The Flanders Panel

“You don’t understand,” she explained, as she exhaled. “The fee for my work will be deducted directly from your Don Manuel, from the price the painting gets at auction. The other percentage is in addition to that, to be deducted from the profit that you make. If the painting sells for one hundred million pesetas, Claymore’s will get seven and a half, you’ll get six and I’ll get one and a half.”

“Who’d have thought it?” said Menchu, shaking her head in disbelief. “You seemed such a nice girl, with your little brushes and varnishes. So inoffensive.”

“Well, there you are. God said we should be kind to our fellow man, but he didn’t say anything about letting him rip us off.”

“You shock me, you really do. I’ve been nurturing a serpent in my left bosom, like Aida. Or was it Cleopatra? I had no idea you knew about percentages.”

“Put yourself in my place. After all, I was the one who made the discovery.” She waggled her fingers in front of her friend’s nose. “With my own fair hands.”

“You’re taking advantage of my tender heart, you little snake.”

“Come off it. You’re as tough as old boots.”

Menchu heaved a melodramatic sigh. It was taking the bread out of her Max’s mouth, but she was sure they could come to some agreement. Friendship was friendship, after all. She glanced towards the door and put on a conspiratorial look. “Talk of the devil…”

“Do you mean Max?”

“Don’t be nasty. Max is no devil, he’s a sweetie.” She gave a sideways flick of her eyes, inviting Julia to sneak a look. “Paco Montegrifo, from Claymore’s, has just come in. And he’s seen us.”

Montegrifo was the director of the Madrid branch of Claymore’s. He was in his forties, tall and attractive, and he dressed with the strict elegance of an Italian prince. His hair parting was as immaculate as his tie, and when he smiled he revealed a lot of teeth, too perfect to be real.

“Good afternoon, ladies. What a happy coincidence!”

He remained standing while Menchu made the introductions.

“I’ve seen some of your work,” he said to Julia when he learned that it was she who would be working on the Van Huys, “and I have only one word for it: perfection.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m sure your work on The Game of Chess will be of the same high standard.” He showed his white teeth again in a professional smile. “We have great hopes for that painting.”

“So have we,” said Menchu. “More than you might think.”

Montegrifo must have noticed the edge she gave to that remark, because his brown eyes became suddenly alert. He’s no fool, thought Julia as he gestured towards an empty chair. Some people were expecting him, he said, but they wouldn’t mind waiting a few minutes.

“May I?”

He indicated to an approaching waiter that he didn’t want anything and sat down opposite Menchu. His cordiality remained undented, but there was a measure of cautious expectation, as if he were straining to hear a distant note of discord.

“Is there some problem?” he asked calmly.

Menchu shook her head. No problem, not really. Nothing to worry about. Montegrifo didn’t seem in the least worried, just politely interested.

“Perhaps,” Menchu suggested after a moment or two, “we should renegotiate the conditions of our agreement.”

There was an embarrassing silence. Montegrifo was looking at her as he might at a client unable to control his excitement in the heat of the bidding.

“My dear lady, Claymore’s is a serious establishment.”

“I don’t doubt it,” replied Menchu resolutely. “But research on the Van Huys has uncovered some important facts that alter the value of the painting.”

“Our appraisers did not find anything.”

“The research was carried out after your people’s examination. The findings…” – Menchu seemed to hesitate, and this did not go unremarked – “are not immediately apparent.”

Montegrifo turned to Julia, looking thoughtful. His eyes were cold as ice.

“What have you found?” he asked gently, like a confessor inviting someone to unburden their conscience.

Julia looked uncertainly at Menchu.

“I don’t think I…”

“We’re not authorised to say,” Menchu intervened, coming to her rescue. “At least not today. We have to await instructions from my client.”

Montegrifo shook his head pensively and, with the languid mien of a man of the world, rose slowly.

“I’ll see what I can do. Forgive me…”

He didn’t seem worried. He merely expressed a hope – without once taking his eyes off Julia, although his words were addressed to Menchu – that the “findings” would do nothing to alter their present agreement. With a cordial good-bye, he threaded his way amongst the tables and sat down at the other end of the room.

Menchu stared into her glass with a contrite look on her face.

“I put my foot in it.”

“What do you mean? He’d have to find out sooner or later.”

“Yes, but you don’t know Paco Montegrifo.” She studied the auctioneer over her glass. “You might not think so to look at him, with his nice manners and good looks, but if he knew Don Manuel, he’d be over there like a shot to find out what’s going on and to cut us out of the deal.”

“Do you think so?”