Читать книгу The Art of Deception - Louise Mangos - Страница 12

Müller walks right up to my desk without checking my tidy cell, and I expect her to click her heels together like a sergeant major as she stops beside me. I look up from the letter I am writing to JP, annoyed that my train of thought has been interrupted. I clack the pen on the desk, and press my lips together.

‘Come. We have not much time,’ she says, turning to walk straight back out of the cell, and a retort of refusal sits unspoken on my tongue. I know I’m in prison and at the mercy of my captors, but I don’t want to appear so easily compliant.

I follow her nonetheless, curiosity getting the better of my belligerence.

‘Where are we going?’

‘You will see,’ she says, without breaking her stride.

We head down two flights of stairs to the door by the garden and she uses her key card to open it. A stiff breeze lifts the wisps of grey hair like wings at her temple and I shiver in the sudden freshness. It feels like a clandestine trip to a forbidden world. The cold blue-grey dimness of the autumn dusk plunges the bare plots into shadow.

Across from the allotment sits the main Hindelbank castle, its faux-Versailles annexes enveloping a courtyard at its centre, surrounded by a high brick and plaster wall. As we walk down the track to the main entrance, I peer through a gate to the courtyard, gravel raked to Zen precision. Red and white striped shutters flank the thick beige limestone frames of the arched windows, normally jolly in the daytime, but appearing menacingly violet in the fading light. Cupolas and round dormer windows adorn the shingle roof, sweeping down in an almost Dutch-style gable, darkened after the recent rain. The roof ridges are decorated with large urn-like finials, topping off an architecture that speaks of once opulent aristocracy. I told JP at the beginning that I was imprisoned in a castle. He drew me as Rapunzel for several weeks afterwards.

‘The Schloss, is it not magnificent?’ asks Müller proudly, as if it’s part of her own ancestry.

‘I guess, under different circumstances …’

‘It was being built in 1720, by a man named Friedrich von Erlach. When he died, the building was made a poor house for women. It is how this place developed into a prison. But there is something I want to show you. We go into the Schloss. Come.’

We walk along the wall into a cobbled courtyard and Müller leads the way up the steps into the castle. The door is unlocked. I wonder whether she always has access, or whether she arranged this for us.

Along the hallways and up the stairway of the castle, there are numerous portraits on the walls, but the paintings on the ceilings in the reception rooms are the ones that catch my eye. Müller throws the light switch and I stare up at the scenes painted between the plaster mouldings of what must once have been a great dining hall. There are exquisite scenes of angels and kings. I crane my neck, reminding me of a bygone class excursion to the Sistine chapel.

‘Yes, yes, beautiful, but this …’ Müller opens the doors of what looks like a formal salon, free of furniture. The antique parquet floor creaks under our feet. It is a space designated for parties and gatherings. By trickery of the brush, the room has been made to look larger with rococo trompe l’oeil scenes of Tuscan pillars encircled with vines and Romanesque garden archways, through which there is a hint of dreamy Italian summer skies. The effect is striking, and a complete juxtaposition to the renaissance paintings in the other rooms.

But the final pièce de résistance, and different again, is a relatively small panelled room crammed from floor to ceiling with mountain and country landscapes reminiscent of the Swiss painter Calame or the German artist Bierstadt. The dozens of painted panels take my breath away. It is so hard to believe that this is located in the middle of a prison compound.

‘There was a time …’ Müller leaves her sentence unfinished and bites her lip.

‘You paint too?’ I ask. She shakes her head once.

‘You think you can do?’ asks Müller, my question unanswered.

I stare at her, blowing air through my lips. ‘You are kidding.’

‘I think you can do. Copies. You can copy these. I have been having the idea. You know that every year we have a market here. The Schlossmärit. Everybody makes something to sell. I think you can do painting. You can make your own paintings, but copies of some of these works would get good money.’

I narrow my eyes. Her enthusiasm makes me think she’s not merely considering the lucrativeness of the prison market.

‘I can’t paint like this. I could never match this skill.’

‘I think you should try. Come, let me show you where.’

Curious, I follow Müller out of the castle and back across to the prison outbuildings. We approach the block where many of the handcraft departments are housed and Müller uses her key to enter. The place is empty now at the end of the workday. We walk the length of the building, past the cardboard packing room, a room with computers, and a library where some classes take place for those wanting to study specially offered apprenticeship courses. A stairway leads to the weaving and sewing rooms on the first floor. Beyond the stairs is the pottery where Dolores and Fatima work. On the other side of the corridor there’s a room called the Werkatelier.

‘I’m not working in here!’ I protest.

