The Painter

by Deirdre Quiery

  He left the art exhibition, as he always did, without me understanding who he was and why he was there. Yet with each passing meeting with him, I had an increasing sense that he genuinely cared for me. What was puzzling was why did he care for me? Why would a stranger care what happened to me over a forty year period? How did a stranger know so much about me?

  10

  PABLO PICASSO

  “Every act of creation is first an act of destruction.”

  Tuesday 6th June 2017

  The last time I saw Gregoriano was four months ago. He didn’t see me.

  I had decided to climb up the valley from Soller. Not up Barranc but instead took a path initially towards Fornalutx and before leaving Soller, turned left to climb towards a restaurant and the viewing point of the Mirador de Ses Barques. Ishmael was working on the rose garden which was in perfect bloom. He sourced a company who allowed him to name his roses after my paintings. Together we chose twenty paintings and four matching rose colours – Apricot Sunburst, Blush Pink, Ivory White and Classic Red. We named five paintings under each colour. Today he wanted to tie the names to the roses, dead head them, water them and train a selection of roses along a wooden garden arch pergola which formed the entrance to the rose garden at the centre of the orangery.

  I was glad to escape from the Studio after a week of intense painting preparing for the exhibition in the Reina Sophia. Ishmael and I planned to attend the inauguration together. He seemed enthusiastic about seeing my paintings in one of Madrid’s most prestigious art galleries and about seeing other works of contemporary art. We also planned to visit to El Escorial, Toledo and Segovia.

  I climbed steadily upwards, past the pomegranate and walnut trees. Walnuts from last year lay on the ground, black shells like soaked carbon balls crunching under my feet. Green oranges sparkled in the bright sun; chard on my left like leafy umbrellas pushed its way through the earth damp from a recent fall of rain.

  Half way up the mountain I reached a small Chapel, beside a former convent for Augustinian nuns. The steep climb to the Chapel was well worth the effort as the Chapel reminded me of Gregoriano’s Castle which I had been unable to find since the age of ten. The chapel roof was made of curved terracotta tiles, leaf-shaped like those in Gregoriano’s Castle. It must have been the same architect who designed both buildings. Even though I am not a religious believer, I liked to stop by the Chapel on my walks to the Mirador, sit in the rocky garden and look down on the town of Soller.

  I opened the wooden gate and made my way towards the chapel. As I neared it, I heard voices coming from inside. I recognised them both. One was of my mother, Monica and the second was that of Gregoriano. I breathed rapidly, aware of a sharp pain in my chest. I had to hear what they were saying without being seen. I clambered onto a thick flat rectangular stone. Through the stone latticed window, I saw to the right that the front door, locked on previous occasions, today was open. I scanned inside. There was a statue to the Virgin Mary near the altar table, beside her a flickering candle in a red holder, wooden pews and shifting my gaze, I saw Gregoriano and mother sitting together, looking intently into one another’s eyes. Mother was talking.

  I took a deep breath, unable to believe what I was seeing. Yet the mystery of how Gregoriano knew about the murder of my father Paco had been solved. I strained to listen and heard my mother say, “I’m worried about him. I have a premonition that something terrible is going to happen to him. Can you not do something?”

  Gregoriano leaned forward on the bench as if he didn’t want me to hear what he was saying. “I have already done something. I am doing something. You know that. I promised you that I would take care of you both.”

  Mother shook her head. “You do not know him as well as I do. He acts from dark places.”

  Gregoriano took my mother’s hand and held it for what seemed a long time before saying, “I think we are making progress. I’ve told you what I’ve planned for next steps. He will be forced to change.” Gregoriano leaned forward and whispered, “It is organised. It will work. Believe me.”

  11

  PABLO PICASSO

  “I am always doing that which I cannot do, in order that I may learn how to do it.”

  It was time for me to read the letter from Gregoriano posted in Sweden. I decided to read it in Ishmael’s room in the West Wing. I rummaged for white linen sheets to make the bed. I hadn’t been sleeping well. I wanted to lie in bed, find out what Gregoriano wanted to tell me and then, if at all possible, fall asleep.

