The Flanders Panel

“No, I don’t know of anything else. My wife’s family always referred to the painting as the Flanders or Farnesio Panel, doubtless so as not to remember the manner of its acquisition. It appeared under those names for the twenty-odd years it was on loan to the Prado, until my wife’s father recovered it in 1923, thanks to Primo de Rivera, who was a friend of the family. My father-in-law always held the Van Huys in great esteem, because he was a keen chess player. That’s why, when it passed into his daughter’s hands, she didn’t want to sell it.”

“And now?” asked Menchu.

The old man remained silent for a while, staring into his coffee cup as if he hadn’t heard the question.

“Now, things are different,” he said at last. He seemed almost to be making fun of himself. “I’m a real old crock now; that much is obvious.” And he slapped his half-useless legs. “My niece Lola and her husband take care of me, and I should repay them in some way, don’t you think?”

Menchu mumbled an apology. She hadn’t meant to be indiscreet. That was a matter for the family, naturally.

“There’s no reason to apologise,” said Belmonte, raising his hand, as if offering absolution. “It’s perfectly natural. That picture is worth a lot of money and it serves no real purpose just hanging in the house. My niece and her husband say that they could do with some help. Lola has her father’s pension, but her husband, Alfonso…” He looked at Menchu as if appealing for her understanding. “Well, you know what he’s like: he’s never worked in his life. As for me…” The sardonic smile returned to his lips. “If I told you how much I have to pay in taxes every year just to hang on to this house and live in it, you’d be horrified.”

“It’s a good area,” Julia said. “And a good house.”

“Yes, but my pension is tiny. That’s why I’ve gradually been selling off little souvenirs. The painting will give me a breathing space.”

He remained thoughtful, nodding slowly, although he didn’t seem particularly downcast. On the contrary, he seemed to find the whole thing amusing, as if there were humorous aspects to it that only he could appreciate. Perhaps what at first sight seemed only vulgar pillaging on the part of an unscrupulous niece and her husband was, for him, an odd kind of experiment in family greed: it’s always “uncle this and uncle that”, here we are at your beck and call, and your pension only just covers the costs; you’d be better off in a home with people the same age as you; it’s a shame, all these pictures hanging on the walls for no purpose. Now, with the Van Huys as bait, Belmonte must have felt safe. He could regain the initiative after long years of humiliation. Thanks to the painting, he could finally settle his account with his niece and her husband.

Julia offered him a cigarette, and he gave a grateful smile but hesitated.

“I shouldn’t really,” he said. “Lola allows me only one milky coffee and one cigarette a day.”

“Forget Lola,” Julia replied, with a spontaneity that surprised her. Menchu looked startled, but the old man didn’t seem bothered in the least. He gave Julia a look in which she thought she caught a glimmer of complicity, instantly extinguished, and reached out his thin fingers. Leaning over the table to light the cigarette, Julia said: “About the painting… Something unexpected has come up.”

The old man took a pleasurable gulp of smoke, held it in his lungs as long as possible and half closed his eyes.

“Unexpected in a good way or a bad way?”

“In a good way. We’ve discovered an original inscription underneath the paint. Uncovering it would increase the value of the painting.” She sat back in her chair, smiling. “It’s up to you what we do.”

Belmonte looked at Menchu and then at Julia, as if making some private comparison or as if torn between two loyalties. At last he seemed to decide. Taking another long pull on his cigarette, he rested his hands on his knees with a look of satisfaction.

“You’re not only pretty, but you’re obviously bright as well,” he said to Julia. “I bet you even like Bach.”

“I love Bach.”

“Please, tell me what the inscription says.”

And Julia told him.

“Who’d have thought it!” Belmonte, incredulous, was still shaking his head after a long silence. “All those years of looking at that picture and I never once imagined…” He glanced briefly at the empty space left by the Van Huys, and his eyes half-closed in a contented smile. “So the painter was fond of riddles.”

“So it would seem,” Julia said.

Belmonte pointed to the record player in the corner.