“I climbed the mountain behind him. He lifted his wooden stick and pointed to the right where there was an overgrown path. I had to be careful not to bump my head against the branches of the olive and carob trees whose entangled branches created a tunnel through which we stumbled. He pointed a second time with his stick to the left. There we walked along a crazy paved path which wound a wavy way towards a small Castle.
“There were three turrets on the Castle, circular walls with stained glass windows projecting out from rooms inside. The tiles on the roof were shaped like curling giant leaves of lemon verbena and were green rather than the typical red terracotta tiles of Soller. Persianas on the arched windows were blue, held open against the orange stone walls with yellow starfish shaped tentacles. As we neared the Castle, I could see that the arched front door was open.
“Gregoriano turned and invited me forward. ‘It’s more comfortable inside’.
“I followed him through a patio filled with unusual plants – purple and cream snail shaped flowers which had dropped a few leaves onto the patio tiles. Turquoise and orange branches rooted in circular holes cut in the tiles, burst from the earth with fine tentacles at their tips shooting into the air like fireworks. Beyond the patio there was a darker room, lit by a mellow glow emanating from a lamp shaped like a twisted tree trunk with orange, pink and turquoise foliage. I heard a crackling sound to my left within a circle of stone on the floor, heaped with wood – the flames breathing into the room as if from a dragon’s mouth.
“Two chairs were positioned beside the fire. The walls were covered with seven gigantic paintings – all of which from where I stood seemed to be painted with blocks of black oil. They contained no shapes – no dashes of red, yellow or blue which I liked to use when I painted. I looked at the painting closest to me. I could see that within the apparent darkness of the painting it wasn’t only black, but it contained the outline of a headless man. The blackness around him was not static as I had thought at first glance but moving as if space itself was moving around him – creating him.”
I stopped talking in an attempt to get Ishmael’s attention. He had placed a hand over his mouth as if to stifle a yawn. Knowing I had seen that, he sat upright in his chair, straightened his back and pretended to be alert.
I continued: “Gregoriano pulled back one of the chairs shaped like a throne with a curved back and legs like a lion. He instructed me, ‘Please sit. This will not take long’.
“My feet didn’t touch the smooth stone tiles below. I swung my legs backwards and forwards in a nervous way as I felt queasy and unsure of what was going to happen. I then felt a sense of drowsiness flood over me and I made myself sit up upright on the chair.”
I stopped again as the waiter approached with the two piping hot coulants. I raised my voice, shouting at Ishmael, who had again slumped back in his chair with his eyes closed. “Did you hear me say that I made myself sit up? Would you sit up and not be so rude.”
Ishmael’s eyes fluttered open. He corrected his posture as the coulant was placed before him. He smirked at me. “Have you been talking for fifteen minutes? I can’t believe it. Time has flown by.” Ishmael thanked the waiter, picked up a small teaspoon to eat and leaned towards me. “Please continue. I was listening I assure you. I concentrate better with my eyes closed. Eat your coulant as it is best hot.”
I took a spoonful of the rich sponge. The thought crossed my mind to throw that coulant with its oozing hot sauce at Ishmael’s face. Ishmael watched me pause before placing the spoonful of sponge in my mouth. I think he was reading my mind. Then he polished off his coulant rather too quickly for my liking. He pointed at my plate. “Go on. Go on. I’ve seen you eat and talk before now.”
I talked with my mouth full knowing that it would disgust Ishmael. “Gregoriano laughed. He poked at the fire and then searched in his pocket for a folded piece of paper which he handed to me. That was it.”
I pushed my plate away from me, leaving half the coulant uneaten. Ishmael reached for the plate. “This is delightful – you are insane not to finish it. Back to your story – there must be more. What was written on the piece of paper?”
He now sounded interested. I knew what to do. It was my turn to lie back on the chair and stare at the ceiling.
“I can’t remember. I was only ten. I read what was written on the paper. He then grabbed the page from my hands, saying, ‘I don’t think you can do it’.
“I felt a flicker of anger within me. Who was he to tell me what I could or could not do? I wanted to shout at him, of course I can do it. He didn’t look at me, as he threw the paper on the fire. ‘One day you will understand what these words mean’.
“I wanted to dash towards the fire, retrieve the paper before it twisted into a fine black leaf. As I jumped from the throne, Gregoriano pushed the paper with his poker into the depths of the smouldering embers. He said, ‘You can go now. I will be watching you, whether you see me or not’.
“I ran out of the Castle, trying to remember the way we had come and headed in the direction of Barranc with the words from the three statements circling in my head. Gregoriano has appeared at least once every year since that first meeting. The second time I saw him, he stood at the back of the room in a Press Conference for an exhibition in Milan. I was eleven. He shook his head at me. The following year he attended a Press Conference in New York. He gave me a cold penetrating stare. A feeling of a sickening shame twisted together with a feeling of pride in my stomach. He confused me. I mean he confuses me as he continues to stalk me. I do not know whether he likes me, hates me or what he thinks about me. He is around. I know that I don’t always see him, but he makes sure that I am aware that he is there at least once a year.”
