Bosch?’
‘Is
there another one?’ he countered, amused. ‘Yes, the one and only Mr Bosch. Most people now connect the name with home appliances. But in the Middle Ages, Bosch was a master, known throughout Europe. Respected, revered.’ He took the tobacco and sprinkled it into his glass, watching it slither in the water.
‘You knew a great deal about this painter, didn’t you?’
‘Not enough.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I mean,’ he replied brusquely, ‘Mr Bosch was very nearly the end of me.’
TWO
Reaching for his notes, David shuffled through them, then glanced back to the dealer. Outside it was raining, water dribbling down the windows, the interior panes beginning to steam up a little, the air muggy.
Finding the notes he wanted, David read a few lines and then looked up. ‘It all started because of your gambling debts, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you always a gambler?’
‘Not really. My father was, and I think it put me off . . . until I got sucked in. A private club is quite different from a street bookie.’
‘Did you win?’
The man nodded, happy to remember. ‘I was lucky for a long time. There was a period in my life when I couldn’t lose, in work or at the tables. But then my luck – like a much-loved dog – unexpectedly turned on me.’
‘But you carried on gambling?’
The man sighed as though suddenly exhausted. ‘What matters the most to you?’
‘What?’
‘What do you value the most in life?’
‘My son.’
‘Give him away.’
‘What?!’
‘That’s addiction. I could no more give up gambling than you could part with your son,’ the man replied. ‘Stop looking for logic, there is none. Addiction is addiction. You go on until you’re stopped.’
David nodded, ‘Ok, let’s go back a bit.’
‘Oh yes, let’s.’
‘You were gambling and you began to lose heavily.’
‘Lose heavily.
It’s like bleeding heavily; you can’t lose lightly. When you lose, you should realise that you won’t get it back. You’ll exsanguinate. You know how long it takes for a human being to bleed to death?’
David shook his head. ‘No, how long?’
‘Too long.’ The dealer smiled, amused, and leaned back in his seat. ‘Go on, ask me the question. I know you want to –
how much did I lose?’
‘OK, how much?’
‘Everything.
Like I said, I used to frequent a private club in Hampstead, run by Iwo Basinski.’ He paused again. ‘I see that name resonates with you.’
‘He has quite a reputation,’ David replied. ‘Apparently he’s ruthless, but nothing illegal, nothing anyone can prove anyway. He gets other people to do his dirty work, or so the story goes. I heard he was of Polish descent and that his fortune came from haulage and shipping.’
‘Who knows? I found him to be perfectly charming. In fact, he bought a number of paintings from me over the years. He liked the art of the Middle Ages, which is unusual. It’s not a period that has that many followers at present. Basinski has plenty of money, which makes collecting easy.’
David was trying to piece together what he was hearing.
‘You said you lost everything. But at first it was just money—’
‘Just money, he says!’ the man laughed. ‘Yes, it was just money. But
too much money.
Money I couldn’t pay back. I thought I could. I always had done before.’
David pricked up his ears. ‘So you’d lost before?’
‘Small amounts, which gave me a false feeling of security. But when my luck changed it
really
changed.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I think you know.’
‘No, not all of it,’ David replied. ‘Only what I’ve read, and that could be inaccurate. I want your side of the story. I don’t want half a tale.’
‘Why
should
I tell you?’ the man asked suddenly, swirling the water in the glass, the fragments of tobacco like threads of brown cotton.
David reached for the recorder as though he was preparing to leave – assuming the action would provoke a
‘Is
there another one?’ he countered, amused. ‘Yes, the one and only Mr Bosch. Most people now connect the name with home appliances. But in the Middle Ages, Bosch was a master, known throughout Europe. Respected, revered.’ He took the tobacco and sprinkled it into his glass, watching it slither in the water.
‘You knew a great deal about this painter, didn’t you?’
‘Not enough.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘I mean,’ he replied brusquely, ‘Mr Bosch was very nearly the end of me.’
TWO
Reaching for his notes, David shuffled through them, then glanced back to the dealer. Outside it was raining, water dribbling down the windows, the interior panes beginning to steam up a little, the air muggy.
Finding the notes he wanted, David read a few lines and then looked up. ‘It all started because of your gambling debts, is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were you always a gambler?’
‘Not really. My father was, and I think it put me off . . . until I got sucked in. A private club is quite different from a street bookie.’
‘Did you win?’
The man nodded, happy to remember. ‘I was lucky for a long time. There was a period in my life when I couldn’t lose, in work or at the tables. But then my luck – like a much-loved dog – unexpectedly turned on me.’
‘But you carried on gambling?’
The man sighed as though suddenly exhausted. ‘What matters the most to you?’
‘What?’
‘What do you value the most in life?’
‘My son.’
‘Give him away.’
‘What?!’
‘That’s addiction. I could no more give up gambling than you could part with your son,’ the man replied. ‘Stop looking for logic, there is none. Addiction is addiction. You go on until you’re stopped.’
David nodded, ‘Ok, let’s go back a bit.’
‘Oh yes, let’s.’
‘You were gambling and you began to lose heavily.’
‘Lose heavily.
It’s like bleeding heavily; you can’t lose lightly. When you lose, you should realise that you won’t get it back. You’ll exsanguinate. You know how long it takes for a human being to bleed to death?’
David shook his head. ‘No, how long?’
‘Too long.’ The dealer smiled, amused, and leaned back in his seat. ‘Go on, ask me the question. I know you want to –
how much did I lose?’
‘OK, how much?’
‘Everything.
Like I said, I used to frequent a private club in Hampstead, run by Iwo Basinski.’ He paused again. ‘I see that name resonates with you.’
‘He has quite a reputation,’ David replied. ‘Apparently he’s ruthless, but nothing illegal, nothing anyone can prove anyway. He gets other people to do his dirty work, or so the story goes. I heard he was of Polish descent and that his fortune came from haulage and shipping.’
‘Who knows? I found him to be perfectly charming. In fact, he bought a number of paintings from me over the years. He liked the art of the Middle Ages, which is unusual. It’s not a period that has that many followers at present. Basinski has plenty of money, which makes collecting easy.’
David was trying to piece together what he was hearing.
‘You said you lost everything. But at first it was just money—’
‘Just money, he says!’ the man laughed. ‘Yes, it was just money. But
too much money.
Money I couldn’t pay back. I thought I could. I always had done before.’
David pricked up his ears. ‘So you’d lost before?’
‘Small amounts, which gave me a false feeling of security. But when my luck changed it
really
changed.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I think you know.’
‘No, not all of it,’ David replied. ‘Only what I’ve read, and that could be inaccurate. I want your side of the story. I don’t want half a tale.’
‘Why
should
I tell you?’ the man asked suddenly, swirling the water in the glass, the fragments of tobacco like threads of brown cotton.
David reached for the recorder as though he was preparing to leave – assuming the action would provoke a
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