The Complete Short Stories: Volume 2. Adam Thirlwell

somewhere on those pavements below us now, and that all through the centuries he’s been stealing and retouching paintings that represent him spurning Jesus? The idea’s ludicrous!’

      ‘No more ludicrous than the theft of the painting. Everyone agrees it could not have been stolen by anyone bounded by the laws of the physical universe.’

      For a moment we stared at each other across the desk. ‘All right,’ I temporized, not wishing to offend him. The intensity of his idee fixe had alarmed me. ‘But isn’t our best plan simply to sit back and wait for the Leonardo to turn up again?’

      ‘Not necessarily. Most of the stolen paintings remained lost for ten or twenty years. Perhaps the effort of stepping outside the bounds of space and time exhausts him, or perhaps the sight of the original paintings terrifies him so –’ He broke off as I began to come forward towards him. ‘Look, Charles, it is fantastic, but there’s a slim chance it may be true. This is where I need your help. It’s obvious this man must be a great patron of the arts, drawn by an irresistible compulsion, by unassuageable feelings of guilt, towards those artists painting crucifixions. We must begin to watch the sale rooms and galleries. That face, those black eyes and that haunted profile – sooner or later we’ll see him, searching for another Crucifixion or Pieta. Cast your mind back, do you recognize that face?’

      I looked down at the carpet, the image of the dark-eyed wanderer before me. Go quicker, he had taunted Jesus as he passed bearing the cross towards Golgotha, and Jesus had replied: I go, but thou shalt wait until I return. I was about to say ‘no’, but something restrained me, some reflex pause of recognition stirred through my mind. That handsome Levantine profile, in a different costume, of course, a smart dark-striped lounge suit, gold-topped cane and spats, bidding through an agent …

      ‘You have seen him?’ Georg came over to me. ‘Charles, I think I have too.’

      I gestured him away. ‘I’m not sure, Georg, but … I almost wonder.’ Curiously it was the retouched portrait of Ahasuerus, rather than Leonardo’s original, which seemed more real, closer to the face I felt sure I had actually seen. Suddenly I pivoted on my heel. ‘Confound it, Georg, do you realize that if this incredible idea of yours is true this man must have spoken to Leonardo? To Michelangelo, and Titian and Rembrandt?’

      Georg nodded. ‘And someone else too,’ he added pensively.

      For the next month, after Georg’s return to Paris, I spent less time in my office and more in the sale rooms, watching for that familiar profile which something convinced me I had seen before. But for this undeniable conviction I would have dismissed Georg’s hypothesis as obsessive fantasy. I made a few tactful enquiries of my assistants, and to my annoyance two of them also vaguely remembered such a person. After this I found myself unable to drive George de Stael’s fancies from my mind. No further news was heard of the missing Leonardo – the complete absence of any clues mystified the police and the art world alike.

      Consequently, it was with an immense feeling of relief, as much as of excitement, that I received five weeks later the following telegram:

      CHARLES. COME IMMEDIATELY. I HAVE SEEN HIM.

      GEORG DE STAEL.

      This time, as my taxi carried me from Orly Airport to the Madeleine, it was no idle amusement that made me watch the Tuileries Gardens for any sight of a tall man in a black slouch hat sneaking through the trees with a rolled-up canvas under his arm. Was Georg de Stael finally and irretrievably out of his mind, or had he in fact seen the phantom Ahasuerus?

      When he greeted me at the doorway of Normande et Cie his handshake was as firm as ever, his face composed and relaxed. In his office he sat back and regarded me quizzically over the tips of his fingers, evidently so sure of himself that he could let his news bide its time.

      ‘He’s here, Charles,’ he said at last. ‘In Paris, staying at the Ritz. He’s been attending the sales here of 19th and 20th century masters. With luck you’ll see him this afternoon.’

      For once my incredulity returned, but before I could stutter my objections Georg silenced me.

      ‘He’s just as we expected, Charles. Tall and powerfully built, with a kind of statuesque grace, the sort of man who moves easily among the rich and nobility. Leonardo and Holbein caught him exactly, that strange haunted intensity about his eyes, the wind of deserts and great ravines.’

      ‘When did you first see him?’

      ‘Yesterday afternoon. We had almost completed the 19th century sales when a small Van Gogh – an inferior copy by the painter of The Good Samaritan – came up. One of those painted during his last madness, full of turbulent spirals, the figures like tormented beasts. For some reason the Samaritan’s face reminded me of Ahasuerus. Just then I looked up across the crowded auction room.’ Georg sat forward. ‘To my amazement there he was, sitting not three feet away in the front row of seats, staring me straight in the face. I could hardly take my eyes off him. As soon as the bidding started he came in hard, going up in two thousands of francs.’

      ‘He took the painting?’

      ‘No. Luckily I still had my wits about me. Obviously I had to be sure he was the right man. Previously his appearances have been solely as Ahasuerus, but few painters today are doing crucifixions in the bel canto style, and he may have tried to redress the balance of guilt by appearing in other roles, the Samaritan for example. He was left alone at 15,000 – actually the reserve was only ten – so I leaned over and had the painting withdrawn. I was sure he would come back today if he was Ahasuerus, and I needed twenty-four hours to get hold of you and the police. Two of Carnot’s men will be here this afternoon. I told them some vague story and they’ll be unobtrusive. Anyway, naturally there was the devil’s own row when this little Van Gogh was withdrawn. Everyone here thought I’d gone mad. Our dark-faced friend leapt up and demanded the reason, so I had to say that I suspected the authenticity of the painting and was protecting the reputation of the gallery, but if satisfied would put it up the next day.’

      ‘Clever of you,’ I commented.

      Georg inclined his head. ‘I thought so too. It was a neat trap. Immediately he launched into a passionate defence of the painting – normally a man with his obvious experience of sale rooms would have damned it out of hand – bringing up all sorts of details about Vincent’s third-rate pigments, the back of the canvas and so on. The back of the canvas, note, what the sitter would most remember about a painting. I said I was more or less convinced, and he promised to be back today. He left his address in case any difficulty came up.’ Georg took a silver-embossed card from his pocket and read out: ‘“Count Enrique Danilewicz, Villa d’Est, Cadaques, Costa Brava.”’ Across the card was enscribed: ‘Ritz Hotel, Paris.’

      ‘Cadaques,’ I repeated. ‘Dali is nearby there, at Port Lligat. Another coincidence.’

      ‘Perhaps more than a coincidence. Guess what the Catalan master is at present executing for the new Cathedral of St Joseph at San Diego? One of his greatest commissions to date. Exactly! A crucifixion. Our friend Ahasuerus is once more doing his rounds.’

      Georg pulled a leather-bound pad from his centre drawer. ‘Now listen to this. I’ve been doing some research on the identity of the models for Ahasuerus – usually some petty princeling or merchant-king. The Leonardo is untraceable. He kept open house, beggars and goats wandered through his studio at will, anyone could have got in and posed. But the others were more select. The Ahasuerus in the Holbein was posed by a Sir Henry Daniels, a leading banker and friend of Henry VIII. In the Veronese by a member of the Council of Ten, none other than the Doge-to-be, Enri Danieli – we’ve both stayed in the hotel of that name in Venice. In the Rubens by Baron Henrik Nielson, Danish Ambassador to Amsterdam, and in the Goya by a certain Enrico Da Nella, financier and great patron of the Prado. While in the Poussin by the famous dilettante, Henri, Duc de Nile.’

      Georg closed the note-book with a flourish. I said: ‘It’s certainly remarkable.’

      ‘You don’t exaggerate. Danilewicz, Daniels, Danieli,