I sat up in my chair and watched Ishmael sip on an espresso. He shook his head. “That is some story. You have a good memory for details.”
I quickly drank the espresso he had ordered for me. “What do you think is going on with Gregoriano? Who is he? What does he want from me?”
Ishmael clasped his hands together on the white cotton table. He pressed his fingers tightly into the back of his hands. White pressure points formed on his hands. His lips straightened into a horizontal line. He asked, “What was written on the page he handed you?”
I looked out towards the sea, breathing deeply. “It was a long time ago. I was only ten. I don’t remember. It isn’t important. I am more interested in what you think is going on in Gregoriano’s head. That is why I told you the story.”
Ishmael reached a hand towards me and rested it on top of mine.
“It is impossible for you to have forgotten the words on that page. What did he write for you? That will answer your question as to what is going on in his head. He wants you to do whatever was written on that page. You mentioned that there were three items? Can you remember one of them? That might trigger the memory of the remaining two.”
I replied, “Yes. There were three statements. I will try to remember them accurately if you think they are so important.”
Ishmael watched the waiter bring change from the paid bill. He looked in his wallet and left a hefty tip. “I don’t believe that you don’t remember them. How can you remember so many details and not remember what was most important? You don’t want to tell me. Why?”
My lower lip quivered as I asked, “Why don’t you tell me without asking about those three statements what you think is going on with Gregoriano?”
“He seems to have the potential of being an interesting and perhaps a wise man. Who knows? When you remember what was on that page – it might be obvious whether that is true or not. If he is neither interesting nor wise, you might want to consider contacting the Guardia Civil. You are a famous and wealthy artist. That means you may attract people who want to stalk and prey upon you. I would inform either the local Police or the Guardia Civil of your concerns. Gregoriano may want to rob you, kidnap you or be merely obsessed by you. He may also want to protect you and act in your best interests. Ho
w can I say? You refuse, for some reason, to tell the whole story.”
We walked home to Can Animes in silence, listening to the seagulls screaming overhead. Three wild mountain goats scrambled along the cliff edges of the mountain on our left with four small black kids, following in a line behind. How I wished I had someone to help me discern how to confidently walk this edge of life which felt dangerous since Ishmael’s arrival. It also frightened me what he said about Gregoriano. I was no wiser as to whether Gregoriano wished me harm or wished me well.
Before arriving at the front door, Ishmael broke the silence. “When did you last see Gregoriano?”
I was taken aback by that question but of course it was an obvious question to ask. I hesitated before replying which I know he would have noticed. “I had a long meeting with him a week before you arrived. We had lunch together.”
Ishmael threw his hands into the air. “What are you saying? You must have asked him why he is watching you. That was your opportunity.”
I turned the key in the lock. “I did ask him. He is like you – he didn’t answer my questions. I am no wiser about his motivation. He seems, again like you, to be skilled at getting me to reveal my past but sharing nothing about himself. I also threatened him with the police.”
We walked along the hallway towards the sitting room. Ishmael caught me by the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“I don’t need to tell you everything.”
I realised that for the first time since Ishmael’s arrival, I wasn’t sure what to do that evening. I was frustrated by emptying my soul to Ishmael and receiving so little back from him. I felt constrained for the first time by his presence. If he had not been here, I would have gone to the Studio and painted. I found that the best way to exorcise these low moods which fell upon me from time to time. I wondered how he felt about spending time with me. Maybe he was now bored by me. I asked, “Would you like to have a rest? I can paint. I have four paintings to work on for the Reina Sophia exhibition. I know I don’t have to complete them until later next year, but I work best when I go slowly with them.”
Ishmael put a hand on my shoulder. “Today is Sunday. You are right, it is a day of rest, but I don’t want to be banished to my room like a naughty child. I don’t think you should paint today. Paint tomorrow. Why don’t I light the fire, you pour us both an absinthe? We sit on the sofa and you tell me about your mother Monica.”
“I thought you had enough today of my reminiscing about the past.”
“You asked for examples of people who made an impact on my life – who were significant. You shared something of the impact of Gregoriano on you. I am sure there is more to reveal about him. However, why not change direction and talk about your mother. I would like to hear about her. Also, about your father – is he alive?”
I shook my head and couldn’t stop a tear rolling down my cheek. Ishmael saw it.
“I’m sorry. Were you close to him?”
I shook my head. “No. Not at all – quite the opposite.”
As I hung my jacket on the coat rack, I heard a soft thump on the sitting room window. I rushed to see what had happened. A blackbird had flown into the glass window and lay on the ground. There was a trail of blood on the pathway oozing from his beak. I shouted at Ishmael, “It’s dead!”
I headed for the kitchen door, swung it open and ran towards the shiny black feathers. One wing moved into the air as I approached and then remained still. Ishmael was beside me. He said in a soft voice, “Poor thing. It didn’t know that was going to happen when it flew from its nest this morning. I guess none of knows what the day will bring. We are all bruised by bumping into certain people in life – not necessarily windows.”
