“The day before Vincent shot himself, he came to Gachet’s house. The two quarreled violently, and Vincent threatened Gachet with a gun. What was the reason for the argument? Gachet later claimed that it had something to do with a picture frame, of all things. I believe it was over Marguerite. I think it’s possible it had something to do with Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table. It’s an exquisite work, one of Vincent’s better portraits. The pose and the setting are clearly representative of a bride on her wedding night. Its significance would not have been lost on a man like Paul Gachet. If he’d seen the painting-and there’s no reason to believe he didn’t-he would have been incensed. Perhaps Gachet told Vincent that marriage to his daughter was out of the question. Perhaps he forbade Vincent ever to paint Marguerite again. Perhaps he forbade Vincent ever to see Marguerite again. What we do know is that Marguerite Gachet wasn’t present at Vincent’s funeral, though she was spotted the next day tearfully placing sunflowers on his grave. She never married, and lived as something of a recluse in Auvers until her death in 1949.”
They passed the entrance to Isherwood’s gallery and kept walking.
“After Vincent’s death his paintings became the property of Theo. He arranged for a shipment of the works Vincent had produced at Auvers and stored them at Père Tanguy’s in Paris. Theo, of course, died not long after Vincent, and the paintings became the property of Johanna. None of Vincent’s other relatives wanted any of his work. Johanna’s brother thought them worthless and suggested they be burned.” Isherwood stopped walking. “Can you imagine?” He propelled himself forward again with a long stride. “Johanna catalogued the inventory and worked tirelessly to establish Vincent’s reputation. It’s because of Johanna that Vincent van Gogh is regarded as a great artist. But there’s a glaring omission in her list of Vincent’s known works.”
“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table.”
“Precisely,” said Isherwood. “Was it an accident or intentional? We’ll never know, of course, but I have a theory. I believe Johanna knew that the painting may have contributed to Vincent’s death. Whatever the case, it was sold for a song from the storeroom at Père Tanguy’s within a year or so of Vincent’s death and never seen again. Which is where my father enters the story.”
THEY COMPLETED THEIR first circuit of the yard and started a second. Isherwood’s pace slowed as he began to talk of his father.
“He was always a Berliner at heart. He would have stayed there forever. That wasn’t possible, of course. My father saw the storm clouds coming and didn’t waste any time getting out of town. By the end of 1936, we’d left Berlin and moved to Paris.” He looked at Gabriel. “Too bad your grandfather didn’t do the same thing. He was a great painter, your grandfather. You come from a good bloodline, my boy.”
Gabriel quickly changed the subject. “Your father’s gallery was on the rue de la Boétie, wasn’t it?”
“Of course,” Isherwood replied. “The rue de la Boétie was the center of the art world at that time. Paul Rosenberg had his gallery at Number Twenty-one. Picasso and Olga lived on the other side of the courtyard at Number Twenty-three. Georges Wildenstein, Paul Guillaume, Josse Hessel, Étienne Bignou-everyone was there. Isakowitz Fine Arts was next door to Paul Rosenberg’s. We lived in an apartment above the exposition rooms. Picasso was my ‘Uncle Pablo.’ He used to let me watch him paint, and Olga would give me chocolates until I was sick.”
Isherwood permitted himself a brief smile, which faded quickly as he resumed the story of his father in Paris.
“The Germans came in May 1940 and started looting the place. My father rented a chateau in Bordeaux on the Vichy side of the line and moved most of his important pieces there. We followed him soon after. The Germans crossed over into the Unoccupied Zone in 1942, and the roundups and deportations began. We were trapped. My father paid a pair of Basque shepherds to take me over the mountains to Spain. He gave me some documents to carry with me, a professional inventory and a couple of diaries. It was the last time I ever saw him.”
A horn sounded loudly in Duke Street; a squadron of pigeons burst into flight over the shadowed yard.
“It was years before I got around to reading the diaries. In one of them I found an entry about a painting my father had seen in Paris one night at the home of man named Isaac Weinberg.”
“Marguerite Gachet at Her Dressing Table.”
“Weinberg told my father he’d bought the painting from Johanna not long after Vincent’s death and had given it to his wife as a birthday gift. Apparently Mrs. Weinberg bore a resemblance to Marguerite. My father asked Isaac whether he would be willing to sell, and Isaac said he wasn’t. He asked my father not to mention the painting to anyone, and my father was all too happy to oblige him.”
Isherwood’s mobile phone chirped. He ignored it.
“In the early seventies, right before I met you, I was in Paris on business. I had a few hours to kill between appointments and decided to look up Isaac Weinberg. I went to the address in the Marais that was listed in my father’s notebooks, but Weinberg wasn’t there. He hadn’t survived the war. But I met his son, Marc, and told him about the entry in my father’s notes. He denied the story at first, but finally relented and allowed me to see the painting after swearing me to eternal secrecy. It was hanging in his daughter’s bedroom. I asked whether he might be interested in parting with it. He refused, of course.”
“You’re certain it’s Vincent?”
“Without a doubt.”
“And you haven’t been back since?”
“Monsieur Weinberg made it quite clear the painting would never be for sale. I didn’t see the point.” Isherwood stopped walking and turned to face Gabriel. “All right, petal. I’ve told you the story. Now suppose you tell me what this is all about.”
“I need that van Gogh, Julian.”
“Whatever for?”
Gabriel took Isherwood’s sleeve and led him toward the door of the gallery.
THERE WAS an intercom panel next to the glass door, with four buttons and four corresponding nameplates. One read: ISHER OO FINE AR S: BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. Isherwood opened the door with a key and led Gabriel up a flight of stairs covered in a threadbare brown carpet. On the landing were two more doors. To the left was a melancholy little travel agency. The owner, a spinster named Miss Archer, was seated at her desk beneath a poster of a happy couple splashing in azure water. Isherwood’s door was on the right. His latest secretary, an apologetic-looking creature named Tanya, glanced up furtively as Isherwood and Gabriel came inside. “This is Mr. Klein,” said Isherwood. “He’d like to have a look at something upstairs. No interruptions, please. That’s a good girl, Tanya darling.”
They entered a lift the size of a phone booth and rode it upward, standing so close to one another that Gabriel could smell last night’s claret on Isherwood’s breath. A few seconds later the lift shuddered to a stop and the door opened with a groan. Isherwood’s exposition room was in semidarkness, illuminated only by the mid-morning sun filtering through the skylight. Isherwood settled himself on the velvet-covered divan in the center of the room while Gabriel led himself on a slow tour. The paintings were nearly invisible in the deep shadows, but he knew them welclass="underline" a Venus by Luini, a nativity by Perino del Vaga, a baptism of Christ by Bordone, a luminous landscape by Claude.
Isherwood opened his mouth to speak, but Gabriel raised a finger to his lips and from his coat pocket removed what appeared to be an ordinary Nokia cellular telephone. It was indeed a Nokia, but it contained several additional features not available to ordinary customers, such as a GPS beacon and a device that could detect the presence of hidden transmitters. Gabriel toured the room again, this time with his eyes on the display panel of the phone. Then he sat down next to Isherwood and, in a low voice, told him why he needed the van Gogh.