The Painter

by Deirdre Quiery

  Pep wiped his mouth with the cuff of his jacket. The napkin lay on the table beside his plate with the knife on top to stop it blowing off the table. “Yes. There is a strange man who lives somewhere in Soller. He doesn’t often come into the Plaza. We normally know everything in Soller – who is selling their house, who’s received money in a brown paper bag to complete a house deal, how much did they get, who’s robbing whom, who has fallen out with whom, who’s having an affair with whom, who’s committed suicide and why they did it. Nobody knows the name of this stranger or where he lives. The only word about him is that he is a Doctor and he travels to those war zones you see on the television and treats the injured in the hospitals that have been bombed. If he is doing that then he is a good man – but he’s not right in the head. I don’t know of anyone in Soller who would jump on a plane and go to likes of Syria or Iraq, rather than stay at home with the family, make paella, have a few beers or a share a bottle or two of Rioja. You would have to be crazy to fly somewhere where the only lunch you’ll get will be fired at you from a machine gun.”

  I took my time over the croquettes to encourage Pep to keep talking. “You’re telling me that you saw Ishmael with this man?”

  “I am. Are you ready for your dessert?”

  “Wait a minute. Where did you see him?”

  “That meeting was a bit more suspicious than when Ishmael met Gabriela. The last time I saw the two of them together, was only last week – Tuesday. They weren’t in the Plaza. I was on my moped on my way to Fornalutx. I took the road that goes through Biniaraix. There’s a little café there that I sometimes stop by for a ‘Pa amb Oli’- they do a great cheese one there with cheese from Mahon, olives and tomato. José, who owns it, is a good friend and every Tuesday we meet to have our ‘merienda’. I stood talking with José at the bar and to my right I saw Ishmael with his back to me, talking in a low voice to the Doctor. He didn’t see me. They seemed to be engrossed with one another – planning something I would say. Whatever they were talking about, it was serious. José called me into the kitchen at the back to eat with him. I asked Ishmael if the Doctor had been there before and if he lived nearby.

  “He told me that they had coffee and talked for an hour or so, several times a year. They didn’t pay attention to José. It looked to him that they didn’t want anyone to know that they were there. He knew when to leave a client alone. There are not many places to hide in Soller and few local people from Soller would make a special journey to go to José’s place in Biniaraix. It’s a pity for him in the winter as he barely makes a living. The spring and autumn are when he can make enough money to live on with the tourists climbing the mountains. He didn’t know where the Doctor lives but suspected it was somewhere up the Barranc. Out of nosiness one day, he pretended to be cleaning the tables outside and watched where he went. It was in the direction of the Barranc. There is only one other possibility that he could have turned left before climbing Barranc, towards Fornalutx.”

  I signalled to Elena. “Pep, do you want another red wine? A dessert?”

  Pep scraped at the plate with the back of his fork. “Yes, another red wine and apple pie with cream.”

  With the order placed, I leaned forward to Pep. “Pep, if you see Ishmael around, you will let me know?”

  He picked again at his front teeth, nodding yes. I continued. “What did the Doctor look like?”

  “Tall, dark hair, well-dressed. He looked as if he had money. Well he would if he’s a Doctor.”

  “Was there anything special about the way he looked?”

  Pep nodded. “Those green eyes. I haven’t seen anyone with eyes as bright green as his. Though these days you never know what’s real or what’s not. People with money can wear coloured contact lenses.”

  My hands were sweating. I placed them on my trousers to dry off so that I wouldn’t give Pep a clammy handshake when we said goodbye.

  “Pep – do you accept my offer to start back as my gardener? I’d want you to keep the garden as it. I don’t need you to add to it or change it. I think that might have been why Ishmael left. He had done everything he thought that he needed to do. He told me that he had gypsy blood in him. I imagine that he’s moved on to somewhere else. I would like to thank him and say goodbye to him properly if possible. It doesn’t feel right to have spent two years with him and not to see him one more time. If you or any of your friends see him, let me know.”

