THE MEN WHO FAKED AVA GARDNER'S BRA

Felix Pryor tells how he discovered that an

`important archive' of Hemingway material consisted of forgeries

LYING in my bath the other day, I heard on the Today programme about an impor- tant archive of Hemingway material com- ing up for sale in Sussex. The collection, the man in my bath told me, included an unpublished novel, praising Hollywood, written when Hemingway's friends were `selling out' to the films, and many signed photographs. I couldn't quite understand the first bit (about the novel), but then that's about par for the Today programme. And the second bit sounded odd. Archives don't usually include large quantities of signed photographs. One or two, maybe, for the piano and the downstairs loo, but not stacks of them.

The archive apparently came from Spain. The interviewer not unreasonably asked what it was doing with a small auc- tioneer in Sussex. He was told they had fostered good relations in that quarter. Good for them, I thought. One in the eye for Sotheby's and Christie's. Soon I was lis- tening to the weather forecast and the thing passed from my mind. Next day, I was rung up by a well-known autograph dealer, John Wilson. He'd just received a catalogue from the journalist who'd broken the story. He thought he might be going a bit mad and had got forg- eries on the brain, but as far as he could see the whole sale was faked, nearly 300 lots of it. Being the boy pointing at the naked emperor does make one feel a bit vulnerable. I ordered a catalogue, which arrived next day. The cover bore a picture of Hemingway drinking from a tumbler of vino tinto, boldly signed, 'Ernesto Heming- way' and inscribed :

To Ricardo and Betty, Best love to both and my best to the boys to amigo Ernest Hemingway

It was a passable imitation of his hand, but didn't quite look right. The catalogue described itself as 'The Hemingway Cen- tennial Auction 30 September 1998' held 'In Association With The 1899-1999 Cen- tennial Hemingway Prize For Literature, Arts & Sciences', of which nothing more was said.

The auctioneer's preface told us about the Sicre family who had formed the col- lection. Ricardo Sicre, it seems, had been a secretary to Robert Graves, served as an American agent and made a fortune importing J&B whisky into Spain. I checked in a Graves biography and, yes, Sicre did exist as stated. The collection was being sold by Ricardo's son, Jay. The cata- logue tells us with a below-stairs breath- lessness worthy of Hello! magazine: The world of Ricardo Sicre had no frontiers. In this unique collection dating from the 1930s, we find many letters, photographs, notes and curios acquired during the last 50 years relating to the vast circle of celebrities and members of European aris- tocratic families which surrounded the Sicres. Ricardo would often play host at fabulous parties which would take place after all important events. His exuberant hedonism in the form of culinary fantasies and a very select cellar attracted the rich and famous. His influential friendships with the most important persons of the 20th century continued until his death.'

This tone is kept up unflaggingly throughout the catalogue. It is as if Hem- ingway were only of account for his booz- ing, women, bullfights and wonderful celebrity friends, and his writing was inci- dental, and Graves was only of account for his friendship with Ava Gardner. The cata- logue text, as befits a celebrity function and the swankier Continental efforts of Christie's and Sotheby's, is in parallel English and Spanish. It is stuffed full of photographs of Hemingway, signed vari- ously as 'Ernest Hemingway', 'Papa', 'Your big kitten Papa', 'Ernesto', 'El Choco Papa', 'best always Papa — Ernesto Hem- ingway', etc. The Sicres must have had a lot of pianos and downstairs loos. It also con- tains an amazing number of menus, brochures, books, magazines, railway timetables, all signed by our amigo Ernesto. Obviously a dangerous man to have around (reminding me of the time someone came in to Sotheby's, where I was then working, with a signed photograph of Mussolini. 'I didn't want Mussolini to sign it', he told me plaintively, 'he just shoved it into my hands without asking').

It's not until lot 93 that we get to the novel announced on the Today programme. This comes in a folder bizarrely lettered in white: 'Hollywood Express/working title/Dr Ernest Hemingstein', and consists of more signed photographs, letters (signed, of course) and illustrated doggerel verses. Not so much a novel, more a heap of scraps, and nothing in it much resembling Hem- ingway. Then comes a wad of his letters (on paper headed 'World Commerce Cor- poration'). Then some dirty poems. Per- haps he was on mescalin:

There was a young maiden To Margorie I don't know what became of Jenny - It was no fault of mine I wonder what became of Jenny I put her in the hay, And then I went away.. ..

Then, after another batch of pho- tographs (how nice of him to inscribe a photograph to Robert Graves with a matching photograph for Ava Gardner!), things become really weird. There's Ernesto's logbook, used when making secret wartime surveys, stamped, 'If Lost `Trouble is by the time he gets here with it, it's yesterday's.' Return to Dept. of Commerce, The Unit- ed States Embassy, Habana, Cuba' (very hush-hush, that). When I got to see this in the flesh, the lettering which had been bright and shiny in the catalogue photo- graph had all but rubbed off. Then there's Ernesto's typewriter, with a brass plaque announcing the fact: `E.H. WAR CORRSPT AP0887 HQU' (obviously they ran out of space). The only famous type- writer I've ever sold is Sylvia Plath's, and that didn't announce the fact; no plaque on it saying, 'S. PLATH POET ARIEL BELL JAR WRTER'. Whose typewriter does? Christie's once sold Yeats's pen that didn't say anything on it. Such announcements are left to forgers. As Shaw once said, to the brazen all is brass. Then there's a Spanish Civil War mortar presented to Ernesto in 1939 and his har- poon gun. ('We are widely advised that this gun, not having a conventional hol- lowed barrel but a guiding rod, is not cov- ered by the British Fire Arms law.') What next? Ava Gardner's bra, tastefully framed (lot 129). We're then treated to a whole swathe of Ava's letters. As forgeries go, these are rather half-hearted. Then a spot of Princess Grace pouring out her heart about Caroline (if anything, even worse). Then a chunk of Albert Einstein (don't ask me why). Even Charles Darwin puts in an appearance, the ink of the signa- ture running into the paper, showing that it's new ink on old paper. There's even a temble Abraham Lincoln forgery. They perhaps push their luck too far with a Sal- vador Dali forgery, painted inside a brief- case: 'This is the prototype of a series never to be produced. The case has been dis- played as a work of art and is unique in that no records are known relating to a Dali briefcase....' With this is a huge certificate carrying a shiny red seal telling us it's gen- uine. So that's all right, then. And there's a bottle of wine signed by various bullfighters, with, for some reason, a hand-drawn label inscribed, of course, by Ernesto. Must look out for one of those at Oddbins.

