The Flanders Panel

Paco Montegrifo was the sort of man who decides, as soon as he’s old enough to make such decisions, that black socks are strictly for chauffeurs and waiters and opts instead for socks of only the darkest navy blue. He was dressed in a made-to-measure suit of dark and impeccable grey, a suit that could have walked straight off the pages of a high-fashion magazine for men. This perfect appearance was topped off by a shirt with a Windsor collar, a silk tie and, peeping discreetly out of his top pocket, a handkerchief. He got up from an armchair in the foyer to greet Julia.

“My word,” he said as he shook her hand, his white teeth gleaming in agreeable contrast to his tanned skin, “you look absolutely gorgeous.”

That introduction set the tone for the first part of the meal. And he’d expressed his unqualified admiration for the close-fitting black velvet dress Julia was wearing even before they’d sat down at the table reserved for them by the window with a panoramic night-time view of the Palacio Real. From then on, he deployed a repertoire of looks – which managed to be intense but never impertinent – and seductive smiles. After the aperitifs, and while the waiter was preparing the hors d’oeuvres, he began plying Julia with questions that prompted intelligent replies to which he listened with his chin resting on his clasped fingers, his lips slightly parted, and a gratifyingly absorbed expression, which at the same time permitted little gleams of light from the candle flames to sparkle on his perfect teeth.

The only reference he made to the Van Huys before dessert was his careful choice of a white Burgundy to accompany the fish. To art, he said, with a vague look of complicity, and that gave him the opportunity to launch into a brief discourse on French wines.

“Oddly enough,” he explained, while waiters were still bustling round the table, “it seems to be something that changes as you get older. You start off as a staunch supporter of white or red Burgundy: the best companion until you’re into your thirties. But then, though without renouncing Burgundy completely, it’s time to move on to Bordeaux: a wine for adults, serious and even-tempered. Only in your forties can you bring yourself to pay out a fortune for a crate of Petrus or Chateau d’Yquem.”

He tasted the wine, signalling his approval with a lift of his eyebrows, and Julia sat back and enjoyed the show, quite happy to play along with him. She even liked the supper and the banal conversation, concluding that, in different circumstances, Montegrifo would have been agreeable company, with his low voice, his tanned hands and the discreet smell of eau de cologne, fine leather and good tobacco that wafted about him, and despite his habit of stroking his right eyebrow with his index finger and snatching sly glances at his reflection in the window.

They continued to talk about everything but the painting. When she’d finished her slice of salmon a la Royale, he was still busy, using only a silver fork, with his sea bass Sabatini. A real gentleman, he explained, with a smile that emphasised that the remark was not to be taken totally seriously, would never use a fish knife.

“But how do you remove the bones?” Julia asked.

The auctioneer held her gaze unflinchingly.

“I never go to restaurants where they serve fish with bones.”

After dessert, and before coffee, which, like her, he ordered black and very strong, Montegrifo took out a silver cigarette case and carefully selected an English cigarette. Then he leaned towards her.

“I’d like you to come and work for me,” he said in a low voice, as if afraid that someone in the Palacio Real might overhear.

Julia, who was raising one of her own untipped cigarettes to her lips, looked into his brown eyes as he held out his lighter to her.

“Why?” she asked, with apparent disinterest, as if he were talking about someone else.

“For several reasons.” Montegrifo had placed the gold lighter on top of the cigarette case, aligning them carefully dead centre. “The main reason is because I’ve heard nothing but good things about you.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.”

“I’m being serious. As you can imagine, I’ve asked around. I know the work you’ve done for the Prado and for private galleries. Do yon still work at the museum?”

“Yes, three days a week. I’m working on a recent acquisition at the moment, a Duccio di Buoninsegna.”

“I’ve heard about the painting. A difficult job. I know they always give you the important commissions.”

“Sometimes they do.”

“Even at Claymore’s we’ve had the honour of auctioning a couple of works that you’ve restored. That Madrazo in the Ochoa collection, for example. Your work on that meant we could up the auction price by a third. And there was another one, last spring. Concierto by Lopez dc Ayala, wasn’t it?”

“It was Woman Playing the Piano by Rogelio Egusquiza.”