If I said ‘yes’ to Pep Conejo attending the party, it would be embarrassing to meet him again and maybe downright dangerous. What might he say or do in front of the guests? My instinct was to say ‘no’ – that I didn’t find it appropriate for him to attend. I heard myself say instead, “Yes. If you think that is a good idea.”
Ishmael slapped me on the back. “Good decision.”
In the six months that Ishmael had been working on the garden, we lived like hermits, in the same house, in separate cells, rarely going outside to socialise and meet with others. He did not ask permission for free time to allow him to escape from solitary confinement, to go to Palma or tour the island in my BMW. He replied, “My work is here. My life is here.”
I was worried, that with the garden being completed, he might look for another project elsewhere – perhaps on the peninsula again. I decided to ask him directly as he trimmed the tall Cupressus Leyandii and Red Robin hedge which formed the walls of the labyrinth.
“What are your plans now that you have completed …” – I coughed – “… not only completed but excelled in the creation of my dream garden?”
I was holding a stepladder steady for him as he shaved the leaves from the top of the hedge with an electric hedge trimmer. The labyrinth walls were three metres in height, the trees placed close together to form a dense wall which no-one would physically be able to penetrate or to see through. The ladder slightly shook as he leaned forward. I remembered Pep Conejo’s fingers and positioned my feet further apart on the ground to steady myself and gripped the steel sides of the ladder with both hands.
He turned the trimmer off and looked down at me. “I was going to ask you the same question – what are your plans for me?”
I shouted up at him: “Why do you always answer a question with a question? Can you not give me a simple answer? I asked you first.”
I realised how childish I sounded. It wasn’t exactly a way of talking to him which would encourage him to want to stay as my gardener. I lowered my voice and decided to be semi-honest. “Sorry, I’m a little nervous about how the inauguration of the garden will go next week. I would like you to stay as my gardener for as long as you want – with an open-ended contract. This garden has only just begun. It will need a lot of maintenance to keep it looking as good as it does now. I only ask that you give me sufficient notice to find someone to replace you.”
Ishmael descended the ladder and with his feet firmly on the ground threw his arms around me. “That is exactly what I wanted to hear. I agree – there is still a lot we can do to make the garden even more dramatic. Perhaps we can build in themes from your paintings. I thought of creating a rose garden with each rose having the name of one of your paintings. You can create new provocative sculptures to challenge thinking in the way you excel. I have reached my sculpture limit with the fountains, Cupid and Persephone.”
My heart beat quickly. This was more than I could have hoped for. I blurted out, “I could teach you how to create the sculptures. We could do them together.”
He moved the ladder a little further along the hedge. “That would be a new stage in my life. I would like that. You wouldn’t get jealous would you, if my sculptures were more highly respected and valued than yours?” He bent over, held his stomach as he laughed looking at the ground. Catching his breath, he looked at me and wiped laughter tears from his eyes. “That would be a real test for you and your battle with jealousy.”
Thursday 24th March 2016
For the organisation of the ‘fiesta’ I contacted Doris and Chris from a German catering company which I had used on several occasions. I totally trusted them to do an excellent job in impressing the guests. Gabriela would help to supervise the kitchen, showing them where everything they needed was stored and later assist in serving wine.
Guests were due to arrive at seven o’clock in the evening. Doris and Chris approached the house in their van at midday. A fleet of cars followed them with three assistant chefs, two waiters and two waitresses.
The five chefs commanded the kitchen and began to organise who was prepping and cooking what. Gabriela showed them the kitchen equipment. The waiters and waitresses were in casual clothes for now and began unfolding ten large tables from the van, covering them with white cotton tablecloths, silver cutlery, Lafiore flute glasses for champagne and goblets for wine. The tables were finished with vases of roses and scented vanilla candles.
At four o’clock the waitresses changed into pink lace dresses with a satin belt and a pink rose in their hair to match those on the tables. The waiters wore black trousers, white shirts and pink braces with a rose motif.
