Read Online The Flanders Panel by Arturo Pérez-Reverte - Free Book Online
Authors: Arturo Pérez-Reverte
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gesture of those who only learn at the expense of their own illusions.
“There was no alternative. Even friends and my wife’s family turned their backs on us after the war, when I was sacked as conductor of the Madrid orchestra. At that time, if you weren’t for them, you were against them. And I certainly wasn’t for them.”
He paused for a moment and his attention seemed to drift back to the music playing in one corner of the room, amongst the piles of old records that were presided over by engravings, in matching frames, of the heads of Schubert, Verdi, Beethoven and Mozart. A moment later, he was looking once again at Julia and Menchu with a blink of surprise, as if he were returning from somewhere far off and had not expected to find them still there.
“Then I had a stroke, and things got even more complicated. Luckily we still had my wife’s inheritance, which no one could take away from her. And we managed to keep this house, a few pieces of furniture and two or three good paintings, amongst them
The Game of Chess.”
He looked sadly at the space on the wall, at the bare nail, the rectangular mark left on the wallpaper, and he stroked his chin, on which a few white hairs had escaped his razor. “That painting was always my favourite.”
“Who did you inherit the painting from?”
“From another branch of the family, the Moncadas. A great-uncle. Moncada was Ana’s second family name. One of her ancestors, Luis Moncada, was a quartermaster general under Alejandro Farnesio, around 1500 or so… He must have been something of an art enthusiast.”
Julia consulted the documentation that was lying on the table.
“ ‘Acquired in 1585’, it says here, ”possibly in Antwerp, at the time of the surrender of Flanders and Brabant…‘ “
The old man nodded, almost as if he’d been witness to the event himself.
“Yes, that’s right. It may have been part of the spoils of war from the sacking of the city. The troops of the regiment my wife’s ancestor was in charge of were not the kind of people to knock at the door and sign a receipt.”
Julia was leafing through the documents.
“There are no references to the painting before that,” she remarked. “Do you remember any family stories about it, any oral tradition? Any information you have would help us.”
Belmonte shook his head.
“No, I don’t know of anything else. My wife’s family always referred to the painting as the
Flanders
or
Farnesio Panel,
doubtless so as not to remember the manner of its acquisition. It appeared under those names for the twenty-odd years it was on loan to the Prado, until my wife’s father recovered it in 1923, thanks to Primo de Rivera, who was a friend of the family. My father-in-law always held the Van Huys in great esteem, because he was a keen chess player. That’s why, when it passed into his daughter’s hands, she didn’t want to sell it.”
“And now?” asked Menchu.
The old man remained silent for a while, staring into his coffee cup as if he hadn’t heard the question.
“Now, things are different,” he said at last. He seemed almost to be making fun of himself. “I’m a real old crock now; that much is obvious.” And he slapped his half-useless legs. “My niece Lola and her husband take care of me, and I should repay them in some way, don’t you think?”
Menchu mumbled an apology. She hadn’t meant to be indiscreet. That was a matter for the family, naturally.
“There’s no reason to apologise,” said Belmonte, raising his hand, as if offering absolution. “It’s perfectly natural. That picture is worth a lot of money and it serves no real purpose just hanging in the house. My niece and her husband say that they could do with some help. Lola has her father’s pension, but her husband, Alfonso…” He looked at Menchu as if appealing for her understanding. “Well, you know what he’s like: he’s never worked in his life. As for me…” The sardonic smile returned to his
“There was no alternative. Even friends and my wife’s family turned their backs on us after the war, when I was sacked as conductor of the Madrid orchestra. At that time, if you weren’t for them, you were against them. And I certainly wasn’t for them.”
He paused for a moment and his attention seemed to drift back to the music playing in one corner of the room, amongst the piles of old records that were presided over by engravings, in matching frames, of the heads of Schubert, Verdi, Beethoven and Mozart. A moment later, he was looking once again at Julia and Menchu with a blink of surprise, as if he were returning from somewhere far off and had not expected to find them still there.
“Then I had a stroke, and things got even more complicated. Luckily we still had my wife’s inheritance, which no one could take away from her. And we managed to keep this house, a few pieces of furniture and two or three good paintings, amongst them
The Game of Chess.”
He looked sadly at the space on the wall, at the bare nail, the rectangular mark left on the wallpaper, and he stroked his chin, on which a few white hairs had escaped his razor. “That painting was always my favourite.”
“Who did you inherit the painting from?”
“From another branch of the family, the Moncadas. A great-uncle. Moncada was Ana’s second family name. One of her ancestors, Luis Moncada, was a quartermaster general under Alejandro Farnesio, around 1500 or so… He must have been something of an art enthusiast.”
Julia consulted the documentation that was lying on the table.
“ ‘Acquired in 1585’, it says here, ”possibly in Antwerp, at the time of the surrender of Flanders and Brabant…‘ “
The old man nodded, almost as if he’d been witness to the event himself.
“Yes, that’s right. It may have been part of the spoils of war from the sacking of the city. The troops of the regiment my wife’s ancestor was in charge of were not the kind of people to knock at the door and sign a receipt.”
Julia was leafing through the documents.
“There are no references to the painting before that,” she remarked. “Do you remember any family stories about it, any oral tradition? Any information you have would help us.”
Belmonte shook his head.
“No, I don’t know of anything else. My wife’s family always referred to the painting as the
Flanders
or
Farnesio Panel,
doubtless so as not to remember the manner of its acquisition. It appeared under those names for the twenty-odd years it was on loan to the Prado, until my wife’s father recovered it in 1923, thanks to Primo de Rivera, who was a friend of the family. My father-in-law always held the Van Huys in great esteem, because he was a keen chess player. That’s why, when it passed into his daughter’s hands, she didn’t want to sell it.”
“And now?” asked Menchu.
The old man remained silent for a while, staring into his coffee cup as if he hadn’t heard the question.
“Now, things are different,” he said at last. He seemed almost to be making fun of himself. “I’m a real old crock now; that much is obvious.” And he slapped his half-useless legs. “My niece Lola and her husband take care of me, and I should repay them in some way, don’t you think?”
Menchu mumbled an apology. She hadn’t meant to be indiscreet. That was a matter for the family, naturally.
“There’s no reason to apologise,” said Belmonte, raising his hand, as if offering absolution. “It’s perfectly natural. That picture is worth a lot of money and it serves no real purpose just hanging in the house. My niece and her husband say that they could do with some help. Lola has her father’s pension, but her husband, Alfonso…” He looked at Menchu as if appealing for her understanding. “Well, you know what he’s like: he’s never worked in his life. As for me…” The sardonic smile returned to his
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