Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Flanders Panel

“What has that got to do with Alvaro’s death?”

“Everything has to do with everything else.” Cesar raised a hand, asking for patience. “Besides, life is a succession of events that link with each other whether one wants them to or not.” He held his glass up to the light and peered at the contents as if the rest of his thought process might be found floating there. “Then -I mean that day, Julia -I decided to find out everything I could about the painting. And, like you, the first person I thought of was Alvaro. I never liked him, neither when you were together nor afterwards, with the important difference that I never forgave the wretch for having made you suffer the way he did…”

“That was my business,” Julia said, “not yours.”

“You’re wrong. It was mine too. Alvaro had occupied a position that I never could. In a way…” he hesitated for a moment and gave a bitter smile, “he was my rival. The only man capable of taking you away from me.”

“It was all over between him and me. It’s absurd to relate the two things.”

“Not that absurd. But let’s not discuss it further. I hated him, and that’s that. Naturally, that isn’t a reason to kill anyone. If it were, I can assure you I wouldn’t have waited so long before doing it. This world of ours, the world of art and antiquities, is a very small one. Alvaro and I had had professional contact now and then; it was inevitable. Our relationship could not be termed friendly, of course, but sometimes money and self-interest make strange bedfellows. The proof is that, when faced by the problem of the Van Huys, you yourself went straight to him. So I also went to see him and I asked him to write a report on the painting. I didn’t expect him to do it for the love of art, of course. I offered him a reasonable sum of money. Your ex, God rest him, was always an expensive boy. Very expensive.”

“Why didn’t you say anything to me about this?”

“For various reasons. The first was that I didn’t want to see you start a relationship with him again, not even professionally. You can never guarantee that there aren’t some embers still burning beneath the ashes. But there was something else. The painting had to do with very personal feelings.” He pointed to the ivory chess set on the card table. “It had to do with a part of me that I believed I had renounced for ever, a corner of myself to which no one was allowed access, not even you, Princess. That would have meant opening the door to matters that I would never have had the courage to discuss with you.” He looked at Munoz, who was holding himself aloof from the conversation. “I imagine our friend here could enlighten you on the subject. Isn’t that right? Chess as a projection of the ego, defeat as a frustration of libido and other such deliciously murky things. Those long, deep moves diagonally across the board that the bishops make.” He ran the tip of his tongue round the edge of his glass and shuddered slightly. “Oh, well. I’m sure old Sigmund would have had plenty to say on the subject.”

He sighed in homage to his own ghosts, then raised his glass slowly in Munoz’s direction.

“I still don’t understand,” insisted Julia, “what all this has to do with Alvaro.”

“Not very much, at first,” Cesar acknowledged. “I just wanted a simple little report on the history of the painting. Something for which, as I said, I was prepared to pay well. But things got complicated when you decided to consult him too. That wasn’t a serious problem in principle. For Alvaro, showing a praiseworthy professional discretion, refrained from telling you about my interest in the painting, since I’d specifically asked that it remain top secret.”

“But didn’t he find it odd that you were researching the painting behind my back?”

“Not at all. Or if he did, he didn’t say anything. Perhaps he thought I wanted to give you a surprise, by providing you with some new facts. Or perhaps he thought I was playing a trick on you.” Cesar pondered seriously. “Now I think of it, he would have deserved to be killed just for that.”

“He did try to warn me. He said something about the Van Huys being very fashionable lately.”

“A villain to the end,” remarked Cesar. “By giving you that simple warning, he covered himself as regards you, without upsetting me. He kept us both happy: he took the money and kept open the possibility of reviving tender scenes from yesteryear.” He arched one eyebrow and gave a short laugh. “But I was telling you what happened between Alvaro and mc.” He peered into his glass again. “Two days after my talk with him, you came and told me about the concealed inscription. I tried to hide it as best I could, but the effect on me was like an electric shock. It confirmed my feeling about the existence of some mystery. I knew that it would increase the value of the Van Huys, and I remember telling you as much. That, together with the history of the painting and its characters, would open possibilities that at the time I thought would be marvellous: you and I would share in the research and solve the enigma together. It would be like the old days, you see, like hunting for buried treasure, but a real treasure this time. And it would mean fame for you, Julia. Your name in specialist magazines, in art books. As for me… let’s just say that I was satisfied with that. But involving myself in the game also meant a complex personal challenge. One thing is certain, ambition had nothing to do with it at all. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you.”

“I’m glad. Because only then will you be able to understand what happened next.” Cesar clinked the ice in his glass, and the noise seemed to help him order his memories. “When you left, I phoned Alvaro, and we arranged that I would see him at midday. I went with no evil intentions, and I confess that I was trembling with pure excitement. Alvaro told me what he’d learned. I saw, with satisfaction, that he knew nothing about the hidden inscription. Everything went swimmingly until he started talking about you. Then, Princess, the whole atmosphere changed completely.”

“In what sense?”

“In every sense.”

“I mean what did Alvaro say about me?”

Cesar shifted in his chair, apparently embarrassed, before he gave his reluctant reply.

“Your visit had made a big impression on him. Or at least that’s what he implied. I saw that you’d stirred up old feelings in a most dangerous way, and that Alvaro wouldn’t mind at all if things were to go back to the way they were.” He paused and frowned. “Julia, you simply can’t imagine how that irritated me. Alvaro had ruined two years of your life, and there I was, sitting opposite him, listening to his brazen plans to erupt into your life again. I told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave you in peace. He looked at me as if I were an interfering old queen, and we began to argue. I’ll spare you the details, but it was most unpleasant. He accused me of sticking my nose in where it wasn’t wanted.”

“And he was right.”

“No, he wasn’t. You mattered to me, Julia. You matter to me more than anything in the world.”

“Don’t be absurd. I would never have got together again with Alvaro.”

“I’m not so sure about that. I know how much that wretch meant to you.” He smiled wryly into space, as if Alvaro’s ghost, rendered inoffensive now, were there. “While we were arguing, I felt my old hatred for him well up in me. It went to my head like one of your hot vodka toddies. It was, my dear, a hatred I don’t recall ever having felt before; a good, solid hatred, deliciously ‘Latin’. I stood up, and I think I lost control, because I hurled abuse at him, using the select vocabulary of a fishwife, which I reserve for very special occasions. At first, he seemed surprised by my outburst. Then he lit his pipe and laughed in my face. He said it was my fault that his relationship with you had ended. That I was to blame for your never having grown up. My presence in your life, which he described as unhealthy and obsessive, had clipped your wings. ”And the worst thing,“ he added with an insulting smile, ”is that, deep down, you’re the one Julia’s always been in love with, because you symbolise the father she never knew… And that’s why she’s in the mess she’s in now.“ Having said that, Alvaro put one hand in his pocket, gave a few puffs on his pipe and peered at me through the smoke. ”Your relationship,“ he concluded, ”is nothing more or less than a case of unconsummated incest. It’s just lucky you’re a homosexual.“”