The Modigliani Scandal Part 7

Of course. I doubt if youll find anything interesting. As they stood talking in the aisle, the priests eyes flickered over Dees shoulders, as if he was worried that someone would come in and see him chatting to a young girl. Come with me, he said.

He led her along the aisle to a door in the transept, and preceded her down a spiral staircase.

The priest who was here around 1910-was he interested in painting?

The man looked back up the stairs at Dee and then looked quickly away again. Ive no idea, he said. I am the third or fourth since that time.

Dee waited at the foot of the stairs while he lit a candle in a bracket on the wall. Her clogs clattered on the flagstones as she followed him, ducking her head, through a low arch into the vault.

Here you are, he said. He lit another candle. Dee looked around. There were about 100 pictures stacked on the floor and leaning against the walls of the little room. Well, Ill have to leave you to it, he said.

Thank you very much. Dee watched him shuffle away, and then looked at the paintings, suppressing a sigh. She had conceived this idea the day before: she would go to the churches nearest to Modiglianis two homes and inquire whether they had any old paintings.

She had felt obliged to wear a s.h.i.+rt under her sleeveless dress, in order to cover her arms-strict Catholics would not allow bare arms in church-and she had got very hot walking the streets. But the crypt was deliciously cool.

She lifted the first painting from the top of a pile and held it up to the candle. A thick layer of dust on the gla.s.s obscured the canvas underneath. She needed a duster.

She looked around for something suitable. Of course, there would be nothing like that here. She did not have a handkerchief. With a sigh, she hitched up her dress and took off her panties. They would have to do. Now she would have to be extra careful not to get the priest beneath her on the spiral staircase. She giggled softly to herself and wiped the dust off the painting.

It was a thoroughly mediocre oil of the martyrdom of St. Stephen. She put its age at about 120 years, but it was done in an older style. The ornate frame would be worth more than the work itself. The signature was illegible.

She put the painting down on the floor and picked up the next. It was less dusty but just as worthless.

She worked her way through disciples, apostles, saints, martyrs, Holy Families, Last Suppers, Crucifixions, and dozens of dark-haired, black-dyed Christs. Her multicolored bikini briefs became black with ancient dust. She worked methodically, stacking the cleaned pictures together neatly, and working through one pile of dusty canvases before starting on the next.

It took her all morning, and there were no Modiglianis.

When the last frame was cleaned and stacked, Dee permitted herself one enormous sneeze. The dusty air in front of her face swirled madly in the blow. She snuffed the candle and went up into the church.

The priest was not around, so she left a donation in the box and went out into the suns.h.i.+ne. She dropped her dusty panties in the nearest litter bin: that would give the trash collectors food for thought.

She consulted her street map and began to make her way toward the second house. Something was bothering her: something she knew about Modigliani-his youth, or his parents, or something. She strained to bring the elusive thought to mind, but it was like chasing canned peaches around a dish: the thought was too slippery to be grasped.

She pa.s.sed a cafe and realized it was lunchtime. She went in and ordered a pizza and a gla.s.s of wine. As she ate she wondered whether Mike would phone today.

She lingered over coffee and a cigarette, reluctant to face another priest, another church, more dusty paintings. She was still shooting in the dark, she realized ; her chances of finding the lost Modigliani were extremely slim. With a burst of determination, she stubbed her cigarette and got up.

The second priest was older and unhelpful. His gray eyebrows lifted a full inch over his narrowed eyes as he said: Why do you want to look at paintings?

Its my profession, Dee explained. Im an art historian. She tried a smile, but it seemed to make the man more resentful.

A church is for wors.h.i.+ppers, not tourists, you see, he said. His courtesy was a thin veil.

Ill be very quiet.

Anyway, we have very little art here. Only what you see as you walk around.

Then Ill walk around, if I may.

The priest nodded. Very well. He stood in the nave watching as Dee walked quickly around. There was very little to see: one or two pictures in the small chapels. She came back to the west end of the church, nodded to the priest, and left. Perhaps he suspected her of wanting to steal.