  I held the letter with a shortness of breath provoked merely by looking at the envelope. Ever since his meeting with mother in the Chapel, I had wondered what Gregoriano planned for me. I didn’t see evidence of anything different happening. I hadn’t the courage to tell Ishmael about the last two encounters with Gregoriano. I knew that he would be horrified that I had let two more opportunities go by without getting to the truth of who Gregoriano was and what he wanted from me.

  Before opening the envelope, I lit a small log fire in Inglenook fireplace in the bedroom. I say bedroom but it was more like a monk’s cell reminiscent of those found in La Cartuja in Valldemossa where Chopin stayed in 1838 with George Sand for three months and wrote Preludes.

  There was an oak door into the suite, which led into an area with a sofa and the fireplace, an en suite bathroom and a bedroom with French patio doors leading out into the patio with views of the swimming pool ahead and the mountains to the left. The sun shimmered on the turquoise water of the pool. Logs on the fire spat and hissed. I pulled back the sheets and crawled into bed. With my head sunk deep into the pillow, I opened the envelope and pulled out three handwritten pages, each with an embossed red cross at the top. The letter was dated Monday 2nd October 2017.

  Dear Augustin,

  It has been a while since we talked. I hope when you reflect on our relationship that you are able to intuit that I care for you. I know that our relationship is not a “normal” one but that does not mean to say that it not deep, authentic and meaningful. When I say “meaningful”, I think we find meaning in the work we do and by doing something significant. We also find meaning in loving and caring for another person.

  It may surprise you to know that I think your work is significant. You are a talented Painter. However, over the years I have seen that what you do does not have the authenticity and inspiration of your earlier days. It is as if you are making fake copies of your own art. You are an Emperor who has no clothes and no-one will tell you.

  You do not seem to love or care for anyone but yourself. You are selfish and immature. I am sure that is upsetting to hear. You may feel that I have no right to interfere in your life. There is a reason why I am giving you this feedback. I hope you will one day understand that it is for your good and it is to fulfil a promise from the grave which connects our lives.

  You are a creative person, applauded by the world. Your creativity cannot survive and thrive unless you are prepared to face your dark side. We all possess a capacity for destruction, decay and death within us, essential for the flourishing of creativity. By facing your dark side – you will know yourself deeply. In doing this work, paradoxically your bright side will shine in the world with greater intensity.

  I offer you a new opportunity to love another person and to know yourself. It will take courage. It will enliven and invigorate the gift you have been given as a Painter and allow your work to fulfil its promise. However, this opportunity will contain a shock for you. I also know and care for Ishmael. There are reasons why Ishmael and I have not talked to you about the nature of our friendship. It does not seem appropriate to disclose these in a letter. I assure you, you will be told the whole story. It will make sense – not only about Ishmael’s past but also about mine.

  I invite you to come to Malmo, Sweden to meet with Ishmael’s flatmate Sophia and her son Oñé. Their relationship is complicated, as you may imagine, or Ishmael would have already mentioned her to you. Recently, Sophia has been diagnosed with
cancer. She will need to undergo chemotherapy and radiotherapy. It should take no longer than six months. Sophia and I have talked and she has agreed that it would be a good idea for you to bring Oñé to Mallorca during this six month period. He will benefit from your company and you will learn from him.

  I believe that the first question that you would like to ask is why has Sophia not contacted Ishmael and asked him to collect Oñé? It’s a good question. Firstly, Ishmael left Sophia and Oñé under ‘unusual’ circumstances which you will find out about. Secondly Sophia is not the wife or partner of Ishmael and Oñé is not Ishmael’s son. You will discover why he was Sophia’s ‘flatmate’ in due course.

  Imagine how different your life will be if you not only find a new meaning in your work, but also learn to deeply love someone other than yourself. Remember the words burning on the page in the Castle?

