The Painter

by Deirdre Quiery

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes, much better. Please go on. You were about to tell me about Ishmael’s past.”

  Sophia sips her wine. “He developed Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder from what he experienced in Syria. You will have seen the suffering of children especially on television. He was born and lived in Syria, in Damascus. The Civil War started in 2011 as a protest against the Assad government. Ishmael lived with his family in a residential part of the city. He was proud of its historic past. His life was a normal one before the war. He was a Lecturer in Fine Art at Damascus University. He enjoyed the fact that the courses he ran were both theoretical and practical. He liked to nurture students in developing their own unique artistic expression. He had a strong conviction that everyone had artistic talent. For him, art was an innate human skill.”

  She rubs her nose, circling the tip with one finger.

  “Let me tell you what happened next. It is important for you to know how he came to Malmo. When the Civil War started in Syria in 2011, it was brutal but it was about to get worse. That first year it was not only adults but children who were executed and tortured in places such as Deraa, Homs and Latakia. Perhaps hundreds of thousands of children were killed. Can you imagine before they died, their sense of fear, abandonment and helplessness?

  “Last year, after five years of war, they said in total more than a quarter-of-a-million people have died. You know about the attempts of families to escape the violence – over one million Syrians managed to get to Lebanon. Others were not so lucky. They tried to seek asylum in many countries and found themselves again on the receiving side of aggression.”

  I feel sweat rolling down the sides of my face. I begin to cough. Sophia passes me a glass of water.

  “Would you like me to get some medicine for you? Do you want me to stop talking about it? You really don’t look good.”

  I pull a handkerchief out of my pocket, wipe my face and sip the water. “Please go on. It is quite an emotional story that you are telling. I realise that I have not been sufficiently aware of the Syrian situation. What then happened to Ishmael?”

  “You will have seen that he is a compassionate man. He went to Deraa where the children were being killed to see how he could help in the refugee camps. He found a camp run by the Red Cross. He worked with them distributing food to those who had fled the town and offering drawing and painting classes to help them express how they felt in this situation. He thought that this would help reduce and minimise the pain and fear held in their bodies. When he returned to Damascus in 2012, the war had escalated, and his parents’ house had been struck by mortars. The family were all killed – his parents, two brothers, a sister, two uncles, three aunts and all their children. He was alone.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He returned to Latakia and Homs, again found the Red Cross through his previous contacts in Deraa and continued to help distribute food and teach the children in the refugee camps to draw and paint. He tried to escape from Syria but it was impossible to get a Visa. He tried to get to Lebanon without success. When the refugee camp he was working in suffered a mortar attack, hundreds of people were killed and more injured. That was when he met Gregoriano.”

  I jump to my feet, pressing my hands into my temples. “What are you saying?”

  “Did you not know? Gregoriano is a Doctor who primarily works in war zones. In Syria he worked with physicians for Human Rights and the Red Cross. When he came to help the injured in the refugee camp outside Homs, Ishmael helped him. Gregoriano learnt of his situation and helped him to escape. He had a house in Malmo which he had bought for Oñé and I. There was a spare bedroom. I am a nurse with knowledge of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It was straightforward. I could help him to recover. I knew what to say and what not to say. It is easy to misinterpret the behaviour of someone with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder if you do not know that they have it. They can feel alone, isolated, suicidal.”

  Oñé interrupts when he sees the opportunity with my pause. He pulls at Sophia’s sleeve.“Mamma can I have the Butterkaka for dessert?”

  Sophia laughs. “Ask the waiter to get you some. It’s on the sweet trolley.”

  She smiles at me. “You have to know that he has a sweet tooth. Butterkaka is a cinnamon bun with almond and vanilla custard. Would you like some?”

  I shake my head. “No thank you – but please do have some.”

