by Trevor Eve
Manita didn’t speak to Ever, her position when not driving was in the back with Lomita’s reclined head on her lap.
When they reached La Paz, it felt like the world had arrived to hit them: it appeared busy and informed; Ever did not enjoy the sense of connection with an informed world. From La Paz they, it was actually Manita’s choice, decided to cross to Todos Santos so that they could access the new toll road and avoid the coastal track through Los Barriles, which was more direct but rough. They would then head on the smoother road into San José.
*
The hospital would be their first port of call, in what had certainly been a storm.
Now the journey had an increased desperation: Lomita had slipped into a permanent state of sleep and Manita was unable, for the first time, to control her emotion.
Ever had not witnessed this before; Manita sat in the back sobbing her heart out. Six hours later with his eyes like pins, small, clenching and unclenching to keep awake, determined and focused to get to the hospital, with instructions from Manita; just before dusk, they pulled into the forecourt. Manita, only a notch below hysterical, demanded a gurney and the attention of anyone who was prepared to listen.
Lomita was taken in, after endless form-filling by Manita, to a private room, and the first thing was the insertion of an IV line to give her fluids and nutrition.
This had taken over from the events of three days ago, the concern for Lomita, Ever had not listened to the news, or wanted to, or taken in any of the outside world. It was all about Lomita and only Lomita. After a couple of hours, bloods had been taken from her and Manita suggested to the now slumped Ever, who had been sat in the same seat in the corridor, drifting in and out of somewhere, that they go to the house and return early in the morning to start the next day’s vigil.
She kindly felt, Ever interpreted it as a kindness anyway, that he needed to know where the house was and from there he got the sense it would be up to him. He was not a priority; he agreed, he wasn’t.
They drove from the hospital, leaving San José to the north along a paved road and then a dirt track, driving slowly, as a precaution against wandering animals; the temptation to put it to the floor and get there and breathe was almost irresistible.
On the instruction to turn right up a sandy bank they entered the first set of gates of Casa Lomita. Pedro came out of the caretaker’s casita and opened up the house with a warm greeting for Manita.
*
Ever walked into this world of its own.
With the only sound being the sea and the whistling osprey, which Manita pointed out, settled on top of the lighthouse, lit by the light beneath. Ever looked up and then he saw the stars. Clear, close, and talking. They parked the Suburban next to a sand-coloured Toyota F J Cruiser, and walked through the house; Pedro opened the doors, Ever stepped out onto the terrace and the moon, not full but waning, still had the strength to throw light across the ocean, enabling him to see a world with no problems and no relation or connection to anything. It was a dream that could never be dreamt, spread before you in reality better than any fantastical construction could ever be. Pedro, as is the traditional hospitality of Baja, produced a bottle of tequila and a small shot glass and placed them on the marble-topped table on the terrace.
‘Welcome to Casa Lomita, señor. Tomorrow I start early with the delivery. I wish you to sleep well. Buenas noches.’
Ever returned the courtesy of a goodnight, not attempting Spanish to Pedro’s near perfect English.
Ever did not question the delivery of what, he just wanted to sit and drink and get lost in the haze of the distilled agave, the beauty of the sky, the sound of the sea and the smell. He realised it was the same feeling that he got from Lomita, that smell of confidence of being at one. It was nature, pure and simple. Manita came to say goodnight and told him to lock the terrace door when he went to his bed, which was to his left at the end of the living room. He wasn’t sure whether lying down with his thoughts on his own would be possible tonight or indeed ever again. The chill of the wind made him aware he had nothing with him, just what he sat with, there had been no preparation, no thought put into this adventure. It was a strange turn of events that had brought them here. Nothing would ever be the same again.
How long would it take?
*
The next morning after a sleepless night.
But one that had taken him inside when the damp from the ocean presented a chill to his bones, too tired to resist its invasion. And then there came the sound of engines. His first fear quickly evaporated. The reality of the noise became apparent. Pedro arrived in a convoy of four pickup trucks as the sun was rising over the ocean. Manita handed Ever a cup of coffee: life started early here. He was standing outside with a stare, he could see uncovered The Wave. Pedro handed him a piece of paper: the delivery logistics and timeframe. The trucks contained his father’s paintings and had been picked up from a storage facility at the back of the old town in San José, next to the church, according to the instruction, where they had been delivered, driven straight down from the gallery in downtown Los Angeles.
A world away now and Lomita had known when he had asked if he would ever see them again that he would. But what else she knew then he had no idea. He, with a surprisingly relaxed feel, wandered around the trucks and counted twenty paintings. He sank to his knees, his head dropped to his chest and he prayed; the four Mexicans didn’t seem too concerned, and even seemed to accept that the act had a normality, a place. He prayed to his God, he prayed for Lomita and gave her the biggest thank you he had the power to give in his soul. He stood up and walked away into his own world and wept. Wept for them both.
What had he done?
He recognised the imbalance that he always knew was in him.
Now the gyroscope had levelled.
There was no more he could do.
He was done.
*
The viral pneumonia didn’t respond to antibiotic treatment, understandably.
