Rachael's Gift (30 page)

Francine snorted. ‘She was a handful.’

A handful? What did she mean by that?

We entered the village, driving through narrow streets to a small square where we parked and got out of the car. Some kids stood in front of an empty cafe. A few sad stalls were set up in the centre of the square. Tarpaulins flapped in the wind. Francine opened the boot and handed me a straw basket. ‘
On y va
.’

The market consisted of about six or seven stalls and a couple of people selling second-hand wares on blankets on the ground.

Francine approached a man selling sausages first. He cut two small pieces off a sausage and handed them to us to taste. Francine wrinkled her nose and pointed to another one, and on it went until she finally decided on several. The guy weighed them, wrapped them and placed them in a plastic bag, which she gave to me to carry.

We repeated this little charade from stall to stall. I stood there with a goofy smile on my face as she passed me bag after bag.

‘Taste this.’ Francine was holding a piece of pale yellow cheese, oozing from the centre. ‘Smell first,’ she held it up to my nose. ‘That’s how you know if it’s good.’

It smelt of bad foot odour, but I ate it anyway.

‘So, Cam was a handful was she?’ I asked, taking another bag from her as we moved on to the olive stall.

She glanced quickly at me, as if weighing up her answer. Then she shrugged, took an olive pit out of her mouth and said, ‘She was going behind our backs, Wolfe. She lied to us.’

‘About Lucien?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘It’s all in the past now.’ She dropped the olive pit on the ground and we moved on to the rotisserie stand.

Jacques was out and it took Yves some time to open the door. ‘What a nice surprise,’ he said. I apologised for showing up unannounced. He asked if I would like something to drink and I accepted a glass of water. He shuffled into the kitchen in his slippers.

The glass of water shook in his hand as he carried it towards me. I thanked him and apologised again for barging in. He offered me a seat.

‘Something unexpected has come up . . . with the painting. It’s to do with my grandfather,’ I said, getting straight to the point. ‘During the war, was he shifting stolen art?’ I had tried to protect my grandfather’s reputation but the claimants had found out anyway. Now I wanted to know the extent of his involvement. ‘I would ask Anton himself, but . . .’

Yves nodded, acknowledging my unspoken reference to Anton’s lost grip on reality.

‘I know he informed Rochlitz of the whereabouts of
La Baigneuse aux Cheveux Roux
, but what else did he do?’

He looked at me sympathetically and then said, ‘Your grandfather wasn’t a bad man. None of us were bad men.’ Yves paused, he looked at the table and then, as if he had come to a decision, his light blue eyes returned to me. ‘It was the war.’ He pushed himself out of the chair and shuffled out of the room.

I couldn’t move; I felt shattered.

He returned carrying a shoebox. Sitting down, he opened it and flipped through a stack of photos, stopping at a particular one and handing it to me.

It was of a group of eight men posing for a photograph at an official function; five of the men were wearing Nazi uniforms; the other three were in civilian clothes.

‘I am there, on the far left.’ Yves’ finger shook over the photo as he pointed. ‘Bruno Lohse is wearing the light-coloured jacket and that’s your grandfather next to Kurt von Behr in the uniform. This was taken on opening night of Arno Breker’s exhibition in May 1942.’

Kurt von Behr was head of the ERR, I knew, and Lohse was a German art dealer appointed by Goering to oversee the collections he and Hitler were amassing.

‘As you know, the ERR had firm guidelines as to what they considered Aryan art. Your grandfather, Gustav and myself all knew there were profits to be made with the ones they didn’t want . . .’

‘But they were stolen. Those people were murdered. How could – ?’ I stopped.

Yves’ eyes were weary, tired of everything. ‘As far as I know, Anton gave one appraisal at the Jeu de Paume; Gustav formally exchanged a number of works we knew the Nazis wanted for ones they considered degenerate and were happy to give away. Anton and myself told Rochlitz the whereabouts of certain works we knew the Nazis would be interested in. I would find clients who needed to sell their masterpieces. The new world was hungry. There was money. We put them on a train to Switzerland, or sold them through various auction houses in Paris, or sent them to New York. We weren’t the only ones. After the war we all made a pact never to talk about it.’

Lilian’s eyes haunted me.