  “I am quite the opposite to Oñé – I don´t like desserts. Let me continue, Ishmael arrived here with Gregoriano’s help in December 2012. He returned to painting. However, this time I could tell that he wanted to exorcise demons from within. In the same way as he helped the children in the refugee camps to express their emotions through colour and form – he turned his attention to doing that himself. I was concerned about him because he didn’t seem to be resolving the pain within but rather it was as if he was drowning in it. The pain became his identity. Yet in Syria he had been able to help the children to release the horror which had grown within every cell of their bodies.”

  “You mentioned that be became a gardener in Syria. I don’t imagine that could have been easy growing flowers in desert conditions.”

  Sophia nods. “It wasn’t easy, but he wanted the children in particular to have hope in new life. In some refugee camps, they were lucky to have a small oasis for water and irrigation. He was able to find families with knowledge of how to grow Damask roses, Hibiscus flowers which he called ‘The Rose of Sharon’, Orchids, Henna, Evergreen Blackberry and a range of medicinal plants.

  “Where it was dryer but there was occasional surface water he simplified the gardens to include buckwheat bushes, rice grass, little leaf horse brush and black sage. He constructed a fire pit and the families would sit close to the gardens by a burning fire, tell stories and smell the scent of new life in the air. They would crush sage in their hands and hold it to their faces in the belief that it would scatter the evil spirits who wished them harm.

  “I tried to encourage him to begin planting again here, in our small garden and to leave the painting until he felt that he could cope with it in a healthier way. I only managed to convince him to plant purple heather and he planted three small trees – a Rowan tree an Oak tree and an Orange tree.

  “He couldn’t seem to leave his paintings. They were obsessions for him and when he left here he was in a bad way. I worried what would happen to him. It was a relief when Gregoriano told me that he was in Mallorca with you. Gregoriano assured me that you were taking good care of him.”

  She pauses, pouring Oñé another glass of water and patted him on the head and asking, “You liked Ishmael, didn’t you Oñé?”

  Oñé pushes another spoonful of Butterkaka into his mouth, staring at the plate. He mutters through the cake, “Sometimes.”

  Sophia raises her eyes with a smile. “He’s annoyed that he left us. It’s understandable. He’s too young to understand.” She strokes Oñé’s cheek and asks, “What was Ishmael like with you? I mentioned that people who suffer from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can be irritable – even aggressive. They struggle in extreme cases – Ishmael was an extreme case – to experience positive emotions such as happiness or loving feelings.”

  “No he wasn’t like that at all. He seemed happy, with a wicked sense of humour, full of love and warmth for everyone he met. He was thoughtful. He didn’t seem to think about himself.”

  Sophia beams a smile at me. “That’s wonderful news. He wasn’t like that when he arrived here in 2012. You must have treated him well. I am sure that he will return to work with you.” She looks as if she is having second thoughts when she asks, “Did something happen to make him leave Mallorca?”

  I shake my head. “No, quite the opposite. He seemed to be enjoying making sculptures and improving the garden.”

  Sophia looks me directly in the eyes. “That’s odd. I don’t understand it. There must have been something happening for him which he didn’t feel he could share with you. Y
ou said that he never told you about his life in Syria. Perhaps keeping that a secret from you took a toll on him.”

  She looks at Oñé, who is sitting looking glum, elbows on the table and staring straight ahead with his head in his hands. “Maybe we should go for a walk now. I think Oñé is getting bored.”

  She kneels on the floor beside Oñé, buttoning up his quilted coat and placing a navy scarf with embroidered golden planets around his neck. As she puts on her own coat, I notice for the first time that her lips have a blue tinge. Her skin is white and transparent showing small blue veins around her neck. She looks fragile yet strong. After all, she is a survivor from what she had seen in Syria and Iraq. How did she avoid the emotional damage which had scarred Ishmael? Maybe she hadn’t avoided it – it had instead emerged as cancer. I imagined that she did not mention her own suffering to Ishmael. That could not have been healthy, to sacrifice her own emotional needs to help Ishmael.

