The Garden of Unearthly Delights

Alex Connor

First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Quercus

Quercus Editions Ltd
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7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW

Copyright © 2014 by Alex Connor

The moral right of Alex Connor to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Ebook ISBN 978 1 78429 124 2

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

You can find this and many other great books at:
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London
The present day

David Gerrald had been waiting for a while before, finally, the door opened and the man he was about to interview entered. The art dealer was precisely what David had expected – which surprised him. His urbanity and relaxed charm were intact, and his handshake was pitch perfect.

Sitting down at the table the two men faced each other.

‘Do you mind if I record what you say?’ David asked. ‘I used to take notes, but this is easier. I can get a better connection if I don’t spend my whole time scribbling.’

The other man nodded, unconcerned, as David set up the recorder and placed it on the table between them. It was a model that only recorded when someone was speaking. If there was a silence, it stopped suddenly, like a bore that had been caught out at a party.

‘In your letter you said that you’d be willing to talk to me,’ David continued, then paused. The red light went off on the recorder. ‘Are you ready?’

‘Absolutely.’

The red beam flickered again, like a fire trying to catch light.

‘Ok,’ David said. ‘So, if you’ll just tell me what happened. In your own time.’

‘What happened? Well you’ll have to concentrate because it’s complicated. Fooled me totally, I can tell you. Roped me in before I had chance to see what was coming. But I’m hurrying on and I need to slow down, and explain.’ The man paused, stared at the recorder. It seemed to amuse him, clicking on and off. ‘As you know, I’m an art dealer. Forty-nine years of age, medium build, more healthy than I should be after the way I’ve lived.’

David nodded, as though to encourage him. Which he didn’t need.

‘My ascent into the upper echelons of the London art scene was fast, helped along by my mentor, Samuel Hemmings. He became rather notorious with regard to the “Rembrandt Secret”.’

‘But he’s dead now?’

‘Oh yes, Samuel’s long gone.’ The man continued, sipping at the glass of water which had been placed next to him. His hands were large but well formed, the nails cut short. Uniform. ‘I’ve been lucky, I can admit that. I don’t pretend that I was especially gifted, but fate took a liking to me and – for almost ten years – I was guided to the right places to meet the right people. I became lucky at finding sleepers too.’

David frowned
. ‘Sleepers?’

‘The paintings no one realises are the work of a Master. My speciality is the art of the Netherlands. Late Middle Ages.’

‘Are there many of these sleepers?’

‘Oh, you’d be surprised. They come on the market out of ignorance, or because someone has inherited a painting on their parents’ death, which they never liked. So they sell it. They’re usually dirty, sometimes badly framed; often the varnish has darkened so much the face is clouded in a nicotine haze. Or they might have a tear in the canvas.’ He paused once more, reached for a packet of cigarettes and shook one out. Then, methodically, he began to take it apart. ‘For laymen, any cracking of the paint surface can put them off. They see these fusty landscapes and waxen portraits and find them dull. So they put them up for sale – often in obscure country auctions. And that’s where I spot them.’

‘But not other dealers?’

‘Of course, sometimes they beat me to it. But I had a number of people working for me and I usually got there first.’ He smiled. A likeable man. ‘I’m fond of the term sleeper
.
It has a fairytale quality about it. Like the painting is drowsing, waiting to be found and loved again. I was a romantic, you see, that’s what having an easy life does for you. Seems incredible now, but that’s how it was . . . then.’

He stopped talking, David still watching him. He had pulled off the cigarette’s filter and was unravelling the paper that held the tobacco inside.

‘But not now?’

‘No, not now,’ the man agreed, without rancour. ‘I was invincible. Until Bosch.’

‘As in, Hieronymus Bosch?’

‘Is
there another one?’ he countered, amused. ‘Yes, the one and only Mr Bosch. Most people now connect the name with home appliances. But in the Middle Ages, Bosch was a master, known throughout Europe. Respected, revered.’ He took the tobacco and sprinkled it into his glass, watching it slither in the water.

‘You knew a great deal about this painter, didn’t you?’

‘Not enough.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘I mean,’ he replied brusquely, ‘Mr Bosch was very nearly the end of me.’

Reaching for his notes, David shuffled through them, then glanced back to the dealer. Outside it was raining, water dribbling down the windows, the interior panes beginning to steam up a little, the air muggy.

Finding the notes he wanted, David read a few lines and then looked up. ‘It all started because of your gambling debts, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you always a gambler?’

‘Not really. My father was, and I think it put me off . . . until I got sucked in. A private club is quite different from a street bookie.’

‘Did you win?’

The man nodded, happy to remember. ‘I was lucky for a long time. There was a period in my life when I couldn’t lose, in work or at the tables. But then my luck – like a much-loved dog – unexpectedly turned on me.’

‘But you carried on gambling?’