This is the place where those who can’t concentrate or sit still for long periods of time are employed. Mostly because they’re zoned out on drugs. Müller shakes her head and keeps walking. We pass tables of half-finished pre-printed mandalas. Simple, mind-numbing work.

It’s quiet, except for the humming white noise of the kiln on the other side of the wall. A faint smell of porcelain dust permeates through from the pottery. We go through a door at the end of the block. A little light seeps in through the windows on the north end of the room, through which I can see part of the main greenhouse. The dark blue luminosity reveals easels folded against the back wall, jars filled with brushes and charcoal, trays of half-used tubes of oil and acrylic paints. Different-sized canvases, some blank, some half painted, lean against a cupboard next to rolls of butcher paper. The floor is splattered with the masterpiece of years of spilled and dripping paint.

The airless room smells faintly of turpentine. It feels like no one has been in here for a while, confirmed by a thick layer of dust that lies on the bench. It is almost the artist’s Zion, if it were not situated within the walls of a penitentiary.

‘I had no idea this was here,’ I exclaim.

If I had known of its existence, I would definitely have been more proactive in seeking work in here.

‘That’s what you get for your solitude and Indifferenz. I have suggested to the administration that you should work in the atelier over the winter. I don’t think you will do the asking, so I do it.’

‘Why would you do that for me?’

‘I have seen many criminals in this place over the years. Some have done terrible things without remorse. I would not normally speak like this. We are to be unattached, unemotional, and I don’t know if you killed your husband. Maybe, but I’m sure not on purpose.’ I narrow my eyes at Müller’s grammatical errors. ‘But it is our Ziel, our goal, to integrate all prisoners back into society and some have skills that can be used after you are free. You need to continue to build your skill. And more important, I am somebody who appreciates good art. These things mean that you have a little of my sympathie, Lucie.’

It is the first time any guard has used my first name. We are all referred to as ‘Frau’ and our last names, to avoid the very sociability in which we now find ourselves.

‘Well, I think I should like that. Thank you. To work in the atelier … What is your first name, Frau Müller?’ I think she realises the line she has crossed, and ignores my question.

‘I’m glad you have decided. It is time to eat. We must get back,’ Müller says gruffly as though she has read my mind, and she herds me out of the door and down the stairs.

* * *

Seven years ago

‘My father, Didier, is Swiss, and my mother, Natasha, who we all call Mimi, is Russian by birth,’ explained Matt.

We were tucked into the corner of a rustic restaurant eating fondue. Matt showed me how to stir the cheese vigorously, to avoid separation or burning on the bottom of the caquelon.

‘That makes my English roots sound so mundane in comparison,’ I said. ‘How come you speak such good English? You should be fluent in Russian.’

‘I don’t speak much Russian. The language at home while I was growing up was English. I think Mimi thought there was some sophistication in that – can’t think why.’ He smiled cheekily as I brandished a cheese-laden morsel of bread at him on the end of my fork.

‘If your mum’s Russian, how did she end up here?’

‘Via London actually, hence the association with English, ma belle Anglaise.’

He held up his shot-sized Vaudois wine glass and we clinked, kissed and sipped before stabbing and dipping our next pieces of bread.

‘Mimi’s parents, my grandparents, escaped Petrograd which is now St Petersburg, and fled to England before the February Revolution of 1917. They could see that the Duma was gradually becoming unstable over the years since its formation, and had prepared for a possible uprising.’

‘But the language of the aristocracy in Russia was French for many years, if I’m not mistaken,’ I said.

Matt nodded. ‘Even at the beginning of the twentieth century, French was the language of la noblesse. Mimi was bilingual until she was about 5, and then trilingual, as English became her third language. She and my aunt went to a private school in London for a few years until my grandfather was offered work as an interprète at the newly founded League of Nations, and they moved to Geneva. They lived in a big house on the shores of Lac Léman, near Versoix.’

‘Could an interpreter’s salary at the League of Nations support those costs – an expensive private school in London and a mansion on the lake?’

‘My grandparents managed to, how would you say, smuggle, some accumulated tsarist funds out of pre-Communist Russia, probably in the form of gold and precious stones.’

‘How did your parents meet?’

‘Mimi met my father at an art conference in Genève. He dabbled with art in his youth, worked in acquisitions at a gallery for a few years until he realised his dream of becoming a writer. After they married, he persuaded Mimi to move to this more rural pre-alpine region so he could concentrate on his writing. He published a few books, but none became bestsellers.’

For all the romanticism a carefree seasonal fling with a ski bum conjures, Matt had an equally impressive background born almost of the stuff of Ian Fleming tales. I was happy he was opening up his past to me, but I wondered how Matt’s parents could survive on the earnings of a writer of second-rate commercial fiction without the publication of a successful novel.

