The Modigliani Scandal (4 page)

The calculator reminded Lampeth that most of the agency′s business involved investigating possible fraud: hence its location in the City. But they also traced individuals and—for Lampeth—pictures. Their fees were high, which gave Lampeth comfort.

″A glass of sherry?″ Lipsey offered.

″Thank you.″ Lampeth took the postcard from his pocket while the other man poured from a decanter. He took the proffered glass and gave the postcard in exchange. Lipsey sat down, set his sherry untouched on the desk and studied the card.

A minute later he said: ″I take it you want us to find the picture.″

″Yes.″

″Hmm. Do you have your niece′s address in Paris?″

″No, but my sister—her mother—will know. I′ll get it for you. However, if I know Delia, she will probably have left Paris by now—in search of the Modiglianis. Unless it′s in Paris.″

″So—we are left with her friends there. And this picture. Is it possible that she got the scent, so to speak, of this great find somewhere near the café?″

″That′s very likely,″ said Lampeth. ″Good guessing. She′s an impulsive girl.″

″I imagined so from me—ah—style of the correspondence. Now, what are the chances that this will turn out to be a wild-goose chase?″

Lampeth shrugged. ″There is always that possibility with searches for lost pictures. But don′t be misled by Delia′s style—sheʹs just won a First in Art History, and she is a shrewd twenty-five-year-old. If she would work for me I′d employ her, if only to keep her out of the hands of my competitors.″

″And the chances?ʺ

″Fifty-fifty. No, better—seventy-thirty. In her favor.″

″Good. Well, I have the right man for the job available at the moment. We can get on to it immediately.″

Lampeth stood up, hesitated, and frowned, as if he did not quite know how to put what he was about to say. Lipsey waited patiently.

″Ah—it′s important that the girl should not know that I have initiated the inquiry, you realize?″

″Of course,″ Lipsey said smoothly. ″It goes without saying.ʺ

The gallery was full of people chatting, clinking glasses, and dropping cigar ash on the carpet. The reception was to publicize a small collection of various German Expressionists which Lampeth had acquired in Denmark: he disliked the paintings, but they were a good buy. The people were clients, artists, critics, and art historians. Some had come simply to be seen at the Belgrave, to tell the world that this was the kind of circle they moved in; but they would buy, eventually, to prove that they did not come merely to be seen there. Most of the critics would write about the show, for they could not afford to ignore anything the Belgrave did. The artists came for the canapes and the wine—free food and drink, and some of them needed it. Perhaps the only people who were genuinely interested in the paintings were the art historians and a few serious collectors.

Lampeth sighed, and looked furtively at his watch. It would be another hour before he could respectabiv leave. His wife had long ago given up attending gallery receptions. She said they were a bore, and she was right. Lampeth would like to be at home now, with a glass of port in one hand and a book in the other; sitting on his favorite chair—the old learner one, with the hard horsehair upholstery and the burn mark on the arm where he always put his pipe—with his wife opposite him and Siddons coming in to make up the fire for the last time.

″Wishing you were home, Charlie?″ The voice came from beside him and broke his daydream. ″Rather be sitting in front of the telly watching Barlow?″

Lampeth forced a smile. He rarely watched television, and he resented being called Charlie by any but his oldest friends. The man he smiled at was not even a friend: he was the art critic of a weekly journal, perceptive enough about art, especially sculpture, but a terrible bore. ″Hello, Jack, glad you could come,″ Lampeth said. ″Actually, I am a bit tired for this sort of bash.″

″Know how you feel,″ the critic said. ″Hard day? Tough time knocking some poor painter′s price down a couple of hundred?″

Lampeth forced another smile, but deigned to reply to the jocular insult. The journal was a left-wing one, he remembered, and it felt the need to be disapproving of anyone who actually made money out of culture.

He saw Willow easing through the crowd toward him, and felt gratitude toward his junior partner. The journalist seemed to sense this, and excused himself.

″Thank you for rescuing me,″ Lampeth said to Willow in a low voice.

