Chapter 31

Outside, Nadon stood patiently waiting. Jean made a mental note to find out who Marevna was and where she was living." I must get to a telephone, "he said, looking around. They found one at a bar and Jean called the dealer, Henry Kahnweiler. After the usual niceties, Jean asked the old friend of Picasso's if he knew who the painter Marevna was.

"She was a fairly proficient member of the Russian school. Her name is Vorobiev. She was a lover of Diego Rivera, the Mexican painter. I think they had a child."
"Is she still alive?" Jean inquired.

"As far as I know," Kahnweiler replied. "But I don't think she's in Paris.
Probably not in France at all. Most people I know, left France during the war. Chagall went to America. Even I... No...I haven't seen her is years."
"And you? Are you well?"
"Yes," said the older man, considering my advanced age. But tell me, how is your mother?"
"Well, the last I heard she was in California."

"And the Barrone Pierlot. How is your grandmother?"
"She's fine. She's in a nursing home in England. I'll tell her you asked."

To the Coulpole for Dinner

They went back to the hotel. Jean called Noriko, then he and Nadon went to the Coulpole for dinner. The restaurant was teeming with people even during a sumptuous dinner, enhanced by two bottles of the best Louis Latour, a favorite of Jean's.

Paris was still feeling the pinch of post war rationing. But still, the wine was plentiful and the food had hints of the good old days. As for the decor, it hadn't been altered. The pillars were still gay and the newspapers still hung from reading racks as in the days of Lenin. They were, however redoing the outside facade. The talk turned to postwar France and the problems they had integrating the refugees who were arriving by the thousands. They also talked of the ongoing problems in Africa. Would it never end?

Later, Jean sat in his comfortable suite and thought of what he had discovered. The second portrait was not a forgery, nor was it intended to be. Even Pablo knew about it and didn't give it a second thought. The red x was Gertrude's way of showing which was actually Picasso's work and that mark was still there...unless...unless it was on the other one too. Jean would know soon enough.

A Telex to Bruce Kellner in New York

He would return to Culoz in the morning and look for himself. That is, if the portrait was still there. He wrote everything down and sent it by telex to Bruce Kellner, in New York. Back at the Lyons airport, Jean looked for his car.

It was waiting in the sun, but responded willingly to the power surge as Jean pointed it in an easterly direction. He followed the autoroute for a while, then turned north through Belley, where Gertrude once spent her summers. The hamlet he sought was called Bilignin.

Perhaps it was the nostalgia or the peaceful morning, or maybe it was because it was a corner of the region he hadn't visited since he was a boy. But for some reason he found himself turning onto the tiny road that led to a cluster of Louis Quinze villas. At the top of a country road, where the road seemed to end, he faced an arched entrance to the home where Gertrude and Alice had spent fourteen summers.

The grounds were in excellent care, and the fragrance of the surrounding farms made him smile. He walked further up the road to see the old house from a different perspective. Along the way, he encountered a farmer with a long, lethal looking scythe. He stopped working, wiped his brow with a well-worn piece of fabric. Then he leaned on his cutting implement.

"Bonjour."
"Ah, bonjour. Hard work," I see.
The farmer shrugged. "No harder than any other. Someone has to do it."
Jean pointed back to the old Stein house. "Do you work on the gardens there too?"

"Yes. I have always worked for the Butz family."
"So they still own it," I mused.
"Yes. It's been in the family for years. They don't rent it anymore. Not since..."
"Mlle Stein," I suggested.
He nodded. "But in those days I did no gardening. That was done only by Mlle Toklas."
"Ah, yes. So you knew them?"
"Yes," he replied, "and I knew your grandmother...and your grandfather Baron Pierlot."

"So you know my mother too."
"Yes, but I haven't seen them in years. I remember when you were born."
Jean asked, "Do you know if Mme Butz is at home now?" She was the owner.
"No," he replied. "She's been ill. But her son, Marcel is there. I saw him this morning."

Meeting Monsieur Butz

Jean thanked him and went back to the large house. As he walked through the archway, he met Marcel coming out. "Monsieur Butz?" he asked. "I am Jean d'Aiguy. May I take a minute of your time?
"My pleasure, "Marcel smiled and extended his hand. "We never met, but I know who you are. Please to make your acquaintance."
"I'm sorry to hear that your mother is ill."

(The exterior of the home in Bilignin, a spacious place)

"Oh, she's much better now. It's just that the trip from Paris is so long. She tires easily. I come to attend to repairs and arrange for the gardening."
Then he added, "Would you like to see our garden?"

