Language in the Blood Page 7

  ***

  I had met Andrei Klimov a few years earlier at an art gallery during an opening of an exhibition. We were standing next to each other admiring a local artist from the 1930s. Andrei was suitably impressed with my in-depth knowledge of the artist and my flair for telling amusing anecdotes about the painter’s life. Andrei was one of these new money Russians that were simply invading the Côte d’Azur in those years. He usually had a very thin, bored Russian girl on one arm and a glass of something in the other hand. Andrei was an avid collector of early twentieth century art and even though he was fabulously wealthy, his dream of owning a Picasso remained a dream.

  He soon invited me over to view his collection, which was not very well chosen but large. He had bought himself a villa near St Paul to house his collection and divided his time between St Paul, his yacht in Cannes and his apartment in St Petersburg.

  ‘What business are you in Andrei?’ I’d asked him.

  ‘This and that Cameron. I have business in Russia.’ I could tell he didn’t want to give me more information, but I liked dealing with people who had secrets too.

  ‘Good, much like me. But the this and the that shouldn’t interfere too much with life,’ I said.

  He laughed and poured me a large vodka and we wandered out on to his terrace which offered an amazing view down the hill to the Marina Baie des Anges at Villeneuve-Loubet. It was a development of three large apartment blocks constructed mostly in the 1970s and visible for miles around.

  ‘Do you like those buildings,’ he asked me as I tipped my drink over the balustrade.

  ‘I rather do. The architecture is bold and daring.’

  ‘It is different, but they are just so white and visible,’ he said, looking into the distance.

  ‘No, I like them. And when you actually walk around the buildings they are very futuristic, very Return to the Planet of the Apes.’

  We gazed in silence for a while, and then Andrei topped up our glasses.

  ‘I love St Paul,’ he said. ‘Some of the best artists lived and worked here. It is the light that is just so fantastic here in the Provence.’

  ‘Hmm, yes. The light. I try to avoid it. I swear staying out of the sun is the secret to my youthful complexion,’ I said with a smile.

  ‘Youthful, but very pale,’ he said, eyeing me with concern.

  ‘I’m Scottish. We only come in pale,’ I explained.

  Andrei shrugged his shoulders. He had a dark brown tan and loved to spend time on the deck of his yacht, having girls over to sunbathe and drink champagne in his outdoor jacuzzi.

  ‘I do believe Marc Chagal is buried here in the local cemetery,’ I diverted the conversation.

  ‘Really? I must go and find the grave. His work is superb and of course he was Russian,’ Andrei said enthusiastically.

  ‘It’s a very unassuming grave, but he is buried here with his wife Vava and her brother. They were Russian too.’

  As we were chatting, Tatiana, his latest thin and bored girl, had come out to join us.

  ‘Andrei, can we go to Nice? I want to dance,’ she whined, in Russian.

  ‘No darling. I have this man over to look at my art,’ he replied, still in Russian.

  ‘Stupid pictures can wait,’ she said, pulling a moody face.

  ‘I invited him especially to look at the paintings,’ Andrei said as he went over and stroked her arm.

  One of the perks of my existence was that I acquired the linguistic skills of my victims when I drank their blood. When champagne-guzzling Russian girls started to appear all over the Côte d’Azur it wasn’t long before I was able to add Russian to my skills. I just thought it was better not to let anyone know. I admitted to speaking French and English – the rest I kept to myself, which made for some fascinating listening in.

  ‘You are sooo boring… I’ll go anyway with Olga. Can I get some money?’ Tatiana asked

  Andrei gave her a few hundred euro bills and told her to enjoy herself.

  ‘Let Sergei drive you. He will make sure you girls are safe,’ he instructed.

  ‘Sergei is a big gorilla. No one will ask us to dance,’ she whined again.

  ‘You can dance with Olga or Sergei if he is in a good mood,’ he said and then looked bothered, ‘Sergei better not be in a good mood, because that will mean he had too much vodka.’

  Andrei made his excuses and the two of them left to find Sergei, a mountain of a man and Andrei’s so-called driver. I knew that the next week there would probably be a new very thin girl on Andrei’s arm.

  Andrei came back a few moments later and topped us up again – a waste of good vodka. I hoped the plants below were enjoying the rain of strong Russian alcohol.

  ‘Sorry Cameron. These girls! All they want to do is party, and party every night,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘Well most of them are only young once. They should enjoy themselves.’

  ‘I know, but I’m getting too old to go to nightclubs every night, and they are so boring. Music so loud you can’t have a conversation. Now come, I show you my art,’ and he led me to his living room to show me his collection.

  A few weeks later Andrei gave me a call sounding very excited. He had bought a picture at an auction in Paris. ‘You have to come over to St Paul. I’ve bought this wonderful painting, Cameron. I’m sure you will love it.’

  I agreed to come and see it that night as he sounded very enthusiastic. He greeted me at the door of his villa and introduced me to Svetlana, another of the thin young things that seemed to be his type. Tatiana wasn’t the first or the last of his girlfriends that got replaced when they proved too demanding. Andrei led me into his living room and showed me his latest purchase.

  I stopped in my tracks. ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked. ‘That’s a Hélène Bruchard.’

  ‘I am impressed. Not much of her work is known,’ he replied, surprised.

  ‘All the better. It’s not very good,’ I said abruptly.

  Andrei looked hurt. He obviously liked the painting a lot and wanted my approval.

  ‘This one’s ok, though’ I offered. ‘I know you like early Picasso and this is very much in the same style. Just never show it to me again.’

  He gave me a quizzical look, but put the canvas in his bedroom. He had often wondered why I knew so much about art. I joked that I had known Matisse and Chagall in a previous life.

  ‘I didn’t think you believed in all that reincarnation nonsense, Cameron’

  ‘I just feel that I’ve had many lives before,’ I’d answered philosophically.