la France!” With this the President turned and left the room.
His Council of Ministers looked at each other. They were in even bigger trouble than any had suspected.
Since meeting at Delores’s dinner, Vlad and Grace Spinetti-Winkleman had spent every night and most of each day together. It was the first time in a decade that Vlad had not paid for sexual intercourse.
During one of the couple’s rare moments apart, Vlad asked Barty, “How do I prove love?”
“In olden days, you would have challenged someone to a fight,” Barty answered.
“A fight? Who do I fight?” Vlad asked, rather confused.
“I wasn’t being serious, old bean. The thing is that I have never been very good at love—hopeless, actually. You should ask someone better qualified.”
Vlad became suddenly enraged and picked Barty up by the lapels of his velvet suit (today he was channelling Adam Ant and the New Romantics) and said, “This is not stupid joke. This is question. Important question. How do I prove love? Answer question.”
“It’s a question that’s occupied many fine men’s and women’s minds for centuries. I am not a semiotician or a philosopher,” said Barty, trying to wriggle out of Vlad’s iron grip.
“She does not want money. Or cars, or stones or houses. She says ‘just prove love.’ ” Vlad breathed fiery garlic into Barty’s face and plonked him down on the chair again.
Barty loosened his collar and dabbed at his temple with a scented handkerchief.
“Do you need to prove it? Can’t you just be together?”
“I want her to come to Russia with me. To live.”
“That’s a really terrible idea. You will lose everything!” Barty felt bereft; the day Vlad set one foot back on Russian soil, he would be stripped of all his assets. “What about our museum?” said Barty, plaintively.
All he had thought about recently was Vlad’s building in St. Petersburg. He was not motivated for mercenary reasons; he loved the idea of creating a perfect miniature jewel that anyone could visit. Most of the houses he decorated could not even be photographed—they were secret treasures for their wealthy owners. Barty’s White House, open to the public, gave him enormous pleasure. He longed to create another building that everyone could enjoy.
“Love more important than museum,” Vlad said firmly.
“Why do you want to go back there and be poor?” Barty asked. “When you can live here with your money and love.”
“I want my children to be Russian.”
“Is she pregnant?” Barty asked.
“Niet.”
Barty ran his hands through his hair in despair. Heterosexual love could be so bewildering at times. Endless negotiation followed by misunderstanding, renegotiation, more misunderstanding and finally unhappiness. Much better to live life as a non-practising homosexual: that seemed remarkably clear and straightforward.
“What does Grace think about living as a penniless Siberian?”
“She says really cool.”
“That it would be.”
“She says she’s had enough of damn shit capitalism—wants real values.”
“Tell her that damn shit poverty is much, much worse than damn shit capitalism,” said Barty crossly. “Honestly, I have never heard anything so silly and short-sighted.”
The two men sat in silence. Both were on the brink of losing what they wanted. Suddenly Barty jumped up.
“I’ve got it!” he said, clapping his hands together.
Vlad raised his head slightly.
“You must buy the picture that belonged to her great-grandmother: The Improbability or Impossibility or whatever it’s called of Love. You hang it in our, I mean, your museum in St. Petersburg.”
“Great what?” Vlad was having trouble following.
“Never mind that bit. What matters is that you must buy the painting. That is the proof of love. Don’t you see?”
Vlad lifted up his head. Barty could see tears shining in his eyes and starting to tip down his cheeks.
“My friend,” Vlad said, and once again he picked up Barty and planted moist garlic-scented kisses on both his cheeks. “My friend. My friend.”
“Easy, easy,” Barty said. “There’s only so much affection a man can take.”
“Go now. Buy picture. Right now. We take it to Grace tonight.”
“That’s not really how it works, Vlad. It’s an auction and you have to bid.”
“Offer more.”
“You can’t offer more until you know what’s on the table.”
“Everything has price,” said Vlad, getting agitated.
“You will get the painting. But you have to buy it at the auction. You only have to wait forty-eight more hours. Think how much more it will mean to Grace when you buy it in a public place in front of the whole world’s media.”
Vlad nodded. He liked this plan.
“Immediately after the sale we make an announcement. Tell everyone about the museum.”
Vlad took Barty’s hand and began to shake it vigorously.
“Easy, old chap—I only have two of those,” Barty said.
“Proof of love, proof of love. Very good. Good.”
Sitting in his private bank, in a townhouse in St. James’s Square, Dmitri Voldakov decided that he would buy The Improbability of Love, even if it bankrupted him and incurred the Leader’s abiding displeasure. His motivation was simple: to humiliate Vlad. Since arriving in Britain, Vlad had done nothing but cause trouble: investing in Dmitri’s patch and driving the art market prices up to unprecedented heights. Furthermore, Dmitri was sure that Vlad had been chasing his fiancée, Lyudmila. It was a matter of pride that Dmitri should win the painting and he had liquidated a significant amount of his fortune in anticipation of triumphing at the auction. He had also put a plan B in place just in case. Voldakov was not a man who valued human life or freedom or moral high grounds. He liked to win—whatever the cost.
From his office on the 87th floor of Brent Towers, on Park Avenue and 73rd Street, Stevie Brent, founder and CEO of SB Capital Partners Inc., looked out over Central Park and considered his options. In ten days’ time, the Titan of Wall Street would be hauled up in front of the U.S. prosecutor and accused of insider trading. Nervous investors had already removed $15 billion of capital from his flagship hedge fund, leaving Brent’s pool depleted. The trader intended to send a signal to the world’s markets that, far from being washed up, he was rich and confident enough to buy the most expensive picture ever sold at auction. The Improbability of Love would hang in the lobby of his Manhattan office and its image would feature on the cover of his annual report.
