“A Titian? I don’t follow. I do only Sandovals. You’ll have to make do with that. Not a bad name, that.”
“Look, what I’m saying … I know you painters sometimes — as part of the training — you sometimes copy old masters.”
“Yes, I did when I was younger. So, you need a picture copied?”
“No, anyone could do that. I wouldn’t need you for that. What I’d like is for you to paint the sort of picture that someone who didn’t know very much about art might think was a real Titian.”
“Aha, now I get you. Hm … It could be done. You realise of course, the result wouldn’t depend on me but on the competence of the person who views it. No real expert would be taken in. But then, who is an expert? What is the actual purpose of this picture?”
“You see, that’s something I can’t tell you, just at the moment. But does that matter, so far as the actual painting is concerned? Surely not. Look, this isn’t a question of art; it a question of serious business. How much would you want for doing it?”
“For you, Major, five hundred lire.”
“Good. I’ll convey your offer to the appropriate quarters. And when could you start?”
“Tomorrow, I suppose. But my hotel room isn’t really suitable for painting in.”
“I’ll give that some thought. So then, my dear Sandoval, give me your address. I’ll call on you tomorrow morning and take you where you can create this masterpiece without anyone bothering you. I’m very glad I met you. Till we meet again.”
The next day the Major did indeed appear.
“Good morning, Major,” Sandoval greeted him.
Mawiras-Tendal became suddenly most serious.
“My dear Sandoval, this is where the discretion bit comes in. You must understand, and must never forget for a moment, that in Venice I am not a major. I live here completely incognito. None of the people I happen to meet in the course of the day’s business has any idea who I am and what my role was in Alturia. They know me simply as Mr Meyer, and that I came here from Prussia, which accounts for my rather stiff, military bearing. Though, as you can see from the way I’m dressed, I do my best not to be too stiff and military. But it’s not much use. You can’t just wipe away all those years of service.”
Having made his confession, the Major became visibly more relaxed, and less self-conscious than he had been the previous day.
“Allow me, my dear Sandoval,” he went on, “to treat you as an old friend, as if you were still at home. Allow me to relax for a moment into my natural priggishness and stiffness. It would make the time I spend with you into a holiday. I need a break from time to time, or I could never cope with all this civilian ease and informality.”
The Major moved with practised confidence through the tangled labyrinth of streets, while Sandoval quickly lost his bearings. Narrow little streets bent and twisted beside other narrow little streets, with the Grand Canal glinting every so often between the houses. They crossed over little white bridges, from one side of the street to the other and back, with the water swirling blackly in between, as if still heaving with the forgotten corpses of past ages. Sandoval had a notion that they might be winding their way through the district behind the Frari, but he could not have taken an oath on it.
The Major came to a stop before an immensely old house In Venice every house is immensely old, as old as anyone can conjecture, in those long-forgotten centuries. But this house was not simply ancient, it was near-derelict. Sandoval was oppressed by the feeling that the inhabitants had not for many decades had the money to spend on a decent spring-cleaning.
“The Palazzo Pietrasanta,” the Major announced. “Of course, it’s as much the Palazzo Pietrasanta as I am Meyer.”
But he left this cryptic remark unexplained. They went inside, passed through a courtyard, narrow but lined with columns, then up a once rather fine staircase to the second floor, where they came into a room that might, in Venice, have passed for well-lit, the windows not being directly overshadowed by any kind of building across the way.
“You can work here in peace,” said the Major. “A colleague of mine will be here any moment now. He’ll give you everything you need. And please, never forget what I said, about myself. And, you in fact … are no longer the famous painter you are in the real world. You’re a penniless down-and-out acquaintance of mine, someone I picked up yesterday, and very glad to have a job. I’ll explain all this later. Ah, here’s Honoré.”
A young man in black trousers and a knitted sweater had appeared, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a knowing, cheerful, thoroughly untrustworthy look on his face. He spoke French, taking it for granted that every painter knew the language, a common assumption in those years before the war, when Paris dictated the tone. He addressed Sandoval as tu, in the popular Parisian manner.
“So here you are, me old dauber,” he began, and held out his hand, smiling. Then he looked him closely up and down, frowned and turned to the Major. “What sort of toff have you brought here, old chum? Can he paint?”
“Of course. He’s a very good painter. Had an exhibition in Munich. They bought three of his pictures, he tells me. What’s so toffish about him? What do you mean by this … Sandoval, why are you all dressed up?”
“An inheritance,” he replied bashfully. “I got two suits and a trunk.”
“Ah, well … ” said Honoré. “I’m sure Meyer has already told you what this is about, though his explanations … The fact is, we need a Titian. It doesn’t have to be as really swanky as if Titian had done it himself, but a good, solid piece of work, my lad. The boss knows a thing or two about pictures and he’ll beat you over the head if you paint us a whole lot of trash. And don’t put anything modern in it! None of this atmosphere, or contour, or vanishing point, or I dunno what! Well, you know more about that than I do. The sort of picture that a bloke, let’s say some American guy, might think that one of the big dogs had painted in the old days.”
“And are there any instructions about what I put in the picture?”
“Of course, I nearly forgot. A woman, holding a sort of dish. Because, you know, Titian has a famous picture of a woman with a bowl, er … a bowl of salad.”
“Fruit salad,” the Major added.
“That’s it, old man. Everyone knows that picture. People think all he ever painted was women. You must know the one of the woman with the dish.”
“Of course.”
“So that’s why it mustn’t be the same. She must hold the dish on the other side.”
“Fine. That’s easily done. What about the dough?”
“Ja, good point. The boss says five hundred is a lot of money for a woman with a dish. Two hundred is more than enough.”
“Two hundred?” yelled Sandoval, in a show of indignation. “What are you thinking? For a name like mine!”
“What name? Sandoval? Never heard of it. Anyway, this picture isn’t one of yours. It’s a Titian.”
“But it’s my work.”
“Well, to show you what sort of people you’re dealing with, you can have three hundred. Will that do?”
“It certainly won’t. But I’m doing this for my good friend Meyer, and because I’m here on holiday and I’ve nothing else on at the moment. So, what’s the advance?”
“My, you brought a real fussy one here, Meyer! I knew straight away you were too well dressed. My dear maestro, in our line of business there are no advances. We work in the tourist trade. We fleece foreigners who turn up in Venice. You mean to say that Meyer — such a fine, capable gent — hasn’t told you why we need this picture?”
“No, not a word.”
Honoré grew serious.