‘Everyone just wanted to move on.’

Had he spent his life atoning for his crime? Wondering if the stolen artworks would turn up time and time again and haunt him? Or had he simply moved on? I couldn’t tell. Had grandfather ever felt guilty? ‘The Bernards are asking for full restitution,’ I said. ‘They want their painting back.’

He nodded, his eyes unafraid. ‘The situation is unfortunate.’

*

If I cut myself, the blood would run clear, the red leached out. Drained. The weariness was contagious. I didn’t know what to do with myself; I didn’t want to go back to the apartment; I didn’t want to see anyone. All I could think about was my grandfather’s hair that had once been thick and dark and glossy.

I had to let Barry know. I’d be removed from the case. They couldn’t have a researcher who had a personal connection to it. Unless the Bernards agreed to a sale, the Blakes would lose out; if they refused to return it,
La Baigneuse
would become worthless, tainted by its lack of provenance. They could hardly seek compensation from the people who’d sold it to them – it was their bad luck they were at the end of the line. My grandfather would also be exposed as a collaborator.

It was hard to see Anton with his drool-covered chin and stained dressing gown, tottering around his musty living room, as the same distinguished academic, stooping over centuries-old manuscripts and giving lectures, and again as the tall dashing figure with a full head of dark hair, standing beside a man with a swastika wrapped around his upper arm. I’d been so in awe of him. In the end, he, too, had been weak.

*

That evening, I called Barry and told him the news. ‘Fuck, Mills!’ he shouted down the line, following up with a few more obscenities. I felt bad for him; no one liked losing. ‘I had no idea. I’m sorry.’

‘Fuck, Camille. The Blakes are going to hit the roof.’

‘I’ll be sending my invoice.’

He groaned and hung up on me.

My mother’s funeral service was conducted by two Catholic priests in the small family chapel in the garden at Chateau de La Roche Guilbeault. An intimate group attended. We were told to wear black and Francine had given me instructions to follow throughout the service. The priest spoke in French and Latin. He had never met my mother. Marie bowed her head in prayer and crossed herself. She wore a black Chanel suit and pearls and appeared smaller, hunched over from the curve in her upper back, her legs like two matchsticks. She held a white tissue in her hand. Her short hair was fluffed up high, hardened with hairspray.

In the early afternoon, just before dusk, two priests had arrived at the house, one carrying a vessel of holy water and the other a cross. We bowed our heads as the first priest sprinkled holy water over the cedar box containing my mother’s ashes and recited a psalm, ‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine . . .’ Holding the cross, the second priest led the procession to the chapel. I carried Marguerite’s ashes. My grandmother, Francine, Wolfe, Rachael and my grandfather, pushed by Rupert, followed behind.

Inside the chapel, mourners – friends of the family who may have known my mother as a girl – had taken their places in the pews. I walked up the aisle and saw Lucien standing tall; he nodded at me and I had to look away. Feeling all eyes on me, my hands shook as I put the box down on the altar. I found my seat in the front row beside Wolfe. He looked uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit he had borrowed from Rupert. He took my hand and we all bowed our heads.

The priest began with a series of prayers in Latin. Francine then read a prayer in French and then the first priest recited another long prayer in Latin. Our tiny congregation moved to kneel while the priest issued the absolution. We lowered our heads again. At the end of the pew my grandfather’s head drooped low on his chest. I wasn’t sure whether he was bowing his head or if he just wasn’t strong enough to hold it up. Did he know what was happening? Did he realise his daughter had died? Did he feel any guilt? It seemed all too easy to say a few prayers to the priest before death and know all would be forgiven – or forgotten. The first priest sprinkled the box with holy water again. The second priest held a metal pot suspended from chains at his waist, swinging it from side to side, trailing a thin line of smoke and the smell of frankincense.

Marie approached the altar and she lit a candle beside my mother’s ashes. Each of us followed in turn. I watched Rachael as she leant forward and lit her candle, elegant in the black trouser suit we’d bought for the original funeral. As she returned to her seat I tried to catch her eye, but she was looking past me to someone behind – to Lucien. A small smile appeared on her face, almost a blush, and she lowered her eyes to the ground, trying to hide it. Was she flirting with him?

