Free The White Schooner by Antony Trew Page A

one of us has seen what is—’ he looked round, pausing for effect. ‘What’s believed to be one of the finest private collections of Impressionists and post-Impressionists in Europe. And it’s here. On Ibiza.’ He thumped the table for emphasis.
    ‘You mean van Biljon’s?’ said Ilse Berch.
    ‘Yes.’ He leant forward, challenging one face after another. ‘Have any of you seen it? Any of you?’
    None of them had.
    ‘Nor has anyone else,’ he said.
    Manuela watched him curiously over the rim of her glass.
    ‘Perhaps the pictures don’t exist.’
    He shook his head. ‘They exist all right. Most of them are internationally catalogued. In the dealer world they’ve a pretty shrewd idea what he’s got.’
    ‘Why d’you get so—so, what can I say, hit up ?’Ilse Berch arched her eyebrows.
    Black realised that he’d raised his voice and was using his hands. ‘I’m not hit up. I’m …’ he laughed with embarrassment . ‘I’m indignant. I’d give anything to see that collection but I haven’t a hope. Not only does he not show it to anyone, but he hates the guts of art critics. Journalistic or otherwise.’
    ‘Maybe he’s got something there,’ said Kyriakou.
    Black looked at him for a moment, was about to be rude, but changed his mind. ‘There are two art journals badgering me for articles on that collection. They’d pay me a packet if I could send them what they want. Photos, interviews with van Biljon, the lot.’
    ‘Aha. So that’s it,’ said Kyriakou waving his cigar. ‘Our old friend lolly. So you are a materialist after all. Not an artist.’
    ‘He’s got to live,’ said George Madden lugubriously. It was his first constructive contribution.
    ‘Why?’ said Kyriakou. ‘It’s not compulsory.’
    ‘It’s more than money,’ said Black. ‘No man should keep a collection like that to himself. Those pictures belong to evervone. Just as much as great music and literature. VanBiljon is their temporary custodian. Nothing more. Unless they’re seen by others their existence is meaningless. I don’t know van Biljon, but he must be pathologically selfish.’ He realised that he had raised his voice again, for at the next table the thin man with dark glasses and a christ-beard looked up from the crossword puzzle he was doing. The Englishman remembered having seen him in the ferry steamer a few days before.
    Manuela put down her glass with a clatter. ‘I don’t really know van Biljon either, but I think you misunderstand his motives. It is his face. He’s scared of people. He’s a recluse.’
    Black waved away her statement with his hands.
    ‘He could open the gallery to the public occasionally. Hide himself away? They tell me it’s a big house.’
    ‘All right,’ said Manuela. ‘So he’s a crank. He doesn’t want to meet people. He doesn’t want them at Altomonte. Maybe he values his privacy above everything. Why not if he wants it that way? It’s his life. His house. His pictures.’
    Black looked at her in genuine surprise. ‘Don’t you see it as an almost criminal act of selfishness?’
    ‘No. Not at all.’ She leant forward, stabbing in his direction with her comb. ‘He’s not selfish. They say he is fabulously generous. Especially for anything to do with children. They say he is wonderful with them. You know why?’
    Black shook his head, half smiling at her earnestness.
    ‘Because,’ she went on, ‘children like a person for what he is. They see the scars but they don’t mind. They know what’s behind them. Children and dogs. They can always tell.’
    ‘Manuela,’ Black said it slowly, breaking the name into syllables, shaking his head in good natured disbelief. ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
    ‘About dogs and children?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Of course I do.’
    ‘Amazing,’ he said.
    ‘Not at all.’ She wiggled her eyebrows. ‘And anyway you’re not listening to me,’ she added indignantly.
    ‘How can you say that?’
    ‘Because you