But they had to try everything, and steroidal antiviral treatment did not prevent Ever from slipping into a coma brought about by an ever-decreasing weakness in his immune system and his soul having decided finally to go. It thought, his soul, that it should never really have come back. Ten days he lay in this condition, his mother, in a rare display of emotion, unbeknown to Ever, was dragged away from his bedside, screaming, when she was told to prepare for the worst. Ever’s fading memory, as he drifted, was of the deep-voiced consultant in his pinstripe suit looking at him with that look of concern reserved for the truly sick. Ever knew he was truly sick because a smell emanated from him that he had never smelt before or since. It was a heavy, overpowering smell, stale – yes, putrid – not quite. It just hung and it came from deep in his body, his body that was fighting at a cellular level where the rot was being forced out. He was fifteen.
Chapter Thirty-four
‘I can’t believe you bought them and gave me way more than I would have asked. Or, to be honest, even expected, so I will most definitely adjust your payment. They are well on their way.’
Mr Lorken was sitting opposite Lomita at their Friday lunch appointment. They were dining at Atalam, a restaurant afforded its celebrity by the owner chef, Transient Dillane. Lomita had ordered a kale salad and Mr Lorken had the squid ink bucatini.
A dish Lomita never understood, turning your mouth a dark colour with the dubious over-intensity of fishy taste. And you ended up looking like a schoolkid who’d sucked his pen. She was happy she would be able to push around a few walnuts and some quinoa, another food she failed to understand.
‘And Mexico, you have a house there.’
‘No, it’s a gallery. I am sending them to a gallery. I have faith Ingmar, you see, they will have a life.’
‘Well I admire your faith, but I think in this case it’s misplaced. Certainly not a safe bet. Not like a Metzinger.’
‘Oh, you mentioned this before.’
Lomita was feeling her fears
were about to be justified.
‘You never told me which one, and you see, Lomita, I can account for ownership of every single one, either in personal collections or museums. Except for one.’
‘I didn’t say I still had it.’
‘No, that is true. So which one was it?’
‘I told you. I don’t feel obliged to tell you.’
‘You do not have a completely anonymous past. I mean it is possible to find out who you were connected to.’
‘And you obviously have.’
Said a resigned Lomita.
‘Yes. It was your quip about the Caravaggio that gave me the clue. I mean those Masters have an easy-to-trace provenance. And it only left one. And that was stolen by the same group of people that your husband was in business with.’
‘My goodness Ingmar, you have been busy.’
‘I have done nothing. I pay people who are in positions to gain access to information on anyone. You are not really that difficult to unearth.’
The stress gave the word – unearth – the weight of discovering an Egyptian relic.
‘All the way back to Pittsburgh in fact.’
‘So what.’
Suddenly a toughness appeared to come out of a past Lomita.
‘What are you going to do about it. I am in the clear.’
‘Are you? Neither of those paintings have been recovered. I am sure there are people who would like to talk to you.’
Lomita felt the secluded bubble of her world disintegrate. The privacy she craved caved in. By this little fuck.
‘I suppose I would be more than happy to talk to whoever, to help clarify a situation I know nothing about.’
Said Lomita.
‘Perhaps you’re right, maybe I am being a little… I don’t know.’
He was doing that annoying hand over mouth thing again, covering his eating, while his mouth turned black-blue. A quite revolting sight.
Lomita had pushed around enough food and was now sipping her sparkling water.
‘How does it help, Ingmar? I don’t know a thing, he has been dead for thirty-five years.’
This time she resisted the reference to Roberto dePirizone by the title of husband. Well, ex-husband, in fact dead husband. Why was this man bothering to persecute her in this way?
‘It’s just that the Metzinger I feel strongly about, it was a Nazi confiscation, put in the Degenerate Art Exhibition and then—’
He paused.
‘Gone. But then you.’
He hadn’t really made sense of these non sequiturs and she knew that it was because he was deeply angry, understandably deeply angry as a Jew, that this work by a Jewish artist had been treated with such disrespect by the Nazis and then, she presumed he thought, by her husband, who in some way had collaborated post war with their sympathisers. Totally understandable. She was with him. She just didn’t want to be part of this, dragged into an investigation of how this painting had landed in her possession. The annoying part was that she didn’t really like it anyway. He could stuff his Metzinger.
They finished eating. They were keeping a surprising civility, mostly due to her, and ordered coffee.
‘And you will continue with this?’
Tendered Lomita, after the plates had been cleared.
‘I don’t feel I have any choice not to continue. To uncover what happened and to bring about some form of, hopefully, of conclusion, closure if you like, to a much-maligned artist. Who I do think was touched with that word.’
‘Genius?’
Questioned Lomita; he was not an obtuse man.
‘Of course.’
‘Are you going back to Beverly Hills after lunch?’
Lomita asked.
‘If not don’t worry, I just need to call my driver.’
‘No, please don’t, I would be delighted to drop you off. It is not a problem, no effort at all.’
‘Thank you so much.’
‘Would you like a chocolate truffle?’
He asked, after much appraisal of room and people.
‘They keep them for me. I love them.’
‘Not for me, thanks very much.’
