Read The Last Weynfeldt Online
Authors: Martin Suter
The Last Weynfeldt (30 page)
And in the right-hand top corner of the stove, the cast-iron relief, a tiny budâor a tiny behind.
A small ass seen from the left.
A very intimate scene. A very private painting.
Adrian Weynfeldt sat for a good while immersed in this vision, and felt happy.
And like every morning, the happiness of the art enthusiast and collector contemplating the work was mixed with the happiness of the businessman at its price: 4.64 million, take away the 1.95 from Baier and the fifty-thousand from Lorena.
He heard the door handle move. Then there was a knock. “Just a second!” he called, stood up and slid the middle section of the floor-to-ceiling mirrors back in front of the painting, till it closed with a soft click and formed a smooth wall, flush to the other two. Then he unlocked the door and opened it.
Lorena was standing outside. She was wearing Lycra pants, one of his blue tailor-made shirts, sleeves rolled up, and a black hairband holding her unkempt hair back. She was clearly carrying out the threat she had been making for weeks, to start training in the mornings herself.
She looked sleepy, her eyes were swollen, her black mascara faded, allowing her russet lashes to glow through. There was a heavy sleep mark on her left cheek, which had undoubtedly annoyed her when she'd looked in the mirror. The tiny creases around her eyes were more numerous and visible now, without makeup. She looked so beautiful he had to kiss her.
“Why do you always lock yourself in?” she asked. “Are you keeping secrets from me?”
“Yes,” he smiled.
“And you find that okay?”
“Yes.”
I would like to thank Dr. Hans-Peter Keller, Swiss art specialist at Christie's Zürich, for his insights into the world of auctions and art experts and for patiently checking the plausibility of the fictional. And Marina Ducrey for her stunning catalogue raisonné (
Felix Vallotton, 1865-1925: L'oeuvre
peint
). And my editor, Ursula Baumhauer, for the pleasant mixture of friendliness and professionalism she brought to our work together. And my wife, Margrith Nay Suter, for her detailed criticism, and for being willing and able to relieve me of a few fatherly duties while this novel was being written.
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ARTIN
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UTER
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