The Modigliani Scandal by Ken Follett Read Free Book Online Page A

things don′t matter with your average fifty-thousand-pound painting. My God, Manet didn′t paint an exact replica of an ideal picture in his head—he just put the paint roughly where he thought it ought to go. He just mixed the color until it seemed about right.
    ″Take the Virgin of the Rocks . There′s one in the Louvre, one in the National Gallery. Everybody agrees that one of them is a fake—but which? The Louvre′s, say the London experts. The National Gallery′s, say the French. We′ll never know—but who cares? You just have to look at them to see their greatness. Yet if somebody found out for certain that one was a fake, nobody would go to see it anymore. Bullshit.″
    He drank from his glass, and poured more whisky. Anne said: ″I don′t believe you. It would take almost as much genius to copy a great painting, and get it right, as it would to paint it in the first place.″
    ″Rubbish!″ Mitch exploded. Iʹll prove it. Gimme a canvas, and I′ll paint you a van Gogh in twenty minutes.″
    ″He′s right,″ Peter said. ″I could do it, too.″
    ″But not as fast as me,″ said Mitch.
    ″Faster.″
    ″Right,″ said Mitch. He got to his feet. ʺWeʹll have a Masterpiece Race.″
    Peter jumped up. ″You′re on. Now—two sheets of paper-we can′t waste canvas.″
    Anne laughed. ″You′re both mad.″
    Mitch pinned the two bits of paper on the wall while Peter got two palettes out.
    Mitch said: ″Name a painter, Anne.″
    ″All right—van Gogh.″
    ″Give us a name for the picture.″
    ″Umm— The Gravedigger .″
    ″Now say ready, steady, go.″
    ″Ready, steady, go.″
    The two began painting furiously. Peter outlined a man leaning on a shovel, dabbed in some grass at his feet, and started to give the man overalls. Mitch began with a face: the lined, weary face of an old peasant. Anne watched with amazement as the two pictures took shape.
    They both took longer than twenty minutes. They became absorbed in their work, and at one point Peter walked to the bookshelf and opened a book at a color plate.
    Mitch′s gravedigger was exerting himself, pressing the shovel into the hard earth with his foot, his bulky, graceless body bent over. He spent several minutes looking at the paper, adding touches, and looking again.
    Peter began to paint something small in black at the bottom of his sheet. Suddenly Mitch yelled: ″Finished!″
    Peter looked at Mitch′s work. ″Swine,″ he said. Then he looked again. ″No, you haven′t—no signature. Ha-hah!″
    ″Balls!″ Mitch bent over the picture and started to sign it. Peter finished his signature. Anne laughed at the pair of them.
    They both stepped back at once. ″I won!″ they shouted in unison, and both burst out laughing.
    Anne clapped her hands. ″Well,″ she said. ″If we ever hit the breadline, that′s one way you could make a crust.″
    Peter was still laughing. ″That′s an idea,″ he roared. He and Mitch looked at one another. Their smiles slowly, comically, collapsed, and they stared at the paintings on the wall.
    Peter′s voice was low, cold, and serious. ″Jesus Christ Almighty,″ he said. ″That′s an idea.″

IV
    JULIAN BLACK WAS A little nervous as he walked into the entrance of the newspaper office. He got nervous a lot these days: over the gallery, the money, Sarah, and his in-laws. Which were really one and the same problem.
    The marbled hall was rather grand, with a high ceiling, polished brass here and there, and frescoed walls. Somehow he had expected a newspaper office to be scruffy and busy, but this place looked like the lobby of a period brothel.
    A gold-lettered signboard beside the ironwork elevator shaft told visitors what was to be found on each floor. The building housed a morning and evening paper as well as a clutch of magazines and journals.
    ″Can I help you, sir?″ Julian turned to see a uniformed commissionaire at his shoulder.
    ″Perhaps,″ Julian said. ″I′d like to see Mr. Jack