response – but he was mistaken. Instead, he found himself sitting down again, oddly embarrassed. ‘I just want to get the facts straight.’
‘There are no straight facts. All facts are susceptible to being bent. Do you know how you can tell if wormholes in the wooden frame of a canvas are genuine?’
‘No.’
‘If the holes are straight, it’s man made – with a drill. You see, real worms meander.’ The dealer continued, amused. ‘Forgers
can
be caught out, you know. But only by experts.’
David nodded, his tone steady. ‘Go on with the story.’
‘Alright, I’ll tell you everything that happened,’ he agreed, settling back into his chair. ‘One day, it was just before New Year’s, I lost a massive amount at the tables. I make no excuses: desperation makes maniacs out of the best of us. I was in trouble and thought “This will do it. One last game and my luck will change”. Of course it didn’t, and I was suddenly standing in my Savile Row suit sweating like a pig in a bathhouse.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing, for a couple of days. Then Iwo Basinski came to my gallery. I was surprised, usually I visited him at his home, but then I realised this wasn’t about art, this was about business. The business of what I owed him.’ He breathed in, held the breath for several seconds, then let it go. ‘I offered to pay off what I owed him in instalments, but Basinksi had another proposition for me. A way by which I could clear my debt in one fell swoop.’
‘What did you say?’
‘What d’you think I said? I was euphoric! In the meantime my wife had left, taking our son, and I hoped that if I could clear the IOU I could get my family back. The gallery was under threat too. If Basinski had forced me to pay him immediately I’d have had to sell up.’ He glanced at his watch, then held it to his ear, explaining: ‘It was my father’s. The old wind-up kind.’ Apparently satisfied he could hear it still ticking, he continued. ‘Basinksi said I had to solve a puzzle.’
‘A puzzle?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, a puzzle. He said it should be simple for me. After all, I was an art dealer – I
am
an art dealer. If I was at all qualified I should be able to solve such a riddle easily.’ He looked away, as though searching for the exit. ‘It was a freezing cold day, I remember that much. Frost on the pavement in Cork Street, the gallery never really warming up, and every time someone walked in the cold followed them like a dead man. Basinksi was wearing a thick coat and took off his gloves and reached into his inside pocket.’
‘And?’
‘Brought out an envelope,’ the dealer replied. ‘Then he shook out its contents: five photographs.’
‘Of what?’
He shrugged. ‘At first I couldn’t tell, then Basinksi told me that each image was a detail from a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. He was so blasé about it: “
For a man of your learning, this should be simple. Just tell me which image belongs
to which painting”.’
David frowned. ‘Was it simple?’
‘Hardly. When I looked at the photographs the images were unrecognisable. Massively magnified details from Bosch paintings which were impossible to make out, let alone place in the relevant picture. And they were all in black and white, which made it even harder.’
‘Did you tell Basinski how difficult it was?’
‘Of course I did. He merely shrugged and said that if I wanted to clear my debt I’d work it out.’ Reaching into his pocket the dealer drew out an envelope, opened it, and placed a small sketch on the table between them.
It was in extreme close-up, indecipherable to David. Suddenly he saw how something which had seemed relatively simple could actually be fiendishly difficult.
‘This is the first image. Basinski gave me a week to identify all five details,’ the man continued. ‘If I did so, I was lead to believe that my debt would be cleared.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I asked him the same. Basinski said
‘There are no straight facts. All facts are susceptible to being bent. Do you know how you can tell if wormholes in the wooden frame of a canvas are genuine?’
‘No.’
‘If the holes are straight, it’s man made – with a drill. You see, real worms meander.’ The dealer continued, amused. ‘Forgers
can
be caught out, you know. But only by experts.’
David nodded, his tone steady. ‘Go on with the story.’
‘Alright, I’ll tell you everything that happened,’ he agreed, settling back into his chair. ‘One day, it was just before New Year’s, I lost a massive amount at the tables. I make no excuses: desperation makes maniacs out of the best of us. I was in trouble and thought “This will do it. One last game and my luck will change”. Of course it didn’t, and I was suddenly standing in my Savile Row suit sweating like a pig in a bathhouse.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Nothing, for a couple of days. Then Iwo Basinski came to my gallery. I was surprised, usually I visited him at his home, but then I realised this wasn’t about art, this was about business. The business of what I owed him.’ He breathed in, held the breath for several seconds, then let it go. ‘I offered to pay off what I owed him in instalments, but Basinksi had another proposition for me. A way by which I could clear my debt in one fell swoop.’
‘What did you say?’
‘What d’you think I said? I was euphoric! In the meantime my wife had left, taking our son, and I hoped that if I could clear the IOU I could get my family back. The gallery was under threat too. If Basinski had forced me to pay him immediately I’d have had to sell up.’ He glanced at his watch, then held it to his ear, explaining: ‘It was my father’s. The old wind-up kind.’ Apparently satisfied he could hear it still ticking, he continued. ‘Basinksi said I had to solve a puzzle.’
‘A puzzle?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, a puzzle. He said it should be simple for me. After all, I was an art dealer – I
am
an art dealer. If I was at all qualified I should be able to solve such a riddle easily.’ He looked away, as though searching for the exit. ‘It was a freezing cold day, I remember that much. Frost on the pavement in Cork Street, the gallery never really warming up, and every time someone walked in the cold followed them like a dead man. Basinksi was wearing a thick coat and took off his gloves and reached into his inside pocket.’
‘And?’
‘Brought out an envelope,’ the dealer replied. ‘Then he shook out its contents: five photographs.’
‘Of what?’
He shrugged. ‘At first I couldn’t tell, then Basinksi told me that each image was a detail from a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. He was so blasé about it: “
For a man of your learning, this should be simple. Just tell me which image belongs
to which painting”.’
David frowned. ‘Was it simple?’
‘Hardly. When I looked at the photographs the images were unrecognisable. Massively magnified details from Bosch paintings which were impossible to make out, let alone place in the relevant picture. And they were all in black and white, which made it even harder.’
‘Did you tell Basinski how difficult it was?’
‘Of course I did. He merely shrugged and said that if I wanted to clear my debt I’d work it out.’ Reaching into his pocket the dealer drew out an envelope, opened it, and placed a small sketch on the table between them.
It was in extreme close-up, indecipherable to David. Suddenly he saw how something which had seemed relatively simple could actually be fiendishly difficult.
‘This is the first image. Basinski gave me a week to identify all five details,’ the man continued. ‘If I did so, I was lead to believe that my debt would be cleared.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘I asked him the same. Basinski said
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