The Flanders Panel (7 page)

“ ‘Acquired in 1585’, it says here, ”possibly in Antwerp, at the time of the surrender of Flanders and Brabant…‘ “

The old man nodded, almost as if he’d been witness to the event himself.

“Yes, that’s right. It may have been part of the spoils of war from the sacking of the city. The troops of the regiment my wife’s ancestor was in charge of were not the kind of people to knock at the door and sign a receipt.”

Julia was leafing through the documents.

“There are no references to the painting before that,” she remarked. “Do you remember any family stories about it, any oral tradition? Any information you have would help us.”

Belmonte shook his head.

“No, I don’t know of anything else. My wife’s family always referred to the painting as the
Flanders
or
Farnesio Panel,
doubtless so as not to remember the manner of its acquisition. It appeared under those names for the twenty-odd years it was on loan to the Prado, until my wife’s father recovered it in 1923, thanks to Primo de Rivera, who was a friend of the family. My father-in-law always held the Van Huys in great esteem, because he was a keen chess player. That’s why, when it passed into his daughter’s hands, she didn’t want to sell it.”

“And now?” asked Menchu.

The old man remained silent for a while, staring into his coffee cup as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“Now, things are different,” he said at last. He seemed almost to be making fun of himself. “I’m a real old crock now; that much is obvious.” And he slapped his half-useless legs. “My niece Lola and her husband take care of me, and I should repay them in some way, don’t you think?”

Menchu mumbled an apology. She hadn’t meant to be indiscreet. That was a matter for the family, naturally.

“There’s no reason to apologise,” said Belmonte, raising his hand, as if offering absolution. “It’s perfectly natural. That picture is worth a lot of money and it serves no real purpose just hanging in the house. My niece and her husband say that they could do with some help. Lola has her father’s pension, but her husband, Alfonso…” He looked at Menchu as if appealing for her understanding. “Well, you know what he’s like: he’s never worked in his life. As for me…” The sardonic smile returned to his lips. “If I told you how much I have to pay in taxes every year just to hang on to this house and live in it, you’d be horrified.”

“It’s a good area,” Julia said. “And a good house.”

“Yes, but my pension is tiny. That’s why I’ve gradually been selling off little souvenirs. The painting will give me a breathing space.”

He remained thoughtful, nodding slowly, although he didn’t seem particularly downcast. On the contrary, he seemed to find the whole thing amusing, as if there were humorous aspects to it that only he could appreciate. Perhaps what at first sight seemed only vulgar pillaging on the part of an unscrupulous niece and her husband was, for him, an odd kind of experiment in family greed: it’s always “uncle this and uncle that”, here we are at your beck and call, and your pension only just covers the costs; you’d be better off in a home with people the same age as you; it’s a shame, all these pictures hanging on the walls for no purpose. Now, with the Van Huys as bait, Belmonte must have felt safe. He could regain the initiative after long years of humiliation. Thanks to the painting, he could finally settle his account with his niece and her husband.

Julia offered him a cigarette, and he gave a grateful smile but hesitated.

“I shouldn’t really,” he said. “Lola allows me only one milky coffee and one cigarette a day.”

“Forget Lola,” Julia replied, with a spontaneity that surprised her. Menchu looked startled, but the old man didn’t seem bothered in the least. He gave Julia a look in which she thought she caught a glimmer of complicity, instantly extinguished, and reached out his thin fingers. Leaning over the table to light the cigarette, Julia said: “About the painting… Something unexpected has come up.”

The old man took a pleasurable gulp of smoke, held it in his lungs as long as possible and half closed his eyes.

“Unexpected in a good way or a bad way?”

“In a good way. We’ve discovered an original inscription underneath the paint. Uncovering it would increase the value of the painting.” She sat back in her chair, smiling. “It’s up to you what we do.”

Belmonte looked at Menchu and then at Julia, as if making some private comparison or as if torn between two loyalties. At last he seemed to decide. Taking another long pull on his cigarette, he rested his hands on his knees with a look of satisfaction.

“You’re not only pretty, but you’re obviously bright as well,” he said to Julia. “I bet you even like Bach.”

