Rachael's Gift (29 page)

‘You did all right today.’

‘Yeah? Thanks.’

‘Hell of a rush. Something primal about it. Takes us back to our roots.’

‘It’s good to be outside.’

‘You wait; Janine, the cook, – she’s been brought in for the wake – she’ll use up every bit of that boar and have it laid out on the table for an eye-watering feast. Pig’s head terrine, black pudding, crispy pig’s ears,
boudin noir
. Smashing.’

Something rumbled inside me. I was surprised that they put on such a feast for a wake, we’d had sandwiches and dips, but when in France . . . All I really wanted was to let the rhythm of the drive send me into a trance. I’d checked in with Terry early that morning – he was taking care of Mr Brown for me. ‘Half of Sydney’s lost their mind over this teacher. Alan Jones wants me on his talkback radio show.’ I asked him if it was a police issue now but he said it wasn’t. ‘The bugger’s been put on trial by social media.’

Rupert fished something out of his pocket, a packet of jelly lollies; he bit the plastic off and sucked one into his mouth.

‘You all right, old boy? You seem a bit pale round the edges.’ The lolly stuck to his gums. ‘Jube?’

I declined. ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m good.’ But it was hard to hide – all this stress – I was so worried about Rach and now this ‘mentorship’ with this art bloke; did I have to worry about that too? I was getting a bad feeling about him. I looked at Rupert. ‘So you know this guy that’s giving Rach art lessons, then?’

Rupert crunched the jeep into fifth. ‘Lucien? Sure. Francine’s father discovered him years ago. Huge success now. He’s your typical bohemian artist. Lives by his own rules, bit of a Lothario with a cluster of adoring female devotees – you know the cliché. Broke Camille’s little teenage heart.’

I looked at him quizzically.

‘First love, eh?’

‘Yeah, yeah – of course,’ I said, as if I knew all about it. But Cam had never mentioned a word, and now this sleazebag was giving our wayward kid art lessons. It sent the fear of Huey right up me.

He put the pedal to the metal. ‘So let’s get that pig stuffed.’

*

The tyres crunched on the gravel as we swerved up the driveway. I did a double take as an enormous mansion burst into view. It was a little part of Paris in the countryside, built in the same style as all those wedding cakes in the city. So this was where Camille’s French family came from – and I thought she’d been raised in a two-bed flat by her poor mum. Well, she had been. But I had no idea about this.

Rupert pulled on the park brake. ‘Oh, and don’t take any notice of old Marie,’ he said, referring to Camille’s grandmother. ‘It’s all an act – she’s sharp as a tack. Makes fools of us all.’

He opened the boot of the car. ‘You take the other end,’ he said, grunting and dragging the legs of one of the boars halfway out of the boot. ‘We’ll have this guy spinning on the spit in no time.’

The boar’s fat belly hung heavy between us, rocking back and forth as we dragged it into the house. We entered through a side door into a foyer. Outdoor gear hung on pegs above muddy gumboots. We took a breather and then carried it across a marble floor into the kitchen. It had a gigantic stone fireplace and a table big enough to feed a swim team. We heaved the stiff beast up on to the table on the count of three and it landed with a loud thud. A tiny woman wearing a white coat came running in. She proceeded to wave her arms about in a fit, but Rupert just smiled and gave her a big kiss. The woman went bright red. ‘There, problem solved.’ He winked at me. ‘Wait till she sees the second one.’

Back in the hall, I heard music – a piano, filling the corridor with sound. I was drawn in. It had been a while since I’d heard this sort of music. Not since the old man used to send us deaf and crazy in the car as we drove over khaki mountains, deep into the bush.

‘Bloody genius, your namesake. You’ll thank me one day,’ he’d said. Jeez, if it wasn’t the very same, the only one I knew: Mozart’s
Andante
.

We dragged the second boar to an old stable out the back of the house, tied a rope around its neck and hung it from the ceiling to age. The skin on its chest gaped open from two gashes. This was my boar. Up close the fleshy pink divots of its snout looked weirdly human. I ran my finger along the razor-sharp edges of its tusks.

