Flavia grumbled. Perhaps it was a bit messy, and very overcrowded, and maybe it was a health hazard. But it was her health hazard, and shed grown fond of it over the years. What to Argylls objective gaze was a small, overpriced, under-lit, badly ventilated tip was home to her. Besides, the lease was in her name. Any new one would be held jointly. In Rome, considering the pressures of housing, that was more of a commitment than any formal marriage vows. Not that she didnt look on such an idea sympathetically, when she was in a good mood, it was just that she was awfully slow about taking decisions. And, of course, she hadnt been asked. No small point.
You go and see it. And Ill think about it. Meantime, how long is it going to be before that thing is out of here?
If by that thing you mean a most unusual treatment of the theme of the Death of Socrates in the French neoclassical style, then the answer is tomorrow. Ill deliver it to this Muller fellow and you wont have to look at it anymore. Lets talk about something else. Whats been going on here in my absence?
Absolutely nothing. The criminal classes are getting really lax. Its been like living in a well-ordered, civilized and law-abiding country for the last week.
How awful for you.
I know. Bottando can always go around and fill in the time with silly meetings and lunches with colleagues. But the rest of us have been sitting and staring into space for days. I dont know whats going on at all. I mean, it cant be that the criminals are too afraid well catch them.
You caught a couple a few months back. I remember it well. Everyone was awfully impressed.
True. But that was only because they werent very good at it.
True. But that was only because they werent very good at it.
Considering how much you complain about being over-worked, I think you should enjoy it while it lasts. Why dont you tidy up? The last time I was in it your office was even more chaotic than this place.
What are you doing? she asked, treating the suggestion with the contempt it deserved, as Argyll burrowed through a mound of papers and finally extracted the telephone.
I thought Id give this Muller fellow a ring. Set up an appointment. Nothing like seeming efficient.
Its a bit late, isnt it? Its past ten.
Do you want me to get rid of it or not? he said, as he dialled.
He presented himself at the door of Mullers apartment just after ten the following morning, as arranged. Muller had been delighted when hed rung, enthused about his efficiency and consideration and could scarcely contain his anticipation. Had Argyll not protested that he was completely exhausted and could barely move a muscle, he would have been summoned round immediately.
He wasnt entirely certain what to expect. The apartment indicated a reasonable amount of money; Delorme had said that he was American, or Canadian, or something transatlantic. The marketing man for some international company. Muller ran the Italian operation. So he thought.
He did not appear to Argyll to be the epitome of the international salesman; the sort who eyes up whole portions of the world and coolly maps out master strategies for penetrating regions, grabbing market share or cutting out the opposition. For a start, he was at home at ten oclock in the morning, and Argyll thought such people normally took off only seventeen minutes a day to do things like wash, change, eat and sleep.
Also, he was a little fellow, showing no obvious signs of hard-boiled commercialism. Across a vast middle there were all the indications of decades of eating the wrong sort of food. Arthur Muller was a model of how to die young, with the sort of weight-to-height ratio that makes dieticians wake up in the middle of the night screaming with terror. The type who should have keeled over thirty years before of clogged arteries, if his liver hadnt got him first.
But there he was, short, fat and with every sign of living to confound the medical statisticians a while longer. On the other hand, his face let the image down a little: although he looked quite pleased to see Argyll standing at his door, parcel in hand, it didnt exactly light up with glee. The habitual expression seemed almost mournful; the sort of face that didnt expect much and was never surprised when disaster struck. Most odd; it was almost as if thered been a mismatch in the assembly process, and Mullers body had emerged with the wrong head on it.
But he was welcoming enough, at least.
Mr Argyll, I imagine. Do come in, do come in. Im delighted youre here.
Not a bad apartment at all. Argyll noted as he walked in, although with definite signs of having been furnished by the company relocation officer. For all that the furniture was corporate good taste, Muller had, none the less, managed to impose a little of his own personality on the room. Not a great collector, alas, but somewhere along the way he had picked up a couple of nice bronzes and a few decent if unexceptional pictures. None of these indicated any great interest in neoclassical, mind you, still less in the baroque pictures cluttering up Flavias apartment; but perhaps, Argyll thought to himself hopefully, his tastes were expanding.