We buried the blackbird under a fig tree and placed a stone on top of the red soil. I felt a soft lava flow move around my heart which surprised me. I recognised it as a movement within me which might have been compassion. It was not something I had experienced often in my life. It seemed as if my interior world was changing, melting in a mysterious way. It was as if there were levels within me – depths – which I did not know how to access but I was getting a glimpse of their existence.
How might I describe it? Imagine that I have my hands tightly closed together – the fingers interlocked with such energy that it would be difficult for anyone to pull my hands apart. Then, I look at them and notice that there is movement which reveals a small gap between the fingers. I can see through them – not much – a little, but they are moving slowly apart – separating – one hand from the other. I am not making it happen. It’s happening of its own accord. For most of my life from the age of ten, I have lived with those fingers firmly closed, with no awareness of a world existing beneath the surface.
Ishmael and I returned to the house. I asked him, “Do you think it is a bad omen – the bird flying into the window?”
He shook his head. “I’m not superstitious.”
I walked through the kitchen door. “I’ve heard that it can be a message of a death that will happen.”
Ishmael closed the door behind us. He smiled at me. “Well that is hardly a premonition. People are dying every minute.”
I am relieved to have returned to this safe relationship with him, where I know that I can be myself, say anything to him and not be judged. I feel grateful for his presence and that he has chosen not to leave.
“Let’s go to the sitting room. I could do with that drink. Could you light the fire? I’m cold.”
I couldn’t stop myself shivering. I found a jumper, lying on the sofa and pulled it on. I poured two glasses of absinthe.
Ishmael had the fire roaring in no time. We sat side by side on the sofa. He asked, “Your mother – where do you want to begin?”
I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop myself crying. I continued to shake but this time not from the cold, tears rolled down my face. I wiped them away with the sleeve of my jumper. I sobbed. “I want to go back … back to before I was Augustin – ‘The Painter’. What were my first memories? I remember love and fear. My mother Monica was and continues to be a loving mother. She was there for me from the day I was born. I felt the smile from her lips fall upon my face as a tickle of gossamer. I felt safe, warm, held within an outside womb.
“Is it possible Ishmael that I remember the moment of the separation of my consciousness from hers? I think I do remember it. What age could I have been? Maybe eighteen months old. Before that I swam within her eyes, splashing within the pool of her gaze. Her gaze was my gaze. I was love seeing love. I felt overflowing with undifferentiated peace and joy. Life had meaning. The world wasn’t a frightening place to live in.”
Ishmael sipped on his absinthe and whispered, “I think it is more than possible for you to remember that.
I’m sure it’s true that you do.”
I took a deep breath. I felt strangely calm. Words spilled, unfiltered, from my lips. “One day she gave me a bottle of milk as she always did, but on this occasion, I felt the world crumbling apart. It broke into a new form of being. That plastic teat which I greedily sucked on became the instrument which shattered everything into fragments. I knew fear. I was a fragment separate from my mother and dividing at a frenetic speed from everything else. If the umbilical cord had been cut at my birth, I then knew what it meant to be cut off from everything. I knew what it meant to be separate – to be isolated.
“My mother Monica helped in those early years show me what love was, to sow seeds of peace within me and allowed me to understand how to live with isolation and separation. It was natural for her. It was a part of being human. She thought that God had placed the desire for happiness in every human being but deliberately did not allow us instinctively to know how to find it. That was what growing up was meant to be for a human being. We were meant to embark on a journey or an adventure and find out what will make us profoundly happy.”
Ishmael refilled my glass. He asked, “What do you think made her look at the world in that way? It’s not t
hat common. She sounds remarkable.”
“Yes, she was and is remarkable. But she had her work cut out with me. She didn’t get through to me at a deep level. I listened to what she said but her words or way of being didn’t change me. They stayed on the surface. She sacrificed a lot to give me the best education possible. I was sent to an international school in Palma and then University in Barcelona. I studied philosophy, theology and art. I don’t think I received the education which I needed. I was too successful at University which followed on the heels of my art success as a child. I needed to suffer more to learn like mother what it means to grow up. I needed people not to praise me but to humble me. It would have been good if I had learned like the dead not to become angry when insulted or puffed up when praised.
“My mother, on the other hand was what some might call an ‘uneducated’ woman. She left school at fourteen and went to work cleaning houses – not for the wealthy foreigners who are now here – but for a Mallorquin, Doctor Alfonso. It wasn’t long before her cleaning expanded into cooking and caring for Alfonso’s children. She wore a navy-blue dress with a white apron. In those days you could buy a uniform in a shop. Everyone who had a maid ensured they wore a similar uniform. The wealthy like to have a symbol for the world to confirm superiority. I think that those navy-blue uniforms with white aprons were not much different from the orange uniforms worn today by prisoners at Guantánamo Bay. I have always had a hatred of uniforms and what they symbolise – control, authority and separation.”
I stopped for a minute to check if Ishmael wanted me to continue. He had his eyes closed, resting his head against the back of the sofa, continuing to hold the glass of absinthe in his left hand. I don’t know how I knew, but I knew that he was listening. He was different from the way he had been in the Italian restaurant. His face was softer.
The Painter Page 3