"Yes," from Jean. "I have often heard my grandmother talk of your famous garden."
"Actually, it was Gertrude Stein who made it famous." He led the way around the house.
"And Alice," I started.
"Yes. Alice, too. But she mostly worked in the vegetable garden."

We came to a garden terrace looking out over a lush green valley that extended to the distant mountains.
"This is where Gertrude relaxed with her dogs or entertained famous artists and writers. I met her only at the end as she was moving out. She was an amazing and brave woman."
"Brave?" I asked.

They Had to Take Gertrude to Court

"Yes. You see, my father needed the house during the war and Gertrude refused to move out. It is difficult, as you probably know, to get a tenant to leave unless you require the place for your own family. We had to take Gertrude to court."
"And she fought you, no doubt," I suggested.

(Gertrude Stein's country house in Bilignin, circa 1930's)

"Certainly. But to go to court during the war was a very dangerous thing to do, especially if you were a Jewess and an American."
"How did she get away with it?" I asked. She must have been on the lists of foreigners and Jews."
"That's the strange part," he nodded." She wasn't on the lists. Someone was protecting her."
"But you did evict her," I added.

"Yes. We had no choice. My father needed the barn for hiding war materials."

"I know. And it was my grandmother who found the Clos Poncet where she moved to in Culoz. It's near our Chateau." We were seated on the stone wall, looking at the building, deeply in need of repairs.
"I wonder why she stayed during the war," he asked. "She had friends in high places and Switzerland is so close."

"My grandmother told me she once asked Gertrude the same thing. "
"What did she say?" Michel asked.
"She said, 'they won't arrest me. I'm Gertrude Stein'. Just like her. Just like her." He shook his head in bewilderment. Then he added. Would you like to see the house?"
"If it's not too much trouble..."
Jean smiled. No comment was necessary. "Not at all. It's not a chateau but, its home."

Jean Was Interested in the Old Furniture

The house was quite drab for the most part, but Jean was interested in the old furniture and beautiful frescos. Marcel paused at a beautiful carved door. "And this is the music room. This is where Gertrude did much of her writing."
He opened the door and Jean followed him inside. The small desk caught his eye.

"Was this her actual writing desk?" Jean asked. But before Marcel could reply, the visitor's eye spotted the large painting over the fireplace.
"Mon Dieu!" he explained, crossing himself. "Where did you get that painting?"
They were looking at a painting of Gertrude Stein which was exactly like the famous Picasso portrait.
"This painting may be important for an investigation I'm involved in. How did it come to be here?"

Marcel shrugged. "Gertrude left it when she left the area for the last time. As I understood it, she had an idea that she would not come back."

"You mean she left it with your family?" Jean couldn't understand why Gertrude would do this.

"No," Marcel smiled. "It was actually your grandmother who gave it to us. She told us it was a worthless copy but we liked it. It was our little souvenir of Gertrude."

At a Loss for Words

The French investigator was almost at a loss for words. "Monsieur Butz," he started," would you consider loaning me this painting for a week or two. It's part of an investigation by the NY Metropolitan Museum. I will give you a receipt for it and my personal guarantee that it will be returned to you safely."

"I would be honored," he replied with a smile. "Do you require the frame too?
"No. If you want to take the time to remove it," Jean couldn't contain his excitement.

When the frame and painting were separated, Jean examined the back of the stretcher. There was no red x inscribed which, at first light, would indicate that the other painting in New York was indeed the original.

That night Jean and Noriko went over the events and findings. They decided that the first thing to be done was to get in touch with Bruce Kellner in New York. Jean called. It was midnight in New York and Bruce was getting ready for bed. Jean reported his findings.

"I found a copy. That is, I found a second painting. I am no expert but it is VERY Good. As I told you in yesterday's report, Picasso knew about it. The copy, according to Alice Toklas was made by Marevna Vorobiev, a Russian painter, many years ago."

Contulting a List of 1920's Painters in Paris

Bruce consulted a list of 1920's painters in Paris. Now they would be able to establish the painting's authenticity.

Jean explained that he would take the second painting and show it to Picasso.
"I'll drive to Golfe Juan in the morning. Picasso is working there."
"Bonne chance, mon ami. Let me know what he says. It probably proves that the original is the one the MET has, but let's hear what Pablo says. Will you have trouble getting him to see you?"

Jean smiled. "You forget, my friend, that Picasso is a friend of the family. I'll see him."

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