The fondue pot was now empty. Matt placed the cap over the burner to put out the flame. I folded my napkin and laid it on my plate.

‘Not finished yet, ma belle.’ Matt smiled, grabbing the caquelon.

He began scraping at the large coin of cheese burned onto the base of the pot with his fork, deftly lifting the golden disc and taking it between his fingers when it had cooled. Tearing it down the middle, he handed half to me. ‘The best part – la religieuse.’

I was doubtful – a piece of burned cheese – but the salty offering tasted like the best crusty bits round the welsh rarebit my mother used to serve me as a child. It silenced my thoughts about heritage and financial means.

* * *

The first time I properly encountered Natasha and Didier Favre, we chose to meet at a busy Italian restaurant in the lower village. I figured the distractions of the animated chefs in the open kitchen and the bustle of the waiters around the customers would reduce the scrutiny I might be subjected to by Matt’s rather exotic parents. I was flattered that for one who was keen to maintain our relationship on a casual level, he had wanted me to meet them.

Matt’s mother, Natasha, was a beautiful, poised woman. She raised her chin and looked down her nose at me as we shook hands. There was to be no traditional Swiss embrace one would expect for the girlfriend of a son, and I was sure she didn’t approve of me. Her supercilious attitude gave the impression that she didn’t appear to approve of anyone, including Matt and his sister Marie-Claire. His sister was barely out of her teens when she married and moved to California with the American husband she had met at the very same college where Matt also studied, and where we both now worked. Exchanging one surreal family situation for another.

‘You never speak of Marie-Claire,’ I said, and Matt shifted in his chair a little awkwardly.

‘MC rarely returns to her alpine roots,’ he said.

‘Mon Dieu, I wish you wouldn’t call her that,’ said Natasha. ‘Such a beautiful name, Marie-Claire, and she reduces it to some sobriquet of a delinquent musician.’

‘Do you have any grandchildren?’ I asked.

Natasha hesitated. ‘Unfortunately not. Marie-Claire is unable to conceive.’

‘But she’s still so young, surely there is time.’

‘No, she will not have children,’ she said firmly, as though it was a family decree.

I raised my napkin to my mouth so she wouldn’t see the shock on my face. Natasha cleared her throat before continuing.

‘They think the world is far too populated and she is concentrating on her career as a designer. She cannot have children, something wrong, down there.’ She waved vaguely at her lower body. ‘She and that American husband of hers have decided not to adopt. I am grateful that Mathieu stayed on the mountain when Marie-Claire left for California. He may eventually provide us with the future generation when he finds the right girl.’

She stopped abruptly. Heat rose to my face. Not because she must be aware our relationship had progressed beyond simple courtship, but with indignation that she thought Matt had not yet met the ‘right girl’. I looked down and sliced into a wild-mushroom raviolo on my plate. This was turning out to be harder than I had thought. The stereotype of a boyfriend’s acerbic mother. I already felt sorry for Marie-Claire’s husband, having to put up with all this family snobbery.

‘When did Matt first become interested in sailing?’ I asked to change the subject, continuing Mimi’s habit of talking about him as though he wasn’t there.

Having used the yacht as his trump card when trying to impress the girls, I wanted to find out whether Matt had been telling the truth in the bar on the night we met.

‘Natasha’s sister, Matt’s Aunt Alesha, moved to London when she finished her schooling in Geneva to study economics at LSE,’ said Didier. ‘Unfortunately she died of cancer a few years ago, but she left Mathieu a handsome sum of money in her will on the one condition that he buy himself a sailing boat, to continue her legacy.’

‘Alexandra …’ Natasha glared pointedly at Didier. She definitely had a thing against the use of diminutives. Ironic that everyone called her Mimi and she didn’t seem to mind. ‘… was one of the first female students of her generation at the school. She married a London financier who was a great yachtsman, and they used to take Mathieu sailing with them on the Solent during the summer months. They had no children of their own, and became very fond of young Mathieu.’

I guessed we were skirting back to the subject of succession.

No matter the tack of our discussions, every conversation returned to Matt during the evening. It was as if he wasn’t actually there, although he appeared to be basking in their passive attention. It was a relief to keep my own history to a minimum. After the initial questions about where I came from, what my parents did, and the awkward quandary about my forsaken studies – taking a gap year out seemed to be the most comfortable explanation, giving Natasha the satisfaction of thinking I might one day leave and return to my academics – they remained entirely incurious as to my feelings or ambitions.

‘You’ve never mentioned your sister before,’ I said as Matt took me home that evening.

