Chapter 37

The next morning we met at the Museum again. The decision was to try to find Marevna. The letter I had received was the only clue as to her whereabouts and even that was little to go on. It was decided to send Jean. Bruce and I would go to Mexico City and talk to Diego.

We did have an address. In the meantime, Owens would try to track down Caresse Crosby. The meeting broke up with a sense of urgency. We had little to go on and no choice but to continue. If we gave up, one of the most important works of art might be lost forever. Maybe we'd discover something new. Little did we know that our quest would lead to a startling discovery.

Diego Had Become Famous...

He was easy to find. Diego had become a famous and important muralist, well known in Mexican circles. He was surprised to hear my voice.

"Madro, mio!" he exclaimed. Can it be possible? It is like speaking to a ghost. Bobby Haas. I have been following your career. And now, you are not a ghost but here in Mexico City."
"Yes, I am quite alive and in the city. I would like to see you."
"But of course," he almost shouted. "This is wonderful!"
"When would it be convenient?" I asked.
"Any time. Today if you like. I am working at the university. I can see you there in the library. Say four o'clock?"

With some time on our hands, we chose to walk around Chapultapec Park, away from the noise and pollution. We discussed the various possibilities. Bruce thought the original had been in their hands all along. I tended to agree. After all, Picasso was ageing and after major surgery was showing signs of change. Maybe his eyes and memory were betraying him. I tried to protect Marevna's integrity. She was so pleased to get that commission and with Gertrude backing her she would possibly get others.

"No," I repeated. I think we're on a wild goose chase here."
"Perhaps Jean will find out where Marevna is. Surely her daughter knows."

Admiring One of Diego's Murals at the National Palace

Bruce was frowning. Things were becoming more complicated.
Later, after a wonderful lunch near the National Palace, we admired one of Diego's murals. Then we took a taxi to the university.
Diego was hunched over a long table in the corner of the reading room. Before him were sketches on tracing paper and the artist was cutting out shapes and superimposing them on others.

He was totally engrossed. We waited before disturbing him. He turned and saw me. There was a moment of doubt. It was over twenty years since he left Paris.

"Bobby Haas?" he asked, with bulging eyes. He rose and embraced me. It was like being hugged by a giant bear.
I introduced him to Bruce and the three of us went out on the terrace to talk.

"How long has it been?" Diego asked.
"Too long." I replied. "Not since Paris."
"Ahh, Paris, where I first tasted life and became a man. I miss Paris."
"So do I." I meant it.
"And have the years been good to you?"
"Yes," I smiled. "I'm a little older but a little wiser."
"Yes, life is no picnic. I buried my father. He died in my arms."

We talked about his work, especially his murals. He was now one of the best known muralists in Mexico.

"It started with a commission. A benefactor wanted art to move out of the museums; to be visible by the peasants. I've done many these past fifteen or so years."
"I saw the one you did in New York," Bruce said. He was referring to Diego's Communist period.

Taking Lenin from the Mural

He smiled. "They took Lenin from the mural. So petty, these Americans. Lenin was the founder of a great movement. But the Americans, the Gringos, are always afraid of foreign ideal. For me it is natural to include Lenin. He is major to the twentieth century. History will prove me right. Even Picasso understood."

He puffed on a cigar. "Later, at the World's Fair in San Francisco, it was the same thing. Now I work only in Mexico. They understand me better here."

We chatted for a while. Then, when there was a lull, Bruce jumped in.

"Diego," he started, we are here in Mexico because we have a problem with a painting. We're hoping you can help us."
"One of my paintings?" he asked.
"No. Something done by Picasso, and copied by your friend, Marevna Vorobiev."

"Ah, yes." he inhaled. "She did an inspired job. I watched her work. She was very happy with the results. Miss Stein paid quite well. In those days we did whatever we could to survive. Marevna was so poor. So were we all."
"Yes, I agreed. "we were just beginning. But many people did well, eventually. I did. You did."
"But not Marevna," he frowned. "She struggled, partly because of me; the child; situations. She suffered. I always think of here."

"Do you know where she is?" Bruce asked.
"No, I lost touch with her. Someone said she went to England, but I…"
"Yes," I interrupted. "I received a letter from her some years ago. She wrote from London, but she said she was leaving there. I don't know where she is."
"And the girl; Marika?" he asked meekly.

Marika Was Studying Painting

"She's still in London, I think. Marevna wrote and said Marika was studying painting."
Diego nodded. "She gets her talent from her mother, I suppose."
"And her father," I added.

