Iain Pears - The Raphael Affair

‘I don’t really have one, yet. I don’t suppose it’s important. But it will make a nice footnote. Wouldn’t it be splendid if they’d got the wrong Raphael? The very thought has kept me in good humour for weeks.’

The idea had fully restored Argyll’s good spirits, and he walked along the wet, shiny pavements with a light step, skipping nimbly out of the way of the showers of water thrown up by buses and cars plunging through the deep puddles caused by blocked-up drains. He opened a vast black umbrella, the sort used by professional walkers in the rain, and stuck his elbow out.

Almost without thinking, Flavia rested her hand gently on the proffered arm. She couldn’t remember that anyone had ever done such a quaint thing to her before. Furtive arms sliding round the waist before moving northwards, yes, in abundance; a cold and deliberate distance from her, which had been her last boyfriend’s way of communicating displeasure, she was used to. But this had a quiet gentleness about it, giving her the opportunity delicately not to notice and shun the offer if she chose. Extraordinarily old-fashioned. But practical, and sweetly charming; it kept them close enough together so that both could keep dry under the awning of the huge umbrella.

‘I thought we could go to a Thai restaurant,’ he said. ‘Roman food is very good, but when I was there I found myself craving something with spice in.’

Flavia made no reply, and barely even heard him as he kept up a steady flow of chatter on inconsequential subjects. At the restaurant, she nodded absent-mindedly as he asked if she wanted anything to drink, and nodded again when he suggested trying some sake, which she had never heard of. Then she applied herself to reading the menu.

‘Why do you think it would be nice if the picture was the wrong one? I think it would be dreadful — the department is paying for this, by the way,’ she said, once the waiter had taken the order, delivered a bottle in a vase of hot water, and vanished. It occurred to her that it was the first time she had asked him a question and been properly interested in the reply. His new-found buoyancy had transformed his character into something much more agreeable, although he showed signs of tipping over the edge into smugness. He was, certainly, not quite as dimwitted as he seemed.

‘Certainly not. You paid last time. Besides, this is meant to be a sort of apology for boring you to death in Rome. And don’t worry, this is on Sir Edward Byrnes. I got my first cheque yesterday. As for the Raphael, just think of the number of respected authorities who are at this very moment battling with each other to get out their books on the New Raphael first. Think how many have made a fortune writing adulatory articles in magazines and newspapers. Better still, think what wallies they’d look if it was revealed that they had been heaping admiring adjectives upon a dud. You married?’

‘No, I’m not.’ She paused and downed the small glass of sake. It tasted of almost nothing, but was warm. She filled her glass again and drank that too. The heat made up somewhat for its evident lack of alcohol. ‘Have you told anyone about this?’

‘Not a soul. I learnt my lesson last time.’

‘Listen. Restrain yourself and be sensible. I know the whole business upset you, but the Raphael can’t be a dud. Every art historian in the world has written an article about it. Every single one of them agrees that it’s genuine. I know they make mistakes; but they can’t all be wrong. You can’t set up an inconclusive fragment by a woman concentrating mainly on her husband’s sexual peccadilloes against the agreed opinion of the most distinguished art connoisseurs alive.’

‘I don’t see why not. As you say, people make mistakes, sometimes whoppers. A sizeable chunk of art history consists of unravelling other people’s errors and substituting your own. All the art galleries in the world are full of things labelled “after Velazquez” or “circle of Titian” which were drooled over for years as fine works from the master’s hand. Boyfriend?’

Flavia refilled her glass. ‘No. But how do you prove it?’ she asked. ‘If everyone has committed themselves to calling it a Raphael, it would be difficult to persuade them to change their minds. It’s all a matter of opinion. If enough people say it’s genuine, then it is. Besides, I think you’re playing games. You don’t really think it’s a dud at all, do you?’

‘Not really,’ he said sadly, ladling out the rice and experimenting with his chopsticks. ‘Wishful thinking, I suppose. I was enjoying fantasising about finding some conclusive fragment. Think of the embarrassment. “New light on Raphael’s Elisabetta.” Short, pithy little article. Bang. Art historians doing the decent thing and jumping out of windows or locking themselves in rooms with loaded pistols. Turmoil in the museum. Red faces in the government. All that taxpayers’ money down the drain. I can almost see the editorials now. Attachment? Cat?’

He evidently found his train of thought quite delightful. He spooned some more food, and poured some more sake.

‘No. What’s that got to do with it?’

‘Nothing. It’s just that I like cats.’

They ate in silence, which Flavia eventually broke. ‘At least I had better tell the General when I get back,’ she said, sipping meditatively. Extraordinary. The whole bottle was empty already. ‘Then he can do with it whatever he wants. Wastepaper bin most likely. But if anything does happen, then at least he won’t be able to complain that he wasn’t warned. I am single, unattached, and intend to stay that way. Men,’ she continued, wondering both why she was saying this and why her head was buzzing slightly, ‘are frightened of me. I dislike them. Generally speaking,’ she added cautiously, squinting at him. ‘So we are all happy. I feel sick.’

In fact, she was extremely drunk, and remembered thinking very clearly to herself, before such an effort became too difficult, that she would resent her host a great deal when she recovered for not having told her that sake was a good deal stronger than wine, and much more vicious in its effects. ‘My last boyfriend used to tell me...’ she began mournfully, but forgot what it was half-way through. It hadn’t been nice though. He’d been very angry when she’d finally walked out. Thought that was his job. Accused her of being unfaithful. Silly sod. No, that was Clomorton. Not her. It was too much effort. She was probably fast asleep even before Argyll arranged her on his sofa. Must have been asleep, in fact. At least, she hadn’t protested when he dropped her on the stairs.

Flavia woke in a panic and with a wicked head. She was booked on an Alitalia flight for Rome — all Italian civil servants travel on the national airline as a way of circulating revenue from department to department — which was due to leave at eleven-thirty. Argyll was nowhere around, but a note on the table read, ‘Had to go out. If I’m not back when you wake, coffee in kitchen. Hope your head is OK. You’re a great drunk.’

She had no time for coffee, despite the fact that she would clearly die without it. She had no time to dress either, so it was just as well she had been deposited on the sofa fully clothed. She reckoned she had about two hours to get back to the hotel, pack, check out and make her way to Heathrow: department accountants always frown on additional costs caused by missing planes.

The head and the hurry put all thoughts of art out of her mind. Instead, she behaved more like a dogged automaton, the determination not to miss her flight constituting the only flicker of mental activity in an otherwise inoperative brain. She forgot all about Argyll, sake, Thai food and Raphael.

Flavia made the plane, ran down to the toilets the moment the seatbelt sign flickered off, and did her best to restore herself to human appearance. For the rest of the flight she persecuted the stewardesses unmercifully, demanding cup after cup of thick, strong coffee, aspirins and glasses of orange juice. She had to pay for the orange juice herself, accountants also frowning on self-indulgence, and it wasn’t even much good. But it had some positive effects, and she was recovered enough by the time she arrived back home — grateful, above all, that it was Friday — to check through her accumulated mail before stepping into the bath.