  Pep wiped his mouth again and smiled at me, showing me those two front tombstone teeth. “You said that I can help myself to what is in the olive grove and have the same salary you gave Ishmael? If that’s the case, when do you want me to start?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m away for a while. I don’t know how long but you know where everything is. You’ll know what to do when you see it. You’ve got a remote control and a key haven’t you? I’ll pay you two thousand euros a month.”

  I imagined that Pep’s two front teeth wobbled in his mouth when he heard that. You didn’t get that kind of money for a job in Mallorca if you had been to University and were Head Teacher of the local Convent school.

  I walked slowly home, letting the conversation with Pep Conejo play over and over in my head. I hoped that he would spread the word around Soller that Ishmael had ‘disappeared’, that I had been left in a bit of a hole and wanted everyone to keep their eyes open for him.

  It had to be Gregoriano who met with Ishmael last Tuesday. He must have posted the letter in Sweden, caught a flight back and met Ishmael the next day. I tried to remember Ishmael’s movements last Tuesday – the day before I murdered him. He told me that he wanted to buy a bag of fertiliser, a hoe and a bag of peat from Can Bibi, the hardware shop in the Calle de la Luna. I offered to drive him down to Soller.

  He shook his head and told me, “You concentrate on your painting. You said that you wanted to make a few changes. I’m happy to walk.”

  He would have had time to walk up the Calle de la Luna all the way to Biniaraix, meet Gregoriano and call into Can Bibi on the way back.

  13

  PABLO PICASSO

  “Are we to paint what’s on the face, what’s inside the face, or what is behind it.”

  I am in Malmo, Sweden, staying at the Park Inn Hotel. From my hotel window, I see the Oresund Straits and the Oresund Bridge that connects Sweden to Denmark. It feels strange to be in a country I do not know. In Mallorca, the sun in winter warms the bones but when it disappears, it is like Sweden; there is a freezing cold with dampness sinking with a deathlike touch twisting my bones.

  Since arriving I have sketched, written in my journal and walked along the seafront. I have not felt bored – rather I have felt safe. If the local police in Mallorca discovered that I had murdered Ishmael, they wouldn’t find it easy to locate me here. I could keep running – catch the train back over the bridge to Copenhagen and if necessary find my way to Norway or Finland. It feels liberating to be away from the small island of Mallorca where crimes are more easily solved.

  I walked alone along the seafront into a chilling breeze. I am looking for the ‘strange place’ recommended by the receptionist, where music plays twenty-four hours a day.

  I discovered a grassy rounded tomb-like mound only a metre from the seafront. I listened to morose, doleful music playing. It is interesting rather than depressing. Who invented this place of singing sirens? For whom are they singing … tempting? There is no-one here. Music played to frozen grass, reaching out to lapping waves, eroding shingle on the beach and to the screeching gulls circling overhead. It helped my mood. I can’t be the same person when I am in a totally different culture, meeting people who are so different from those at home.

  I sat on the grassy tomb, which is clear from snow but not from ice, looking out to sea, not worrying if my trouser bottoms were soaking in melting ice. The mound reminded me of Megalithic sites I have seen on my travels – passage tombs with large stones used to create chambers under the ground, where the dead were buried. Although I did not see ev
idence of a stone structure here, I imagined that it existed and that under the grass I was sitting on, were bones of those who walked the earth more than 5,000 years ago. They were the bones of the dead sleeping together, waiting for the winter equinox and for sun to stream along the passage to their resting place and to flood it with light and hope.

  That subtle lightness of heart of enjoying being away from Mallorca and experiencing a new culture was short lived. On the way back to the Park Inn, a car drove along the main road beside me. It swung around menacingly with a handbrake turn. I jumped. I was edgy. I feared that there would be a reprisal for Ishmael’s death, that I was not as safely hidden in Malmo as I had thought. I could be found at any time, in any place. The man in the car sneered at me as he drove into the distance. Of course, I may have imagined it. He also waved at me with a hand movement which seemed aggressive, but it might have been friendly or apologetic. I knew that I was unstable. I had yet to meet Sophia.

  14

  PABLO PICASSO

  “I don’t believe in accidents. There are only encounters in history. There are not accidents.”