‘There’s a beauty in death, no?’ Rupert ruffled the animal’s fur. ‘Nothing like a good hunt, hey?’ He grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, old boy, let’s get inside.’

I met Samuel Florins outside the claimant’s lawyer’s offices. He seemed fairly confident. Barry had been on both our backs all morning, and I was glad to share the grief. The meeting was a preliminary one to prepare for a formal mediation and basically find out where both parties stood and how they wanted to move forward.

‘If you couldn’t find anything, I doubt they would have either,’ Samuel said as we went up in the lift. I watched the floor numbers light up as the lift ascended. I nodded, but inside I felt weighed down.

The offices had a plastic finish, all bright orange and turquoise, feature walls and space-age furniture. We were ushered into a boardroom where we organised our papers, poured ourselves some coffee, and waited. The receptionist appeared, advising they wouldn’t be too much longer: Sam and I knew the drill – power tactics: make them wait.

Twenty minutes later, two women and two men walked in. A woman in her late twenties, wearing a navy suit with a white ruffled shirt, seemed to lead the charge. She had thick brown hair to the shoulder and did not smile: Selina Goldman. A second lady, possibly in her late eighties, was guided to a seat. She wore her white hair short and combed back. She reached out to touch the younger woman on the arm, thanking her, and on her wrist I saw the numbered tattoo of a concentration camp. This was Lilian Bernard.

Selina made the introductions. The two men were Selina’s lawyers. Samuel and I stood and shook hands with each person. Lilian’s hand was small and frail in my palm, her skin the texture of talcum powder. Here was Lilian, the victim, in person: a live witness – and suddenly,
La Baigneuse
was no longer just a painting. I swallowed back my morals and remembered I was here to do a job.

Samuel towered over the table, charismatic and charming, easing gently to the point before concluding with our position: ‘My clients wish to continue with the sale of
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
, and believe that, although the circumstances your family found themselves in are regrettable, the painting was bought by my clients in good faith. Nor has our research uncovered any proof that the painting was stolen.’

Selina exchanged a look with one of her legal colleagues.

Samuel glanced at me, almost winking he seemed so confident, which I was thankful for because my nerves were untying. He went on: ‘We believe it will be fruitless to pursue the claim but my clients are willing to pay a small reparation from the sale of the painting as a gesture of goodwill.’

‘You talk of no proof?’ Selina handled a plastic sleeve containing a single sheet of paper, dangling it just out of reach. ‘You talk of compensation?’

‘Yes . . . it is a possibility . . .’ Samuel began. ‘My clients are good people . . .’

‘May I ask you, Ms Larkin, you are not Jewish.’ It was a statement not a question.

My skin prickled. What this had to do with me, I had no idea.

‘No. Do you know what it means to be Jewish? To know what is in your blood? Where you have come from?’

I felt heat rise up my neck. ‘I don’t see how this is relevant . . .’

‘May I ask you, was your family in the war? Did they serve?’

The colour rose to my cheeks. ‘All families were affected by the war, Ms Goldman.’

‘Your grandfather was,
is
, an important figure in the art world, isn’t he?’ Selina glanced down at the document she had in her hands, appeared to find what she was looking for, and glanced up. ‘Was your grandfather not involved in an appraisal of
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
?’ She pushed the evidence across the table to Samuel.

‘He was contracted as an expert, yes,’ I said. ‘For Galerie Charpentier . . .’

Samuel removed the piece of paper from the plastic cover. It was the appraisal – the one my grandfather had written for Rochlitz. A copy of the very one that now sat buried under files in my room at the apartment. They had obviously reached the records before me and made a photocopy. I picked it up and read it for the benefit of the boardroom.

Lilian stared at her hands in her lap, but Selina’s gaze was unwavering. I looked at Samuel. They were all waiting for me to respond.

‘It’s an appraisal. That was what he was employed to do. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’

Selina passed a second plastic file across the table. It was a second letter addressed to Rochlitz written in French. Selina waited a moment and then passed a transcription of the letter in English. I took a moment to read it.

20 May 1940

Dear Mr Rochlitz

An esteemed friend of mine has drawn my attention to the whereabouts of a very good Courbet,
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
, which would likely attract great interest from certain parties.

