The Forgery of Venus (31 page)

“‘What is truth? said jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer.’ You must remember that from Humanities 102. Bacon’s
On Truth
? Look around you, my friend. Truth has left the building. Everything is manipulable now, even photography, and art is a lie to begin with. Picasso said so, and so say I. We all tell lies, even the stories we tell ourselves about our lives, even in the intimate depths of our private thoughts. But somehow, I don’t know how, maybe through what my sister calls grace, these lies occasionally produce something we all recognize as true. And when I paint I wait for those miracles.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, and the conversation subsequently
ran down a little. We talked about other things, the cities of Europe and what was going on in the world, and we parted amicably enough.

The next day I was in Madrid and spent the morning in a meeting discussing how to assess the risks of terrorism and sabotage on the proposed amusement venue, which is a growth area among the actuarial set, and I had lunch with my colleagues, then walked over to the Prado. They’d placed it in Room Twelve on the wall to the right of
Las Meninas,
which was quite the compliment, I thought; not many paintings can stand the comparison.

A little throng had gathered around the Most Expensive Painting in the World, the irresistible tugs of sex and money working together there, and a guard was standing by to make sure people didn’t stay too long and hog the view. I waited until it was my turn, and as I got to the front I was conscious of the little sighs people were making, as if to say, ah, if only love could be like that, sex could be like that, always. There she lay, obviously the same model who had posed for the
Rokeby Venus,
except now she lay on her back, with her hand covering her crotch, not palm-down, modestly, but palm-up, a joke, offering it, not to us, but to the sweat-soaked man reflected in the black-framed mirror, the same fellow you could see with his palette in hand in the center of the great painting to the left.

You know, I think every man with some experience at love has in his heart the image of the girl who got away, the one who pops into your mind at idle moments, about whom the inevitable longing centers, no matter how content you are with spouse and home. That was the appeal of this painting, I thought; he’d painted, in some wonderful and mysterious way, That Girl. But in my own case, literally, because when I finally got a chance to see the
Alba Venus
close up I saw that the body the artist had painted was one I’d known intimately, but too fleetingly, some decades ago. I remember in particular a small black beauty mark just below the navel, to the right of the midline. I only got to see it on two
occasions, unfortunately, before my old pal Chaz Wilmot swept into that reunion party and yanked Lotte Rothschild out of my life.

Probably for the best, actually; Diana is a much more suitable wife for someone like me. And maybe I am confabulating this too in my mind, a mere black dot—who could recall its exact placement after all these years? Although it’s the kind of thing Chaz would do, the sly bastard.

And then I had to move on, and I circled around behind the crowd and stood for a moment in front of the greatest painting in the world,
The Maids of Honor
by Velázquez, and thought about what it would be like to be him, really be him, and I couldn’t deal with it, and I left and reentered the long, gray sanity of my life.