″No trouble, Lampeth. What I actually came to say was, Peter Usher is here. Do you want to handle him yourself?″

″Yes. Listen, I′ve decided to do a Modigliani show. We′ve got Lord Cardwell′s three, the sketches, and another possibility came up this morning. That′s enough for a nucleus. Will you find out who′s got what?″

″Of course. That means Usher′s one-man has had it.″

″I′m afraid so. There isn′t another slot for that sort of thing for months. I′ll tell him. He won′t like it, but it won′t harm him all that much. His talent will tell in the long run, whatever we do.″

Willow nodded and moved away, and Lampeth went in search of Usher. He found him at the far end of the gallery, sitting in front of some of the new paintings. He was with a woman, and they had filled a tray with food from the buffet.

″May I join you?″ Lampeth said.

″Of course. The sandwiches are delicious,″ Usher said. ″I haven′t had caviar for days.″

Lampeth smiled at the sarcasm, and helped himself to a tiny square of white bread. The woman said: ″Peter tries to play the part of the angry young man, but he′s too old.″

″You haven′t met my mouthy wife, have you?″ Usher said.

Lampeth nodded. ″Delighted,″ he said. ″We′re used to Peter, Mrs. Usher. We tolerate his sense of humor because we like his work so much.″

Usher accepted the rebuke gracefully, and Lampeth knew he had put it in exactly the right way: disguised in good manners and larded with flattery.

Usher washed another sandwich down with the wine, and said: ″When are you going to put on my one-man show, then?″

″Now, that is really what I wanted to talk to you about,″ Lampeth began. ″I′m afraid we′re going to have to postpone it. You see—″

Usher interrupted him, his face reddening behind the long hair and Jesus beard. ″Don′t make phony excuses—you′ve found something better to fill the slot. Who is it?″

Lampeth sighed. He had wanted to avoid this. ″We′re doing a Modigliani exhibition. But that′s not the only—″

″How long?″ Usher demanded, his voice louder. His wife put a restraining hand on his arm. ″How long do you propose to postpone my show?″

Lampeth felt eyes boring into his back, and guessed that some of the crowd were now watching the scene. He smiled, and inclined his head conspiratorially, to try and make Usher talk quietly. ″Can′t say,″ he murmured. ″We have a very full schedule. Hopefully early next year—″

″Next year!″ Usher shouted. ″Jesus Christ, Modigliani can do without a show but I have to live! My family has to eat!″

″Please, Peter—″

″No! I won′t shut up!″ The whole gallery was quiet now, and Lampeth realized despairingly that everyone was watching the quarrel. Usher yelled: ″I′ve no doubt you′ll make more money out of Modigliani, because he′s dead. You won′t do any good to the human race, but you′ll make a bomb. There are too many fat profiteers like you running the business, Lampeth.

″Do you realize the prices I used to get before I joined this bloody stuffed-shirt gallery? I took out a bloody mortgage on the strength of it. All the Belgrave has done is to lower my prices and hide my pictures away so nobody buys them. I′ve had it with you, Lampeth! I′ll take my work elsewhere, so stuff your fucking gallery right up your arse!″

Lampeth cringed at the violent language. He was blushing bright red, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about it.

Usher turned theatrically and stormed out. The crowd made a gap for him, and he walked through it, his head held high. His wife followed behind, running to keep up with his long-legged stride, avoiding the eyes of the guests. Everyone looked at Lampeth for guidance.

″I apologize for ... this,″ he said. ″Everybody, please carry on enjoying yourselves, and forget about it, would you?″ He forced yet another smile. ″I′m going to have another glass of wine, and I hope you′ll all join me.″

Conversation broke out in scattered places, and gradually spread until it filled the room with a continuous buzz, and the crisis was over. It had been a bad mistake to tell Usher the news here in the gallery at a reception: there was no doubt of that. Lampeth had made the decision at the end of a long, exciting day. In future he would go home early, or start work late, he resolved. He was too old to push himself.

He found a glass of wine and drank it down quickly. It steadied his shaking knees, and he stopped sweating. God, how embarrassing. Bloody artists.

III

PETER USHER LEANED HIS bicycle against the plate-glass window of Dixon & Dixon′s gallery on Bond Street. He took off his bicycle clips and shook each leg in turn to let the creases fall out of his trousers. He checked his appearance in the glass: his cheap chalk-stripe suit looked a little crumpled, but the white shirt and wide tie and vest gave him a certain elegance. He was sweating under the clothes. The ride from Clapham had been long and hot, but he could not afford Tube fares.

