The Last Weynfeldt by Martin Suter

childhood.’”
    Weynfeldt’s favorite Gauguin saying was, “Art is either plagiarism or revolution.” But he held back from quoting it now. He ate Frau Hauser’s morsels in silence—first the savory morsels, then the sweet morsels—and listened to Strasser’s argument for a sojourn on the Marquesas. With every sentence and every glassful he became more enthusiastic, but the threatening undertone crept into Rolf’s voice, which silenced any form of objection or doubt.
    Weynfeldt fixed his eyes on the bridge of Strasser’s nose, a trick he had learned from his father. It gave the person you were talking to the impression you were gazing profoundly into their eyes. At the same time he nodded occasionally in agreement or encouragement, depending on the tone of Strasser’s voice. His thoughts returned to Lorena. He pictured himself with her in Polynesia, both of them wearing big sarongs with hibiscus-flower prints, and fragrant garlands of flowers.
    At some point Strasser leaned back in expectant silence. Weynfeldt knew the moment had come to say, “Well, that certainly makes sense to me. If there’s anything I can do to help realize the plan …”
    According to Strasser’s research the most convenient option was a business class ticket to Papeete, because that way the return flight date could be left open, an important condition for a new start. He could book the connecting flight from Papeete to Hiva Oa when he got there. Or perhaps he would opt to take the ferry. You should arrive by boat on an island where you plan to stay awhile.
    Rolf Strasser estimated the costs at around fifty thousand francs, with the option of a further twenty or thirty, depending on the time limit. As the Marquesas were so far-flung, life on the islands was expensive, and the ongoing costs here in Zurich would continue—studio, insurance, health care, pension etc. This would be a refundable loan with interest obviously; he was certain that on his return he would finally make it big.
    Weynfeldt knew he could neither prevaricate excessively nor agree too swiftly; either could bring one of Strasser’s tirades of hatred down on his head. He took his notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket, pulled a small silver pen out of the loop in the binding and wrote “Rolf” and “Hiva Oa” and “50,000” and “new start.” Strasser regarded him distrustfully. Finally Adrian shut the little book, replaced it and said, “Sounds very sensible.”
    Strasser filled both of their glasses and raised his to Weynfeldt. “Hiva Oa.”
    â€œHiva Oa,” Adrian replied.
    Strasser drained his glass. “Do you by any chance have some slightly comfier seating, in a room that’s not too far from here?”
    Weynfeldt had hoped Strasser would start taking his leave, now the business had been concluded to his satisfaction. But he clearly felt obliged to stay a little longer. Adrian led him down the corridor to the Green Salon, as his mother had called it. The name had stuck, although during the renovation he had consistently avoided the color green.
    They passed his study on the way. When he’d gone to answer the door to Strasser earlier, Weynfeldt had left the door open and the spotlight on. Now La Salamandre glowed in the dark room as if deliberately put on show. Strasser paused, entered the room, stood in front of the painting and stayed there for a good while, saying nothing, till Adrian observed, “Vallotton. Probably going in the next auction.”
    â€œYou mean this Vallotton, this one here, will be put up for auction?”
    Weynfeldt put the strange question down to the level of alcohol in Strasser’s blood, and said simply, “Yes.”
    Strasser left the room. Seen close up he looked pretty tired. “What would you value something like that at?”
    â€œI’m really not sure, but I think we’ll start at