Free Caravaggio's Angel by Ruth Brandon Page A

bright and searching, were sunk deep above wide, high cheekbones in a lined, nut-brown face. She produced a hearing-aid from a bag at her feet, and adjusted it; when it was modulated to her satisfaction she said, ‘ Bonjour, madame . I’m sorry if I forgot our appointment. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long. The truth is, I can’t hear the bell unless I’m wearing this, and when Babette’s out I might as well not be here as far as visitors are concerned. Why don’t you bring a chair over and we can talk?’
    I found a small chair and brought it over to the window. ‘It’s kind of you to see me, madame, especially at a time like this.’
    ‘Oh, I like to be distracted. It passes the time. So, what did you want? I know you probably said in your letter, but . . .’
    In fact I hadn’t really said anything in my letter, other than that Manu had given me the address, and I wanted to talk about Emmanuel Rigaut and Robert de Beaupré. I opened my mouth to start out on the usual explanation. But no words came out. For as I was fetching the chair I’d noticed a picture hanging on the wall opposite the window, and the sight was so astonishing that I found myself quite unable to do anything but stare.
    ‘Is something wrong?’
    ‘Not at all,’ I stuttered. ‘It’s just – that picture – I couldn’t help noticing –’
    It was an oil painting containing two figures, a woman and an angel, together with a number of musical instruments. A beam of light shone down from the top left-hand corner, where the angel hovered, brilliantly illuminating the two figures and picking out the instruments in its yellow-gold glow. Unless it was a very good copy indeed, I’d not only found the missing version of Caravaggio’s St Cecilia and the Angel but also the answer to another puzzle: why Beaupré (for here, surely, was proof that he had indeed been the thief) had picked out, from all the Louvre’s treasures, this particular picture.
    The old lady gave me a keen look, as though this was something she had been expecting. ‘What about it?’
    ‘It’s a Caravaggio, isn’t it?’
    ‘Yes.’ The bright hazel eyes held mine.
    ‘Is it an original?’
    ‘I believe so. That’s what we’ve always understood.’
    When he made this version of his picture, Caravaggio had evidently been back on form. Unlike the painting in the Louvre, this one rippled with life. The Angel’s wings and the saint’s velvet dress were executed with virtuosic lightness of touch and exquisite attention to detail – each wing-feather darkly iridescent, the sheen on the red fabric full of heavy softness.
    ‘Has it always been in your family?’
    ‘Always? Not exactly. My father bought it. That was before I was born, so for me it’s always been here. But in fact only since about 1912.’
    ‘And was it exhibited in Paris after the war?’
    ‘You seem to know a lot about my picture,’ Juliette Rigaut remarked. ‘I thought you said you wanted to talk about my husband?’ (So she had seen my letter.) ‘But per-haps I got that wrong. My memory’s so bad these days. I can remember things that happened a long time ago, but the present, no. It comes, it goes . . . Don’t get old, that’s my advice. There’s absolutely nothing to be said for it.’
    I tried to calm myself. Too much, all at once, and I might lose everything. ‘Do you mind if I record our conversation?’
    ‘No. Why should I?’
    She watched impassively as I performed the usual tape-recorder rites, checking for level, making sure it was working. This was one interview I couldn’t afford to lose.
    ‘Actually, the picture is what I wanted to talk about, in a way. You know there’s a version in the Louvre that was stolen?’
    ‘Borrowed, not stolen,’ the old woman corrected me.
    ‘I believe your brother was involved, wasn’t he?’
    ‘Unfortunately, yes. My poor Bobo.’
    ‘Did you know anything about it at the time?’
    ‘Of course. It was my idea.’
    ‘ Your idea?’