Madonna and Corpse

Chapter 3 Descartes

“Thank God I stuck my chewing gum on the back of the copy.” Descartes’s proud announcement was not greeted with the outpouring of gratitude he’d expected.

The inspector, Mme. Clergue, and her chief conservator, Henri Devereaux — the museum functionary who’d been fluttering on the edge of Descartes’s vision since one A.M. — were huddled blearily in the museum’s workshop. They’d spent hours poring over the two paintings. They’d used their naked eyes, they’d used magnifying glasses, they’d even used ultraviolet light to search for the telltale fluorescence of modern pigments. They’d found innumerable minor differences — after all, each work was painted by hand — but absolutely nothing to indicate which painting was created in 1467 and which in 2012.

For a painting that was more than five hundred years old, the Botticelli — whichever the hell the Botticelli was — looked damned good, Descartes thought. The inspector had been raised Catholic, so he’d seen enough Madonna-and-child paintings to last him an eternity. This one, though, was different. For one thing, it wasn’t dark or gloomy; beneath a bright blue shawl, Mary wore a reddish-orange dress; the arched window opening that framed the mother and child was also a cheery blue. The Virgin — the mother — looked to be all of fifteen years old, Descartes thought; seventeen, tops. Her face was pale, with delicate, pretty features, large eyes, and a high, intelligent forehead. On her head she wore a sheer lace cap that allowed glimpses of golden hair; above the cap was a disk of gold filigree, so gossamer-fine as to be nearly invisible. Her neck was long, slender, and gracefully arched as she gazed down at the robust boy sprawled across her lap. Her right hand cradled his head; her left hand covered her right breast, and barely visible between the index and middle fingers was a nipple, all but concealed by the design of the dress and the modesty of the mother. Descartes had no children — he no longer even had a wife, not since that bitch Yvonne had dumped him for some German tourist she met in a bar — but somehow this painting evoked in him feelings of paternal protectiveness and tenderness he wished he could attach to a family.

After removing the paintings from the gallery wall, Descartes had kept the director twisting in the wind for hours, refusing to tell her about the telltale wad of chewing gum he stuck behind one corner of the copy’s frame — not until he’d pried the truth, or at least some of it, grudgingly out of her. Three years before, the museum had hired a restoration expert, Jacques Dubois, to clean and restore the Botticelli, she’d finally told the inspector. “People think that paintings get dark over time,” she said. “You’ve probably seen pictures like that — dingy old Rembrandts and Van Dycks that are almost black with age?” He’d nodded, though he couldn’t quite recall if that was actually true. “But it’s not the paint that’s darkened, it’s just the varnish. Strip that off, and a five-hundred-year-old painting is as bright as the day it dried on the easel.” The Botticelli’s varnish had dimmed the painting’s vibrancy, so they’d hired Dubois — one of the best restorers in France, living right here in Avignon — to strip off the old varnish and put on a fresh coat.

“Why didn’t you want to tell me this? And why did the appearance of the copy upset you so much?”

She’d looked down at her desk, unable to meet his gaze. “Against my better judgment, I allowed Dubois to do the restoration at his studio. With lesser works, we don’t worry so much, but the Botticelli was a treasure. I was afraid it might be stolen. But Dubois was adamant. He insisted that the restoration wouldn’t be as good if he had to work in our ‘soul-sucking, fluorescent-lit circle of hell’—that’s how he described the museum’s conservation shop. I also knew there was bad blood between him and Monsieur Devereaux. So I agreed to let him take the painting. When I saw the copy, I felt… it seemed a betrayal of our trust. And the mocking way he hung the copy. It was a slap in the museum’s face.”

Descartes had felt sure there was more to the story than she was telling, but it was clear she was prepared to stonewall. He decided not to press the point — for now. But he would get to the bottom of it sooner or later. Was it possible that she and Dubois were in cahoots — colluding in some sort of scam — and that he was setting her up to take the fall? Descartes had good instincts — a good nose, he called it — and beneath the scent of the old lady’s baby powder or face cream or whatever the hell it was, the detective caught a strong whiff of fear.