Free A Masterpiece of Revenge by J.J. Fiechter Page B

half-hearted stab at my old morning chess ritual.
    I felt fit in body and mind, though more keenly alert than ever to signs and omens. But now I was enjoying puzzling over their meanings. They were auspicious. With almost childish relief I saw a crow land briefly on my balcony and then fly off, as if frightened. Several days before one had perched there for hours on end.
    In the reproductions of all the final works by celebrated painters I had chosen for the
Magnificent Trembling of Age
I no longer saw only the memento mori, but a larger frame of reference, the greater and more life-affirming game of images within images, as in Lucas Cranach’s
Melancholy
, where a large bay window opens onto a whole new picture.
    My thinking had become magnetized, drawing to it thoughts and ideas like iron filings. For example, when examining a painting of Mary Magdalene by Jacques Bellange, who depicted her with her eyes lifted to the heavens, the name of a famous astrophysicist suddenly popped into my head. I had never met the man, but there his name was. I felt a desire to meet him.
    The next morning I was reading a magazine and came across an interview with that same astrophysicist. The article featured a photograph of him, taken at his office. Behind his desk was a reproduction of Bellange’s painting.
    The coincidence was unnerving but fascinating. Why would I think of this astrophysicist? What did the Mary Magdalene have to do with any of this? Because her eyes were looking to the heavens?
    Questions begot questions. I thought a great deal about my helpful Arcadian shepherd, and when I did I found both that my anxieties eased and that images and ideas started springing to mind. At first the sensation was exhilarating, but as time passed it became irritating and dizzying. It reminded me of the way one’s head spins when one lies down after having had too much to drink.
    It was in this state that I answered the phone when it rang at precisely five o’clock.
    â€œMay I please speak to Professor Vermeille?” asked a voice unknown to me, with a slight accent. Belgian, I guessed.
    â€œThis is he,” I replied.
    â€œForgive me for disturbing you. My name is Quentin Van Nieuwpoort. Sir, Fm calling you because, well, I've got something that might interest you.”
    â€œYou have my attention.”
    â€œIt involves a painting by Claude Lorrain.”
    Good God, not another, I thought. In fact I very nearly hung up the phone, but politeness kept me from doing so.
    â€œA painting that might be attributed to Lorrain. Is that what you mean?”
    I had seen so many Lorrain copies in my time that I had long become used to disappointing dealers and collectors. Still, my response seemed not to have fazed this man.
    â€œBelieve me, Professor Vermeille, I am not wasting your time. The painting has been declared authentic by both the Oxford Institute for Art Research and the Griffith Institute in Los Angeles. I have certificates. This is the real thing. Except — well — it lacks your conclusive opinion.’’
    It was the painting I'd heard about in Los Angeles. After the Griffith’s director had taken me into his confidence I'd gleaned more details about the painting in question from a friend at Sotheby’s. I’d also looked through my own notes. Identifying the work had been easy, thanks to the painter’s own
Libro di Veritá
, carefully conserved in the manuscript collection at the British Museum.
    As I’ve mentioned, the
Libro
was essentially an inventory, in which Lorrain had himself patiently redrawn, in pen and wash, his entire oeuvre. He’d based the drawings on his working sketches. The
Libro
provided valuable information about the paintings: the dates and places of their genesis, the dimensions of the frames, the clients who had commissioned them, and even, in certain cases, the names of their eventual purchasers.
    The work had to have been number six of the
Libro: