The Portrait Read online

‘If they’re old …’ I whispered.

  ‘Go on, my boy … If they’re old …’

  ‘They keep people’s souls,’ I said all at once, holding my uncle’s blue-eyed gaze.

  He stopped smiling and appraised me with the utmost respect. Then he shook his head ever so slightly, which I took as a sign of approval – recognition, even.

  The following day, I sold my entire eraser collection for the exorbitant sum of five hundred francs in cash. One break time, Marie-Amélie Clermont – eight years of age and an aspiring eraser collector – had stopped to admire the treasures I had brought to school in my satchel. She expressed an interest in acquiring the collection, but I refused. However, now that I had come to the conclusion that erasers didn’t have a soul, since they didn’t have a past, having never been owned by anyone but me, I had changed my mind and decided to part with them. The transaction took place at lunchtime. Marie-Amélie had gone home and pretended that Abbé Picard was collecting money on behalf of the poor children of Uganda. She persuaded her parents to give her five hundred francs, my asking price. That day – the day I doubled my money – was the day I learnt business sense; I was barely nine years old. On the first floor of the school at two o’clock, before the start of afternoon lessons, the collection changed hands. Marie-Amélie was now the proud owner of 109 erasers, including the 14 she already had. I held the legendary Pascal banknote tight in my clammy hand, and then slipped it into the back pocket of my grey flannel trousers.

  Many years later I bumped into Marie-Amélie in the corridor of a courthouse, where she was awaiting the verdict of a dispute over her family estate on the island of Noirmoutier. I reminded her of the Eraser Affair.

  She had no memory of it.

  During my university years, I spent part of my student budget antique-hunting. I collected quite a few pieces and some I sold on, because sometimes objects lose their power: it breaks down over the years. When you point the Geiger counter of affection at certain pieces, it doesn’t even react. It still crackles strongly for this eighteenth-century dolphin candlestick, but barely emits a hiss for that gold spoon with the French coat of arms, even though it had been coveted in the antique-shop window for many months. It becomes possible to sell the spoon with no regrets whilst the sale of the candlestick would be a wrench. This spontaneous emotional re-evaluation of objects has always been a mystery to me.

  I had an aptitude for art dealing, doubling, trebling or even occasionally making back five times my initial outlay, and so I was able to avoid the odd jobs some of my friends had to take on. On occasion I could earn more in one afternoon than they earned in a month, a fact I was careful to keep to myself. But if I was successfully accumulating objects, I did not enjoy the same success with girls.

  I didn’t have a girlfriend at university, and regularly fell in love with girls who did not return my affections. Courting a girl who politely turns you down is as frustrating as gazing at an object in a museum case: you can look at it but it will never be yours.

  Of course you could always shatter the glass, grab the object and run for the exit, but that’s as unimaginable as flinging yourself roughly on a girl who has accepted an invitation for a drink and is explaining to you gently that she really likes you but …

  I did not want to remain a virgin for much longer and once again I turned to my collector’s instinct for a solution. I was used to obtaining what I wanted with money so I began to frequent prostitutes.

  Following in the footsteps of my Uncle Edgar, who reinvested the proceeds from the sale of his works of art in the purchase of an hour with a male prostitute, I squandered my money in the arms of girls. There was Magali, Maya, Sophia, Marilyn, Samantha and many others besides. I was caught in an infernal spiral of expensive lust, which gradually consumed all my collections. That was how I came to sell my collection of snuffboxes made by convicts to, ironically enough, a policeman in the vice squad. The prisoners had let their erotic or murderous imaginations run wild as they carved fine designs into vegetable ivory. Next to go were my Baccarat crystal paperweights, with their replica flowers captured inside the glass. Then I let go of my leg-shaped ivory button-hooks, and finally my radiator caps with animal motifs. I traded objects for women.

  A few years later, student parties would, of course, sometimes end in a conquest which led to an affair of sorts. But either the girls would leave me because I didn’t want to commit to them, or I would leave them because I wasn’t really interested. It’s very difficult to speak words of love that you don’t really feel; it’s as if you are lying to yourself, which is even worse than lying to other people.

  ‘You collect little dead things,’ one of these girls had said to me.

  She was a psychology student and probably saw me as an interesting case-study, even though she could not work me out. I also think she was annoyed with me for being more interested in my little dead things than in her. And that feeling of reproach would accompany me throughout my years as a collector.

  When I was doing my PhD I met Jean Chevrier. He introduced me to Charlotte, a girl he had met recently on his MA course. A girl your friend is interested in is automatically more attractive.

  In the early days of our relationship, Charlotte found my passion for antiques amusing, but later she found it irritating. As the years went by, two, then three, or even four or five paintings appeared on every wall of our apartment. Round paperweights sprouted on the dresser like mushrooms, bronze animals formed a veritable zoo and my empty snuffboxes could have held enough snuff for Napoleon’s entire army.

  Latterly, Charlotte had exiled my collections. An isolated emperor, my dictatorship extended across a territory of just fifteen square metres, and I spent long hours reviewing my static troops: millefiore glass paperweights, ironware, boxes, antique locks and autograph letters. My predecessors, Gulbenkian, Sacha Guitry and even Serge Gainsbourg, had had whole houses devoted to their innumerable collections; but I, at my lowly level, made do with a ‘study’. I dreamt of having somewhere like Sacha’s wonderful house at 18 Avenue Élisée Reclus filled with his fabulous collections, now dispersed. I did possess one relic of his, an anonymous sketch of Napoleon on Elba, stamped on the back ‘from Sacha Guitry’s collection’. The Emperor was gazing out to sea, lost in contemplation. He still saw a great future for himself. Like him, I was also going to make my escape.

  But for much longer than a hundred days.

  ‘Number forty-six… Restoration mercury-gilt mirror …’ called the auctioneer.

  ‘Very handsome piece with angel motif,’ added the expert alongside him, speaking into the crackling microphone in a dreary monotone.

  Standing in my usual spot at the back of the room, I waited for number forty-eight with pounding heart. Once again I felt the rush that always comes at auctions: the fast pace, the queasy combination of excitement and nerves. It was like driving at top speed with a blindfold on. Would I get what I had set my heart on, my prized portrait? Did I have the funds to fuel the race?

  I had hurried back to the office and cancelled all my afternoon meetings, giving no explanation. I was certainly not prepared to leave a written bid and risk seeing the picture go to another buyer.

  The portrait and I had been locked in a long, wordless showdown, as I stood facing it, my reflection almost imprinting itself on the protective glass, before I went into the office to enquire about the price. I looked expectantly at the young intern behind the desk, waiting for her to notice the uncanny resemblance. While she scrolled down the photocopied price list, I tried to attract her attention.

  ‘This portrait … is astonishing! And so lifelike!’ I raved. She was too preoccupied to notice any likeness.

  ‘Number forty-eight has an estimate of between fifteen hundred and two thousand euros, Monsieur.’

  Not cheap, but I could afford it. And I absolutely had to have it.

  ‘Do you really not know who the sitter is? There’s a coat of arms after all …’ I went on, still apparently staring at
the girl a little too intently, as she immediately looked away.

  ‘No, our expert hasn’t researched it.’

  ‘What a shame. I’ll have to do it myself.’

  ‘Would you like to leave a bid?’

  ‘Certainly not. I’m coming to the auction,’ I said, still not averting my gaze.

  ‘Anything else, Monsieur?’

  ‘No.’

  I left, making way for an old man with a hearing aid. The girl had to raise her voice to tell him about the porcelain. I returned to my portrait and stood directly beneath it, propping my arm up against the red velvet ledge that ran along the wall and trying to catch the eye of other visitors. Without success.

  *

  ‘Seven hundred!’

  The mercury-gilt mirror had just gone under the hammer.

  ‘Number forty-seven, a pair of girandoles. Would you show them, please?’

  The assistant clumsily waved the candlesticks around like bunches of leeks.

  ‘Five hundred! No takers at five hundred? That’s a steal for girandoles! Four hundred, then! Fifty, now you’re waking up, five hundred, we’re getting there, fifty, six hundred …’

  ‘Monsieur Steiner?’ the auctioneer turned to a dealer, who shook his head.

  ‘Six hundred on my right,’ the bid caller went on. ‘The gentleman with blond hair,’ he added under his breath.

  The hammer struck. The bid caller headed towards a blond gentleman holding a slip of paper in his hand.

  ‘Number forty-eight, portrait.’

  My turn had come. The pastel was being carried in by the assistant.

  ‘Now that’s lovely!’ the auctioneer exclaimed at once.

  Hearing him talk it up like this made me suddenly worried.

  ‘And we haven’t tried to identify the painter or sitter?’

  The anonymity business seemed to niggle him too.

  ‘No, we have not. We haven’t had time,’ the expert replied curtly, visibly put out by the auctioneer’s remark.

  The girl who had helped me earlier was discreetly chewing gum and looking over at me. She glanced down at a notebook, picked up the phone and dialled a number.

  I had decided my strategy would be to hold back in the early stages before jumping in around the fifteen hundred mark, taking the other bidders by surprise.

  ‘Let’s start at one thousand. One thousand euros! One two, one four, one five …’

  I locked eyes with the auctioneer and my hand shot up.

  ‘Eight,’ he said when he saw me.

  ‘Two thousand,’ the bid caller shot back.

  ‘Two two,’ the auctioneer continued at my nod.

  ‘Two four,’ he added immediately, turning to his left.

  ‘Two six, eight.’

  ‘Three thousand, written bid,’ the expert announced.

  ‘Three two,’ the caller went on, having just clocked a new bidder.

  ‘Three four,’ the auctioneer called out as I raised my hand.

  ‘Three thousand four hundred!’

  ‘Three six, three eight.’

  ‘Four thousand by written bid,’ the expert carried on.

  ‘Four five,’ the girl on the phone suddenly threw in.

  I glared at her as if the poor woman was responsible for the instructions she had been given. The auctioneer turned and tilted his chin in my direction.

  ‘Seven,’ he said at my nod.

  ‘Five thousand,’ the girl replied.

  I nodded again.

  ‘Five two,’ the auctioneer continued.

  There was a pause while the girl talked into the phone.

  ‘Five thousand two hundred euros!’ the auctioneer cried.

  ‘Six thousand,’ the girl came back.

  ‘Do you want to go to six five?’ the auctioneer asked me.

  I agreed.

  ‘Six thousand five hundred euros!’

  ‘Seven thousand,’ the girl replied.

  How high could I go? I was beginning to feel uneasy.

  ‘Five!’ I said aloud.

  ‘Eight thousand,’ the girl responded.

  ‘Two!’ I shouted, trying to slow things down.

  ‘Five!’ she added.

  ‘Seven!’ I responded.

  ‘Nine thousand?’ the auctioneer asked her. She agreed.

  ‘Nine five,’ I shot back.

  My inhibitions had floated away and there was a strange feeling of lightness about me. Nothing else mattered now; I was acting as if this day might be my last.

  ‘Nine thousand five hundred,’ the auctioneer repeated.

  ‘Six,’ the girl replied.

  ‘Eight,’ the auctioneer came back when I blinked my assent.

  The girl repeated my bid down the line, I saw her lips moving, and then she looked up at the auctioneer and shook her head.

  ‘Nine thousand eight hundred going once!’ the bid caller repeated as the girl put down the phone.

  ‘Nine thousand eight hundred going twice!’ the auctioneer announced to the room, loud and clear. Strike the bloody hammer, you bastard, I said to myself.

  He held it in mid-air. I was dripping with sweat and having difficulty breathing. Nine thousand eight hundred euros. There was no way I could go any higher. With the fees on top, I was already looking at a bill of nearly twelve thousand euros. If a new bid was placed, I could not raise it. I wanted to throw myself at him, bend his arm to the table and force him to bring down the wretched hammer.