He smiled. Bruce jumped in again.

"Can we talk about the Picasso Marevna copied? Tell us what you know about it; from beginning to end."
Diego paused to relight his cigar. "The commission, you know about. She took it very seriously. She needed the money, badly. It took some time, but it was delivered, hung and paid for. I assume it was enjoyed. Gertrude must still have it."

"Gertrude died, a while ago," Bruce told him.
"Ah, I'm sorry. I had no idea."
"The original was bequeathed to the Metropolitan in New York, We had no idea there was a copy until our authenticity expert suggested that the painting we had might not be Picasso's."

Diego Explained Jean's Discovery

Bruce watched Diego as he explained about Jean's discovery of the second painting.
He added:"We were still not certain so we brought both paintings to Picasso. He said they were 'both' copies."
"My God!" Diego exclaimed. "Then where is the original?"
Bruce explained. "Picasso is ageing. He may have made a mistake."
"No." Diego interrupted. "A painter of Picasso's caliber always knows his own work, like a man knows his own child."

Bruce leaned closer. "Look, "he stated. I'm not an expert. I'm an investigator. Why don't we assume that it is possible that there are two copies. Is there anything you can tell me about Marevna, her friends, he finances, what mood she was in when you left Paris for the last time?"
"She wanted to see me off at the station. I bedded her not to come. She cried. We both did." Then he turned to me.

"That was the same night I was in your flat. I told you then that I was leaving."
"Yes," I whispered. "I remember."
"I had arrived early. I spent only a few minutes with you. Then I went next door to Marevna's. We argued. It was a painful farewell; a huge mistake. I left around eleven. It is difficult to remember."
"And that was the last time you saw her." Bruce looked closely at Diego whose hands were shaking. He reached over and touched Diego's arm. "It's O.K. my friend. Let's change the subject."
"I have one last question, if I may." I looked into Diego's watering eyes. "Did you ever write to Marevna, or did she write to you?"
"She wrote. I answered."
"Did she ask for money?"
"Yes, at first. I sent her enough to pay for Marika's appendix operation."
"That's all?"

"Yes, just that once. What was I to do Bobby? It was hard for me. My father was sick. I was remarried. I wanted to, but…"
Now he was sobbing.
"We've talked enough, old friend. Now it's time to stop. It's no use. Let us take you out for a nice dinner. I promise; no more questions."
"I don't think so. Not tonight. I have…other plans. I'm sorry."

Taking Diego's Enormous Hand

"So am I," said Bruce. "Thank you for talking to us." He reached out and shook the artist's enormous hand.
Diego looked at him. "These things are not easy to talk about."
I found mayself in one of Diego's bear hugs. But this time it felt softer, warmer.

As we walked away Bruce whispered, "That is a very sad man. His sensitivity will be his undoing."
"Do you think you learned anything?" I asked.
"No. Not really. I'll have to go over my notes."
We stayed in Mexico City for one more day. There was much I wanted to see but duty called.

Bruce Calls Jean in London

Early on the last morning, Bruce called Jean in London. Jean explained that after some difficulty he had found Marika. She had taken her grandfather's name. They were looking for someone named Vorobiev but someone who leased a house to Marevna knew the daughter as Marika Stebelsky. He found her near Kew Gardens.
She didn't seem to be in need. As a matter of fact she owned the small house. I checked the records. There is no mention of the mother."

"Does she work?"
"No. She paints at home. She paints in a studio on the top floor. She's adequate as a painter but I doubt if her painting paid for the house."
Bruce was taken aback. "Then, how did she get the money? I was under the impression that Marevna was very poor but the girl says her mother gave her the money."

"She said the money had come from a patron," Jean repeated.
"Did she say where Marevna was now?"
"No," Jean answered. "She told me that she has not seen her mother since she left London. She gets the occasional card but they are all postscript from another place. I made a list of the places but there is no pattern."

Leaving for New York

Bruce was out of ideas. "O.K. Jean. We're leaving for New York today. We'll talk when you return to France."
He turned to me. "The plot thickens. Marevna has disappeared but we can assume she's alive. Her daughter insists she hasn't seen her."
"What now?" I asked.
"We'll go back to New York, meet with Owens and determine the next move."

I shook my head. "Unbelievable," I exhaled. "Who would have thought, way back when, that I would one day be in Mexico City looking for my diminutive Russian neighbor? It's an international incident."
"Yes, but we still have a lot of questions unanswered. Many questions…"

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