  Oñé will tell you in his own time the circumstances of Ishmael’s departure from Malmo. You will find him a talented precocious child. He will remind you of what you were like aged ten.

  I will not be here when you arrive. However, Sophia is waiting for you. You will meet in the Turning Torso, Malmo on Wednesday 11th October at mid-day. She will be downstairs waiting for you with Oñé.

  You may wish to tell Ishmael that you are going to Malmo. That is your choice. It may encourage him to tell you the truth about his past and his relationship with Sophia and Oñé. Please come quickly. Sophia needs to ensure that Oñé is in safe hands as soon as possible to allow her to begin her treatment.

  My love as always to you.

  Gregoriano

  12

  PABLO PICASSO

  “The people who make art their business are mostly imposters.”

  Sunday 8th October 2017

  I packed a bag for Malmo. I wasn’t sure which clothes to bring. I do not know why I am doing this. Yet what else is there to do? Ishmael is dead and I have no desire to paint. The letter from Gregoriano surprised me on many levels. There is the fact that Ishmael and Gregoriano knew one another. Neither inferred that was the case. Even when I explicitly talked to Gregoriano about Ishmael and asked for Ishmael’s help in understanding what Gregoriano was doing in my life.

  Then, there is the surprising revelation within the letter that Gregoriano cares about me. I have read the letter at least a dozen times. What does he mean by he is ‘fulfilling a promise from the grave’ and that we are ‘connected’? The third major surprise and shock was the revelation of Ishmael being a ‘flatmate’ of Sophia. What does that imply? He never mentioned her once in two years.

  I am scared about what to do about Ishmael. I don’t feel yet ready to tell the world about his murder. I will do it, but not now. How will I explain that he is not here? Is it right to bring Oñé to Mallorca to live with me on my own? I could destroy him. I don’t know how to take care of myself never mind a ten-year-old child.

  With unanswered questions, I arranged for a taxi to take me to the airport next day at eleven o’clock. I walked to the Plaza, ordered a cup of coffee in Café Soller and had a look at the local Sollerics and tourists. Coffee was served with what looked like a cube of breakfast cereal for a biscuit. I saw worn out faces, hips quivering on walking frames, balding heads of women, eyes searching, hoping for connection, blotches spreading across sun crevassed faces. Death was not far away for many.

  Occasionally a beautiful woman, sitting to my right held her baby against her breast, swinging her long blonde hair from left to right with a watchful eye to see if anyone noticed. The baby seems to be an extension of who she was. Her lips, swollen red with Botox, were surprisingly enticing. I was shocked that a fleeting sexual desire tempted me four days after murdering Ishmael. However, death is obsessing me and at a second glance, I see that her eyes are dead, disguised by painted blue lids, with shades of purple and yellow.

  Life in the Plaza, like the fallen leaves moving on the patio, reminds me that everything is changing. I can’t see or feel anything that does not change. My face is changing, developing a subtle double chin. My eyes are no longer clear but bloodshot and blurred. There is a softening in the muscle around my stomach. I see change in all of its multiple forms implying the death of what went before.

  At the foot of the steps of the Church walking across the Plaza, I saw a familiar face. It was Pep Conejo. I can’t let the results of Ishmael’s garden fall into decay. He spotted me waving wildly at him and turned in my direction. “Pep, I am so glad to see you. I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Please sit down. Let me get you something. Would you like a coffee, a beer, something to eat?”

  I embraced him and he pulled away laughing. I think he was in shock. I had never embraced him before.

  He sat beside me, looking at his watch. It was midday. “Well, it’s nearly time for lunch isn’t it?”

  He waited for my reaction. I knew that he ate lunch around three o´clock. It didn’t matter. He could have whatever he wanted. I raised a hand to catch the waitress’s attention.

  Elena arrived in her black jeans, t-shirt and apron. She had piercings in her right eyebrow, lower lip and the upper part of her ear. “Hi Agustin. What would you like?”

