The Flanders Panel

Julia had met Sergio and, as always with Cesar’s friends, she sensed the confusion he felt in her presence, unable quite to grasp the real nature of the ties that bound the antiquarian and that calmly beautiful young woman. She could tell at a glance that the relationship was not serious, at least not that night and not on Sergio’s part. The young man, sensitive and intelligent, wasn’t jealous. They’d met on other occasions. Julia’s presence merely intimidated him.

“Montegrifo wanted to make me an offer.”

“How kind of him.” Cesar seemed to be considering the matter seriously as they all sat down. “But allow me, like old Cicero, to ask: Cui bono? For whose benefit?”

“His, I suppose. In fact, he wanted to bribe me.”

“Good for Montegrifo. And did you let yourself be bribed?” He touched Julia’s mouth with the tips of his fingers. “No, don’t tell me yet, my dear; allow me to savour that marvellous uncertainty just a little longer… I hope his offer was at least reasonable.”

“It wasn’t bad. He seemed to be including himself in it too.”

Cesar licked his lips with expectant glee.

“That’s just like him, wanting to kill two birds with one stone. He always was very practical.” Cesar half-turned towards his blond companion, as if warning him not to listen to such worldly improprieties. Then he looked back at Julia with mischievous expectation, almost trembling with anticipatory pleasure. “And what did you say?”

“That I would think about it.”

“Perfect. Never burn your boats. Do you hear that, Sergio, my dear? Never.”

The young man gave Julia a sideways glance and took a long sip of his champagne cocktail. Quite innocently, Julia imagined him naked, in the half-light of Cesar’s bedroom, beautiful and silent as a marble statue, his blond hair fallen over his face, with what Cesar termed, using a euphemism Julia believed he’d stolen from Cocteau, the golden sceptre, erect and ready to be tempered in the antrum amoris of his mature companion, or perhaps it would be the other way round, the mature man busy with the young man’s antrum. Julia had never taken her friendship with Cesar so far as to ask him for a detailed description of such matters, about which, nevertheless, she occasionally felt a slightly morbid curiosity. She looked quickly at Cesar. He was immaculate and elegant in his dark suit, white linen shirt and blue silk cravat with the red polka dots, the hair behind his ears and at the back of his neck slightly waved, and Julia asked herself again what the special charm of the man was, a man capable, even at fifty, of seducing young men like Sergio. It must be the ironic gleam in his blue eyes, the elegance distilled through generations of fine breeding and the easy assumption of world-weary wisdom, tolerant and infinite, to which he never gave complete expression – he rarely took himself entirely seriously – but which was nonetheless there in every word he uttered.

“You must see his latest painting,” Cesar was saying, and it took Julia a moment to realise he meant Sergio. “It’s really remarkable, my dear.” His hand hovered over the young man’s arm, almost but not quite touching it. “Light in its purest state, spilling out over the canvas. Absolutely beautiful.”

Julia smiled, accepting Cesar’s opinion as a cast-iron guarantee. Sergio, simultaneously touched and embarrassed, half-closed his blond-lashed eyes, like a cat receiving a caress.

“Of course,” Cesar went on, “talent isn’t enough in itself to make one’s way in the world. You do understand that, don’t you, young man? All the great art forms require a certain knowledge of the world, a deep experience of human relations. It’s quite another matter with abstract activities, in which talent is of the essence and experience merely a complement. By that I mean music, mathematics… chess.”

“Chess,” said Julia. They looked at each other, and Sergio’s eyes flicked anxiously from one to the other.

“Yes, chess.” Cesar leaned over to take a long drink from his glass. His pupils had shrunk, absorbed in the mystery they were contemplating. “Have you noticed how Munoz looks at The Game of Chess?”

“Yes. He looks at it differently somehow.”

“Exactly. Differently from the way you, or indeed I, could look at it. Munoz sees things in the painting that other people don’t.”

Sergio, who was listening, frowned and deliberately brushed against Cesar’s shoulder; he appeared to be feeling left out. Cesar looked at him benevolently.

“We’re discussing things that are much too sinister for your ears, my dear.” He slid his index finger across Julia’s knuckles, lifted his hand slightly, as if hesitating over a choice between two desires, and placed that hand between Julia’s, but directed his words to the young man-“Guard your innocence, my friend. Develop your talent and don’t complicate your life.”

He blew Sergio a kiss just as Menchu, all mink coat and legs, made her entrance with Max and demanded news of Montegrifo.