  ‘All done at nine thousand eight hundred euros?’ he asked, drawing out every word.

  At last, I saw the gavel begin to move. There it went, whooshing down towards the table. Any second, it would strike. Now … now … Yes! The portrait was mine.

  The glory of pastel. The powder was finely applied to the paper in several translucent layers, harmoniously superimposed on each other. It reminded me of the powder that had stayed on my fingers the day I touched Uncle Edgar’s cheek.

  ‘Fascinating,’ I murmured, studying the face as I swallowed a mouthful of Bowmore.

  I had needed the whisky to calm myself down. Since I had taken the afternoon off, I had gone straight home and placed my portrait on the sofa in the living room. The pastel rendered the shimmering blue silk of the suit admirably. The powdered Louis XV wig ended in fine curls at my ears. Of course, at the back I would have had an elegant cadogan ponytail tied with a ribbon of the same blue, as was the fashion in the eighteenth century.

  The eyes stared back at me, their colour indefinable, but given an eternal sparkle by the little dot of white chalk the artist had used on each of the pupils. I walked to the left then to the right of the portrait. The eyes followed me. I had read that only the Mona Lisa could do that. Which was obviously false since this portrait of me could do the same.

  At first sight the background of the portrait appeared to be dark brown, but in reality my character was set against a backdrop of various colours. Brown, green, terracotta, slate, the background was made up of infinite shades of powder. At the top on the right, the artist had reproduced the coat of arms that would allow the man in the wig to be identified.

  I downed the rest of my drink. Charlotte would be home soon; I wouldn’t admit the price I had paid for the picture. That was out of the question. A small adjustment to our bank account would suffice to hide the €11,760. Since the sale of my collection of erasers, I had retained a liking for cash transactions. So I had a little safe in my study containing a lovely bundle of five-hundred euro notes. This money had been earned from some ‘friendly’ consultations for clients who were not actually clients. My work had its shady side, sleeping in the safe in my study. I often reflected that the bundle was not there in that room by chance. It was an integral part of my collections. I collected purple five hundreds. Now they would all have to go. But no matter.

  Fifteen hundred. Eighteen hundred euros. Yes, that was a price I could admit to Charlotte; she would accept that. If I told her it had cost €11,760, she was bound to fly into a rage. Leaving asi
de the financial aspect, I couldn’t wait to see her reaction to the portrait. I poured myself a second whisky. This time I added some ice and went back into the living room to kneel in front of the pastel, as if worshipping myself. My nose … it was my nose. And my mouth as well – the artist had picked out the shape with a little red powder to distinguish it from the hue of the cheeks … And those ears were also exactly the same as mine. The sound of the key in the lock made me turn around.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘I’m in here,’ I replied, emptying my whisky glass so that Charlotte would not know how much I had poured myself.

  ‘You’re home early,’ she said, taking off the delicate purple silk scarf she always wore in early summer.

  She caught sight of the portrait. ‘You’ve been back to Drouot? You have to stop doing that, Pierre-François, you’re encroaching on the living room again.’

  She came forward and I watched her, waiting for her reaction. ‘Do you notice anything?’

  ‘What am I supposed to notice?’ she snapped in irritation.

  ‘What are you supposed to notice? The resemblance to me! It’s unbelievable how much he looks like me. It is me!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she said, with disgust. ‘He looks nothing like you; whatever do you mean? But in any case I don’t want to see it in the living room. You’ll have to put it in your study.’

  Stunned and stupefied, I watched Charlotte leave the room. In a state of semi-consciousness that had nothing to do with alcohol, I heard her footsteps in the corridor leading to the kitchen, the fridge door opening and then more footsteps. She returned with a glass of orange juice which she drank defiantly as we looked at each other in silence.

  Nothing would ever be the same between us again.

  That must have been the night my dreams started. Or my dream, rather. For a while I even considered seeing a shrink about it, though I already had a sense of what it might mean. It recurred throughout the time of my research, forcing its way into my head every two or three nights.