Aaron Elkins: Old Scores

Against one wall was a Boulle commode from about 1700; a glittery, complex tour-de-force inlaid with curling arabesques of brass, ivory, tortoiseshell, and I who knew what else. There was a massive old fireplace with a worn coat of arms cut into the stone in low relief, plump Louis XVI chairs, bronze and marble sculptures everywhere, table lamps made from eighteenth-century Sevres vases, handsome old books bound in gold-tooled leather. Dominating the room was a huge, old desk that people had probably been killed for; made of cherrywood and polished brass, and topped with a thick, rosy slab of marble that had been carved, with unimaginable patience, into wispy filigree around the edges.

Behind this imposing piece, ensconced in a weird red armchair with a frame that seemed to be made completely of wicked-looking elk antlers-getting in and out of it without being impaled must have taken practice-sat a sunny, smiling man who didn't look in the least upset about being kept waiting for three minutes. Nor did he look notorious, crackpot, or any of the other things I've been calling Vachey. He was, in fact, a positively amiable-looking man in his mid-seventies, a bit stringy in the neck, but deeply tanned and healthy-looking, with a close-cropped pepper-and-salt beard and sharp, friendly, intelligent eyes. He was dressed in a white shirt and flowered tie with an old cardigan over them. On his feet, which I could see through the desk's kneehole, were worn leather slippers. Around his neck hung a magnifying glass on a cord. He closed a thick, well-used looseleaf book when I came in, and watched with apparent enjoyment while I goggled at the room.

"So, what do you think of my study?" he asked in French.

"It's magnificent."

"Yes, yes, I suppose so." He cocked his head this way and that, like a chicken sizing up its surroundings. "But my God, I can tell you, it's hell to dust." This was followed by a peal of merry and transparently genuine laughter. I liked him right off, which hadn't been part of my plan.

"How do you do, Monsieur Vachey? I'm Christopher Norgren. I'm sorry about being late."

He waved this off, stood up and shook hands with a formal little bow, and motioned me toward a chair.

I sat, first checking for antlers.

"Some coffee?" Vachey said. "An aperitif?"

"No, thank you."

On the Rue de la Prefecture, a noisy truck rattled slowly by. The sound easily penetrated the French windows near Vachey's desk. So did a whiff of exhaust. Surprised, I glanced up and saw that the windows were ajar.

"Yes?" Vachey said. "Something worries you?"

"Well, I-" I gestured at the centuries-old paneling, the old books, the furniture. "Aren't you concerned about their condition? I'd have thought-"

"That there would be an up-to-the-minute climate control system installed here? Self-correcting temperature and humidity sensors; locked, ultraviolet-blocking windows?" He smiled. "Back there, in the gallery, for the paintings, there are such wonders. But here, this room, this is not a museum, this is where I work, monsieur. Everything in here was made to be used and enjoyed. In here, everything ages as God intended it to age, myself most of all."

He settled back in his own menacing chair. "Now, what exactly may I do for you?" he asked agreeably.

I cleared my throat and went into a well-rehearsed opening speech of thanks for his donation to the museum.

There is a persistent and touching faith among American travelers to France that the way to win the Gallic heart is to make an honest effort, no matter how humble or inadequate, to address the natives in their own tongue. Not so, in my opinion. In Germany, yes. In Italy or Spain, yes. But in France, they are likely to gaze at you with this hurt, disbelieving look-roughly the expression you might expect from a cow that has just been unfairly hit between the eyes-while you innocently mutilate their beloved and beautiful language, as anyone who is not a native speaker inevitably must.

This is a lesson I seem to have a hard time learning, and, as usual, I started off on the wrong foot, in flowing but mangled French, even though I knew that Vachey, having lived in London for some years, was fluent in English. My presentation was received in pretty much the stunned-cow manner described above, enlivened by an occasional wince when I came to some of the trickier diphthongs. Nevertheless, he listened patiently, although now and then he would flap a hand in an amicable get-on-with-it gesture.

Awkwardly, I got on with it. "As much as we appreciate this noble and generous gesture-"

Flap went the hand, accompanied by an indulgent chuckle.

"-we find ourselves with several questions of some pertinence to any eventual decision-"

Flap, flap. I couldn't blame him. The language does this sort of thing to me. I love listening to myself speak it. It seems to be at its worst when I'm nervous, and I was nervous.

"I wonder, do you think we should try English?" he suggested gently. "Don't you think we'd get done sooner?"

By this time I was glad to oblige, and I came straight to the point. "Mr. Vachey, I'd like to talk to you about your prohibition of scientific testing-"

"Oh, but that isn't subject to negotiation, I'm afraid. There can be no scientific analysis of any kind." This was said not in the least harshly.

"But you must realize that raises questions-"

"No, no, I don't believe in it."

"But-"

"Mr. Norgren, the true connoisseur doesn't rely on chemistry and microscopes to tell him what is art and what is not. Surely you agree?"

I did, as a matter of fact. "Well, yes, but it isn't a question of relying, it's a matter of using all available means-"

"No, I'm sorry," he said apologetically. But firmly. "I'm sorry, but that's the way it must be."

"But surely you know that if we accept the picture, we'd have it analyzed later in any case."

"Of course. When it's yours, do whatever you wish," he said serenely.

I shook my head in frustration. "But then why-"

He wiggled a finger. "No," he said pleasantly, and smiled; a charming, raffish little grin. "No, Mr. Norgren."

And that seemed to be that. Vachey sat smiling at me, hands clasped and at rest on the desktop. Dissatisfied as I was with where things stood, I was reluctant to press any harder. There was always the possibility that the surprisingly sweet-tempered but famously unpredictable M. Vachey would tell me to forget the whole thing. And I didn't want that to happen.

"Tell me," he said with interest, "why do you make such a point of tests?"

"Why do I-?"

"What can science tell you that your own two eyes cannot?"

I settled deeper into my chair. Were we negotiating after all? "Well, as I'm sure you know, no reputable museum adds a major work to its collection without taking every available step to ensure that its attribution is accurate."

"Ah. You want to be certain of its authenticity, is that it? You fear I might have attributed it wrongly, that it might not be a Rembrandt at all, might even be a forgery?"

I hesitated. Vachey was beaming at me, but I didn't really know how touchy he was. "Yes," I said neutrally.

He took it with a pleased little laugh. "And you don't trust your own knowledge, your own experience, to tell you?"

"I trust them, but…"I decided to take a chance and level with him. "Frankly, Mr. Vachey, what's weighing on my mind -on our minds-is your outright refusal to allow any scientific analysis. None of us can come up with a valid reason for that."

He smiled. "You don't believe me when I tell you I'm convinced it harms the pictures?"

I took a breath. "No, sir."

He tipped back his head and laughed; genuinely, as far as I could tell. Then he jabbed the magnifying glass in my direction. "Well, tell me something, Mr. Norgren: Just what is wrong with a forgery?"