  I turned to Pep. He rubbed his hands together as he ordered. “To start with I’ll have spinach croquettes and baby squid. For the main course, salmon with that yellow sauce if you have it, potatoes, carrots, and a glass of red wine. Don’t worry about dessert for now. I’ll order that later.”

  For the first time since Ishmael’s death, I heard myself laugh. “I’m glad to hear that – we need to put a bit of fat on you to get you through the winter. I’ll have the spinach croquettes.” I gave a thumbs up to Pep. “I’ll join Pep with a glass of red wine. Thank you.”

  Pep rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re not having much are you? Are you on a diet?”

  I wanted to laugh again, which I thought was a good sign. I have always found that people who were extremely skinny seemed to have weighing scale eyes. He probably knew exactly how many kilos I had around my waist and how many I had put on in two years.

  “Well, I am not as active as you Pep. I can’t help piling on the kilos with my lifestyle. But there’s no fat on a skeleton. We might as well enjoy it while we can.”

  As soon as I said that, I remembered the sculpture and felt nauseous, unsure that I would be able to eat the croquettes when they arrived. Better to keep talking.

  “Pep, I know I haven’t treated you well. I’m sorry about that. You are a hard worker. I have no complaints about your work. I took Ishmael on as the gardener because he had specific experience in transforming the garden – to include a labyrinth, swimming pool, fountains, an orangery, a herb garden … You know he had done it before in La Coruña whereas you hadn’t.”

  Pep took a toothpick from the pocket of his shirt and scratched at something stuck between his two front teeth. “You employed five Sollerics to help him. You didn’t pick me. How do you think I felt? I could have learnt from Ishmael. It would have been good for me. I don’t often get a chance to do anything new around here.”

  The red wine appeared. We took large gulps of it in synchronisation, setting the glasses on the table in unison.

  “I see that you are annoyed with me. I don’t blame you. I can make it up to you if you let me.”

  “How’s that then?”

  “I’ve been stupid Pep. Ishmael has up and gone. I don’t know where. I’m left with a major problem. I need a gardener. I know you can do it, but do you want to do it? I know we had an arrangement to pay you in kind. You could take as much as you liked from the olive grove – fruit from the trees and olive wood for the fire. I am prepared to change that – you can take what you want, and I will pay you in addition the salary which I paid to Ishmael.”

  Pep sat back in the chair and stretched his legs out in front of him and looked me straight in the eyes. “What about back payment? I’ve been underpaid for years.”

  I smiled at him. “Don’t be greedy. You know th
at it is a generous offer. There will be no back payment.”

  The tapas arrived. Pep popped a whole croquette into his mouth and swallowed it in one. I had forgotten that he only had two teeth. He mushed the second croquette against his gums for a few seconds before swallowing. Pep continued: “It doesn’t surprise me what you say. Don’t get me wrong – I liked him – but I saw him with a couple of people that made me wonder about him. You know it’s a small town. Everybody knows everybody. There’s nothing goes unnoticed in Soller. If you sneeze someone in the Plaza will be talking about it five minutes later.”

  I gulped the entire glass of wine. “Who did you see him with?”

  “That housekeeper of yours – Gabriela had coffee with him most Saturdays. They sat right here where we are, bold as brass. Not that I want to gossip about them behind their backs – a coffee is only a coffee after all. It’s innocent enough. But did you know that they were seeing one another?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s what I mean. If it was as innocent as it looked, wouldn’t he have come back from the Plaza and told you?”

  I nodded. What a betrayal by Ishmael. I thought of those phone calls from the pay phone in Soller on a Saturday morning asking me what I wanted him to bring back for lunch and not a word mentioned about seeing Gabriela. Then again, if he wanted to have a relationship with Gabriela – what was wrong with that? He was, as far as I knew, a single man. He certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered for having coffee with my housekeeper.

  I remembered again how the gates had opened in the early hours of Thursday morning. I studied Pep. He had a remote control. Could it have been him? He had moved onto his salmon with hollandaise sauce and was mashing his potatoes. He didn’t appear to be holding anything back from me, so I continued, “You said there was another person?”