  Wednesday 11th October 2017

  Today I will meet Sophia and Oñé. It is one week since Ishmael’s murder. I constantly check the time after a breakfast of pickled herrings, tomatoes, lettuce and rye bread. The meeting is planned for midday.

  I saw the Turning Torso – the tallest building in the Nordics – twist into the sky from my bedroom window. It won’t take more than fifteen minutes to reach there from the hotel. Nevertheless, I check at reception the exact directions to take. I don’t want to arrive late.

  At eleven forty-five I stumbled along a path by the canal until I reached the Turning Torso. I stared up at it. It was a marvellous construction, twisting into the air like a corkscrew. There was something about the offcenteredness of it, holding it together – I wished that I could do that with my mind.

  I looked at my watch. I was eight minutes early, so wouldn’t go inside. I stood outside with the smokers and looked up again, this time watching a heavy mist hang over the top of the Torso draping itself around the penthouse like an octopus enveloping its prey. The smokers went indoors, leaving me alone. My head feels full of water as if the canal is emptying itself into me with the immensity of the water touching Malmo and the edges of Sweden – the Oresund Straits, to the west, the Baltic and the North Sea. That intensity of that water holding cargo boats with steely structures heading out into an unknown world, captured for me the Swedish mind. It is a mind of merchandising, heady thinking, emerging from darkness. My thoughts – I cannot catch them – are bobbing on the surface of my mind, floating westwards, beyond reach.

  I am fickle. Yesterday I thought that I felt safe and free here in Malmo. Today I miss the mountains of Mallorca in this flat and watery land – mountains pushing out from the sea with strength coming from deep in the earth. I miss pomegranates splitting open with real life – giving seeds; kiwis hanging hidden and unnoticed within emerald leaves, oranges dropping onto a fertile soil with their lemon neighbours, olives crushed by the hands of locals who know how to split them to let salt enter into olive bones. It’s an island vital, organic, and promising – a beating heart within soil tilled by solid men of the earth.

  In Sweden a December of darkness is approaching. In Mallorca on sunny days, we will have small delicate yellow flowers spreading through winter green. The sea will sparkle and clouds will pour over the mountains trimmed with white fur soaked in sunshine.

  I look at my watch. It is midday. I climb the steps and push the revolving door.

  I step inside. It is obvious who Sophia is. She has to be the woman sitting with a straight back gazing at me, holding the hand of a young boy who must be Oñé. Sophia smiles softly at me, her hair piled into a dark bun. She has the posture of a ballerina with a sense of strength within her body like that of steel that holds the Turning Torso and roots it into the earth. There is movement within her. I watch her turn and twist to look at me again.

  At first sight Oñé seems to be a trembling, troubled child. He holds his mother’s hand as if it was a life support. He looks at me with a penetrating stare. He had no fear of me.

  Sophia rises to her feet, walking towards a table in the restaurant, gently pulling Oñè behind her, expecting me to follow. I obey. We shake hands. She leans forward and kisses me three times. I bend over to take Oñé’s hand. I hold it between my two hands in silence. I act on instinct. I have no training in this world of children.

  Sophia breaks the silence. “So, at last we meet, Augustin. May I present to you my son Oñé. Oñé I would like to present to you Gregoriano’s and Ishmael’s friend, Augustin. It will not be long before we get to know one another. It will be an adventure together. Let’s sit down and have something to eat. I will explain.”

  She waves at the waiter. There is a grace about her movement as she bends over and whispers into Oñé’s ear. “Would you mind playing over there for a few minutes?”

  Oñé looks at her with a certain disgust – squeezing his forehead into a wrinkled frown. “That’s for children. I’m not a child.”

  She smiles at him and gives him a kiss. “We won’t be long. I will order your favourite fish.”

  He drops his mother’s hand and walks slowly to the play area where there are swings, a slide and a small yellow plastic house with several doors giving access to the inside and a wooden ladder leaning against the front wall. Oñe climbs the ladder, sits on the red roof, looking at us like an owl, his eyes wide open, his ears listening.