I wore a black tuxedo with a white shirt and black bow tie. The tuxedo had been hanging in the wardrobe for nine months. It smelt a little damp. I sprayed it profusely with Gucci aftershave.
I walked to the buffet table to see what was on the menu which I had left entirely in Doris and Chris’s control. I gave brief instructions about how I wanted the cake to look on its table of significance.
There were canapés of caviar, tapas of chorizo, Spanish omelette, sea bass, a Mallorcan trampó, a salad filled with tuna, potato, tomatoes and iceberg lettuce, a Mallorcan version of pizza which is called a ‘coco’ – with a topping of roasted red peppers and an extensive range of local cheeses. Then to hint at my global reach with my art there were dishes from three countries I had exhibited in recently and would be returning to. There was a Japanese corner with a variety of a sushi, an Italian corner with antipasto, pasta salads, focaccia bread, an Indian corner with samosas, fish pakoras, peshwari nan bread, tarka dal, vegetable jalfrezi and madras chicken.
The cake I commissioned on its separate table was a towering iced cake structure with fourteen layers, one to represent each fountain. I wanted guests to take a slice home and had created individual cake boxes with dates on them for the upcoming exhibitions.
I hired an Argentinean duo that played Spanish guitar and sang Tango songs from the 1930s as guests arrived, including ‘El Día que Me Quieras’ (The Day that you Might Love Me) from Carlos Gardelas and ‘Gracias a la Vida’ (Thanks to Life) from Mercedes Sosa. They brought with them two Argentinean tango dancers who glided around the patio beside the swimming pool.
I lit a cigar watching the guests marvel at the Orangery and herb garden. They approached the labyrinth. In the last few days Ishmael had placed a fountain on either side of the entrance, water under high pressure shot high into the air, descending through a series of dishes which changed colour. I heard them laughing as they reached the centre. Although the party was primarily to celebrate the gardens, I wanted to show them the Studio and the works of art which I had prepared for Tokyo and Madrid. As I puffed and blew aromatic cigar smoke into the air, I wished that I hadn’t bought Ishmael that Boggi suit. He looked too good in it, with the waistcoat tight against his slim chest, a white Boss shirt which he had bought himself and the shiny black shoes he wore the day he arrived.
Guests emerged with gasps of delight from the labyrinth. It was annoying to see how long it took them to walk a few steps along the path to the patio beside the swimming pool. I gave a signal to Sergio the main singer to increase the volume of the music and whispered to Andreu the dancer to dance towards the guests, attract their attention and encourage them to move towards me. I was beginning to feel a bit of a fool standing all alone beside the cake tower but didn’t want to look too desperate to disentangle them from Ishmael. I know that jealously is easily detected.
However, guests continued to buzz around Ishmael asking questions about unimportant topics like where he bought the pansies and the lobelia in the hanging baskets and how he planned to keep the orangery irrigated in the heat of summer. It was so obvious how all of that would happen. Yes, it is true oranges need water, but they only had to look at the black tubing along the tilled soil with holes in it and water trickling from the holes. What did they think it was – another work of art on the ground?
It was as if I was invisible
when the garden with its fountains and sculptures was only meant to be a red carpet as I mentioned before – a scattering of roses, leading to what was really to be celebrated; my art and sculptures.
Eventually guests found table plans, scanned them for their names, found seats with name tags and then queued up to shake my hand before going to the buffet. It felt as if I was at a funeral rather than a party, receiving condolences for the death of a loved one. However, the atmosphere changed as they talked around the buffet table, pointing out favourite dishes and gasping from time to time in surprise.
Gabriela, who had been helping in the kitchen, appeared, now wearing a pink lace dress with a rose in her hair which was piled high on top of her head with a few ringlets falling onto her shoulders. She looked radiant. Before joining the waiters and waitresses, she waved at Ishmael who was helping himself at the buffet table, ran towards him, and kissed him on both cheeks. I heard her say in a loud voice: “Congratulations. What a success for you.”