“I love Bach.”

“Please, tell me what the inscription says.”

And Julia told him.

“Who’d have thought it!” Belmonte, incredulous, was still shaking his head after a long silence. “All those years of looking at that picture and I never once imagined…” He glanced briefly at the empty space left by the Van Huys, and his eyes half-closed in a contented smile. “So the painter was fond of riddles.”

“So it would seem,” Julia said.

Belmonte pointed to the record player in the corner.

“He’s not the only one,” he said. “Works of art containing games and hidden clues used to be commonplace. Take Bach, for example. The ten canons that make up his
Musical Offering
are the most perfect thing he composed, and yet not one of them was written out in full, from start to finish. He did that deliberately, as if the piece were a series of riddles he was setting Frederick of Prussia. It was a common musical stratagem of the day. It consisted in writing a theme, accompanied by more or less enigmatic instructions, and leaving the canon based on that theme to be discovered by another musician or interpreter; or by another player, since it was in fact a game.”

“How interesting!” said Menchu.

“You don’t know just how interesting. Like many artists, Bach was a joker. He was always coming up with devices to fool the audience. He used tricks employing notes and letters, ingenious variations, bizarre fugues. For example, into one of his compositions for six voices, he slyly slipped his own name, shared between two of the highest voices. And such things didn’t happen only in music. Lewis Carroll, who was a mathematician and a keen chess player as well as a writer, used to introduce acrostics into his poems. There are some very clever ways of hiding things in music, in poems and in paintings.”

“Absolutely,” said Julia. “Symbols and hidden clues often appear in art. Even in modern art. The problem is that we don’t always have the right keys to decipher those messages, especially the more ancient ones.” Now it was her turn to stare pensively at the space on the wall. “But with
The Game of Chess
we at least have something to go on. We can make an attempt at a solution.”

Belmonte leaned back in his wheelchair, his mocking eyes fixed on Julia.

“Well, keep me informed,” he said. “I can assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

They were saying good-bye in the hallway when the niece and her husband arrived. Lola was a scrawny woman, well over thirty, with reddish hair and small rapacious eyes. Her right arm, encased in the sleeve of her fur coat, was firmly gripping her husband’s left arm. He was dark and slim, slightly younger, his premature baldness mitigated by a deep tan. Even without the old man’s remark about him, Julia would have guessed that he had won a place in the ranks of those who prefer to do as little as possible to earn their living. His features, to which the slight puffiness under his eyes lent an air of dissipation, wore a sullen, rather cynical look, which his large, almost vulpine mouth did nothing to belie. He was wearing a gold-buttoned blue blazer and no tie, and he had the unmistakable look of someone who divides his considerable leisure time between drinking aperitifs in expensive bars and frequenting fashionable nightclubs, although he was clearly no stranger either to roulette and card games.

“My niece, Lola, and her husband, Alfonso,” said Belmonte, and they exchanged greetings, unenthusiastically on the part of the niece, but with evident interest on the part of Alfonso, who held on to Julia’s hand rather longer than necessary, looking her up and down with an expert eye. Then he turned to Menchu, whom he greeted by name, as if they were old acquaintances.

“They’ve come about the painting,” Belmonte explained.

Alfonso clicked his tongue.

“Of course, the painting. Your famous painting.”

Belmonte brought them up to date on the new situation. Alfonso stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling and looking at Julia.

“If it means the value of the painting will go up,” he said, “it strikes me as excellent news. You can come back whenever you like if you’re going to bring us surprises like that. We love surprises.”

The niece didn’t immediately share her husband’s satisfaction.

“We’ll have to discuss it,” she said. “What guarantee is there that they won’t just ruin the painting?”

“That would be unforgivable,” chimed in Alfonso. “But I can’t imagine that this young lady would be capable of doing such a thing.”

Lola gave her husband an impatient look.

“You keep out of this. This is
my
business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darling.” Alfonso’s smile grew broader. “We share everything.”

“I’ve told you: keep out of it.”

Alfonso turned slowly towards her. His features grew harder and more obviously foxlike, and his smile seemed like the blade of a knife.