He swallowed his pride, resolved again to be courteous, humble and good-fiempered, and entered the gallery.

A pretty girl with spectacles and a miniskirt approached him in the reception area. She probably makes more per week than I do, Peter thought grimly—then he reminded himself of his resolution, and quelled the thought.

The girl smiled pleasantly. ″Can I help you, sir?″

″I′d like to see Mr. Dixon, if I may. My name is Peter Usher.″

″Will you take a seat while I see whether Mr. Dixon is in?″

″Thank you.″

Peter sat back on a green leatherette chair and watched the girl sit at her desk and pick up a telephone. He could see under the desk, between the drawer stacks, the girl′s knees. She shifted in her seat, her legs parted, and he looked at the smoothstockinged inside of her thigh. He wondered if ... Don′t be a fool, he told himself. She would expect pricey cocktails, the best seats at the theater, Steak Diane and claret. He could offer her an underground movie at the Roundhouse, then back to her place with a two-liter bottle of Sainsbury′s Yugoslav Riesling. He would never get past those knees.

″Would you like to go through to the office?″ the girl said.

″I know the way,″ Usher said as he got up. He went through a door and along a carpeted corridor to another door. Inside was another secretary. All these bloody secretaries, he thought: none of them could exist without artists. This one was older, equally desirable, and even more remote. She said: ″Mr. Dixon is terribly busy this morning. If you′ll sit down for a few moments, I′ll let you know when he′s free.″

Peter sat down again, and tried not to stare at the woman. He looked at the paintings on the walls: watercolor landscapes of no great distinction, the kind of art that bored him. The secretary had large breasts, in a pointed bra, under her loose, thin sweater. What if she were to stand up and slowly pull the sweater over her head ... Oh, Christ, shut up, brain. One day he would paint some of these fantasies, to get them out of his system. Of course, nobody would buy them. Peter would not even want to keep them. But they might do him some good.

He looked at his watch: Dixon was taking his time. I could do pornographic drawings for dirty magazines—I might make some money, too, that way. But what a prostitution of the gift in these hands, he thought.

The secretary picked up a telephone in response to a soft buzz. ″Thank you, sir,″ she said, and put it down. She stood up and came around the desk. ″Would you like to go in?″ she said to Usher. She opened the door for him.

Dixon stood up as Peter walked in. He was a tall, spare man with half-lens glasses and the air of a general practitioner. He shook hands without smiling, and briskly asked Peter to sit down.

He leaned his elbows on the antique desk and said: ″Well, what can I do for you?″

Peter had been rehearsing the speech all the way up on his bicycle. He had no doubt that Dixon would take him on, but he would be careful not to offend the chap, anyway. He said: ″I haven′t been happy with the way the Belgrave is handling me for some time. I wonder whether you would like to show my work.″

Dixon raised his eyebrows. ″That′s a bit sudden, isn′t it?″

″It may seem so, but as I say, it′s been simmering for a while.″

″Fair enough. Let′s see, what have you done recently?″

Peter wondered briefly whether Dixon had heard about the row last night. If he had, he was not saying anything about it. Peter said: ″
Brown Line
went for six hundred pounds a while ago, and Two Boxes sold for five hundred and fifty.″ It sounded good, but in fact they were the only pictures he had sold in eighteen months.

″Fine,″ Dixon said. ″Now what has been the trouble at the Belgrave?″

″I′m not sure,″ Peter replied truthfully. ″I′m a painter, not a dealer. But they don′t seem to be moving my work at all.″

″Hmm.″ Dixon seemed to be thinking: playing hard to get, Peter thought. At last he said: ″Well, Mr. Usher, I′m afraid I don′t think we can fit you into our roster. A pity.″

Peter stared at him, flabbergasted. ″What do you mean, can′t fit me in? Two years ago every gallery in London wanted me!″ He pushed his long hair back from his face. ″Christ! You can′t turn me down!″