She walked back to her hotel, feeling depressed. The sun was high and hot now, and the baking streets were almost deserted. Mad dogs and art historians, Dee thought. The private joke failed to cheer her up. She had played her last card. The only possible way to carry on now was to quarter the city and try every church.

She went up to her room and washed her hands and face to get rid of the dust of the crypt. A siesta was the only sensible way to spend this part of the day. She took off her clothes and lay on the narrow single bed.

When she closed her eyes the nagging feeling of having forgotten something came back. She tried to remember everything she had learned about Modigliani; but it was not a lot. She drifted into a doze.

As she slept the sun moved past the zenith and shone powerfully in through the open window, making the naked body perspire. She moved restlessly, her long face frowning slightly from time to time. The blonde hair became disarrayed and stuck to her cheeks.

She woke with a start and sat up straight. Her head throbbed from the heat of the sun, but she ignored it. She stared straight ahead of her like someone who has just had a revelation.

Im an idiot! she exclaimed. He was a Jew!

[image]

Dee liked the rabbi. He was a refres.h.i.+ng change from the holy men who had only been able to react to her as forbidden fruit. He had friendly brown eyes and gray streaks in his black beard. He was interested in her search, and she found herself telling him the whole story.

The old man in Paris said a priest, and so I a.s.sumed it was a Catholic priest, she was explaining. I had forgotten that the Modigliani family were Sephardic Jews, and quite orthodox.

The rabbi smiled. Well, I know who the painting was given to! My predecessor here was very eccentric, as rabbis go. He was interested in all sorts of things-scientific experiments, psychoa.n.a.lysis, Communism. Hes dead now, of course.

I dont suppose there were any paintings among his effects?

I dont know. He became ill toward the end, and left the town. He went to live in a village called Poglio, which is on the Adriatic coast. Of course, I was very young then-I dont remember him at all clearly. But I believe he lived with a sister in Poglio for a couple of years before he died. If the painting still exists, she may have it.

Sh.e.l.l be dead.

He laughed. Of course. Oh dear-youve set yourself quite a task, young lady. Still, there may be descendants.

Dee shook the mans hand. Youve been very kind, she said.

My pleasure, he said. He seemed to mean it.

Dee ignored her aching feet as she walked back to the hotel again. She made plans: she would have to hire a car and drive to this village. She decided she would leave in the morning.

She wanted to tell somebody, to spread the good news. She remembered what she had done last time she felt this way. She stopped at a shop and bought a postcard. She wrote: Dear Sammy, This is the kind of holiday I always wanted! A real treasure hunt! ! Im off to Poglio to find a lost Modigliani! ! !Love, D.

She found some change in her pocket, bought a stamp, and posted the card. Then she realized that she did not have enough money to hire a car and drive right across the country.

It was crazy: here she was on the track of a painting which was worth anything from 50,000 to E100,000, and she couldnt afford to hire a car. It was painfully frustrating.

Could she ask Mike for money? h.e.l.l, no, she could not lower herself. Maybe she could drop a hint when he phoned. If he phoned: his trips abroad did not follow tight schedules.

She ought to be able to raise money some other way. Her mother? She was well off, but Dee had not invested any time with her for years. She had no right to ask the old woman for money. Uncle Charles?

But it would all take time. Dee was itching to get on the trail again.

As she walked up the narrow street to the hotel she saw a steel-blue Mercedes coupe parked at the curb. The man leaning against it had a familiar head of black curls.

Dee broke into a run. Mike! she yelled happily.

II.

JAMES WHITEWOOD PARKED HIS Volvo in the narrow Islington street and killed the engine. He put a fresh packet of Players and a box of matches in one pocket, and a new notebook and two ballpoint pens in the other. He felt the familiar tension: would she be in a good mood? Would she say something quotable? His ulcer jabbed him, and he cursed. He had done literally hundreds of star interviews: this one would be no different.