I believe his asking price to be very reasonable, however he can only reserve the Courbet until 27 May, as he can sell it elsewhere.

I await your imminent reply and remain with best wishes.

(signed) A. Delamotte

Selina then passed us a third document: a copy of an original sale receipt for the painting for 350,000 FF addressed to Georges Bernard and signed by Gustav Rochlitz, dated 27 May 1940.

‘It’s quite shocking, no? That an esteemed professional of the art world would alert known Nazi collaborators to the whereabouts of Jewish art? And knowingly value it for him a month later – at twice its sale value.’

My face was burning. They had found the proof. The amount showed that Rochlitz had taken advantage of the Bernards’ situation: Bernard had been forced to sell under duress and my grandfather had made the introduction. I couldn’t believe they had actually found the original receipt. Perhaps some of their family archives had survived.

There was an awkward pause. Samuel handed me a scrap of paper on which he had scribbled,
What is she talking about?!

‘One night,’ Selina said, ‘a police van stops in front of my family’s house and arrests Lena, Georges, David, Lilian and Rebekah. It happens to be the night before their planned escape to London, and the house is emptied of all its contents, all their money is confiscated – including the money from the sale of
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
. Do you still believe a small reparation is ample compensation?’ She paused, staring at me, eyes like pins. ‘Do you think my grandmother’s life is ample compensation?’

Samuel’s nostrils were flared – he was seething.

‘Surely your family sought restitution after the war ended?’ I said, fumbling under the attack.

‘My family were dead, Ms Larkin. My grandmother was thirteen. She lived in a hostel when she returned to Paris and was then fostered to a non-Jewish family and was so traumatised she brought her children up in the Catholic faith. She watched her mother, father, brother and sister die at Auschwitz and was only saved because she had been singled out to work in the guard’s kitchen. So I ask you again, do you think my family received ample compensation for the sale of
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
?’

Lilian placed her hand gently on Selina’s wrist and Selina stopped speaking.

I looked between the two of them. Lilian’s eyes were watery. She was not crying; they were wet from old age.

‘My family sold their belongings under severe duress. But they were too late. Let your clients know we shall be asking for full restitution,’ Selina said.

Samuel and I gathered up our things.

*

Outside in the street, Samuel grabbed my arm. ‘Jesus, Camille – did you know about this?’

I bit my bottom lip. I was so angry with myself.

‘Is it true?’

I thought of my grandfather dribbling in his dressing gown – what else had he done? How far had he gone? I hadn’t let myself think about it until now. I never thought they would find this information and use it against me. I had heard that some experts had been paid handsomely to ‘fix’ appraisals, but until a few days ago I had never suspected my grandfather. And to make known the whereabouts of potential cheap sales – that was even worse.

‘You really didn’t know about it?’

I didn’t reply.

‘You did and you didn’t say anything.’ He looked disappointed. It was bad news. The painting was tainted. Even if the Blakes didn’t give it back, no respectable dealer would touch it.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ll let Barry know.’

Francine focused on the road ahead, and even though the car bumped over potholes, her perfectly blow-dried bob did not move. We were on our way to the local markets to get food for lunch.

‘You must be very proud of Rachael,’ she said.

Proud? Right now, I wanted to throttle her for the mess she’d made. ‘Of course I am.’

‘She seems incredibly focused.’

‘When Rach wants something there’s not much that can stop her.’ And what did she want right now? I was hoping it wasn’t Lucien. Rupert had got me worried. ‘So what’s this Lucien fellow like? You’ve known him for a while, yeah?’

‘Years and years. Brilliant man – you will see. You’ll meet at the service tomorrow.’

‘So he’d be good with Rachael?’

She hesitated. ‘His name will help with the school.’

That bloody school – it was all I ever heard about. ‘Is he married?’

‘Lucien?’ Francine laughed. ‘No. I don’t believe he’s the marrying type.’ She gripped the steering wheel. ‘He’s a free spirit.’

Great, that was all we needed – two free spirits spending loads of time together. ‘You sure Rach is okay with him?’

She looked at me suspiciously. ‘What are you worried about?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ Her avoidance of the question didn’t make me feel any better. I changed tack. ‘So what was Camille like when she lived with you?’