by Leo Barton
She had been incensed by his attitude, by his obtuseness. It must have hurt him more than he realised, more than she realised being rejected by Delgado. Alfonso didn't know what he was talking about. She knew Delgado much better than he did. All those hours that they had spent talking about art, about life. There was a lot about him that she found repulsive, false, pretentious, but when it came to art she trusted him more than anyone.
She could hear Alfonso walking behind her, calling out of her name in the people congested Ramblas. She hailed a cab and picking out the key to the studio where her paintings had been stored, she headed to retrieve them from Alfonso's grasp.
Pride and her anger at Alfonso had made her walk out on him, but now that she was in the cab she panicked. What on earth was she going to do with all those paintings? She couldn't very well store them at the hotel. She thought of Delgado. She could call him, but what Alfonso had said did scare her. The man and the artist in contrast to Delgado's aesthetic philosophy were not the same thing. The artist, and she had seen and praised his work often, was probably unsurpassable by contemporary standards; the man was intriguing, forceful, sensual, and had been generous with her in terms at least of nurturing her art. However, there was also something quite despicable about him, the way that he dismissed other's work, scorned their brave attempts. She couldn't forget the sadness he had brought to people like Damian and Rebecca, and how bitterly twisted he had made Alfonso, nor the way he manipulated people and seemingly discarded them when they were of no use.
No, something prevented her from phoning Delgado. The only other person she could think who would have the space to store her paintings was Maria. She was sure Maria would help her.
She was relieved to find Maria at home when she rang her from outside Alfonso's personal studio. She had told her the very basic details trying not to apportion blame either to Alfonso or herself, just saying that they'd had an argument. Maria was more than happy to store the paintings at the family villa. She would come round with somebody in an hour.
She was as good as her word. She pulled up in a white Bedford van on the corner of the narrow street where Linda was baking in the midday sun.
Maria always looked beautiful with those adorable wide eyes and that classical mouth. Linda could never quite get the word statuesque out of her mind when she saw her. She was dressed casually enough in patched jeans and a thin white tee-shirt that totally covered her chest but left her midriff exposed.
'I'm so grateful you came.'
'Don't worry.'
'I was expecting Alfonso to turn up and create a scene.'
'He rang me, I told him to have the sense to stay away.'
'Oh, thanks again.'
'Okay let's get the paintings in the van.'
When they were all loaded, Linda climbed up beside Maria and they drove off in the direction of Maria's family villa.
'Linda they are fantastic, the paintings, I love them.' She hadn't made any comments as they had been carrying them down to the van, but Linda had noticed Maria inspecting each of the paintings as she covered them with a plentiful supply of dustsheets she had brought with her.
'I'm glad you like them.'
'There was one in particular. I don't know what it is called. It was full of different shades of blue, waves of blue, and on the border there was such a bright red colour. It was fantastic. I can't describe it; I mean how it made me feel. There was a dark figure, well not exactly a figure, but more of an impression of a figure in a very dark blue, it looked like a woman reclining. It was so serene.'
'I'm glad you liked it. I'm more than glad. I thought about you when I painted it. No, I didn't just think about you. I meditated on you, and what you were and how you made me feel.'
Maria's eyes smiled brightly, and she leaned over and kissed her on the lips, momentarily forgetting that she was driving a huge truck up the motorway. They both laughed but only when Maria had regained control of the steering wheel.
Once they had unpacked the paintings in the cellar of the house, Linda rang Delgado to rearrange their appointment. Delgado was gruff on the telephone but she was assured that he would visit.
Maria mixed her a long drink as they sat on the terrace and looked into the calm Mediterranean.
'I don't know what Alfonso's problem is. He said he had some information about Delgado. He got it when he was in Zurich, but you know how mysterious Alfonso likes to be. He wouldn't say anything.'