Dixon looked nervous, as if fearing the young painter′s rage. ″My view is that you have been overpriced for some time,″ he said curtly. ″I think you would be as dissatisfied with us as you are with the Belgrave, because the problem is basically not with the gallery but with your work. In time its value will rise again, but at present few of your canvases deserve to fetch more than three hundred and twenty-five pounds. I′m sorry, but that′s my decision.″

Usher became intense, almost pleading. ″Listen, if you turn me down, I may have to start painting houses. Don′t you see—I must have a gallery!″

″You will survive, Mr. Usher. In fact you′ll do very well. In ten years′ time you will be England′s top painter.″

″Then why won′t you take me on?″

Dixon sighed impatiently. He found the conversation extremely distasteful. ″We′re not your sort of gallery at the moment. As you know, we deal mainly in late-nineteenth-century painting, and sculptures. We have only two living artists under contract to our galleries, and they are both well-established. Furthermore, our style is not yours.″

″What the hell does that mean?″

Dixon stood up. ″Mr. Usher, I have tried to turn you down politely, and I have tried to explain my position reasonably, without harsh words or undue bluntness—more courtesy, I feel sure, than you would grant me. But you force me to be utterly frank. Last night you created a terribly embarrassing scene at the Belgrave. You insulted its owner and scandalized his guests. I do not want that kind of scene at Dixon′s. And now I bid you good day.″

Peter stood up, his head thrust aggressively forward. He started to speak, hesitated, then turned on his heel and left.

He strode along the corridor, through the foyer, and out into the street. He climbed onto his bicycle and sat on the saddle, looking up at the windows above.

He shouted: ″And fuck you, too!″ Then he cycled away.

He vented his rage on the pedals, kicking down viciously and building up speed. He ignored traffic lights, one-way signs, and bus lanes. At junctions he swerved onto the sidewalk, scattering pedestrians, looking distinctly manic with his hair flowing in the wind behind him, his long beard, and his businessman′s suit.

After a while he found himself cycling along the Embankment near Victoria, his fury exhausted. It had been a mistake to get involved with the art establishment in the first place, he decided. Dixon had been right: his style was not theirs. The prospect had been seductive at the time: a contract with one of the old-line, ultrarespectable galleries seemed to offer permanent security. It was a bad thing for a young painter. Perhaps it had affected his work.

He should have stuck with the fringe galleries, the young rebels: places like the Sixty-Nine, which had been a tremendous revolutionary force for a couple of years before it went bust.

His subconscious was directing him to the King′s Road, and he suddenly realized why. He had heard that Julian Black, a slight acquaintance from art school days, was opening a new gallery to be called the Black Gallery. Julian was a bright spark: iconoclastic, scornful of art world tradition, passionately interested in painting, although a hopeless painter himself.

Peter braked to a stop outside a shop front. Its windows were daubed with whitewash, and a pile of planks lay on the sidewalk outside. A signwriter on a ladder was painting the name above the place. So far he had written: ″The Black Ga.″

Peter parked the bike. Julian would be ideal, he decided. He would be looking for painters, and he would be thrilled to pull in someone as well-known as Peter Usher.

The door was not locked, and Peter walked in over a paint-smeared tarpaulin. The walls of the large room had been painted white, and an electrician was fixing spotlights to the ceiling. At the far end a man was laying carpet over the concrete floor.

Peter saw Julian immediately. He stood just inside the entrance, talking to a woman whose face was vaguely familiar. He wore a black velvet suit with a bow tie. His hair was earlobe length, neatly cut, and he was good-looking in a rather public-school sort of way.

He turned around as Peter entered, an expression of polite welcome on his face, as if he was about to say ″Can I help you?″ His expression changed to recognition, and he said: ″God, Peter Usher! This is a surprise. Welcome to the Black Gallery!″

They shook hands. Peter said: ″You′re looking prosperous.″

″A necessary illusion. But you′re doing well—my God, a house of your own, a wife and baby—you realize you ought to be starving in a garret?″ He laughed as he said it.

Peter jerked an inquiry toward the woman.

″Ah, sorry,″ Julian said. ″Meet Samantha. You know the face.″

The woman said: ″Hi.″

″Of course!″ Peter exclaimed. ″The actress! Delighted.″ He shook her hand. To Julian he said: ″Look, I wondered if you and I could talk business for a minute.″

Julian looked puzzled and a little wary. ″Sure,″ he said.