‘You never asked.’

‘I thought it would be natural …’

‘I’m sorry, Lucie, I don’t want to talk about her, okay?’

It was hard to believe he had been so open and forthcoming about his family a couple of weeks before in the fondue restaurant. The encounter with his parents left us both feeling uncomfortable.

We kissed briefly outside the door to Anne’s apartment before Matt turned to leave, and I watched his back for a few seconds before letting myself in.

* * *

Matt’s mother Natasha never warmed to me, even after I had been initiated into one of her traditional Russian evenings several weeks later.

It was Didier’s birthday, and the first time I had been invited to the chalet. A heavy tablecloth adorned with richly embroidered silk tassels was flung onto the massive round table in the middle of the dining room. There were eight of us in total, including two other couples, friends of Didier and Natasha. A variety of Russian delicacies covered the table – blinis, rollmops, pirozhki with different vegetable and meat fillings, salty fish and caviar dishes.

‘A stunning spread, Natasha.’

Matt’s mother tipped her head to one side, acknowledging my compliment. I expected ‘Please, call me Mrs Favre’ to slide from her tongue, such was her supercilious look. I could see it was going to take some diplomacy to worm my way into this woman’s icy heart. Although at that stage I already wondered if I’d ever want to. It was possible she thought only a superwoman would be the perfect match for her son.

‘Thank you, my dear. There are some bourgeois Russian traditions we don’t want to see disappear. I usually prepare food like this to celebrate Maslenitsa before Lent, but any special occasion deserves some flair, and Didier’s birthday is a good excuse.’ She smiled at her husband as he appeared from the kitchen, a bottle of Moskovskaya in his hand, vapour flowing off the frosting glass.

‘Prepare your plates, help yourselves to food,’ Natasha urged as Didier carefully poured the viscous vodka into eight pewter shot glasses sitting on a wooden tray. Conversation lulled as everyone watched Didier’s steady hand.

‘I couldn’t help noticing those icons on your wall,’ I said, as Natasha ceremoniously passed the tray around the table to the guests. Her hand shook slightly as I spoke, vodka shivering in the tiny frosted goblets. I looked at her.

‘Those old things. They are merely copies. A sentimental reminder of my parents’ plight. Like the Russian dolls.’ Her eyes indicated a set of cheap yellow painted dolls regimented over the wide lintel of the kitchen door.

My gaze was drawn back to the icons hanging in the corridor leading to the entrance hall, directly in my line of vision.

‘They’re very handsome copies. A great example of Orthodox art. Wonderful to have a few of your cultural roots displayed in the home,’ I said to Matt.

Natasha cleared her throat, taking the last glass of vodka from the tray.

‘Quick, before it warms! Here’s to my wonderful husband, Didier, many happy returns. Vashe zdorovie!’

She threw her head back, emptied her glass. Warm lips seared the cold pewter as the oily vodka slipped down our throats.

‘Eat, eat!’ urged Natasha, and we followed the drink with a mouthful of food to soak up the wickedness of the alcohol.

She claimed we could drink all night like this and never wake up with a hangover, but even in my youthful resilience, I never quite believed her. Once the first bottle of vodka had gone, a second appeared from the freezer, and Natasha brought out a heavy tureen of borscht, tender beef strips in a well-seasoned beetroot and cabbage broth.

Towards the end of the evening, Didier told the story of the first time he set eyes on Natasha at an art exhibition in Geneva. The vodka caused his tongue to sweeten and eyes to moisten. He turned to me and began to talk about the latest book he was writing. Natasha’s eyes flashed at him as he was halfway through describing an adventure in her youth, and his sentence petered out. He changed the subject, passing the tray to collect our glasses for another round, leaving me to ponder what secrets Natasha had in her steely past.

On the way home afterwards, I asked Matt about his mother’s Russian background.

‘Mimi’s got a bit of a thing about the old country. I don’t know why really. She’s more Swiss than most Swiss people. But there’s a pride in her that doesn’t come from the Alps. Something deeper. She has a fiery character. Since the dissolution of communist Russia, they’ve wanted to travel back … But anyway, why the interest in her background?’ Matt asked, a little irritated.

I thought of the icons on the wall, the traditional fare at the table. I shrugged. ‘Curious, I guess. Have you ever been there?’

Matt shook his head. ‘Papa’s only started researching for his latest book recently, but they’re planning to travel there soon.’

‘Sounds like a great plot location for a historic romance.’

