Aaron Elkins: Old Scores

I stared at him.

He looked back at me, his eyes keen and alert, and very much amused. He was having a good time. "It's a simple question. What… is wrong… with a forgery?"

But of course it wasn't a simple question. The affable Vachey was trying to lead me somewhere, and I didn't know where, and I didn't know why. "A forgery is a deception," I said guardedly. "It pretends to be something it isn't."

"Ah," he said happily. "Something better than it is?"

"Yes, of course."

"No, not of course. Let me ask you this: What if a fake were so well done that it couldn't be told from the original-what then, eh?"

He was leaning attentively forward, his small, lively hands still clasped on the desk's beautiful marble top. Clearly, this was a subject that he found engaging, but I didn't like it at all. Why was he going on about undetectable forgeries? Was this just something he enjoyed talking about, or did it have something to do with the Rembrandt?

"It would still be a fake," I said uneasily.

"And no reputable" -teasing emphasis here-"museum would have anything to do with it. Correct?"

"Right."

"But why not? If what we appreciate in a work of art is its artistic, its aesthetic, quality, then why is a copy that cannot be told from the original-except in some chemical laboratory- any less worthy of our esteem?"

This was a hoary old question. Any student who has taken a course in the philosophy of art is likely to have spent some time on it. Weighty thinkers have written whole books on it, but every time some long-worshipped fake is revealed for what it is, the subject noisily surfaces again. Every major museum has gone through the miserable experience of having to announce that one or more of its famous treasures is in fact a fake. Reattribution, we call it in Museumspeak, and not so long ago the great Metropolitan Museum of Art itself reattributed over three hundred of its art objects, all of which disappeared ignominiously into its cellars, never to be seen in the light of day again. It's even happened to SAM.

And consider one of my own favorite paintings, Rembrandt's beautiful, glowing Man with the Golden Helmet, with its place of honor in the history of Western art. It was praised by the experts and loved by millions. Until a few years ago, when along came a nasty new technique called neutron photography, which smugly proved that it hadn't been painted by Rembrandt at all, but by some unknown contemporary. At which news the art world promptly went into one of its periodic blue funks. I didn't take it too well myself. I was grumpy for days afterward.

Why, exactly? Had a beautiful object ceased to exist? No, it was still right there to be looked at. Had discrediting it made it any less beautiful than it was before? Of course not; it was the same painting. Did it prove that it was any less masterfully painted? Not at all. Did it make me love the painting itself any less than before?

You better believe it.

Well, why? That was the question Vachey was asking, and I didn't know any wholly satisfactory answer. "I think," I said slowly, "that aside from the dishonesty involved-"

He pounced cheerfully on this and brushed it aside. "Dishonesty? That's a different issue, is it not? It doesn't affect the aesthetic properties of the object. It doesn't make it more or less beautiful in itself."

True enough. "But there's more to it than aesthetics," I said. "When a Van Gogh or a-a-" No, at this particular juncture I just couldn't make myself say Rembrandt. "-a Titian turns out not to be that at all, it means it's no longer a link to the artist. Its connection to him-to his time-is false, or rather, nonexistent. It tells you nothing about him, says nothing from him to you."

His expression was both scornful and amused. "Ah, so it loses its value as a sacred relic? Is that what you're saying? Well, well, so it's religion we're talking about, Mr. Norgren? Cultism?" His eyes, a striking smoke-gray dappled with flecks of hazel, sparkled with enjoyment.

"Mr. Vachey," I said with sinking heart, "why are we talking about this at all?"

He regarded me with calm good humor. "But we are simply having an interesting philosophical discussion. I am arguing that the distinction between a work of art and a perfectly rendered imitation has nothing to do with the aesthetic value of the work. It is in the mind of the viewer. A provocative point, to be sure, but purely hypothetical."

I almost believed him. Vachey had a wonderful capacity for making you believe that talking to you-about anything at all- was the most delightful thing he could imagine. Maybe it was. But there were hard-to-describe overtones, too, that gave you the feeling that he was putting you gently on, that he was enjoying his own private little joke-not exactly at your expense, but over your head, so to speak. In any case, I couldn't quite make myself believe that we had been having a friendly discussion apropos of nothing in particular.

"Mr. Vachey-"

One of the two telephones on the desk rang. He picked it up, listened a moment, and said: "Oui, merci bien. Cinq minutes." He replaced the receiver. "I'm so sorry. Another appointment. Is there anything else?"

"Yes, several things. What exactly is the hurry? I don't understand why you're so adamant about allowing us only one day to decide."

"Frankly, I thought it would make for better, shall we say, theater."

I couldn't help laughing.

"Would you really be happier with more time?" he asked.

"Of course I would." "All right, take it."

"Take it?" I said, stunned.

"I'll give you the entire week. Until Friday. I'm seeing my lawyer in a few minutes; I'll have the pertinent clause changed."

"That's fine," I said.

Not that it made much practical difference. If I was going to be limited to a visual inspection, there was nothing I could learn in three days that I couldn't learn in three hours. By the time Friday came, I hoped to be long back in Seattle. All the same, his concession was interesting.

"Anything further?" he asked.

Encouraged, I pressed on. "Well, yes, there is. I don't suppose there's any chance of my seeing the painting before the opening tonight."

"Correct, there is not." He gave me his happy, expectant smile.

I hadn't thought so. I paused. Tony thinks that in delicate situations I have a way of insisting on clarity when things might be better off with a little fuzziness, a little room for maneuvering. I suppose he has a point, because I decided to go out on a limb now. Who could tell, I might even win another concession.

"Sir," I said, "I'd like to be frank. I think you have something up your sleeve. I feel it would be in our best interests to examine that painting before it's publicly unveiled. If you're not willing to do that, then we'll just have to-well, we'll have to-"

"Oop-oop-oop." Up went the forefinger again. "Now, Mr. Norgren, don't say anything we will both regret." He leaned forward with a kindly look in his eye. I think it was kindly. "You've been very tolerant with an old man so far, and I appreciate it. Bear with my foolishness just a little longer. You won't regret it, I promise you. The Rembrandt aside, I expect the evening to provide some-well, amusement, shall we say; a welcome little frisson, something to get the blood going on a dull October evening. Surely you wouldn't want to come all this way, and then not even…?" He smiled. His eyebrows arched in friendly encouragement. He was a charmer, was Rene Vachey.

And he was right. Yes, I was leery, even more leery than I'd been when I'd walked in, but I was fascinated too. Just what was he going to try to pull off?

"Well-I'd like you to understand one thing," I told him, proving Tony right once more. "If you're expecting any public comment from me tonight, or tomorrow for that matter, or the day after that-"