The Flanders Panel

“He’s not the only one,” he said. “Works of art containing games and hidden clues used to be commonplace. Take Bach, for example. The ten canons that make up his Musical Offering are the most perfect thing he composed, and yet not one of them was written out in full, from start to finish. He did that deliberately, as if the piece were a series of riddles he was setting Frederick of Prussia. It was a common musical stratagem of the day. It consisted in writing a theme, accompanied by more or less enigmatic instructions, and leaving the canon based on that theme to be discovered by another musician or interpreter; or by another player, since it was in fact a game.”

“How interesting!” said Menchu.

“You don’t know just how interesting. Like many artists, Bach was a joker. He was always coming up with devices to fool the audience. He used tricks employing notes and letters, ingenious variations, bizarre fugues. For example, into one of his compositions for six voices, he slyly slipped his own name, shared between two of the highest voices. And such things didn’t happen only in music. Lewis Carroll, who was a mathematician and a keen chess player as well as a writer, used to introduce acrostics into his poems. There are some very clever ways of hiding things in music, in poems and in paintings.”

“Absolutely,” said Julia. “Symbols and hidden clues often appear in art. Even in modern art. The problem is that we don’t always have the right keys to decipher those messages, especially the more ancient ones.” Now it was her turn to stare pensively at the space on the wall. “But with The Game of Chess we at least have something to go on. We can make an attempt at a solution.”

Belmonte leaned back in his wheelchair, his mocking eyes fixed on Julia.

“Well, keep me informed,” he said. “I can assure you that nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

They were saying good-bye in the hallway when the niece and her husband arrived. Lola was a scrawny woman, well over thirty, with reddish hair and small rapacious eyes. Her right arm, encased in the sleeve of her fur coat, was firmly gripping her husband’s left arm. He was dark and slim, slightly younger, his premature baldness mitigated by a deep tan. Even without the old man’s remark about him, Julia would have guessed that he had won a place in the ranks of those who prefer to do as little as possible to earn their living. His features, to which the slight puffiness under his eyes lent an air of dissipation, wore a sullen, rather cynical look, which his large, almost vulpine mouth did nothing to belie. He was wearing a gold-buttoned blue blazer and no tie, and he had the unmistakable look of someone who divides his considerable leisure time between drinking aperitifs in expensive bars and frequenting fashionable nightclubs, although he was clearly no stranger either to roulette and card games.

“My niece, Lola, and her husband, Alfonso,” said Belmonte, and they exchanged greetings, unenthusiastically on the part of the niece, but with evident interest on the part of Alfonso, who held on to Julia’s hand rather longer than necessary, looking her up and down with an expert eye. Then he turned to Menchu, whom he greeted by name, as if they were old acquaintances.

“They’ve come about the painting,” Belmonte explained.

Alfonso clicked his tongue.

“Of course, the painting. Your famous painting.”

Belmonte brought them up to date on the new situation. Alfonso stood with his hands in his pockets, smiling and looking at Julia.

“If it means the value of the painting will go up,” he said, “it strikes me as excellent news. You can come back whenever you like if you’re going to bring us surprises like that. We love surprises.”

The niece didn’t immediately share her husband’s satisfaction.

“We’ll have to discuss it,” she said. “What guarantee is there that they won’t just ruin the painting?”

“That would be unforgivable,” chimed in Alfonso. “But I can’t imagine that this young lady would be capable of doing such a thing.”

Lola gave her husband an impatient look.

“You keep out of this. This is my business.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, darling.” Alfonso’s smile grew broader. “We share everything.”

“I’ve told you: keep out of it.”

Alfonso turned slowly towards her. His features grew harder and more obviously foxlike, and his smile seemed like the blade of a knife.

Julia thought that he was not perhaps as inoffensive as he at first sight seemed. It would be unwise to have any unsettled business with a man capable of a smile like that.

“Don’t be ridiculous… darling.”

That “darling” was anything but tender, and Lola seemed more aware of that than anyone. They watched her struggle to conceal her humiliation and her rancour. Menchu took a step forward, determined to enter the fray.

“We’ve already talked to Don Manuel about it,” she announced. “And he’s agreed.”