‘He says he wants to write about the experiences of Mimi’s family before the revolution. Mimi’s not keen, keeps telling him to let sleeping dogs lie.’ I looked at him curiously. ‘I don’t really know what she means, the revolution happened more than a generation ago. She’s proud, but I think she’s scared of something. She continues to look for links to her roots though. Maybe she feels like she never quite belonged in this Western society.’ Matt stopped, as though he thought he was maligning his mother.

‘I thought she fitted in well here, considering the cosmopolitan nature of Switzerland’s population,’ I said when he didn’t continue.

‘Mm. Maybe. You should hear my sister talk about her.’

I was surprised to hear him offer the opinions of the sister I hadn’t known he had until recently.

‘She calls Mimi such a hypocrite,’ he continued. ‘All this faff and ceremony about maintaining Russian tradition. MC always hated these Russian parties. Thought they were so fake, when Mimi never actually lived there, and my grandparents escaped when they were barely adults. They became more devoted Londoners than most Cockneys. I don’t know where she’d be more happy – she can’t seem to sink her roots deep enough here. But it’s important the family try and stay together. Not that MC would ever come back here. It was a bit of a blow to Mimi when she left, despite our … despite their differences. But Mimi’s happy I stayed around after college. I think she likes having me close.’

‘Marie-Claire doesn’t get on with the family?’ I asked cautiously, remembering his reluctance to speak about her the last time.

‘No … I … no not really. She’s a bit of a nonconformist. She’s … unusual. Pissed off with the world. Isn’t willing to believe that fate can sometimes deliver some tough times with the good.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘Not really,’ Matt said hesitantly. ‘We didn’t get on. Anyway, she’s made a life for herself in California now. Ron’s a good bloke. Bit too American for my liking, but I think he looks after her.’

‘Do you really think they’ll never have kids?’

‘No, of course not! I mean, no. MC’s not really the family type. How come you’re so fascinated with my sister? Let’s drop her, okay?’

‘Don’t get short with me, Matt. I’m just curious. If I had a sister or a brother, I’d probably want to hang out with them all the time. I guess it’s because I don’t have one that the whole dynamic of having a sibling fascinates me. Surely it’s natural to want to know about you and your family.’

I had obviously hit a chord with Marie-Claire. We weren’t in a sober state for in-depth family discussions. I was trying to find reasons to like Matt’s mother, but despite her fascinating background, it wasn’t happening. I wondered how MC felt about her.

We arrived at Anne’s place. I fiddled with my key in the dark, swaying a little from too much vodka. Tonight I actually looked forward to Anne’s pull-out sofa bed, I was that tired, and was unable to analyse Matt’s irritability. I figured he’d come right in the morning. We kissed and he held me tight, as though delivering a silent apology for his reaction.

* * *

‘Why do you not draw your son?’ asks Yasmine between mouthfuls of her food. ‘She made a lot of great pictures,’ she says to the others at the table, pointing a fork speared with a morsel of grey meat in my direction.

My eyes flash. I don’t like talking about my art, but mostly I don’t like being the centre of attention.

‘I don’t know. I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what he really looks like,’ I reply. ‘I need to see him to be able to draw the essence of him. It’s harder than you think to draw my own son.’

I keep my voice neutral. Though I think it would break me to try and draw him, unable to wrest the detailed memories from my mind. The curve of his rosy cheek or the sweep of his fine hair. Those grey eyes that only started to turn green when I had to say goodbye, their colour enhanced by his tears.

‘She has drawn me, you know. She’s a real artist,’ Yasmine says to Fatima who nods with eyebrows raised and mouth turned down at the corners.

She’s vaguely impressed, or disinterested in my skills, I’m not sure which. A minuscule piece of bread crust sticks to Fatima’s lip, then falls onto Adnan’s head. She blows the crumbs from his crown as he sleeps. His fine fluffy hair puffs like gossamer. My throat tightens.

‘Perhaps you could start a business. Lulu’s Portraits,’ Yasmine continues, thinking out loud. ‘Yes, we could make a bit of money. Earn a few sous.’

‘We?’ I ask, amused. Lulu?

‘Yes, I will be your agent,’ she replies, presenting herself, flamenco fashion with a wave of her arm from head to chest, fingers splayed. ‘Of course you will give me a cut if I am to do your marketing and publicité.’

‘Caramba, Yasmine! You are to be my agent, remember? We have a business in cigarillos to organise,’ says Dolores huskily, eyes flashing.

I have no desire to fight over Yasmine’s attention, though I can see where this is going. Yasmine, with that look on her face that says she is the centre of our universe, demanding deference.

‘I am not going to sell my paintings, okay?’ I say, not wanting to darken any moods, but knowing that things like this can escalate alarmingly quickly into dissension in this place. Tiny issues can turn rapidly into thermo-nuclear reactions.