He returned the smile.
“I’m not sitting next to you at dinner,” Justine said to Christopher.
“But we’ll see one another later?”
She touched him lightly on the forearm. “Yes. Why not?”
He could think of several reasons why not. All of them good reasons-none to be revealed, of course. There were his appetites to be satisfied, and for now the lovely Justine would adequately fulfill them.
He glanced at the German woman as they moved through to the dining room, a long room with a chambered, painted ceiling portraying an apotheosis.
He was seated next to the German woman-a coup-and Carl was on her other side; they were clearly in favor.
“Carl,” he said, pointing to the ceiling, “you’ve told me before, but I’ve forgotten. The apotheosis above our heads. Who?”
“Who’s being carried up to heaven? Or who painted it?”
“Who’s being carried up?”
“The great-grandfather of the man I bought it from. The colonel.”
The German woman craned her neck. “And did he deserve it?”
“In his view, yes,” said Carl.
They laughed. Then the German woman turned to Christopher and said, “I was hoping to be able to talk to you.”
He raised an eyebrow. She was more attractive up close, and the accent intrigued him. She sounded more Swedish than German.
It was a request-or the intimation of a request. They were planning an exhibition in Berlin of a Flemish artist whose work was represented in Christopher’s museum. Could he oblige? And they would reciprocate, of course, when the occasion permitted.
The German woman spoke precisely. “I could come and fetch it if you can’t spare anybody.”
“Sure. And I could show you San Francisco.”
“That would be very kind.”
He noticed her skin, which had the sort of tan that some northern-European types get so easily, that soft golden color that he found irresistible. She was a few years younger than him, he thought; and he looked at the left hand, pure reflex-a ring, a garnet, but on the wrong finger, just ornament.
They slipped into an easy, friendly conversation. Carl was engaged to his left, and so they spoke through the first course and into the second. She was flirting with him; the signals were unmistakable. He felt intrigued, slightly flattered too.
“Where are you staying?” he asked. “I mean, here. I’m at the back. I’ve got this great view-the river and a sort of folly at the end of the lawn.”
“I’m on that side too,” she said. “I believe that I’m a few doors down the corridor. Yes, two doors, to be exact.”
He thought that he understood perfectly. He was surprised, but happy, and he found her room easily.
He did not see Justine at breakfast the next morning. There was a lecture at ten, when a man from the National Gallery in London was going to discuss Carl’s collection of old-master drawings. She would be there and he could talk to her-and sort it out. She has no claim on me, he told himself. No claim at all.
But where was Justine? He felt slightly irritated; this was work-they had discussed that-and he did not want her to give offense to Carl by not turning up at his carefully orchestrated events. Then he half turned and saw her, sitting at the far end of the back row, her eyes fixed on the lecturer. She did not catch his eye, although he thought that she must have seen him looking at her.
After the talk was finished, after some questions and some fidgeting among the guests, Carl looked pointedly at his watch. Then it was time for morning coffee, which was served on the terrace.
The light outside was bright, and Christopher slipped on a pair of sunglasses while he sipped his coffee. Justine came out and looked around quickly-again she must have seen him, he thought, but she made a point of going to speak to somebody else. He put his coffee cup down on the stone parapet that ran along the side of the terrace and walked over to intercept her.
“Good morning.”
She looked at him coolly. “Good morning.”
He looked about him; the other guests were busy chatting to one another; he would not be overheard. “You’re ignoring me.”
She feigned surprise. “What made you think that?”
“Don’t be disingenuous. You looked right through me back there.”
She hesitated, as if assessing how quickly, and how far, to ratchet up the tension. “You’re the one who’s doing the ignoring.”
She held his gaze, although she was looking into sunglasses and he into her eyes. He had the advantage.
“How is your German friend?” she asked.
“What?”
“Your German friend. Your new friend. I spoke to her this morning. Just before the talk.”
“You-what?”
“She was surprised,” Justine said. “She was surprised to hear that you were here with me. She thought-”
Christopher turned and walked away.
Justine followed him and grabbed hold of his arm. Her grip was surprisingly firm; he felt her nails, digging into him. He tried to shrug her off, but her grip was tight.
“What do you think you’re doing? Not in front of everybody,” he hissed.
“Nobody’s looking,” she whispered. “Listen, Christopher, have you ever thought of this: One day one of the people you use will do something to hurt you? I mean, really hurt you?”
He kept his voice down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, don’t you?”
“No.”
Justine left him, and he rubbed his arm where she had seized him. He would make her answer for this.
That evening, Carl said to him after dinner: “Chris, come look at something really interesting, upstairs. Just you.”
“Of course, Carl. Now?”
Carl nodded and led the way up to the second floor, to a room that Christopher had never before been in. The small, private salon was hexagonal for the shape of the tower space it occupied. The overall feeling was one of intimacy: a large bookcase, small paintings on the wall, a tapestry above the fireplace.
“Poussin,” said Carl, pointing at a picture of a man sitting in an arcadian landscape. “A lovely little picture. Blunt wrote about it, you know. He drew my attention to it.”
Carl closed the door behind them so that they were away from the eyes of anybody who might be in the corridor outside. “Can’t be too careful. Look at this.” He opened a drawer in a small chest near the window and took out a painting about the size of a large book in a narrow gilt frame.
“Lovely,” said Christopher. He bent over to peer at the painting. There was a woman and two youths, angels; the angels’ faces were unmistakable. It could only be one particular artist. He stood up again. “Very lovely.”
Carl was looking at him. “You know what it…”
Christopher spoke quietly. “I can see what it is.” He paused. “And what do you want me to say? Do you want me to say, ‘Yes, this is it’?”
Carl shrugged. “I don’t want you to say anything about what this is. What I do want you to say is that you’ll take it to San Francisco for me and hand it over to that restorer friend you have out there-you know the one. He’ll do what’s necessary.”
Christopher frowned. “Why get me to take it? Can’t you take it yourself?”
Carl laid the painting down on a table and looked at it fondly. “I can’t do that. I can’t risk its being… intercepted. You know I can’t.” He looked up at Christopher and held his gaze.
Christopher did know. He knew that this painting, from the studio of Sandro Botticelli, and probably from the artist’s hand, could not fall into the hands of customs.