Saulnier emptied the cup. It was really good. He put the little cup on the table, delicately, while he thought about rivers of water and rivers of blood. He looked the monsignor in the eye.
"What does zero, one, two, three mean?"
Monsignor Gaus, prelate of the Vatican Curia, patiently explained to Saulnier that murder for hire was an extraordinarily lucrative business, that the various agents who had to carry out the assignment without leaving a trace were known by the names Zero, One and Two, that the whole thing was very sordid and he wanted nothing to do with the places where such things were arranged. Saulnier had no sympathy for these protestations.
"You have to show me your gallery."
It was part of the agreement. Monsignor Gaus took him through the secret door and spent more than an hour showing him the paintings that only his most trusted confidants could look at. They took Saulnier's breath away.
"Won't this ever be discovered?"
"Never. As long as I'm here, 1 control what goes on. And when I'm not, they can come looking for me."
Saulnier stopped next to The Philosopher and looked at the monsignor.
"Have you ever asked yourself which of us is the original and which is the copy?"
"Mother used to say that you were older because the twin that's born first was conceived last." Monsignor smiled at the memory, and continued, "But I'm convinced that you've always been a bad copy of me."
The two negotiators embraced surrounded by all the beauty on those walls. Yves Saulnier left, carrying the photos as a passport, without turning around, knowing that it might be twenty years before they saw each other again. Monsignor Gaus, however, indulged in the weakness of watching him until he went out the door of the apartment. He finished his coffee in silence.
"If I'm not mistaken, Monsignor, the fourteen paintings in this magnificent room are all originals."
Pale at the door to his gallery, the monsignor looked at the lawyer, Lambertini, dressed in black and seated in the comfortable armchair which he usually used for looking at The Philosopher, and the same detective with a cigarette in his mouth who'd helped him two years ago and who, quite obviously, had not been blown to smithereens in any hotel anywhere. How the fucking hell had they gotten into his gallery? How the fucking hell did they know it existed?
Lambertini, seated and looking down, was sleeping, as usual. From the depths of his sleep he said, if it hadn't been for the invaluable help of… — he made a polite gesture in the direction of the detective-1 would never have noticed that you're the one in charge of working out the details, with no witnesses, and the result is an original for you and an excellent fake for the place to which it was to be returned.
"All of this," the monsignor pointed to his collection with a trembling hand, "they're all copies."
"That's shit, Monsignor," said Lambertini without raising his voice. He waved his hand in the direction of the paintings. "They exist only so you can look at them?" And as if he could barely suppress his irritation, "It took me months of work to figure out that what's in the Gallerie are fakes."
"Would you mind leaving us alone?" said Monsignor to the Judas detective. And, ironically, "I suppose you know by now where 1 keep the coffee."
Lambertini nodded his head slightly towards the detective, who left the room.
Once they were alone, the monsignor sat down in the other armchair.
"I'd like to make it worth your while," he said, testing the ground.
"No. I'll turn you in if you don't kill me first."
"I'm not a murderer. What do you want? The Caravaggio?" With a pain in his heart that almost took his breath away, he continued, "Do you want the Leonardo?"
"The fakes are magnificent. How is it that the experts in the Vatican haven't…" He stopped. His eyes widened in admiration. "Of course. It's them, they make the fakes."
"This is just talk. You can't prove anything."
"1 want the Rembrandt."
"What?"
Silence. It had been said. Now it was his move. He moved his king.
"No."
Lambertini moved the black queen to check. "Fine. We'll accuse you of robbery and forgery in the Italian and the Vatican courts." And with the knight and the castle in place, "The press will eat it up, Monsignor."
Monsignor took the bishop on the black square in his unsteady hand and put it in front of the king, to protect it from the faithless black queen.
"You can't do this to me, Lambertini."
He hadn't noticed where the black knight and the black castle were.
"As you wish." The lawyer stood and looked greedily at the paintings. "I'll go to court." Nodding towards the interior of the apartment, "My associate is staying here to make sure you don't do anything stupid."
"Why are you doing this to me?"
"Animam pro anima, oculum pro oculo, dentem pro dente," recited Lambertini in a deep voice.
"1 don't understand."
Lambertini put a finger to his mouth and lifted his cheek to show his teeth. He pointed to a space between his molars. The only thing that occurred to the monsignor was that Lambertini, his customary good manners abandoned, was making crude gestures, and this meant things were serious.
"1 still don't understand."
"In Montescaglioso we say that showing an enemy the space between your teeth indicates utter contempt."
"Why? What have 1 done to you?" The monsignor didn't know which piece to move.
"You had Umberto de Luca fired."
"Yes. For immorality. And why do you care about…"
"A public scandal," went on Lambertini, serious, "cruel speculation about male lovers… Umberto de Luca is ruined and contemplates suicide." The lawyer again showed the space next to his molar. "You don't know how much I hate you, Monsignor."
Monsignor Gaus got to his feet. He offered a castle.
"We can negotiate."
Lambertini made an effort to get back into the conversation, and resumed his usual cold manner of speaking.
"My negotiation is that 1 want the Rembrandt."
"You wouldn't know how to appreciate it."
"Don't jump to conclusions." With a polite smile, "I've learned a lot from you."
"You…"
"Look, Monsignor, even if 1 didn't feel like looking at the painting… knowing how much it's worth on the black market makes it even more remarkable to Umberto and me."
Monsignor moved closer to the painting, intent on resisting the assault of the black queen, the knight, the castle and now the other castle.
"Checkmate," Lambertini said softly. He signalled that the monsignor should stand aside. "I only want the Rembrandt, Monsignor." He made a slight bow. "If you crowd your prey, you'll get hurt when they try to run."
"1'm not planning to run."
"It's a saying. 1 hope that, starting tomorrow, we can continue to work together regularly with no hard feelings."
The armchair was where Lambertini had left it. The monsignor sat in it, forlorn. After a while he raised his head: the empty space on the wall was worse than a blow to the face. The Philosopher hadn't yet had time to leave a shadow on the paint. But the monsignor understood the profound sorrow that the contemplation of a nonpainting could produce. He wasn't willing to accept that absence in his life. Desolate, he touched the orphaned wall. He went to the kitchen, made another aromatic coffee, the sixth, and, while he was drinking it, took out his private diary and placed a call. He waited patiently for someone to answer. After a long time, a professionalsounding voice picked up.
"1 want to speak with Monsieur Grossman," the monsignor said.
Winterreise
I walk on snow, barefoot, my head uncovered.