″I must be off,″ Samantha said. ″See you soon.″

Julian held the door for her, then came back and sat on a packing case. ″Okay, old friend: shoot.″

″I′ve left the Belgrave,″ Peter said. ″I′m looking around for a new place to hang my daubings. I think this might be it. Remember how well we worked together organizing the Rag Ball? I think we might be a good team again.″

Julian frowned and looked at the window. ″You haven′t been selling well lately, Pete.″

Peter threw up his hands. ″Oh, come on, Julian, you can′t turn me down! I′d be a scoop for you.″

Julian put his hands on Peter′s shoulders. ″Let me explain something to you, old mate. I had twenty thousand pounds to start this gallery. You know how much I′ve spent already? Nineteen thousand. You know how many pictures I′ve bought with that? None.″

″What′s it all gone on?″

″Advance rent, furniture, decoration, staff, deposits on this, deposits on that, publicity. This is a hard business to get into, Pete. Now if I were to take you on, I′d have to give you decent space—not just because we′re friends, but also because otherwise it would get around that I was selling you short, and that would harm my reputation—you know what an incestuous little circle this is.″

″I know.″

″But your work isn′t selling. Pete, I can′t afford to use precious wall space for work I can′t sell. In the first six months of this year four London galleries went bankrupt. I could so easily go that way.″

Peter nodded slowly. He felt no anger. Julian was not one of the fat parasites of the art world—he was at the bottom of the pile, along with the artists.

There was no more to be said. Peter walked slowly to the door. As he opened it Julian called out: ″I′m sorry.″

Peter nodded again, and walked out.

He sat on a stool in the classroom at seven-thirty, while the pupils filed in. He had not known, when he took on the job of teaching art classes in the local polytechnic, how grateful he would one day be for the £20 a week it brought in. The teaching was a bore, and there was never more than one youngster in each class with even a glimmering of talent; but the money paid the mortgage and the grocery bill, just.

He sat silent as they settled behind their easels, wait ing for him to give the go-ahead or to begin a lecture. He had had a couple of drinks on the way: the expenditure of a few shillings seemed trivial compared with the disaster which had overtaken his career.

He was a successful teacher, he knew: the pupils liked his obvious enthusiasm and his blunt, sometimes cruel assessments of their work. And he could improve their work, even the ones with no talent; he could show them tricks and point out technical faults, and he had a way of making them remember.

Half of them wanted to go in for Fine Art qualifications, the fools. Somebody ought to tell them they were wasting their time—they should make painting their hobby, and enjoy it all their lives while working as bank clerks and computer programmers.

Hell, somebody ought to tell them.

They were all here. He stood up.

″Tonight we are going to talk about the art world,″ he said. ″I expect some of you hope to become part of that world before too long.″ There were one or two nods around the room.

″Well, for those who do, here′s the best piece of advice anyone can give you. Forget it.

″Let me tell you about it. A couple of months ago eight paintings were sold in London for a total of four hundred thousand pounds. Two of those painters died in poverty. You know how it works? When an artist is alive, he dedicates himself to art, pouring his life′s blood out on the canvas.″ Peter nodded wryly. ″Melodramatic, isn′t it? But it′s true. You see, all he really cares about is painting. But the fat guys, the rich guys, the society women, the dealers, and the collectors looking for investments and tax losses—they don′t like his work. They want something safe and familiar, and besides, they know nothing—sweet FA—about art. So they don′t buy, and the painter dies young. Then, in a few years′ time, one or two perceptive people begin to see what he was getting at, and they buy his pictures—from friends he gave them to, from junk shops, from fly-blown art galleries in Bournemouth and Watford. The price rises, and dealers start buying the pictures. Suddenly the artist becomes (a) fashionable and (b) a good investment. His paintings fetch astronomical prices—fifty thousand, two hundred thousand, you name it. Who makes the money? The dealers, the shrewd investors, the people who had enough taste to buy the pictures before they became trendy. And the auctioneers, and their staff, and the salesroom, and their secretaries. Everybody but the artist—because he′s dead. Meanwhile, today′s young artists are struggling to keep body and soul together. In the future, their pictures will sell for astronomical sums—but that′s no good to them now.