Trains and Lovers: A Novel by Alexander McCall Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

“It’s the best thing you can do in this business. Trust what your eye tells you. If it says the painting’s good, then the painting’s good.” She turned to Geoffrey.
    “Agree with that?”
    Geoffrey nodded. “You need an eye.” He looked back at me. It occurred to me that he resented her support for a junior member of staff, and that if I was not careful I would be making an enemy. People liked to recruit others, I reminded myself, and perhaps Eleanor was enrolling meon her side against Geoffrey. “Tell me, what else do you see here?”
    I looked at the painting again and wondered whether there was something about the sky I should notice. “Perhaps …”
    He cut me short. “Over-painting,” he said curtly. “Here, here and here. See?”
    I peered at the places he had pointed out. Now that I looked more closely, it was obvious. I should have picked it up.
    “Yes …,” I began.
    Again he interrupted. “It’s fairly obvious, I would have thought. The surface of the paint is a bit higher and rougher.”
    “I see …”
    Had Eleanor seen the over-painting? She must have. He had described it as fairly obvious—was that a barb?
    He turned to her. “An estimate of forty to fifty thousand? What do you think?”
    She nodded her assent and signalled for me to remove the painting and put the next one on the easel.
    “Ah!” said Geoffrey. “I see this is listed as by our friend Dughet. I think I can support that.”
    “Yes,” said Eleanor. “Fairly typical.”
    She looked at me. “You know about Dughet, Andrew?”
    I was pleased to be asked. This would give me a chance to make up for my failure to spot the obvious over-painting in the Gimignani.
    “Poussin’s brother-in-law and pupil?”
    Eleanor seemed pleased. “Yes. Exactly. The National Gallery hangs him next to the Poussins. He called himself Poussin, of course, as you probably know.”
    I did. “Good career move.”
    She laughed. “He was never the painter his brother-in-law was, but he was a solid disciple. His skies are very Poussinesque.”
    Geoffrey sniffed. “Of course he was the more enthusiastic landscape painter. Poussin was more interested in classical mythology at the point that he was teaching Dughet. So the skies may have come from Dughet rather than Poussin himself.”
    She hesitated. “Possibly. Possibly. But see that village on the hill—that must have been painted countless times.”
    “There’s always a call for Italian hill towns,” said Geoffrey. He leaned forward and examined a figure in the foreground. “Another shepherd. Very pastoral.” Turning to Eleanor, he told her what he thought the painting might fetch. They discussed that for a while, and then we movedon to the next picture. But my eye seemed drawn to the Dughet, and even when we were discussing the rest of the paintings, I kept glancing at it again as it rested against the office wall. There was something there that was not quite right, but I could not work out what it was.
    At the end of the meeting, I asked whether I could take a photograph of the Dughet. “It interests me,” I said.
    Eleanor shrugged. “Yes, of course. You can take a look at any of them again while you’re preparing the draft. They’ll be downstairs.”
    “When you write the entry for that Dughet,” said Geoffrey, “make sure that you mention the Gaspard Poussin aspect. It always attracts attention from people who would like to own a Poussin but who could never afford one. There are lots of them.”
    I imagined the hosts of those who yearned to own a Nicholas Poussin but who could only aspire to Gaspard; dissatisfied, restless, feeling bad about themselves because they would never have a real Poussin …
    “Why are you smiling?” asked Eleanor.
    “I was thinking of the Poussinless,” I said.
    Eleanor grinned. “They are always with us,” she muttered. “Isn’t that how the saying goes?”
    Geoffrey looked at her blankly. Then it dawned on him. “Like the poor?”
    She