'You know that I went with him to Zurich. And it was true that he did get a telephone call. I wasn't very happy at the time because we were making love, but all he said was that he had to go out. When he came back he told me he had learned something very interesting but he wouldn't say what it was. I thought the call was planned. That he was going off on one of his adventures and that this time he didn't want me to come. Maybe he was telling the truth.'
'Or maybe you were right. Anyway I hope you don't mind, Delgado is coming at six.'
'No, but I don't want him to stay. I really don't like him.'
'Why?'
'Oh, nothing more concrete than instinct. Anyway, I have some guests coming. You have come at a very interesting time.'
Linda knew by the mischievous smile that she was not going to learn more until the evening.
She had never seen Delgado dressed so formerly. He wore a black evening suit with a matching dickey bow, and a white silk tasselled scarf was draped loosely around his shoulders.
'You look very surprised to see me, Linda. It must be the suit.' Delgado smirked. It was the closest she had ever seen him come to laughing.
'Well, yes.'
'Magritte used to wear a suit. Half of the surrealists wore suits. It was to confuse the bourgeoisie. Subversion, so they thought, was more difficult to dismiss if its perpetrators were dressed like accountants.'
'Is that why you are wearing a suit?'
'Maybe,' he said. 'I only have thirty minutes.' The voice, although calm had an insistent edge, not only reminding her that the maestro did not have long, but what a crime it was to waste his time in idle chatter.
She thought about mentioning Alfonso's changed attitude towards him, but decided that for the moment it might be advisable to keep her own counsel.
She led Delgado down the rickety stairs to the cellar, unlocked the door, and switched on the bare electric light.
'I know it's not ideal conditions for a viewing.'
'I'll manage.'
'They are over there.'
'So I can see. Linda, I'd rather inspect them alone.' He walked over to the huge canvasses stacked in the corner of the room, turned around and glanced back at Linda, a further encouragement for her to leave the cellar.
She sat down on the rickety steps outside the cellar door and waited for him to come out. It was an agony waiting like that, wondering what Delgado was going to make of the work she had obsessively laboured over in his Pyrenees shack; it proved to her, for all that Alfonso had said, how much she still valued his opinion.
There was no light, nor was she wearing a watch so she had no idea how long he was in there. She was stuck in this terrible limbo of Delgado's imminent judgement, her heart pounding, her palms slicking with perspiration.
Finally he opened the door, and held it open for her, inviting her entry. She walked in. Delgado pulled up two stools that he had found in a dark corner of the cellar. She sat down.
'Well?'
He smiled at her, but the smile was inscrutable. He peered into her eyes through the dim light of the room, but said nothing.
'I know it's difficult to see them properly, you know, to get the full effect of the light.'
He nodded painfully slowly. 'You've made progress, Linda, personal progress at least.'
'But?' She could tell by the tone of his voice that this was a preamble to less positive comments.
'You have encapsulated some very interesting ideas and I'm sure that you will find some interest in the minor galleries, but I can't hide the fact that I am p
ersonally disappointed. After all our conversations, after everything we said, I had expected more. You are still fighting to liberate yourself. There are too many nods to other painters, too much that to my eye at least is derivative. There were however one or two paintings that caught my eye, that I thought we could do something with.'
'We?'
'I don't want to say any more at this stage. I only want your promise that you will not show the one that looks like a very elegant moonscape, number eighteen I think it was, nor do I want you to show twenty-five.'
'Why not? They are two of my finest pieces of work.'
'I have my reasons. We'll talk in a couple of days. I have some work of my own to do. I don't want you to despair, Linda, this is a beginning. I'm sure that you can do a lot better than this, a lot better.'
She felt tears gathering in her eyes, her throat was dry. He had been much more severe than even she had anticipated. Her sense of rejection, of inadequacy honed to her bafflement that Delgado did not want her to show some of her paintings. 'Why don't you want me to show everything?'
'I have my reasons. I really can't speak now about it. As I said, in a couple of days.'