Ishmael held her head with both hands, looking into her eyes, and then tucking one of ringlets behind her ear, he whispered something into her ear which I couldn’t hear. He looked around the patio and approached my table smiling.
Ishmael sat on my right and Pep Conejo on my left. I ignored Ishmael for at least fifteen minutes, persevering with a conversation with Pep Conejo which started with: “What do you think of it Pep? Do you like it?”
To which he replied, “He’s a good man. I like him.”
I knew from that reply that I was in for a hard time. I passed him bread and olives and felt my lips moving into a false smile as he told me about new developments with his son and daughter-in-law. I nodded sympathetically – I hope.
The singing continued and the tango dancers in long lingering movements, swept around the tables. The levels of laughter and conversation swelled. I looked around at the tables, breathing in my success with pride and cursing under my breath that I hadn’t been successful in showing off my art in the Studio. I blamed Ishmael for his thoughtlessness.
Friday 25th March 2016
The evening after the party, Gabriela threw, with uncustomary aggression, a bowl of rice with vegetable broth, onto the table in front of Ishmael. The green liquid splashed artistically onto the cotton tablecloth. She slid a bowl towards me giving me a smile which I imagined came from years of intimacy together. I wondered if jealousy was in the air. Gabriela was jealous of what she thought was my deepening friendship with Ishmael. Or so I believed.
I was confused however, by her kissing Ishmael the night before. Which behaviour was the true one – the kiss or this sulkiness which I now witnessed? Maybe something had happened later in the evening with Ishmael which had offended her. I watched them dance together when the tango dancers left and the disc jockey, Tomeo, took over the music. They seemed to be enjoying one another’s company – although Ishmael kept looking over at the table where I was sitting. I sat alone drinking a cognac. I hope that he felt guilty, not only about taking so much time with the guests in the garden, but also about leaving me alone at the first party we hosted together.
As Gabriela mopped the soup slops from the tablecloth, I noticed that she was wearing well applied makeup with fashionable heavy eyeliner, long false eye lashes and purple lips. Her hair was again piled on top of her head. As she cleaned the spill, long ringlets on either side of her face fell like a waterfall, brushing against Ishmael’s hand.
There were mixed messages with her behaviour, but I thought that there was a gentleness in her eyes when she looked at me and disgust when she looked at Ishmael. I had never thought about it before but maybe she had hopes that there was a chance that I would fall in love with her and that my friendship with Ishmael was getting in the way of deepening her relationship with me. It happened quite frequently in my circle of wealthy friends that their cleaner or housekeeper had designs on their wallets and bank accounts. Over dinner, we would talk about these ‘atontados’ – the infatuated wealthy men, who lost the power of reason and discernment when absorbed with a pretty face serving them dinner or vacuuming the floor. The power of reason and discernment wasn’t the only thing that they lost. One friend lost ten million pounds within five years due to the insatiable desire of his excleaner – who was now his wife – for designer clothes, yachts, and jewellery.
Reflecting now on what I know to be true, I realise that I was suffering from lies of perception. I saw in Gabriela what I wanted to see – not what was real. That capacity for distortion of the world helped improve my art. It made the paintings almost mystical. As a Painter I understood the importance of being able to lose my mind to connect with what lay beyond thinking.
I created alternative worlds with my painting. These certainly added to my success. However, the distortion of reality didn’t improve my relationships with others. I realised that with people I needed to touch depths of truth within their being. I felt that was happening with Ishmael. There was a blurring of boundaries of where I ended and he began. It felt real because it was constantly changing like life itself. It was flowing and endlessly surprising me.
I decided to try a different approach with Gabriela – to take an interest in her. Maybe that would defuse any sense she may have felt of not being appropriately acknowledged and valued by me. I gushed at her: “Gabriela, I don’t know if Ishmael mentioned to you but we both thought you looked absolutely stunning last night. The pink dress really looked wonderful on you. It made me think that it is some time since you have had an increase in salary. How would you feel if I gave you a monthly increase of ten per cent of your salary which you can consider as a dress allowance? It will allow you to choose dresses of your choice for special occasions like yesterday. You will stand out from other waitresses as a hostess rather than waitress. How does that sound?”