He locked his car and knocked on Samantha Winacres door. A plump blonde girl answered.

James Whitewood, Evening Star Evening Star.

Please come in.

He followed her into the hall. Whats your name?

Anita. I just work here.

Nice to meet you, Anita. He smiled pleasantly. It was always useful to be on good terms with someone in a stars entourage.

She led him downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt. Mr. Whitewood, from the Star Star.

h.e.l.lo, Jimmy! Samantha was curled up on a Habitat sofa, wearing jeans and a s.h.i.+rt. Her feet were bare. Cleo Laine sang out of the freestanding Bang & Olufsen stereo speakers opposite her.

Sammy. He crossed the room and shook her hand.

Sit down, be comfortable. What goes on on Fleet Street?

He dropped a newspaper in her lap before sitting in an easy chair. The big story of the day is that Lord Cardwell is selling his art collection. Now you know why we call it the silly season. He had a South London accent.

Anita said: Would you like a drink, Mr. Whitewood?

He looked up at her. I wouldnt mind a gla.s.s of milk. He patted his stomach.

Anita went out. Samantha said: Is that ulcer still with you?

Its like inflation. These days, you can only hope to make it ease off a little. He gave a high-pitched laugh. Mind if I smoke?

He studied her as he opened the cigarette packet. She had always been thin, but now her face had a drawn look. Her eyes seemed huge, and the effect had not been achieved with makeup. She hugged herself with one arm and smoked with the other. As he watched, she crushed a stub in the full ashtray beside her and immediately lit a fresh cigarette.

Anita brought his gla.s.s of milk. A drink, Sammy?

Please.

Jimmy glanced at his watch: it was 12:30 P.M. He looked askance at the size of the vodka and tonic Anita poured.

He said: Tell me, how is life in the film world?

Im thinking of leaving it. She took the gla.s.s from Anita, and the maid left the room.

Good G.o.d. Jimmy took out his notebook and uncapped a pen. Why?

Theres not a lot to say, really. I feel films have given me all they can. The work bores me, and the end result seems so trivial.

Is there any one particular thing which has triggered this off?

She smiled. You ask good questions, Jimmy.

He looked up expectantly, and saw that she was smiling, not at him, but at the doorway. He turned, and saw a big man in jeans and a check s.h.i.+rt entering the room. The man nodded at Jimmy and sat beside Samantha.

She said: Jimmy, I want you to meet Tom Copper, the man who has changed my life.

Joe Davies pressed the winder of his Quantum wrist.w.a.tch and looked at the luminous red figures which flickered alight on its black face: 0955. It was a good time to ring a London evening newspaper.

He picked up the phone and dialed. After a long wait for the newspapers switchboard, he asked for James Whitewood.

Morning, Jim-Joe Davies.

A filthy morning, Joe. What load of old rubbish are you peddling today?

Joe could visualize the bad teeth exposed in the grin on the writers face: mock-hostile banter was the game the two of them played to disguise the fact that each did his best to use the other. Nothing very interesting, Joe said. A starlet landing a small part, is all. Just Leila DAbo topping the bill at the London Palladium.

That played-out old cow? Whens it coming off, Joe?

Joe grinned, knowing he had won the game this time. October 21, for one night.

Got it. By then she will just about be finished with that second-rate film shes making at-where is it? Ealing Studios?

Hollywood.

Yes. Now, who else is on the bill?

Dont know. Youll have to ask the Palladium. Youll also have to ask them whether its true that sh.e.l.l be paid fifty thousand pounds for the appearance, because Im not saying.

No, youre not.

Will that make a story for you?

Ill do my best for you, old son.

Joe grinned again. If the story was good enough to get in the paper on merit, Whitewood would always pretend he was doing the agent a personal favor. If the story was not good enough, the writer would say so.

Whitewood said: Now, have you given this to the opposition?

Not yet.