'Is that all you've got to say about them?' She was angry with him, but she knew even as her voice raised that her anger was only covering the pain of his judgement.
'I could say more. If you wanted more precise criticism but the overall comment would not change. Maybe you have something more than talent, Linda, after seeing your efforts I am no longer sure, but this work just isn't good enough.' All the time he had spoken to her he held her hand, his voice calm and measured, a declension of bathos in the timbre of his voice.
He stood up. 'I'll contact you in a couple of days. The two paintings I mentioned are promising, very promising. I might be able to get them into a gallery for you under certain circumstances, but I'll talk to you later about that. Now you need time to reflect. I need time to reflect.' He squeezed her hand and then walked out the door, as Linda placed her head on the table and began to sob.
Maria came down and without speaking picked her gently from where she was sitting and led her upstairs.
'He didn't like them?'
'Not at all.'
'He's not the only artist in Barcelona.'
'He was for me.'
They hugged in Maria's bedroom.
'You know I was so sure that I had produced something worthwhile. I mean, I didn't expect to set the world on fire, but I knew I'd do something good.'
'Know. You know. Goodness knows what kind of power games Delgado is playing with you. When you produce work of that quality, Linda, you don't need Delgado's approval.'
Maria was right of course. Linda knew this. She thought about her work again. She was sure that she had produced something of merit, otherwise every instinct she had ever had as an art critic or as an artist had been wrong, but the sting of Delgado's words would not go away.
'Linda, dinner is in an hour. I would like you to meet my father and some of the other guests. The art world here in Barcelona is much bigger than Delgado. Listen to them! Take their advice! Now I will leave you alone to shower. Come down when you are ready. We will eat on the terrace.' Maria kissed her gently on the cheek, embraced her again and slipped out of the door.
She did not feel like eating or seeing anybody, but she felt that she should make an effort; after all she was staying in the house of Maria's father. It would be very impolite not to meet him. She climbed into the shower, scrubbing herself briskly, trying to clean away all the despondency she felt after Delgado's visit.
Maria had kindly sent for her clothes and settled her bill at the hotel, so Linda could choose whatever clothes she wanted. She thought of wearing the pearl white dress again, but settled instead for a cotton print dress with bright geometric patterns on a background of aquamarine. To add to the ensemble she put on a necklace of turquoise stones and tied her hair in a chignon that gave her, as she realised as she stared at her reflection in the glass, a sophisticated air. When she was ready she walked onto the terrace and into the humid night air. In the middle of the terrace, near the steps that led to the swimming pool, was a table laden with food, and sitting around the table were five people helping themselves to a buffet of cold meats, salad and fruit. A champagne bottle popped as she approached and all heads turned to meet her gaze.
She knew instinctively who the other guests were from what Maria had already told her. Apart from Maria, she assumed that the debonair looking man with the silky hair and the handsome, distinguished face sitting at the head of the table was her father. The handsome man sitting opposite must be Hugo; his hair was darker and grey-flecked at the temples, his eyes were dark and penetrating. Beside him there was a young girl, maybe as young as eighteen with beautiful dark, copper-coloured hair, a broad mouth and big brown eyes that had been staring intently at the man sitting beside her. To his right was a strong looking, blond woman with steely blue eyes that Linda recognised as Laura.
She was introduced to all in turn. Maria's father insisted that they desist from formalities and that he be addressed as Matteo; the young girl, so Linda discovered, was a distant cousin of Maria's called Isabella.
Linda took a seat next to Maria after the introductory greetings were over. Matteo poured her a glass of champagne, and she thought she detected a distinct, knowing smile pass across the table between him and Hugo. Although the two men must have been roughly about fifty, they looked robustly virile, and Matteo in particular had high, patrician cheekbones and a long slender nose that to Linda at least spoke of refined ideas and refined living.
