Murder Below Montparnasse - By Cara Black Page 0,89

provenance, or credential of its authenticity, even some mention that this portrait of Lenin ever existed?”

Piotr’s letters to his son explained some of it. Before Aimée could speak, Dombasle shot her a look to keep quiet.

“Lenin’s wife, Comrade Krupskaya, hated Paris—and it wasn’t just the weather. No one knows or will ever know the true story. Just background for you,” Huppert said. “My research paper on les artistes Russes in Montparnasse touched on this.”

Aimée wanted to hear something that would lead them to the painting, not an academic lecture. She was running out of time.

“Local Bolshies recounted that Lenin carried on an affair,” Huppert said. “Few knew, but his wife Krupskaya guarded his reputation and fostered the myth with an iron hand. What papers she didn’t burn she invalidated. Anyone whose silence she didn’t trust got discredited. The comrade-wife had a stake in Lenin, she’d devoted her life to him.”

Huppert paused to wave to his daughter inside.

“The reason this excites me—faux or not, it’s a significant work. The bad quality can’t mask the earth tones, that musted luminosity. So much raw energy in the set of his jaw.” For a moment Huppert’s voice changed, sounded far away. “To me this portrait communicates a vulnerable man, maybe even doubtful, on the cusp of something new. A man who could be in love, non?” He nodded to himself, studying the Polaroid. “So unlike those ragged greatcoat-leading-the-masses portraits—a powerful persona he promoted, the image Krupskaya fostered until her dying day. Lenin would have rejected this. Rumors of this painting surfaced years ago when Khrushchev visited Lenin’s museum.”

“What kind of rumors?”

“Le Parisien reporters discovered—or so they said—an old madam who counted Lenin as a client at her bordello across from the Archives Nationales. Seems he would stop by after a long day of research. Contradicts the Lenin myth, the ascetic father of the people. Why shouldn’t Lenin go for the fruit of the flesh elsewhere, since his wife’s mother had their bedroom and lived with them for years?” He shrugged. “But morality aside, another item came up. More serious.”

Aimée realized she’d been holding her breath. She pulled her coat tighter in the damp chill.

“Twelve years ago, a descendent of Cortot, Modigliani’s first dealer—that relationship was short-lived—brought papers for me to appraise and make sense of. He’d found them in the family château’s attic. A job I do with annoying frequency.” Huppert gave a sigh. His breath fogged in the chilly evening air. “Old collectors die and the family hopes there’s a treasure stashed.” He paused. “I’m straying. An entry marked ‘unpaid’ in Cortot’s ledger lists a portrait commissioned by Lenin.”

“Would that be in 1910?” Aimée asked.

Huppert thought. Rocked on his heels. Studied her for a moment. “That or 1911. Cortot couldn’t collect the commission. Not surprising since Modi hated painting commissions. He refused, to all his dealers’ despair. But maybe Lenin paid him with a bottle. Who knows? Cortot heard the buzz from the café crowd and sniffed money.”

A couple entered the courtyard. Huppert waited for them to pass. Their laughter echoed off the stone and frightened the cat from the bushes. With the dark-blue smear of sky above the damp foliage, this once-artisanal backwater felt timeless.

When the couple was gone, Aimée asked, “Was there an exhibition of Lenin’s portrait?”

“None documented. The trail dried up,” he said. “Until Pauline. She posed for Modi, fourteen years old at the time, at his second dealer’s. Alas, she’s dead. But fifteen years ago she told me that Lenin and Modi had a known rivalry. But that could be said of all his friends at one time or another—call Modi charming and infuriating at the best of times. Cadged his meals and drinks from drawings, slept at friends’.”

“All for art, you mean?” Aimée asked.

“Forget the tragic romantic,” Huppert said. “Modi produced an incredible body of work. We know so much got lost—drugging and drinking to anesthetize the pain from rampant TB. He was so anxious to hide it, he’d drink even more.”

Where did this lead? “You mean Pauline knew of the painting?”

Huppert expelled air from his lips. Shrugged. “Apparently Modi complained to her about Lenin. Called him a fanatic who covered up his own doubts to convince himself.”

“Doubts over what?”

“Fanatics must prove something to themselves and others,” Huppert said. “He challenged Lenin at la Rotonde one night, burned Lenin’s newspaper—that we know from documents.”

“Some kind of duel?”

“Pauline heard him say, ‘I will show the real you. I only paint truth.’ And he did, she said. Lenin hated the