He hadn’t argued with the cab driver because he had nothing to prove. He understood poverty and degradation without having to actually experience it. You don’t need to actually touch art.
‘Good evening, come in.’ Jésus tried to disguise his irritation that William Duphine was the first to arrive for the Knock.
‘Yes, hello, Jesus! Is Desmond here yet? What are we drinking?’
Jésus did not answer. He did not care to respond to those who couldn’t be bothered to pronounce his name right.
‘Look at this place! I should drop a line to Time Out . “The hidden gallery that puts the Horniman to shame!”’ He leered at Jésus. ‘Did Desmond say why it wasn’t at the Langham?’
Duphine had, predictably, picked the least interesting of the display pieces to examine, an extremely derivative Jacob Maris piece he mostly kept around because it seemed churlish not to have anything from the Hague School.
Desmond Uxton, the ring’s founder, had in fact had rather a nasty falling-out with one of the managers at the Langham and had violently sworn off the place, but that wasn’t any of William Duphine’s business, so Jésus declined to share it.
Soon enough, the other members of the ring, including Desmond himself, began to join them, taking their places for the bidding, each complimenting Jésus on his home. It was true he had an almost perfect set-up for it, with the eight usual members comfortably fitting in his spacious living room. Nobody mentioned it, but he felt there was also a certain rightness in the fact that the dead man whose spoils they were to bid on had actually run one of the many companies ultimately controlled by Tobias Fell, the owner of Banyan Court itself. All in all, the perfect venue for dividing the bounty of a fixed auction.
‘Right,’ Desmond said at last, once they were all settled. ‘Shall we go in lot order or value? It’s all the same to me.’
‘Lot order is easier to keep track of, I think,’ declared Margot, one of the older members of the ring, and no one disagreed, so the bidding began.
The Knock was a remarkably simple idea. It took place among members of the ring, bidders who would normally be at each other’s throats during the auction but had instead made an arrangement to not compete against each other, at least no more than needed to keep up appearances. This meant some lots could be acquired for a fraction of what they might have cost otherwise. Of course, there were plenty of bidders who weren’t in the ring, and if they were eager for a lot then the price could still climb higher than would be ideal, but the ring’s pockets were deep, and they’d still recoup much of their expenses at the Knock. Once the designated buyers had secured as many of the pre-chosen lots as possible, a second, private auction was held among the ring, with each member bidding on the lots that they had won. The winner would pay off the buyer, and then pay the amount they bid at the Knock evenly among all members of the ring. The money circulated around all through the group in such a way that even if you spent as much on a piece you might have paid at the auction itself, you’d recoup those losses from the other members on the pieces you didn’t win.
It was a way of acquiring valuable pieces of art for less than they were worth, but more than that, membership of the ring was an extremely exclusive thing, and it helped to keep the interlopers and new money from gaining a foothold. Art, Jésus privately believed, was not, in fact, for everybody, and the Knock helped to keep that vital hierarchy in place. It was also quite illegal, but that didn’t matter. They weren’t some petty consortium of scrap metal dealers, they were people of means and power, and they weren’t the sort of people to be touched by the law.
Still, that was hardly what concerned him today. He had a very specific piece he was bidding on. Lot 51, he remembered it quite clearly. None of the pieces were physically present, of course, they’d be delivered as necessary, but his memory was quite vivid enough. It was strange, Jésus had been to so many Knocks in his time that to find himself actually caring about one was a remarkably novel experience. And yet, as the spoils were divided and they came closer and closer to the painting that he still hadn’t been able to get out of his mind, he grew nervous. Lot 46 came and went. Lot 49. What if he wasn’t the only one who saw its potential? What if he had it snatched from him?
As it turned out, he needn’t have worried. Nobody else at the Knock seemed to care much about the painting at all. William Duphine put in an obligatory bid, his expression utterly disinterested, clearly expecting to walk away with it. When he saw Jésus raise his hand to outbid him, he stifled a small laugh. Desmond leaned over.
‘I wouldn’t worry old man,’ he whispered to Jésus, ‘I sometimes lose track as well.’
Jésus kept his gaze level and raised his arm higher, confirming the bid. There were a few whispers, some wondering if they’d missed something important about the painting, others smirking slightly, believing him to have made his first mistake. He ignored them. They hadn’t seen it, not like he had. He wasn’t going to lie to himself their pantomimed confusion and backbiting didn’t get to him, but he was damned if he’d let them know it. William shrugged, conceding the piece. And then it was done.
‘Mind me asking what got you so interested in that one?’ Desmond asked him afterwards, once the other members of the ring had made their polite goodbyes. They all cooperated professionally for the Knock, but he was the only one Jésus would actually consider a friend.
‘You didn’t see it in person, did you?’ he said, releasing a plume of cigar smoke that lazily crept its way around the balcony and out into the night air.
‘Can’t say I did. Had Müller put through my bids by phone as always. I take it the photos don’t do it justice?’
‘They do not. It was unexpected.’
‘Bit of a mess, though, surely? Maybe as an ambience piece, but … what exactly did you see in it?’
‘It’s … outsider art,’ Jésus said, suddenly defensive, ‘the line work, the colours. Think of Georgiana Houghton. Or Madge Gill, perhaps.’
‘Otherworldly lines and haunted geometries, eh?’ Desmond inhaled thoughtfully. ‘Can’t honestly say I saw anything of that in it.’
‘Well, I did.’
‘Hm. Sounds like it really called to you.’ Desmond’s tone was casual, but the words still gave Jésus pause. He shifted uncomfortably.
‘Yes. Yes, it did.’
‘Unless you know something about it you’re not telling?’ Desmond’s smile did its best to hide the slight edge creeping into his voice. Jésus knew that his friend hated more than anything to feel like anyone had got one over on him.
‘No. I simply … like it.’ Jésus wanted to say more, to put into words the feelings it stirred in him, but English was a blunt, clumsy language and he simply couldn’t do it.
‘Well, I hope so. No way you’re going to sell it on its own, so I suppose you better find some wall space.’
‘I shall. It’s going to be where it belongs, I think.’
Desmond shrugged and returned to his own cigar. The two of them sat in silence, watching the thin lines of smoke twist and contort in the lights of the city below.