And she sat and watched him munch his truffle and reflected on how trying to help someone gets you into a fine fucking mess. At that moment, as another truffle was being bitten in two, she hated the fucking sight of this pompous, rich, self-important fuck.
‘Delicious lunch, thank you.’
She proffered.
He remained oblivious to her feeling, her strength of feeling.
‘We don’t have to wait for the check.’
Of course you don’t, she thought, I’m sure you own the place.
*
They were standing on the sidewalk.
He very graciously had lent his arm as an additional support to her cane. He was waving his twenty-dollar bill and then escorted her to the opening door of his electric blue Dawn; top down; the piece of substantial flash. She made no comment about his car on purpose, knowing that this was the only reason he had bought it. She was climbing in, sit first, legs swing in later, when she noticed a dull red Honda, a car she would never have paid any attention to had it not been for the fact that Ever was sitting behind the wheel: directly facing the Rolls.
Mr Lorken climbed in to the driver’s side and purred the engine. No Ever, please God, no. This was surely not the ordained day, the day that after all the talking, the communication, the outpouring of love and the giving of time, and the realisation that this man had ultimately done no wrong to John Everett Millen, that Ever was still intent on seeing through his obsessive action, the consummation of his act. No, please God.
The Rolls moved away from the kerb and followed its well-worn route towards Beverly Hills; Lomita had no idea if Ever was following. Mr Lorken started on his Metzinger conversation again.
‘It’s not a personal attack, you must understand that. I like you, Lomita.’
There was no response from Lomita.
‘It is the righting of a wrong. Returning what belongs to a nation, a state, if you like. A justice. I would be seriously remiss if I ignored the situation. Don’t you think?’
The last words spoken with a turn of his head in the direction of his unresponsive passenger.
She sat in silence clutching her thick fake fur, leopard skin, Fendi bag. The righting of goddam wrongs again, what is it with this attempt at the impossible. Clutching at her clutch, with damp seeping from her pores, thickening the fur and matting its sheen.
Did he not think what it would do to her life? Did he care?
She asked him directly.
‘It would affect the privacy of my life enormously, I mean, disrupt my life entirely, even if there was no criminality involved.’
‘I don’t suppose there is criminality involved directly with you Lomita, but yes I can’t deny that your life, for a time anyway, would be turned upside down. I suppose it’s about whether you benefitted from the theft of stolen artefacts in any way.’
‘That’s difficult to prove. Is it not? I mean whether I actually benefitted?’
He expressed a sound that could be confirmed as a questioning –
‘Mmmm.’
She felt upside down now, dizzy and very weak. Unwell would be a reasonable description. This was going to make her unwell, this could kill her. I don’t suppose he had thought of that.
‘I am not a well woman, Ingmar.’
She offered by way of a plea.
‘But it is really about the art, not you.’
Of course the man had no heart, why would he? You can’t appeal to someone who puts objects, however beautiful, before people.
‘Then you wouldn’t care what happened to me?’
‘I would care, but I wouldn’t necessarily anticipate a negative outcome. In other words, it wouldn’t stop me.’
‘My health then, would not be important to you?’
‘It would not be the prime consideration. No. If I am being totally honest.’
Does this man have no feeling? Unvoiced.
What a man, she thought, how extraordinary to be involved with a man like that. She was seething and sarcasm offered her an immediate vent. They had turned up La Cienega, taking a left on Burton Way.
‘Would you mind, the sun is making me quite dizzy. Do you think you could put the top up on the car?’
‘Of course, sorry, yes, I should have asked earlier. I think I’m made of leather.’
So true, you certainly are. Unvoiced.
*
He slowed down by the Hermitage Hotel.
The valet parking attendants experienced a momentary excitement at the prospect of taking the car. He didn’t need to stop: in twenty seconds the top was secured. One more piece of protection from Ever, thought Lomita. Please Ever, see some sense. Please.
She believed her silent pleas of please would get out there; connect in the ether. She closed her eyes to concentrate the effort: she felt like a witch.
They gathered speed towards Crescent Drive and the turn north. She had managed to turn around and take a look as the top was going up; an acceptably unsuspicious thing to do, with all that activity, not that Mr Lorken was anticipating any kind of problem. But she could see no Ever. They crossed Santa Monica Boulevard: she wondered what Ever would be doing now. Where was he? She was sweating and felt the world leaving her; her heart was double timing and it was causing a light-headedness, she pressured down to keep from fainting. Like taking a crap with a push. They were approaching the stop sign at Carmelita, she opened her Fendi bag and exclaimed in a panic,
‘Oh my God! My phone! I’ve left my phone!’
His instinctive reaction betrayed an audible groan of annoyance. He slowed to a stop, fifteen yards from the four-way stop at Carmelita, suggesting he call the restaurant. At that moment she saw Ever’s car emerge from the east onto Carmelita, and drive into the middle of the road, past the stop sign: she knew, although she couldn’t see, that he would be staring at the Rolls. The Honda turned left onto the other side of the road while Mr Lorken was calling the restaurant. Ever pulled up and got out of the car, nothing suspicious in that for Mr Lorken, who didn’t even notice. Ever had the look of purpose but she couldn’t see a gun. What else was he going to do? He wasn’t coming to say hello.