  We walk together along the seafront in the direction of ‘the strange place’. Sophia holds Oñé’s hand. I watch carefully, attempting to learn how he is used to being treated, so that I can imitate what she does for him. He pulls her hand, trying to release his own. She speaks in a gentle voice to him, one which I know will be challenging for me to mimic.

  “We’re by the sea. It’s dangerous. You have to hold my hand. When we get to the park, you can run around and chase the seagulls, but not here.”

  I think she’s being overprotective. I would have let him run along the path. I couldn’t see what harm could come to him. Oñé pulls again at Sophia’s hand.

  “Please, I promise not to run. I’ll stay away from the sea.”

  Sophia releases his hand. “Don’t go out of our sight.”

  When he can’t hear us, Sophia explains: “It’s not the sea that I am worried about. It’s this place, Malmo. It’s dangerous.

  “Earlier this year, the police appealed to the public for help in solving a dozen murders and eighty attempted murders in the Rosengard district. It’s an area where 80% of the inhabitants are migrants and less than 40% of the district’s residents have a job. There was a terrible murder in January of a sixteen-year-old Iraqi boy called Ahmed Obaid who was shot dead. People were terrified when threats against his former schoolmates were posted under the photo of his dead body. This is a violent city of murders, beating, rapes, bombings, shootings and arson attacks. I am afraid about him being abducted – even on this path someone could take him if he is not close by to me. I fear that he could be forced away from me, even if I was holding his hand. I know that sounds crazy. Maybe I am paranoid but that is why I want you to take him to Mallorca.

  “Of course, I have friends here but I would worry every day during my absence what might happen to him. He has Arab blood. You can see that, can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can. He has a handsome face – a straight nose, beautiful intense brown eyes, high cheekbones, an olive complexion – he will go unnoticed in Mallorca. It is a perfect place for him to stay for a while. It is peaceful. He will be in no danger. I can assure you of that.” I laugh. “We have our Moorish past which is evident not only from the beauty of the olive terraces but is reflected in the faces of the men and women of Mallorca, our music, our sculptures and philosophy. It will be a pleasure to spend time with Oñé.”

  Sophia looks straight ahead and gasps. “What is he doing?”

  As we are talking, Oñé has run ahead of us. He has reached the pier, separating the walkway by the sea from the cargo ships in the Port area. He now sprints along top of pier chasing a seagull which totters quickly ahead of him, taunting him.

  Sophia and I race together towards the pier. As we approach the pier wall, cargo ships pull out from the harbour and sound deep warning horns. I scramble up a ramp of hard snow with Sophia behind me screaming at Oñé to come back.

  My feet slip on the icy top of the pier. I watch Oñé reach into the air as the seagull launches itself into the sky. He slips. Everything is in slow motion. His feet seem to take a few seconds before they disappear from sight and the sound of the splash below appears too gentle to be that from waves which have opened their watery hearts to embrace him. Sophia shouts hysterically behind me, words which I cannot understand. I reach the end of the pier and frantically look into the water. Oñé bobs on the surface, his scarf floating away from him. For a brief moment I see his terrified eyes, wide open, before his head disappears under the waves. I jump.

  The water is icy cold. In the silence beneath the waves, I open my eyes. At first, I can see nothing. I swim to the left, in the direction of the scarf. Then I see Oñé. His hands point upwards towards the surface which is only a short distance above us. He kicks frantically with his legs and flaps his arms but makes no progress moving towards the surface. I kick my feet desperately, simultaneously pushing water away from my sides with fast rhythmical precision. I catch him by the coat, placing my arms under his armpits and pointing us both towards the surface, moving my legs with extraordinary vigour and energy which comes from I know not where. We break through the surface and I hear Sophia screaming at us before throwing us a lifebelt which splashes on the choppy sea before drifting within reach. I manage to slide the ring over Oñé’s head and then pull his hair to get him through the ring. I hold tight onto the lifebelt and push us towards the shingle beach where Sophia now stands quivering and silently gasping with her hands over her mouth.

