“Forget the tragic romantic,” Huppert said. “Modi produced an incredible body of work. We know so much got lost—drugging and drinking to anesthetize the pain from rampant TB. He was so anxious to hide it, he’d drink even more.”
Where did this lead? “You mean Pauline knew of the painting?”
Huppert expelled air from his lips. Shrugged. “Apparently Modi complained to her about Lenin. Called him a fanatic who covered up his own doubts to convince himself.”
“Doubts over what?”
“Fanatics must prove something to themselves and others,” Huppert said. “He challenged Lenin at la Rotonde one night, burned Lenin’s newspaper—that we know from documents.”
“Some kind of duel?”
“Pauline heard him say, ‘I will show the real you. I only paint truth.’ And he did, she said. Lenin hated the portrait.”
Again, Huppert studied the Polaroid. “He’s holding what could be a booklet. At the time, an infamous manifesto against Marx’s ideology circulated among the Bolsheviks. It refuted everything Lenin stood for. Who’s to say he’s not holding it here? Or agreed with parts of it, suffered doubts, ideological turmoil? That would have created a scandal. Maybe he recovered his zeal or had to later take power. Lead the Revolution. But here Modi slammed it in his face.”
“What difference does it make today?” Aimée said. “The USSR doesn’t even exist anymore.”
Huppert checked his watch. As if he needed to leave but couldn’t tear himself away from this Polaroid.
“Communists in Russia venerate Lenin, keep his reputation unsullied—the government pays lip service to Marxism. No poster boys left after Stalin,” he said. “What’s embalmed in the Red Square mausoleum isn’t just waxed fruit to the older generation, or to the government who want to keep the ideology alive. The French Communists and trade unions take pride in the fact that Lenin lived and formulated his theories here. The cradle of the Revolution.”
This put a new spin on things. Still, she wasn’t sure how it could matter now.
“You’re saying Modigliani’s painting of Lenin could have had political implications?” Dombasle asked, stepping closer. “Rippling through the Kremlin, debunking the Lenin myth, tossing the textbooks or something?”
Huppert shrugged. “In 1910, Lenin was one among many exiles, no one special, banished to the edges of Paris, living on scraps among a small Russian community. Back then, Trotsky had more followers.”
“So you’re saying …?”
“Lenin hated Trotsky. Thought he’d clawed his way to prominence, used whatever means he had to recruit followers.”
Aimée still didn’t buy it. “Who cares now?”
“What if this painting’s implications threaten an ideology?” Huppert insisted. “Think who stands to lose if Lenin’s unmasked. That’s sacrilege. Of course, that’s the infamous diatribe against Marx. But to know, I need to see the painting.”
“You mean Modigliani sabotaged Lenin?”
“Modigliani painted the truth he saw in people. He never compromised. Wealthy patrons came out ugly and fat. To him, Lenin was a pedantic Russian nursing one drink all night. Just one man among many exiles.”
Dombasle’s phone trilled. He turned away to answer it. Now or never. Aimée forced herself to speak.
“Do you know the fixer?”
Huppert’s brows rose. “She’s involved?”
Her mouth went dry. “It’s not clear,” she managed. “But do you know her?”
“Very connected and out of my league,” he said. “That’s all I know. Ask Dombasle.”
Maiwen, his daughter, appeared at his side. “Did you watch me, Papa?”
“Bien s?r, ma puce,” he said, now the adoring father.
Maiwen skipped ahead and Huppert hesitated. “The art world’s a deep sea: currents, whirlpools, sucking tides. Amateurs navigate at their peril.”
Like she didn’t know that?
“In over my head, I know. Not my choice,” Aimée said, “but you’re salivating even contemplating this.”
His shoulders stiffened.
She’d hit home.
“You think it’s real, n’est-ce pas?”
“Branches grow the way the tree leans,” Huppert said. “Even in this bad Polaroid, such recognizable brushstrokes, the bold colors … it is prototypical of work from the period when he shared the studio with Soutine, in 1910. Yet this painting is so … so personal, unique, unlike anything else.” Huppert stared at her.
“Papa, we’re late,” called Maiwen from the entrance.
“When you find the Modigliani, as I sense you will, may I see it? Just once?”
Aimée slipped her card in his jacket pocket.
“Connect me to the fixer,” she said. “Then we’ll talk.”
She didn’t know if they would talk. But she did know he’d scored right on one thing. She would find the Modigliani.
It didn’t ride on money or prestige; it was a way to find her mother. And save her own life.
“THE ANTIQUAIRE SAYS tonight,” Dombasle said. He lingered at his red Fiat, a two-seater that reminded her of a large insect. A sixties classic and the size of a closet. “BRB’s handling logistics.”
“And your role?” Aimée asked, surprised. Didn’t he mastermind this?
“Let me set you straight,” he said. “I’m a recovered academic, an art historian, herded into the police academy, then right into administration of the art recovery unit. Our unit assembles evidence and decides whether there’s a case. I’m not often in the field.”
“So chatting up art dealers and crooks at the flea market—”
“A sideline,” he interrupted. “But I met you.” Grinned.
“Bottom line, you’re a flic,” she said.
“Job requirement. Dinner?”
“I’m late.” Her phone showed two calls from Svetla the Russian bodyguard. Her date. “Thought you had a vernissage to go to.”
“True. Hors d’oeuvres tonight by a three-star chef.”
“Enjoy.”
“The buy’s at ten P.M. Where can I pick you up?”
Good question. “Call me.”