Julia thought that he was not perhaps as inoffensive as he at first sight seemed. It would be unwise to have any unsettled business with a man capable of a smile like that.

“Don’t be ridiculous… darling.”

That “darling” was anything but tender, and Lola seemed more aware of that than anyone. They watched her struggle to conceal her humiliation and her rancour. Menchu took a step forward, determined to enter the fray.

“We’ve already talked to Don Manuel about it,” she announced. “And he’s agreed.”

The invalid, his hands folded in his lap, had observed the skirmish from his wheelchair like a spectator who has chosen to remain on the sidelines but watches with malicious fascination.

What strange people! thought Julia.

“That’s right,” confirmed the old man to no one in particular. “I have agreed. In principle.”

The niece was wringing her hands, and the bracelets on her wrists jingled loudly. She seemed to be in a state of anguish - either that or just plain furious. Perhaps she was both things at once.

“Uncle, this is something that has to be discussed. I don’t doubt the good will of these two ladies…”

“Young ladies,” put in her husband, smiling at Julia.

“Young ladies then.” Lola was having difficulty getting her words out, hampered by her own irritation. “But they should have consulted us too.”

“As far as I’m concerned,” said her husband, “they have my blessing.”

Menchu was studying Alfonso quite openly and seemed about to say something. But she chose not to and looked at the niece.

“You heard what your husband said.”

“I don’t care. I’m the legal heir.”

Belmonte raised one thin hand in an ironic gesture, as if asking permission to intervene.

“I am still alive, Lola. You’ll receive your inheritance in due course.”

“Amen,” said Alfonso.

The niece pointed her bony chin, in the most venomous fashion, straight at Menchu, and for a moment Julia thought she was about to hurl herself on them. With her long nails and that predatory, birdlike quality, there was something dangerous about her. Julia prepared herself for a confrontation, her heart pumping. When she was a child, Cesar had taught her a few dirty tricks, useful when it came to killing pirates. Fortunately, the niece’s violence found expression only in her glance and in the way she turned on her heel and flounced out of the room.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” she said. And the furious tapping of her heels disappeared down the corridor.

Hands in his pockets, Alfonso wore a quietly serene smile.

“Don’t mind her,” he said, and turned to Belmonte. “Right, Uncle? You’d never think it, but Lolita has a heart of gold really. She’s a real sweetie.”

Belmonte nodded, distracted. He was clearly thinking about something else. His gaze seemed drawn to the empty rectangle on the wall as if it contained mysterious signs that only he, with his weary eyes, was capable of reading.

“So you’ve met Alfonso before,” said Julia as soon as they were out in the street.

Menchu, who was looking in a shop window, nodded.

“Yes, some time ago,” she said, bending down to see the price of some shoes. “Three or four years ago, I think.”

“Now I understand about the painting. It wasn’t the old man who approached you; it was Alfonso.”

Menchu gave a crooked smile.

“First prize for guessing, dear. You’re quite right. We had what
you
would demurely call an ‘affair’. That was ages ago, but when the Van Huys thing came up, he was kind enough to think of me.”

“Why didn’t he choose to deal directly?”

“Because no one trusts him, including Don Manuel.” She burst out laughing. “Alfonsito Lapena, the well-known gambler and playboy, owes money even to the bootblack. A few months back he narrowly escaped going to prison. Something to do with bad cheques.”

“So how does he live?”

“Off his wife, by scrounging off the unwary, and off his complete and utter lack of shame.”

“And he’s relying on the Van Huys to get him out of trouble?”

“Right. He can’t wait to convert it into little piles of chips on smooth green baize.”

“He strikes me as a nasty piece of work.”

“Oh, he is. But I have a soft spot for low-lifers, and I like Alfonso.” She remained thoughtful for a moment. “Although, as I recall, his technique certainly wouldn’t have won him any medals. He’s… how can I put it… ?” She groped for the right word. “Rather unimaginative. No comparison with Max. Monotonous, you know: the wham, bang and thank-you-ma’am type. But you can have a good laugh with him. He knows some really filthy jokes.”