The chat was amiable enough. Linda drank more champagne than was probably good for her, making her feel lightheaded, and eventually she reached that stage of tipsiness which blanks out all other considerations other than enjoying the moment. She flirted outrageously with Maria's father, much to Maria's amusement, as the daughter noticed how Linda's eyes frequently settled on her father's and how coquettishly she smiled.
Linda had decided that she wanted to fuck this man, as if sex could somehow erase the final lingering of disappointment, at least temporarily. She sensed that Matteo knew this too.
It came as no surprise to Linda when Matteo invited her into his study to discuss her work in more detail. She knew it was a ploy, as she suspected the rest of her table companions did too, but by this stage she didn't really care. She followed Matteo's strong lean body up to a set of rooms that she had not visited before, and into his study.
The spacious room was filled with great works of modernist art. There was an Egon Schiele painting behind Matteo's mahogany desk, and on one wall an early Braque hung next to a late Chagall. On the facing terracotta wall three fair-sized Mogdiliani's imposed their presence.
'You are impressed,' he said in his heavy accented Spanish.
'Yes very.'
'Not as impressed I would imagine as this senor who stands before you gazing at one of the most beautiful women he has ever seen in the world.'
She smiled at his outrageous flattery.
'The art we will discuss tomorrow, now I want to see you.' He was leaning against his desk while Linda stood in the middle of the room gazing at the modernistic splendour around her, before her eyes settled on the tall, handsome man in front of her. She hadn't noticed, but Hugo had entered the room and was standing behind her.
'That sounds like an interesting proposition,' she said mischievously, thinking about unleashing his prick from the neat cut of his khaki trousers.
It was then that she noticed Hugo's presence. He moved forward and leaned against the desk, nodding at Linda as he passed her. Now Linda thought that the evening's entertainment was going to get even more exciting.
'You have to understand, Linda, that sometimes we like to take our pleasure roughly. We like to play a little with our guests. You understand?'
Linda nodded. She understood perfectly.
'We will bring the pleasure to you,' Matteo added, his ungrammatical Englis
h sending a little tingle of anticipated delight up the back of her spine. Linda was sweating now. All the rooms seemed air-conditioned apart from this one. Linda surmised that this had been done on purpose, as Hugo cast a lascivious glance at the beads of sweat that had gathered at the top of her cleavage, well exposed by her low cut dress.
Hugo went to the corner of the room and retrieved a soda siphon.
'Would you like to cool down, my dear?' Hugo asked, pointing the siphon at her. Before she had a chance to answer, he pressed down on the top and sprayed the cool water across her face then down her dress. Matteo pulled her to him roughly, so that she stood in front of him facing Hugo. He lifted up her dress and Hugo fired the water at her patterned lace panties.
It felt deliciously wanton to be covered in the jet of water, to feel the liquid impact all over her panties, making them cling even more to her body. She was passive in Matteo's arms, as he pulled the gusset of her panties aside so that Hugo could hit the bullseye of her quim with the water. She felt a tingle in her swelling sex lips as she felt the pressure of the water on her. Hugo was now crouching down before her looking admiringly at her exposed pudendum, pulling her lips slightly apart. The cold nozzle of the siphon pressed against her intimate flesh. Then the release of water shooting up her, as Matteo threading his arms through hers, sneaked his hands under her dress and the lace of her white bra and massaged her breasts roughly with his hands, his long slender fingers pinching lightly on her teats. The pressure of water again, shooting up inside her, tingling her, tantalising her, and then the sensation of being lifted onto the mahogany table, the strong smell of the two men's cologne mingling in a heady combination, overlaid by the piquant aroma of cigar smoke on their breath.
Once lifted onto the desk, her panties were unceremoniously ripped from her body and her bottom roughly yanked up. Matteo sat on the edge of the desk, spreading her sex lips, exposing the lighter pink of her sex before Hugo's eyes. The nozzle went in again, the water gushing inside her, until she thought she could stand the tantalising sensation no more.