It was my turn. I was last. I lit my candle, staring at the flame as it stood up straight and golden. I looked at the box containing my mother’s ashes and felt nothing. It wasn’t her – this entire thing wasn’t her. It was a complete farce. A bloody show. I picked up the box, as I’d been instructed, and followed the priests outside.

In the garden, an open casket lay on the ground beside a hole carved into the stone wall – Lucien’s mural. I placed the box in the casket.

The priest recited the committal in French . . .
la terre à la terre, les cendres aux cendres . . . la poussière à la poussière . . .
He made the sign of the cross then bent down, picked up some soil and sprinkled it through his fingers over the casket. Marie, Francine and Rupert each scattered soil after the priest. Rachael came forward, picked up a clump and tossed it into the casket. It hit the edge and crumbled into bits. She dusted her hands off and, face downcast, walked over to stand beside Lucien.

I placed the lid on the casket and slid it roughly into the space in the bricks which had been cut out in a corner of the faded mural; remnants of a thorny rose vine had been severed. A bronze engraving would be placed over the opening.

The priest finished with another prayer . . .
Repose en paix. Que la paix soit avec vous.

I felt my lips mouth,
Amen
.

Marie, Anton in his wheelchair with the nurse behind him, Francine, Rupert and Camille stood in a line in the foyer of the house, greeting the congregation and receiving kisses of condolence.

Camille shook hands with strangers, but her eyes were vacant, distracted. She didn’t know these people and they probably hadn’t even known her mum. I could tell she didn’t want to be here. Waiters passed around trays of champagne and tiny bits of food not big enough for a bird and I stood there, feeling useless. Rachael brought a drink over to me, sipping another herself. Cam had always let her have one glass. Perhaps that was one of many mistakes. ‘Thought you could do with one,’ she said. I muttered my thanks. She’d painted her lips bright red and they left stains on the rim of her glass.

The dark, smarmy man I’d spotted in the church and picked for sure as Lucien was the last to greet the family. ‘
Mon ami!
’ Rupert said, and the two men hugged and then kissed each other on the cheek the way men did in this country.

Lucien was probably about fifty and looked as if he were prepared to eat every woman alive. Everything about him swaggered; his shirt was undone one button too many, his baggy trousers hung loose, his salt-and-pepper hair flopped in waves around his ears – even his lips were rubbery.

Rachael grabbed his hand and introduced us.

‘G’day, mate.’ I squeezed Lucien’s hand hard.

‘
C’est le kangourou
,’ he laughed. ‘We meet, finally.’

‘Ah, and you must be the frog,’ I said, and we stood there clearing our throats with nothing else to say.

After what seemed like an age, Marie clapped her hands and shouted some order, and we followed her trail of face powder into the great hall to be seated for lunch.

On a serving plate in the centre of the dining table, the boar glistened with honey glazing. It was a spectacular sight, yet the memory of its death made me look away. What was I, squeamish? Hunting paraphernalia hung about the walls: a pair of antlers, some antiques rifles, oil paintings of hunting scenes.

I found my place. I’d been put next to Anton’s nurse, who was beside Anton at the head, and an old duck called Sabine, who didn’t speak English. I parked myself down and skulled the rest of the shampoo. Cam was seated at the other end of the table. I caught her eye and we swapped fed-up looks. Rach was opposite, next to Lucien. Rupert carved the boar and handed plates to the waiters, who drowned the meat in puddles of gravy and slopped on piles of cabbage, mushrooms and potatoes.

Anton’s nurse stuffed a napkin down his shirt collar. His eyes were mostly closed and when they opened he didn’t seem to see anything.

The waiters filled our glasses with red. The wine went down easily. I picked up my knife and fork and was about to tuck in when I saw Cam’s lips pinch disapprovingly. She nodded towards Marie, at the head of the table; everyone else had bowed their heads as she began a prayer. Oops. I laid down my knife and fork, threaded my hands together and lowered my head.

Opening one eye, I peered across the table, through the crystal glasses, to the top of Rachael’s head. Her hair fell over her face, across her shoulder, towards her elbow, which rested, ever so lightly, against Lucien’s.

A thick gold ring, engraved with a crest, glinted on his pinkie.