The Complete Symphonies of Adolf Hitler by Oliver Reggie

Author:Oliver, Reggie [Oliver, Reggie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Tartarus Press
Published: 2013-11-20T20:00:00+00:00

To my darling Julia, with unfailing love, Julius.

Smith looked up at Maddox, baffled. ‘It’s from Julius, not Uncle Joachim,’ he said. Dr Maddox merely nodded. Smith again examined the fly leaf which he now noticed had been very faintly stained by the drops of some liquid. Tears perhaps?

Wafted from the gentle upward blow of air as he closed the book, Smith caught the scent, faint but heady, of Parma Violets.

DIFFICULT PEOPLE

One Saturday in the Summer of 1968 a young man walked into my father’s art gallery in Jermyn Street with a large portfolio under his arm. I was seventeen at the time and happened to be present when this occurred. During the school holidays it was my treat every Saturday morning to help out my father at the gallery, then we would go to lunch at the Traveller’s Club.

The young man seemed an unlikely customer. He looked barely twenty and he wore ultra-fashionable Carnaby Street clothes, a turquoise shirt with a floral pattern and skin tight vermilion corduroys.

‘Can I help you?’ said my father, an unfailingly polite man.

‘Old Master Drawings,’ said the young man. His face interested me. It was not exactly good looking—the mouth too wide, the brow too prominent—but his features were distinctive. He was of medium height, broad shouldered and stocky; a powerful physique lurked under the floral shirt. His deep set blue eyes looked at you with unhurried intensity.

‘We do have a number of Old Master Drawings,’ said my father. ‘Which period interests you in particular?’

‘I don’t want to buy. I want to sell,’ said the young man, holding up his portfolio. I knew even then that this was not the way my father usually did business.

‘I see,’ said my father, allowing an uncertain note to creep into his voice. ‘May I have a look, Mr—?’

‘Paul Xavier,’ said the young man.

My father indicated a table upon which Xavier could lay his portfolio. ‘I’ll be happy to have a look,’ said my father. ‘Give you my opinion, but naturally I can’t promise . . .’

‘Yes. I understand,’ said Xavier. There was something about the way he said these words which appealed to my father. It was neither truculent, nor obsequious: he spoke as if he were making a simple statement of fact.

My father opened the portfolio. In it were about thirty drawings mostly on tinted paper, in pen-and-ink, silverpoint, sanguine, chalk and other media. There were drapery studies, nudes, portrait heads, and one or two exquisite botanical drawings in conté highlighted with white chalk. They were beautifully done, but something about them made me uneasy, and I knew that my father felt the same.

‘I’m afraid I don’t deal in Modern work,’ he said. ‘These are not by Old Masters.’

I could see now that they weren’t. They were highly accomplished pastiches of Old Master drawings in the style of Leonardo, Dürer, Raphael, Mantegna and others of the High Renaissance.

‘They’re not fakes or anything. I’m not saying they’re actually old,’ said Xavier.

‘Who did them?’ my father asked.

‘I did,’ said Xavier.

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