Laura followed his gaze, saw a woman approaching. As she drew closer, Laura realized, with a sudden flash of recognition, that it was Philippe’s mother: a dumpy middle-aged woman in a maroon wool dress, with a black coat flung over her shoulders. She was carrying a handbag on one arm and holding a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag in her hand. She moved at a measured pace.
A second later, Rosa Lavillard was standing next to her son, staring at Laura with undisguised curiosity.
Philippe said, ‘You remember Laura Valiant, don’t you, Mother?’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ Rosa Lavillard responded in a cool tone. ‘Good afternoon.’ Rosa’s lined face was impassive, impenetrable; her pale eyes were frosty, and there was a degree of hostility in her manner.
‘Hello, Mrs Lavillard, it’s been a long time,’ Laura answered, recalling the last time she had seen her. At the wedding. Trying to be polite, she added, ‘I hope you’re well.’
‘I am, thanks. Are you here on vacation?’ Rosa asked.
‘No, this is a business trip.’
‘Laura’s an art-adviser, Mother,’ Philippe explained, glancing down at Rosa and then across at Laura. ‘She helps people to select and buy paintings.’
‘I see. You like Renoir, do you?’ Rosa murmured.
‘Very much. He’s a great favourite, and I try to come here whenever I’m in Paris,’ Laura replied.
‘Such beauty,’ Rosa remarked, looking about her. ‘All these Renoirs…they nourish the soul, calm the heart. And they are reassuring…these paintings tell us there is something else besides ugliness out there. Yes, such beauty…it helps to baffle the clamour of cruelty.’ She waved a hand in the air almost absently, peered at Laura and asked, ‘Do you like Van Gogh?’
‘Oh yes, and Degas and Cézanne, and Gauguin, he’s another favourite.’
‘His primitives are deceptive. They appear simple yet they are not, they are complex. Like people.’ Rosa nodded her head. ‘It’s obvious the Impressionists appeal to you.’
‘Yes, that’s my area of expertise. The Post Impressionists, as well.’
‘I like them myself. If I had a lot of money that’s what I would do, how I would spend my life. I would collect paintings from the Impressionist school. But I am just a poor woman, and so I must make do with going to museums.’
‘Like most other people, Mother,’ Philippe pointed out gently.
‘That’s true,’ Rosa agreed, and turning, she began to walk away, saying over her shoulder, ‘Enjoy the Renoirs.’ ‘I will,’ Laura said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Lavillard.’ Rosa made no response.
Philippe inclined his head, gave her a faint half-smile, as if he were embarrassed. ‘Nice to see you again, Laura. So long.’ Laura nodded, but said nothing.
He stared at her for a moment, then he swung on his heels and followed his mother out of the hall.
Laura stood watching the Lavillards depart, and finally went back to her contemplation of the Renoirs. But the Lavillards had ruined her mood. Their intrusion on her privacy had brought too many memories rushing back, and most of them bad memories. Suddenly she felt nervous, unsettled, unable to concentrate on the paintings. But she didn’t want to leave the museum just yet; she might not have another chance to come back during this trip to Paris.
Glancing around, Laura spotted a small bench placed against the far wall, and she went and sat down, still thinking about the Lavillards. What a strange woman Rosa Lavillard was. She remembered a few things Claire had told her years ago, mainly that Rosa was unpredictable, a sick woman who had been hospitalized for long periods. Hadn’t Claire said she had once been in a mental institution?
From what Laura now remembered hearing, Rosa had led a troubled life…there had been a painful childhood in France, growing up during the war, the loss of her family in the Allied bombing raids, later a volatile marriage to Pierre Lavillard, then emigration to the States in the 1950s, where Philippe was born. Their only child. The doctor. The prize-winning virologist whom the medical world called a genius.
Claire had once said in a moment of anger that Rosa was a crazy woman, and should have been kept in the mental hospital. She had been very vehement about it at the time.
Laura closed her eyes, her thoughts settling on Claire Benson: her best friend and confidante, the elder sister she had never had, her role model. Claire had been living in Paris for a number of years, which was one of the reasons she liked to come here, to spend time with Claire.
Opening her eyes, Laura stood up. She began to stroll down the long gallery, determinedly pushing aside all thoughts of the Lavillards, mother and son. Within seconds she had forgotten them, once more enjoying the Renoirs hanging there. Soon she was lost in the paintings, soothed by their beauty.
And then once again she was no longer alone. Unexpectedly, there was Claire standing by her side, taking hold of her arm.
‘What are you doing here?’ Laura exclaimed, startled to see her friend, filling with a rush of anxiety. Oh God, had Claire run into the Lavillards? She hoped not; they usually upset her. She searched Claire’s face, looking for signs.
Claire explained, ‘You told me you were coming to the museum after your lunch, so I thought I’d join you.’ She peered at Laura. ‘What’s wrong? You look odd.’
‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ Laura answered. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ She was relieved to see that Claire was calm; obviously she had missed the Lavillards. But probably only by a few moments. Forcing a smile, she went on, ‘So, come on then, let’s walk around together.’
Claire tucked her arm through Laura’s. ‘I like seeing paintings through your eyes. Somehow I get much more pleasure from them when I’m with you.’
Laura nodded, and they moved on, gazing at the masterpieces on the walls, not speaking for a short while. At one moment, Laura lingered in front of a painting of a mother and child, frowning slightly.
Claire, always tuned into her best friend, said, ‘Why are you looking so puzzled?’
Shaking her head, Laura replied, ‘I’ve often wondered lately if any of these paintings are stolen –’
‘Stolen! What do you mean?’ Claire asked.
‘Thousands and thousands of paintings were stolen by the Nazis during the war, and that art, looted by them, hangs on museum walls all over the world. It’s from some of the world’s greatest collectors, such as the Rothschilds, the Kanns, and Paul Rosenberg, who once owned one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris, to name only a few.’
‘I read something about that recently. I guess it’s hard for the heirs of the original owners to get their paintings back if they don’t have proof of ownership.’
‘That’s it exactly. And so many records were lost during the war. Or were purposely destroyed by the Nazis in order to blur provenance.’ Laura grimaced, and said, ‘A lot of museums are fully aware of the real owners, because many of the paintings are coded on the back of the canvases. It all stinks. It’s morally wrong, but try and get a museum to give a painting up, give it back. They just won’t…At least, most of them won’t…Some are starting to get nervous, though.’
‘Can’t any of the original owners sue the museums?’ Claire asked.
‘I suppose they could,’ Laura answered. ‘But only if they have proof a painting is theirs. And even then it’s dubious that they’d ever get it.’
Claire nodded, ‘I remember now, Hercule knows something about this…He mentioned it only recently. I believe he has a client who is the heir to art stolen by the Nazis from his family in 1938.’
‘Oh,