Brent was used to taking punts without security or equity. When the stakes were high, Brent came into his own; he held his nerve when others crumbled. Right now he needed a sucker punch. This would not be the first time Brent had used art to bolster his reputation. Every time his company had come unstuck or the Feds had got close, the King of Wall Street bought a fabulous painting. Just like the Medicis, slave traders, marauding rulers and others before him, Brent understood that art had the power to whitewash his reputation. The Watteau was the perfect way to restore his investors’ confidence. The day after the auction, they’d open their newspaper or flick on to the Internet news service to learn that Brent had triumphed again. No guy who was about to be imprisoned or bankrupted would risk such an audacious move.
In her Claridge’s hotel suite, Mrs. Appledore signed the last pieces of paper authorising the liquidation of the Melanie and Horace Appledore Charitable Foundation.
At the National Gallery in London, Septimus Ward-Thomas chaired an emergency meeting of the trustees; they unanimously agreed to use all the gallery’s reserve funds to try and secure the picture, a total of £2 million.
Darren Lu walked around the auction house looking at the doors and windows. His instructions were clear, but he was still not sure yet how to achieve the goal. It would come. Darren Lu had never been found wanting before.
His Excellency the President of France had diverted his country’s reserves in order to secure the painting. In anticipation of his triumphal return, the President imagined his country’s media waiting to greet him at the Elysée Palace. Holding the painting above his head, he would shout out, “Liberté, fraternité, et l’art—Vive La France!”
In his studio in Hoxton, Mr. M. Power Dub-Box laid the last track on his new album. He had set aside Thursday evening to attend the auction. He would arrive in a convoy of white Range Rovers with his new single, “Witches’ Brew,” blaring and get a couple of girls to fawn over him. He knew that the picture would sell for more money than he had. He couldn’t take this art world seriously. Dumb prices. Dumb people.
Barty’s office was covered in possible outfits. He could not decide whether to go as Catherine the Great (and come with a horse tucked under his arm); Peter the Great (and bring a live whippet); a dissolute Earl (dragging empty wine bottles); Louis XIV (with enormous wig); or as Madame de Pompadour, in a ball gown in deepest pink taffeta and lace to be topped with a wig of cascading white curls.
“You wore something like that to my dinner,” said Delores.
“With respect, Delores, your dinner was for fifty people in some godforsaken part of London. Over two billion will be watching the proceedings,” Barty said crossly. “Bennie, Emeline, where are my people?”
“We are all here,” said his PA, Frances, wearily. Barty looked around and saw that all fifteen employees were lined up patiently waiting for instructions.
“If you wear another preposterous wig, no one will know who you are. Why don’t you lose the wig?” Delores said. “More Sofia Coppola, less Danny La Rue.”
“When he or she buys the picture, I will whip off the wig and everyone will know,” Barty said, imagining the coverage on the evening news.
“You’ll look like a damp old drag queen—imagine what four hours under hot lights will do to your hair and make-up,” said Delores, walking towards the door.
“You can’t go yet,” Barty wailed. “Why do I have to do everything all by myself?”
Two nights before the sale, the BBC broadcast a feature documentary devoted to the history of The Improbability of Love. Settling down to watch it, Larissa thought how unusual it was for the BBC to devote a prime-time slot to a work of art. Once a rather rarefied and contemplative hobby, art was now seen as a popular, populist pursuit. When Larissa had trained as a historian over forty years earlier, she entered a world of dusty archives, mouldy churches and crumbling stately piles. A younger generation could hardly believe such a time existed. Now it was fishnet stockings, digital archives and brand-new museum extensions.
The programme was imaginatively made. Using the latest digital effects, the filmmakers re-created the exact rooms where the picture would have hung. One minute the painting was in an artist’s garret, the next it was in the Imperial Tsarist inner bedchamber. Each of the owners had bought the painting as a token of true love. Larissa, along with 12 million other viewers, watched in amazement as this tiny work of art made its way through history, passing from one illustrious couple to another.
Finally, in 1929, it was bought by a young Jewish lawyer, Ezra Winkleman, as a wedding gift for his fiancée, Esther, whom he had loved since they were both children. After their marriage the painting hung in their small Berlin apartment. The couple had four children including Memling and lived simply but happily. Then war broke out and the Jews of Berlin were rounded up. The Winklemans and their children were sent to death camps—most assumed they perished. Their youngest son, Memling, managed to escape from the death train and lived out the war in a remote farmhouse eating nothing but grass and berries. When the Allies discovered him in 1946, all he possessed was his identity card, his mother’s photograph and the painting. Larissa felt an unfamiliar lump in the back of her throat.
A few shots later, Memling appeared, handsome, square-faced, with broad cheekbones and those strange blue eyes. Larissa had never really noticed his eyes before. She had never been close enough. Like the rest of the country, she was transfixed by his quiet, authoritative, lisping whisper. His story was appalling, heartbreaking and yet Larissa was not convinced. How strange for an Ashkenazi Jew to have those pale blue eyes, she thought, and noticed that each time he spoke of his parents, he gazed downwards, towards his hands.
Larissa thought back to her last dinner with Trichcombe. The historian had told her he had finally found “evidence.” Something about a photograph in Berlin and a birth certificate. Larissa had not really listened to the latest diatribe: Trichcombe had nursed this grudge for over forty years. Yet there was something in the documentary, something about Memling, that profoundly unsettled Larissa. Although it was nearly 11 p.m., she dialled Jesse’s telephone number and asked him to come to her apartment immediately.