My favourites? Lot 104, a policeman's helmet 'believed to have been "removed" from the Policeman by Ernest Hemingway and presented to Betty Sicre, signed by Ava Gardner, Fondly Grace Kelly, Very best wishes Ernest Hemingway, Sincerely Maria Calas [sic], Clark Gable, Errol Flynn and Gary Cooper To Betty.' My tip- top favourite? Lot 132, 'a black kimono with Art Deco multi-coloured floral deco- ration' with a `Sicre's archive note' telling us that it was 'once the property of Lawrence of Arabia. Given to [Robert] Graves in 1932 by Winston Churchill, this full-length Art Deco Kimono worn by Lawrence in the 1920s bears MGM studio Madrid marking and is a most historic item. My godmother [Ava Gardner to you] wore it at the swimming pool.' In antiquar- ian bookseller's jargon, 'the Lawrence- Churchill-Graves-Gardner kimono'.

The weird thing is that, in his letters, Ernesto shows the same ignorance of idiomatic English as the cataloguer, whoev- er that was. Ernesto writes of a bullfighter's jacket, the star item in the sale: 'I will stop now Jay as I must get busy at the office. I don't know how much it will mean to you in owning these special items. You are a wonderful son, and I thank you very much and I am so proud. Your big friend Papa.'

A few days later we were ready to go to Sussex. When I rang, the auctioneer's tele- phone was engaged. Eventually he answered. He told us that some of the items were packed up ready for a 'parlia- mentary reception' in London the next day. (I felt a smirk creeping over me which made me feel a bastard, but nevertheless it was fun.) He could fit us in, though. John Wilson, his wife Gina and I drove down. The place was a wooden scout hall type of building next to a health centre. It was staffed by three people: a man in an open- necked shirt with longish grey hair, whom I took to be the person I heard in my bath, plus a female assistant and a young man. Everyone was hugely polite. We shuffled past photocopiers and arranged ourselves round a desk. The man in the bath sat at the desk next to us. What would we like to see? Oh well, a bit of everything, we said, like newcomers to a strange foreign restau- rant. So they brought in several plastic folders containing the letters and pho- tographs by Ernesto and Ava. We talked in whispers, like children sharing a secret.

I think by then John and I must have become attuned to the rhythms of the forgers' handwriting. At all events, when we looked at the letters in the flesh, there didn't seem to be any doubt whatsoever. We were wondering not whether things were genuine or not, but whether the same forger had forged this as had forged that. Gina tried on the Lawrence-Churchill- Graves-Gardner kimono. Obviously Lawrence of Arabia was a six-foot The only thing I'm growing this year is poorer.' transvestite. The only thing that could, at a pinch, have been right was a book inscribed to Sicre by Robert Graves.

After we'd finished looking at the collec- tion, there was a pause. The grey-haired man at the desk looked up and asked if we were as impressed by the collection as they were. Only then were introductions made. John told him that he had not so far iden- tified a single genuine item. I told him that they reminded me of some forgeries exposed ten years ago in the Sunday Times. I gave details and, in Famous Five mode, a physical description of the man I took to be the ringleader. Silence. The two assis- tants hung around beyond the photo- copiers. Were we sure, the auctioneer asked. He looked as somebody would look when their world had crumbled.

He then let us into his confidence. He had received a long call that morning just when I was trying to get through, that must have been — from a member of the Sicre family, telling him they didn't know anything about the collection, and that many details didn't add up. Letters placed their mother in the wrong place at the wrong time and referred to people she never knew. I had worked in the auction business and knew what he must be feel- ing, and commiserated. We looked at a few more things on the way out (having come all this way, we had to have a peek at Ava Gardner's bra), and then disappeared.

We then made calls to the journalist who had originally announced the sale. The Times sent someone down to Sussex. Apparently, further consignments from Spain were planned. Would we get Ava's panties next time round? Meanwhile, someone told me of a batch of similar stuff appearing for sale in New York. The fol- lowing day our story appeared in the Times (25 September): 'Hemingway collection "is vast forgery" . . . Commenting on the specialists' view, Garth Denham, the auc- tioneer, said, "This is a very bold thing for them to say. They must feel very sure of their ground. If it came to court and they were proved wrong, they'd be destitute." ' The next day, cancellation of the sale was announced.

Perhaps we should leave the last word to our good friend Ernesto (lot 13): 'I think that the later Sport Illustrated piece dough has gone, so I will ready myself for the other Corrida. I am over-lettering you, my plane goes at 9. Maybe I will get our air- hostess-miss pussy. . . '; or as he says slightly more coherently elsewhere (lot 98): 'There are a lot of worthless people around . . . Plenty of people think we don't have the outline of the "crook" thing . . . There is no security any more, so no more need for control. I am sending it Air- mail. Best always Ernesto.' Is he trying to tell us something?

Felix Pryor is author of The Deceiving Hand: A History of Manuscript Forgery, to be published by the British Library in 2000.