The man sighed as though suddenly exhausted. ‘What matters the most to you?’

‘What?’

‘What do you value the most in life?’

‘My son.’

‘Give him away.’

‘What?!’

‘That’s addiction. I could no more give up gambling than you could part with your son,’ the man replied. ‘Stop looking for logic, there is none. Addiction is addiction. You go on until you’re stopped.’

David nodded, ‘Ok, let’s go back a bit.’

‘Oh yes, let’s.’

‘You were gambling and you began to lose heavily.’

‘Lose heavily.
It’s like bleeding heavily; you can’t lose lightly. When you lose, you should realise that you won’t get it back. You’ll exsanguinate. You know how long it takes for a human being to bleed to death?’

David shook his head. ‘No, how long?’

‘Too long.’ The dealer smiled, amused, and leaned back in his seat. ‘Go on, ask me the question. I know you want to –
how much did I lose?’

‘OK, how much?’

‘Everything.
Like I said, I used to frequent a private club in Hampstead, run by Iwo Basinski.’ He paused again. ‘I see that name resonates with you.’

‘He has quite a reputation,’ David replied. ‘Apparently he’s ruthless, but nothing illegal, nothing anyone can prove anyway. He gets other people to do his dirty work, or so the story goes. I heard he was of Polish descent and that his fortune came from haulage and shipping.’

‘Who knows? I found him to be perfectly charming. In fact, he bought a number of paintings from me over the years. He liked the art of the Middle Ages, which is unusual. It’s not a period that has that many followers at present. Basinski has plenty of money, which makes collecting easy.’

David was trying to piece together what he was hearing.

‘You said you lost everything. But at first it was just money—’

‘Just money, he says!’ the man laughed. ‘Yes, it was just money. But
too much money.
Money I couldn’t pay back. I thought I could. I always had done before.’

David pricked up his ears. ‘So you’d lost before?’

‘Small amounts, which gave me a false feeling of security. But when my luck changed it
really
changed.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I think you know.’

‘No, not all of it,’ David replied. ‘Only what I’ve read, and that could be inaccurate. I want your side of the story. I don’t want half a tale.’

‘Why
should
I tell you?’ the man asked suddenly, swirling the water in the glass, the fragments of tobacco like threads of brown cotton.

David reached for the recorder as though he was preparing to leave – assuming the action would provoke a response – but he was mistaken. Instead, he found himself sitting down again, oddly embarrassed. ‘I just want to get the facts straight.’

‘There are no straight facts. All facts are susceptible to being bent. Do you know how you can tell if wormholes in the wooden frame of a canvas are genuine?’

‘No.’

‘If the holes are straight, it’s man made – with a drill. You see, real worms meander.’ The dealer continued, amused. ‘Forgers
can
be caught out, you know. But only by experts.’

David nodded, his tone steady. ‘Go on with the story.’

‘Alright, I’ll tell you everything that happened,’ he agreed, settling back into his chair. ‘One day, it was just before New Year’s, I lost a massive amount at the tables. I make no excuses: desperation makes maniacs out of the best of us. I was in trouble and thought “This will do it. One last game and my luck will change”. Of course it didn’t, and I was suddenly standing in my Savile Row suit sweating like a pig in a bathhouse.’

‘What happened then?’

‘Nothing, for a couple of days. Then Iwo Basinski came to my gallery. I was surprised, usually I visited him at his home, but then I realised this wasn’t about art, this was about business. The business of what I owed him.’ He breathed in, held the breath for several seconds, then let it go. ‘I offered to pay off what I owed him in instalments, but Basinksi had another proposition for me. A way by which I could clear my debt in one fell swoop.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What d’you think I said? I was euphoric! In the meantime my wife had left, taking our son, and I hoped that if I could clear the IOU I could get my family back. The gallery was under threat too. If Basinski had forced me to pay him immediately I’d have had to sell up.’ He glanced at his watch, then held it to his ear, explaining: ‘It was my father’s. The old wind-up kind.’ Apparently satisfied he could hear it still ticking, he continued. ‘Basinksi said I had to solve a puzzle.’

‘A puzzle?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, a puzzle. He said it should be simple for me. After all, I was an art dealer – I
am
an art dealer. If I was at all qualified I should be able to solve such a riddle easily.’ He looked away, as though searching for the exit. ‘It was a freezing cold day, I remember that much. Frost on the pavement in Cork Street, the gallery never really warming up, and every time someone walked in the cold followed them like a dead man. Basinksi was wearing a thick coat and took off his gloves and reached into his inside pocket.’

‘And?’

‘Brought out an envelope,’ the dealer replied. ‘Then he shook out its contents: five photographs.’

‘Of what?’

He shrugged. ‘At first I couldn’t tell, then Basinksi told me that each image was a detail from a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. He was so blasé about it: “
For a man of your learning, this should be simple. Just tell me which image belongs
to which painting”.’