  The waiter arrives. Without asking me what I would like to drink, Sophia asks for two glasses of white wine.

  “It’s a Spanish wine – I thought you might like it.” She moves closer. “I don’t want Oñe to hear it again. He knows that I have cancer and need to receive treatment in the hospital for six months which will mean that I cannot take care of him. I have explained to him that Gregoriano suggested that he will enjoy life in Mallorca and learn how to improve his painting. I will visit as often as I can between treatments.”

  Her eyes water. I wipe her tears away with the back of my hand which I then withdraw seeing her shoulders shudder. I sip the wine. I tell the planned lie.

  “Ishmael has disappeared. I don’t know if he will return. How appropriate is it for Oñé to come with me to Mallorca when I do not know when or if Ishmael will return?”

  She nods as if she had expected that to be my reply. “Yes, he does that from time to time. Sometimes he can’t cope with the slightest stress. He disappears to avoid it. That is a consequence of his Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I understood that, being a Nurse and having worked in Iraq during the war and then in Syria. It was more difficult in Iraq and Syria to treat PTSD than to stop the bleeding in a leg which had been severed by a mortar or to comfort a mother blinded by shrapnel.”

  The waiter returns to refill our glasses. Sophia orders lunch – Vasterbotten cheese pie for starters, fried herring with mashed potatoes, parsley butter and lingon berries. She waves at Oñé to join us. “He will be OK now to listen to us. He knows Ishmael’s story.”

  As Oñé runs towards us, I quickly ask Sophia, “What happened to Ishmael?”

  She hasn’t time to answer. Oñé pulls his chair up to the table, cuts the Vasterbotten cheese pie in half, pushing one half to the side of the plate and eating the fried herring.

  “My mother tells me that you will take me to Mallorca. I will miss school here. What are your plans to make sure that I do not fall behind in my education? I am top of the class here. I do not want to return and discover that is no longer the case. I have to work hard to be the best painter in the world like Ishmael.”

  Sophia pours Oñé a glass of water and hands him a bread roll with a dish of herb butter. “Let’s talk about that a little later. Augustin asked me a question about Ishmael. I need to explain what happened to him. There is a lot to tell.”

  She laughs at me. “I suppose we were all like that when we were
ten.”

  I interrupt. “Oñé said that Ishmael is a painter. I only knew him as a gardener. Is that true, that he is a great painter?”

  She eats a small portion of herring and Vasterbotten cheese pie, slipping it into her mouth delicately as if she could only open her lips a few centimetres and no more.

  “Yes, it’s true. He is a gardener but that was selflearned under difficult circumstances – creating gardens in the deserts of Syria. His education, training and practice lay in the world of art. What has he told you about his life? I do not want to repeat what you already know.”

  “He has told me absolutely nothing, other than to describe the work he did in Jose del Pardo’s garden in La Coruña. I asked him on several occasions to talk to me about his life before La Coruña. He promised that he would. He never did.”

  I stop. My breathing speeds up. My heart flutters like a butterfly trapped within a glass jar. I am sure that Sophia can see it flapping against my chest. I remembered Ishmael pleaded, begged with me before I murdered him to allow him to tell me why he changed my painting and about the two people who had an impact on his life – one of them who had to be Sophia.

  Sophia fills my glass with water. “You are looking awful. Are you sure that you are well?”

  I imagine that she is worried about whether I was fit enough to take care of Oñé. I cough into my napkin. “I think I might have a little food poisoning from the prawns I ate last night. It’s nothing really. If you excuse me, I’ll be back in a few minutes. Please continue eating.”

  I dash to the restrooms. Standing over the basin, I turn on the cold tap, splash my face and hold my head under the tap, gulping at the water. If only I had let Ishmael tell me what he wanted to tell me that night, it would have all made sense. Although it did not mean that I would not have killed him. Something took possession of me – a combination of anger, rage, pride and fear that I could not control once activated. What frightened me was the thought that it could happen again, maybe to Oñé. It was not impossible. I pat my face dry with a cotton hand towel, take a few deep breaths and return to the table. Sophia looks anxiously at me.