unremarked - “are not immediately apparent.”
Montegrifo turned to Julia, looking thoughtful. His eyes were cold as ice.
“What have you found?” he asked gently, like a confessor inviting someone to unburden their conscience.
Julia looked uncertainly at Menchu.
“I don’t think I…”
“We’re not authorised to say,” Menchu intervened, coming to her rescue. “At least not today. We have to await instructions from my client.”
Montegrifo shook his head pensively and, with the languid mien of a man of the world, rose slowly.
“I’ll see what I can do. Forgive me…”
He didn’t seem worried. He merely expressed a hope - without once taking his eyes off Julia, although his words were addressed to Menchu - that the “findings” would do nothing to alter their present agreement. With a cordial good-bye, he threaded his way amongst the tables and sat down at the other end of the room.
Menchu stared into her glass with a contrite look on her face.
“I put my foot in it.”
“What do you mean? He’d have to find out sooner or later.”
“Yes, but you don’t know Paco Montegrifo.” She studied the auctioneer over her glass. “You might not think so to look at him, with his nice manners and good looks, but if he knew Don Manuel, he’d be over there like a shot to find out what’s going on and to cut us out of the deal.”
“Do you think so?”
Menchu gave a sarcastic little laugh. Paco Montegrifo’s curriculum vitae held no secrets for her.
“He’s got the gift of the gab and he has class. Moreover, he’s got no scruples and he can smell a deal thirty miles away.” She clicked her tongue in admiration. “They also say that he’s involved in illegally exporting works of art and that he’s a real artist when it comes to bribing country priests.”
“Even so, he makes a good impression.”
“That’s how he makes his living.”
“What I don’t understand is why, if he’s got such a bad track record, you didn’t go to another auctioneer.”
Menchu shrugged. The life and works of Paco Montegrifo had nothing to do with it. Claymore’s itself was an impeccable organisation.
“Have you been to bed with him?”
“With Montegrifo?” Menchu roared with laughter. “No, dear. He’s not my type at all.”
“I think he’s attractive.”
“It’s your age, dear. I prefer them a bit rougher, like Max, the sort that always look as if they’re about to thump you one. They’re better in bed and they work out much cheaper in the long run.”
“Naturally, you’re both too young to remember.”
They were sitting drinking coffee round a small Chinese lacquer table next to a balcony full of leafy green plants. Bach’s
Musical Offering
was playing on an old record player. Occasionally Don Manuel Belmonte would break off as if certain passages had caught his attention. After listening for a while, he would drum a light accompaniment with his fingers on the metal arm of his wheelchair. His forehead and hands were flecked with the brown stains of old age. Plump veins, blue and knotted, stood out along his wrists and neck.
“It must have been about 1940,” he continued, and his dry, cracked lips curved into a sad smile. “Times were hard, and we sold off nearly all the paintings. I particularly remember a Munoz Degrain and a Murillo. My poor Ana, God rest her soul, never got over losing the Murillo. It was a lovely little virgin, very like the ones in the Prado.” He half-closed his eyes, as if trying to conjure up that painting from his memory. “An army officer who later became a minister bought it. Garcia Pontejos, his name was, I think. He really took advantage of our situation, the scoundrel. He paid us a pittance.”
“It must have been painful losing all that.” Menchu adopted a suitably understanding tone of voice. She was sitting opposite Belmonte, affording him a generous view of her legs. The invalid gave a resigned nod, a gesture that dated from years back, the
Montegrifo turned to Julia, looking thoughtful. His eyes were cold as ice.
“What have you found?” he asked gently, like a confessor inviting someone to unburden their conscience.
Julia looked uncertainly at Menchu.
“I don’t think I…”
“We’re not authorised to say,” Menchu intervened, coming to her rescue. “At least not today. We have to await instructions from my client.”
Montegrifo shook his head pensively and, with the languid mien of a man of the world, rose slowly.
“I’ll see what I can do. Forgive me…”
He didn’t seem worried. He merely expressed a hope - without once taking his eyes off Julia, although his words were addressed to Menchu - that the “findings” would do nothing to alter their present agreement. With a cordial good-bye, he threaded his way amongst the tables and sat down at the other end of the room.
Menchu stared into her glass with a contrite look on her face.
“I put my foot in it.”
“What do you mean? He’d have to find out sooner or later.”
“Yes, but you don’t know Paco Montegrifo.” She studied the auctioneer over her glass. “You might not think so to look at him, with his nice manners and good looks, but if he knew Don Manuel, he’d be over there like a shot to find out what’s going on and to cut us out of the deal.”
“Do you think so?”
Menchu gave a sarcastic little laugh. Paco Montegrifo’s curriculum vitae held no secrets for her.
“He’s got the gift of the gab and he has class. Moreover, he’s got no scruples and he can smell a deal thirty miles away.” She clicked her tongue in admiration. “They also say that he’s involved in illegally exporting works of art and that he’s a real artist when it comes to bribing country priests.”
“Even so, he makes a good impression.”
“That’s how he makes his living.”
“What I don’t understand is why, if he’s got such a bad track record, you didn’t go to another auctioneer.”
Menchu shrugged. The life and works of Paco Montegrifo had nothing to do with it. Claymore’s itself was an impeccable organisation.
“Have you been to bed with him?”
“With Montegrifo?” Menchu roared with laughter. “No, dear. He’s not my type at all.”
“I think he’s attractive.”
“It’s your age, dear. I prefer them a bit rougher, like Max, the sort that always look as if they’re about to thump you one. They’re better in bed and they work out much cheaper in the long run.”
“Naturally, you’re both too young to remember.”
They were sitting drinking coffee round a small Chinese lacquer table next to a balcony full of leafy green plants. Bach’s
Musical Offering
was playing on an old record player. Occasionally Don Manuel Belmonte would break off as if certain passages had caught his attention. After listening for a while, he would drum a light accompaniment with his fingers on the metal arm of his wheelchair. His forehead and hands were flecked with the brown stains of old age. Plump veins, blue and knotted, stood out along his wrists and neck.
“It must have been about 1940,” he continued, and his dry, cracked lips curved into a sad smile. “Times were hard, and we sold off nearly all the paintings. I particularly remember a Munoz Degrain and a Murillo. My poor Ana, God rest her soul, never got over losing the Murillo. It was a lovely little virgin, very like the ones in the Prado.” He half-closed his eyes, as if trying to conjure up that painting from his memory. “An army officer who later became a minister bought it. Garcia Pontejos, his name was, I think. He really took advantage of our situation, the scoundrel. He paid us a pittance.”
“It must have been painful losing all that.” Menchu adopted a suitably understanding tone of voice. She was sitting opposite Belmonte, affording him a generous view of her legs. The invalid gave a resigned nod, a gesture that dated from years back, the
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