Tales of the Unexpected Read online

  ‘It is unmistakable!’

  ‘His early manner, yes?’

  ‘It is fantastic, fantastic!’

  ‘And look, it is signed!’

  ‘Bend your shoulders forward, my friend, so that the picture stretches out flat.’

  ‘Old one, when was this done?’

  ‘In 1913,’ Drioli said, without turning around. ‘In the autumn of 1913.’

  ‘Who taught Soutine to tattoo?’

  ‘I taught him.’

  ‘And the woman?’

  ‘She was my wife.’

  The gallery owner was pushing through the crowd towards Drioli. He was calm now, deadly serious, making a smile with his mouth. ‘Monsieur,’ he said, ‘I will buy it.’ Drioli could seethe loose fat upon the face vibrating as he moved his jaw. ‘I said I will buy it, Monsieur.’

  ‘How can you buy it?’ Drioli asked softly.

  ‘I will give you two hundred thousand francs for it.’ The dealer’s eyes were small and dark, the wings of his broad nose-base were beginning to quiver.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ someone murmured in the crowd. ‘It is worth twenty times as much.’

  Drioli opened his mouth to speak. No words came, so he shut it; then he opened it again and said slowly, ‘But how can I sell it?’ He lifted his hands, let them drop loosely to his sides. ‘Monsieur, how can I possibly sell it?’ All the sadness in the world was in his voice.

  ‘Yes!’ they were saying in the crowd. ‘How can he sell it? It is part of himself!’

  ‘Listen,’ the dealer said, coming up close. ‘I will help you. I will make you rich. Together we shall make some private arrangement over this picture, no?’

  Drioli watched him with slow, apprehensive eyes. ‘But how can you buy it, Monsieur? What will you do with it when you have bought it? Where will you keep it? Where will you keep it tonight? And where tomorrow?’

  ‘Ah, where will I keep it? Yes, where will I keep it? Now, where will I keep it? Well, now…’ The dealer stroked the bridge of his nose with a fat white finger. ‘It would seem,’ he said, ‘that if I take the picture, I take you also. That is a disadvantage.’ He paused and stroked his nose again. ‘The picture itself is of no value until you are dead. How old are you, my friend?’

  ‘Sixty-one.’

  ‘But you are perhaps not very robust, no?’ The dealer lowered the hand from his nose and looked Drioli up and down, slowly, like a farmer appraising an old horse.

  ‘I do not like this,’ Drioli said, edging away. ‘Quite honestly, Monsieur, I do not like it.’ He edged straight into the arms of a tall man who put out his hands and caught him gently by the shoulders. Drioli glanced around and apologized. The man smiled down at him, patting one of the old fellow’s naked shoulders reassuringly with a hand encased in a canary-coloured glove.

  ‘Listen, my friend,’ the stranger said, still smiling. ‘Do you like to swim and to bask yourself in the sun?’

  Drioli looked up at him, rather startled.

  ‘Do you like fine food and red wine from the great châteaux of Bordeaux?’ The man was still smiling, showing strong white teeth with a flash of gold among them. He spoke in a soft coaxing manner, one gloved hand still resting on Drioli’s shoulder. ‘Do you like such things?’

  ‘Well – yes,’ Drioli answered, still greatly perplexed. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And the company of beautiful women?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘And a cupboard full of suits and shirts made to your own personal measurements? It would seem that you are a little lacking for clothes.’

  Drioli watched this suave man, waiting for the rest of the proposition.

  ‘Have you ever had a shoe constructed especially for your own foot?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You would like that?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘And a man who will shave you in the mornings and trim your hair?’

  Drioli simply stood and gaped.

  ‘And a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of your fingers?’

  Someone in the crowd giggled.

  ‘And a bell beside your bed to summon a maid to bring your breakfast in the morning? Would you like these things, my friend? Do they appeal to you?’

  Drioli stood still and looked at him.

  ‘You see, I am the owner of the Hotel Bristol in Cannes. I now invite you to come down there and live as my guest for the rest of your life in luxury and comfort.’ The man paused, allowing his listener time to savour this cheerful prospect.

  ‘Your only duty – shall I call it your pleasure – will be to spend your time on my beach in bathing trunks, walking among my guests, sunning yourself, swimming, drinking cocktails. You would like that?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Don’t you see – all the guests will thus be able to observe this fascinating picture by Soutine. You will become famous, and men will say, “Look, there is the fellow with ten million francs upon his back.” You like this idea, Monsieur? It pleases you?’

  Drioli looked up at the tall man in the canary gloves, still wondering whether this was some sort of a joke. ‘It is a comical idea,’ he said slowly. ‘But do you really mean it?’

  ‘Of course I mean it.’

  ‘Wait,’ the dealer interrupted. ‘See here, old one. Here is the answer to our problem. I will buy the picture, and I will arrange with a surgeon to remove the skin from your back, and then you will be able to go off on your own and enjoy the great sum of money I shall give you for it.’

  ‘With no skin on my back?’

  ‘No, no, please! You misunderstand. This surgeon will put a new piece of skin in the place of the old one. It is simple.’

  ‘Could he do that?’

  ‘There is nothing to it.’

  ‘Impossible!’ said the man with the canary gloves. ‘He’s too old for such a major skin-grafting operation. It would kill him. It would kill you, my friend.’

  ‘It would kill me?’

  ‘Naturally. You would never survive. Only the picture would come through.’

  ‘In the name of God!’ Drioli cried. He looked around aghast at the faces of the people watching him, and in the silence that followed, another man’s voice, speaking quietly from the back of the group, could be heard saying, ‘Perhaps, if one were to offer this old man enough money, he might consent to kill himself on the spot. Who knows?’ A few people sniggered. The dealer moved his feet uneasily on the carpet.

  Then the hand in the canary glove was tapping Drioli again upon the shoulder. ‘Come on,’ the man was saying, smiling his broad white smile. ‘You and I will go and have a good dinner and we can talk about it some more while we eat. How’s that? Are you hungry?’

  Drioli watched him, frowning. He didn’t like the man’s long flexible neck, or the way he craned it forward at you when he spoke, like a snake.

  ‘Roast duck and Chambertin,’ the man was saying. He put a rich succulent accent on the words, splashing them out with his tongue. ‘And perhaps a soufflé aux marrons, light and frothy.’

  Drioli’s eyes turned up towards the ceiling, his lips became loose and wet. One could see the poor old fellow beginning literally to drool at the mouth.

  ‘How do you like your duck?’ the man went on. ‘Do you like it very brown and crisp outside, or shall it be…’

  ‘I am coming,’ Drioli said quickly. Already he had picked up his shirt and was pulling it frantically over his head. ‘Wait for me, Monsieur. I am coming.’ And within a minute he had disappeared out of the gallery with his new patron.

  It wasn’t more than a few weeks later that a picture by Soutine, of a woman’s head, painted in an unusual manner, nicely framed and heavily varnished, turned up for sale in Buenos Aires. That – and the fact that there is no hotel in Cannes called Bristol – causes one to wonder a little, and to pray for the old man’s health, and to hope fervently that wherever he may be at this moment, there is a plump attractive girl to manicure the nails of his fingers, and a ma