One Way or Another(31)

23

In Paris, the next day, Marco was surprised, more, he was astounded, to receive a call from Ghulbian’s assistant, the thin young man he’d encountered sweating in the suit and tie at Istanbul’s Ataturk Airport, now presumably cooler and enjoying the benefits of air-conditioning, which was reflected in his cool, calm voice as he relayed his employer’s invitation, though Marco thought it more a command than an invitation.

“Mr. Ghulbian would be pleased to see Mr. Mahoney at three P.M. in his suite at the Four Seasons George Cinq.” A car would be sent to pick him up.

No question as to whether Marco might be available, simply the astonishing arrogance of a wealthy man that, of course, he would. Why would he not, when it could mean an important commission?

Smiling at the irony, Marco thought Ghulbian probably believed all artists were starving. At some point in their careers, most had, as he remembered only too well from his own solitary beginning. Now, though, he had options and he wasn’t too sure he wanted to take up this one, though Martha had urged him to meet Ghulbian, saying how important the financier was, and how as far as she knew he had never had his portrait painted.

“Yours would be the first,” Martha had said. “Maybe it will be the only one.”

It was certainly something to think about. Marco picked up the phone, called back, and got a woman who said her name was Mehitabel, and that she was Ghulbian’s “personal” assistant. She told him to be waiting outside at the appointed time.

The car was an expensive silver Mercedes, chauffeur-driven, which came as no surprise, but when they arrived at the hotel, Marco was surprised by Mehitabel’s appearance: wafer-thin, around forty, with coils of Medusa-like dark hair that gave the impression she’d had an electric shock. She wore a gray linen shift dress, black heels, and an armful of silver bracelets, which he thought looked antique and expensive.

She caught his look. “Galleries Lafayette,” she said, unsmiling. “They do good copies.”

Embarrassed, Marco felt he should have blushed. She told him her name, and showed him in.

Ghulbian was standing by the French windows, holding back the silk draperies with one hand and staring out at the street below, though Marco sensed he was not really seeing it. He was lost in his thoughts and Marco wondered what the high-powered man was contemplating. A takeover bid, perhaps? Or the purchase of a new aircraft? Or simply a date for dinner with a woman he was pursuing. It turned out to be none of them.

When he heard him come in Ghulbian turned immediately from the window and offered his hand. “Good to see you again. I was just thinking about where I would like my portrait to be painted. Not here, I think. Paris is not my ‘home’ in that sense of the word.”

Marco understood, though he was a little surprised. “We could still do it on your yacht, sir,” he suggested, though Ghulbian had dismissed the idea previously.

“Please, please, you must never call me ‘sir.’ I’d like to think we are—or at least shall become—friends. After all, having one’s portrait painted is an intimate business, almost equivalent to baring one’s soul.”

“None of my sitters have yet bared their souls to me.” Marco took the seat on the sofa Ghulbian indicated. The man sat opposite, hunched forward, hands between his thighs, listening intently to what the artist had to say.

“Painting a portrait is more about me,” Marco said. “About what I see in the subject’s inner being that I transmit to the canvas. Which, I suppose,” he gave a deprecating little shrug, “does not always please the sitter who commissioned my work.”

Ghulbian nodded, interested. He said, “I recall a story about Winston Churchill. His wife, Clementine, commissioned the world-renowned artist Graham Sutherland to paint Winston’s portrait. She was so incensed with the result she simply tore it up, right there and then, in front of him.”

They both laughed and Marco said so far nobody had ripped up any of his paintings. “Though there’s always a first time,” he added, taking a deeper look at the man opposite.

Ghulbian looked steadfastly back. He kept his face implacable, without any emotion, yet in reality he was unexpectedly nervous, wondering if it was true that some people could see into your soul, into your inner being, know your thoughts, what made you tick, what your darker urges were, and how you carried them out. Could this artist, with his all-seeing painterly eyes, possibly know who he really was? About his urge to kill. Could Marco know, looking at him now, that he would go to the ends of the earth to satisfy that urge, that he would let nothing stand in his way? Ghulbian had never loved a woman and never would. They were prey, that’s all. A sudden image of Angie flickered through his mind. Instinctively he half closed his eyes, shutting her out.

Wondering what he was thinking, Marco studied Ghulbian’s impassive face, noting the wide planes of the cheekbones, the narrowed very dark eyes, the low brow, and the thick hair with no sign of gray though he’d guess Ghulbian to be in his early fifties. He was not a big man, yet there was a hint of latent physical power about him that was intimidating. It was in the force of his gaze, the tension that seemed to hold him together, kept him fixed in his seat when Marco sensed he wanted to be up and pacing the room. It was almost as though Ghulbian’s thoughts were elsewhere yet he was still talking about the portrait.

“I had considered my yacht,” Ghulbian said, quite suddenly smiling and relaxed. “But a movable location for something as permanent as a portrait somehow does not seem appropriate. I’d prefer, after all, if you could paint me at my country house.”