She poured me a glass of white Chablis, setting the bottle beside me. Placing her hands on her hips, she said, “Have you got a fever or something? Ask me that again tomorrow and I might believe it. I’m off now. Enjoy your evening.”
She pulled her coat from the coat rack and didn’t wait to put it on in the house – even though it was cold outside. A few minutes later, I heard her bike crank into life and rumble down the driveway. Ishmael helped himself to a glass of wine as I opened the kitchen door and listened. In the distance I heard Gabriela’s bike fall silent as she stopped to allow traffic pass by. When there was a space, I knew that she would start the motor again. I heard her bike splutter into life and knew that she had swerved onto the main road in the direction of the Port of Soller.
So, our lives continued with the same routine over the next eighteen months. Ishmael continued to improve the garden as promised and we began to make sculptures together. He had an idea that we choose a fragment from my favourite paintings and select an image which we could work on as a sculpture.
His creativity and discernment of what would work best as a sculpture frankly amazed me. We made sculptures which represented the clouds of Mallorca, the sea, the mountains, the goats, old men sitting in the Plaza and a sculpture of a herb tree buried within a huge bottle to acknowledge the importance of ‘hierbas’ from Mallorca.
These sculptures were strategically placed around the garden and within the labyrinth. He designed a game
– ‘Find the Sculpture’ – in which visitors could complete, ticking off how many sculptures they found, taking a photo of them on their Smart phones to ensure they were not cheating. These were checked by Gabriela and each month a prize of a mini sculpture, which we also made together, was awarded to the winner.
6
PABLO PICASSO
“The artist is a receptacle for emotions that come from all over the place; from the sky, from the earth, from a scrap of paper, from a passing shape, from a spider’s web.”
Wednesday 20th September 2017
One day, as the second anniversary of Ishmael’s arrival approached, I found Gabriela talking with him in the herb garden. She had plaited her hair and tied
it with a pink ribbon. She wore black tights, a red tunic and boots which came over her knees. She pointed at the unnamed herbs and Ishmael pulled leaves from one beside him and he talked to her in a low voice. I couldn’t hear what they said to one another. I could see a look of surprise and interest in Gabriela’s face. She bent over, gathered flowers from other herbs and a few leaves from the one which Ishmael had rubbed between his fingers.
I continued to paint each evening beside the log fire. Ishmael and I had an early supper around eight o’clock. We followed a routine where Gabriela brought me a cup of camomile tea before she left. I noticed that she did not bring tea for Ishmael but topped up his glass of absinthe. She then left to go home. Ishmael took away my half-empty cup of camomile tea sitting on its china saucer and topped me up instead with a glass of absinthe.
I felt increasingly a sense of exhaustion and anxiety in my body. I wondered if Gabriela with Ishmael were poisoning me. Although I dismissed these ideas as fleeting moments of paranoia – as there was no rationale to justify these thoughts. Yet there was a hint of doubt about how much I could trust them both that seeded in my soul.
Wednesday 27th September 2017
A week before I murdered Ishmael, I kissed him on the cheek. It was the day before he told me about his childhood. It’s always an intimate moment when anyone reveals the depths of their past – except when they are making up a lie about it – which happens more often than we would care to believe. He looked at me as he drew me to his chest saying, “Of course I love you – who wouldn’t? You are loveable.”
I felt distraught. I didn’t want to be loved in that way – not with a total, absolute, unconditional and sexless love. It was too much for me. With it, I felt myself bursting into a universe that was infinite and I didn’t want to go there. I wanted to feel safe within my tiny body – not to explode into an immensity of being. I wanted to exist within a small point in time which contained me.
The Painter Page 5