He sat down on the sofa, brown paper parcel in front of him, and smiled encouragingly.
I cant tell you how pleased I am youre here, Muller said. Ive been looking for this picture for some considerable time.
Oh, yes? Argyll said, intrigued.
Muller gave him a penetrating, half-amused look, then laughed.
Whats the matter?
What you mean to say, his client said, was why on earth would anybody spend time looking for this very ordinary painting? Does he know something I dont?
Argyll confessed that such thoughts had scuttled across his mind. Not that he didnt like the picture.
Im quite fond of this sort of thing, he confessed. But not many other people are. So a friend of mine says. A minority taste, she keeps on telling me.
She may be right. In my case, I havent been looking for aesthetic reasons.
No?
No. This was owned by my father. I want to find out something about myself. A filial task, you see.
Oh, right, Argyll said, kneeling reverently on the floor and trying to unpick the knot keeping the whole package together. Hed been too conscientious about packing it up again last night. Another where-are-my-roots? man, he thought to himself as he fiddled. A topic to be avoided. Otherwise Muller might offer to show him his family tree.
There were four, so I gather, Muller went on, watching Argylls lack of dexterity with a distant interest. All legal scenes, painted in the 1780s. This is supposed to be the last one painted. I read about them.
You were very lucky to get hold of it, Argyll said. Are you after the other three as well?
Muller shook his head. I think one will suffice. As I say, Im not really interested in it for aesthetic reasons. Do you want some coffee, by the way? he added as the knot finally came undone and Argyll slid the picture out of the packing.
Oh, yes, thank you, Argyll said as he stood up and heard his knees crack. No, no. You stay there and admire the picture. I can get it.
So, leaving Muller to contemplate his new acquisition, Argyll headed for the coffee-pot in the kitchen and helped himself. A bit forward, perhaps, but also rather tactful. He knew what these clients were like. It wasnt simply the eagerness to see what theyd spent their money on; it was also necessary to spend some time alone with the work. To get to know it, person-to-person, so to speak.
He came back to find that Muller and Socrates were not hitting it off as well as hed hoped. As he was a mere courier he could afford to be a little detached, but he was an amiable soul, and liked people to be happy even when there was no financial gain in it for himself. In his heart, he hadnt really expected tears of joy to burst forth at the very sight. Even for the aficionado, the painting was not instantly appealing. It was, after all, very dirty and unkempt; the varnish had long since dulled, and it had none of that glossy air of well-cared-for contentment that shines forth from decent pictures in museums.
Let me see, said Muller non-committally, and he completed his examination, pressing the canvas to see how loose it was, checking the frame for woodworm, examining the back to see how well the stretcher was holding up. Quite professional, really; Argyll hadnt expected such diligence. Nor had he expected the growing look of disappointment that had spread slowly over the mans face.
You dont like it, he said.
Muller looked up at him. Like it? No. Frankly, I dont. Not my sort of thing at all. Id been expecting something a bit more...
Colourful? Argyll suggested. Well-painted? Lively? Assured? Dignified? Masterful? Adept?
Interesting, Muller said. Thats all. Nothing more. At one stage this was in an important collection. I expected something more interesting.
I am sorry, Argyll said sympathetically. He was, as well. There is no disappointment quite so poignant as being let down by a work of art, when your hopes have built up, and are suddenly dashed by being confronted with grim, less-than-you-expected reality. He had felt like that himself on many occasions. The first time hed seen the Mona Lisa, when he was only sixteen or so, hed fought through the vast throng in the Louvre with mounting excitement to get to the holy of holies. And, when he arrived, there was this tiny little squit of a picture, hanging on the wall. Somehow it should have been... more interesting than it was. Muller was right. There was no other word for it.
I am sorry, Argyll said sympathetically. He was, as well. There is no disappointment quite so poignant as being let down by a work of art, when your hopes have built up, and are suddenly dashed by being confronted with grim, less-than-you-expected reality. He had felt like that himself on many occasions. The first time hed seen the Mona Lisa, when he was only sixteen or so, hed fought through the vast throng in the Louvre with mounting excitement to get to the holy of holies. And, when he arrived, there was this tiny little squit of a picture, hanging on the wall. Somehow it should have been... more interesting than it was. Muller was right. There was no other word for it.