  We have only been in the water for one or two minutes but we’re both shivering and trembling. Oñé lies horizontal on the tiny pebbles. I check his pulse. Fast, but he seems to be OK. I perform CPR in case water has entered his lungs. He moans a little, watching me with open eyes. His lungs are clear. Sophia removes her coat. I strip Oñé’s from his shaking body, replacing it with Sophia’s. She kneels beside him and wipes his face with her scarf. She turns around and looks at me.

  “Are you alright? An ambulance is on its way.”

  I nod. “I’m OK. A blanket would be appreciated.”

  I’m aware of how understated that sounds. My heart races and my breathing is shallow, erratic as I rapidly suck in air. I begin to violently shudder when the siren from the ambulance gets louder and it screeches to a stop on top of the pier.

  Oñé and I are kept overnight in Malmo Hospital for observation. We are together in a private room and Sophia spends the night in the room with us, on a lazyboy lounge chair recliner with a Nordic quilt over her, close to Oñé. She holds his hand as he sleeps. I find it difficult to relax at all but I lay on my back, with my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep.

  The following day we head to a pizzeria on the Salongsgatan Street, near the Turning Torso. Oñé whimpers apologies to Sophia and thanks me. I wasn’t sure if the words coming out of his mouth were sincere or whether he had been coached in what to say by Sophia. I judge by the look in his eyes that it was the latter. I eat my pizza with smoked salmon and rocket lettuce and have to admit that my life saving act of heroism hasn’t brought with it a glimmer of fondness for Oñé.

  I don’t share that thought with Sophia. I feel obliged by Gregoriano to take care of the boy in Mallorca. The fact that I didn’t like him was evidence that Gregoriano was right in his assessment of my selfishness. I would learn something. The events for Sophia had removed any lingering doubts she may have had over my suitability to do so. If she knew what I really thought about him, I was convinced that she would not have let him leave Malmo to stay with me in Mallorca.

  My mind compulsively returns to an unanswered, unspoken question which I have for Sophia but cannot bring myself to ask. Who was Oñé’s father? Why could he not take care of Oñé for six months, if he was still alive? Why did Gregoriano choose me to be a temporary guardian of Oñé?

  15

  PABLO PICASSO

  “It takes a long time to become young.”

  In the Park Inn I lay in bed pressing my head into the feather pillows which I dragged halfway down the bed. For the first time in a long time, I had a night of
unbroken sleep. Sophia had asked me to book flights to return with Oñé to Mallorca on Wednesday 18th October. That would be three weeks since Ishmael’s death. I imagined that for the rest of my life I would be counting the weeks and that guilt and remorse would never diminish. A conscience emerging within me was my own death sentence.

  I understood that prisoners on Death Row in the United States must have a certain sense of relief if their conscience is triggered, and that they are guilty, that there is a planned end to the debilitating odious feeling of guilt with an execution date in place. Everything which Sophia had told me about Ishmael’s past made sense. It also increased my sense of forsakenness and alienation. Nobody would ever love me if they knew what I had done. I was alone with the knowledge of who I had become.

  I took some relief in imagining myself walking along a tiled corridor towards an execution room where a wooden chair sat in the middle, surrounded by chairs for those who would witness my death. I visualised myself sitting on the chair, my head shaven, a watery sponge placed on top of my head, with drops of water running down my face, onto my shoulders. There would be silence from those watching, an inward gasp as they saw a black hood placed over my head. My terrified eyes and trembling lips would not be seen as electricity raced through my body. I would shudder and then be forever still. The only person who would feel compassion for me would be my mother, Monica. She would hold her hands over her face even though there was nothing to be seen other than the last twitching moments of my life.

  The mobile phone rang, wriggling its way across the top of bedside cabinet. I picked it up and saw that it was Gabriela. I squirmed into the middle of the bed, the mobile pressed against my ear, my breath short and rapid. “Hello. Is everything OK?”