“Good morning, my name is Didrik Holgersson.” He held out his hand. “I’m a historian, and I’m looking for pieces by a Swedish man who lived here in Bordeaux just before the end of the Second World War. He might have been known as Sven Steen or Dejje Steen.” He took the receipt out of his pocket. “I found this in the cellar of the vineyard where he was living. Do you know this artist?”
The woman examined the receipt, then said, “Goodness me. Dejje Steen.”
Didrik realized that he ought to be filming this. He clicked on the camera on his phone, then paused and asked: “Is it okay if I do some filming?”
The woman nodded. “It’s fine.” She took off her glasses and looked at him. “I know Dejje Steen. He’s a local artist who has been popular for a long time. A bit of a hidden gem, but hugely appreciated by those who have discovered him, particularly in this area. We might even have something of his at the moment.” She smiled. “Come with me.”
Didrik followed her through the room.
“Here we are.” She looked up at the wall. The only pictures hanging there were watercolors. None of them matched what he knew of Sven’s style. The woman picked up a low stool and clambered onto it with some difficulty.
“I can do ...” Didrik began, but the woman simply reached up and took down a painting before he could finish the sentence.
It was a watercolor in a gilded frame, slightly larger than A4. The subject was a vineyard, painted in muted shades of green—from the pale-green bunches of grapes to the emerald-green grove of trees at the edge of the picture. The rows of vines were executed with sweeping strokes, yet gave off an air of precision. A slender man was walking between the rows with his back to the observer, as if he were heading toward the horizon. As a guess, Didrik thought the subject was middle-aged, based on his posture and the graying hair just visible below his hat.
“But this can’t be by Sven,” Didrik said hesitantly, looking more closely now. “Or rather, Dejje Steen. It looks so ... new.” Had Sven perhaps had access to watercolor paints during the war?
“It definitely is.” The woman smiled and turned the canvas over.
And there it was,Dejje Steenon the back. But ... it was dated 1979. And farther down, the wordMathieu.
“So you deal in paintings by Dejje Steen?”
“Sometimes. There are a few around.”
“And this is dated 1979.”
“It is.”
“But he died in 1944.”
The woman laughed. “I don’t think so. He’s probably dead now, but we were taking new paintings from him until the eighties. Unfortunately, I never met him, even though I’ve worked here for many years. He never came in himself; others brought the pieces in for him. On one occasion it was a neighbor, as far as I recall, and on another his elderly mother, who didn’t speak a word of French.” She laughed again at the memory.
“Can I buy this?”
“Of course—let me see how much it costs.” She went behind the desk, tapped away on her computer, then gave him an eye-watering price. Didrik didn’t need to think for too long; he took out his card, then watched with satisfaction as she carefully packed up the painting.
On the way back to the hotel, he let the information sink in. How could Sven have painted this picture? The only possible explanation was that he hadn’t died in the prison camp, as they had believed all along. Which made his sending of the wine bottle entirely logical.
So what had actually happened to Sven? Had he managed to escape from the camp?
Didrik supposed that, unlike in Hollywood movies, the Foreign Legion probably didn’t hunt down its deserters over land and sea. But if Sven had left the Legion and remained here in Bordeaux, and his identity had become known, he would certainly have faced a jail sentence for deserting. If he had stayed in France, then it was likely that he would have used his nickname, Dejje Steen, for his paintings.
According to everything Didrik and Bente had read, Sven had been an outstanding legionnaire and a dedicated soldier. Giving all that up and deserting must have been a big thing—so big that he had decided it was better to let the world believe he had died.
This was too much to take in. He had to tell Bente! He didn’t want to do this on his own. He took out his phone and called her without the slightest hesitation.
But there was no answer.
Didrik returned the boxes to Sylvie later than day, and told her what he’d found out. She urged him to contact Jérôme again.
“Sometimes he has better days.”
That was probably true, but it was already late, and his brother was due to arrive soon. Plus he wanted to talk things over with Bente; conducting research without her just wasn’t the same. If he was going to see Jérôme again, then Bente had to be there. They would do it together.
His brother drove up to the hotel in a rental car. Didrik was waiting and gave him a hug right away.
They had dinner at a small bistro. Didrik ordered wine confidently, and Victor was impressed by his newfound knowledge.
