“Ishmael never asked any questions about what I thought about his paintings. He had arranged to have the last one installed in the Reina Sophia Museum in Madrid. The night before it was to be shipped, he decided to sit with it. He wanted to be alone. I offered to stay with him, as did mother. He refused. We went to our bedrooms.
“We don’t know exactly what happened but around four o’clock in the morning there was a blood curdling scream from the sitting room where he sat. Mother and I ran downstairs and met Ishmael in the hallway. He slammed the door of the sitting room closed and shouted that we should not enter the room. His face was tinged green and his eyes were heavily bloodshot. He could hardly speak. He gulped at the air. He then told us that the panel on the left – the one symbolising a Descent into Hell – had ‘come alive’. He was horrified that he had the power to bring Hell alive. Even though the painting was being sent to the Reina Sophia in Madrid the following day and that he wouldn’t have to look at it again, he told us that he had to go away for a while.
“He said that he wanted to escape from himself. He explained as best as he could, that the painting moved into life and he saw himself moving within the scenes. Yet he had not painted himself in there. I so much wanted to open the door to the sitting room and to see for myself if it continued to move with life as he described. I thought that would have been wonderful to see. Mother stood in front of the door, blocking my way into the room, as if she read my mind. She said that I could only look at the painting in the morning when it was light. I think she was worried about Ishmael’s state of mind and that by finishing this painting, he had triggered a memory of the Hell he had lived through in Syria.”
“What happened then?”
“Ishmael placed his hands over his ears and ran upstairs. I wasn’t sure why he did that. It seemed to me as if the figures in the painting were continuing to talk to him. Mother followed him upstairs and as I watched, I saw her in Ishmael’s bedroom, helping him pack a small rucksack with cotton shirts and light beige trousers. I could see that he wasn’t planning to stay in the coldness of Sweden. Because it was a small rucksack, I thought that maybe he wouldn’t be away very long. I was wrong. It’s now four years since he left. I don’t know if I will ever see him again.
“Mother called a taxi. It was six in the morning. I watched how they said goodbye to one another. Ishmael stared beyond mother as he embraced her. His eyes settled on mine. They were filled with fear. He looked quickly away. I wondered if he could see that I couldn’t tolerate his level of cowardice. I noticed that he hadn’t bothered to shave or to wash. Normally he spent an hour in the bathroom, emerging with his hair gelled away from his face and a waft of Chanel trailing behind him like a smoke screen. His embrace of Mother seemed unreal. It was an automatic act of farewell. There was no real connection between them. She pressed her hands into his upper arms. I couldn’t tell if she was pushing him away or attempting to give him energy. He looked floppy; like a plant wilting from dehydration. Then she kissed him on both cheeks. I thought it was as if she was settling on each cheek like a butterfly. The lightness of touch didn’t seem to match the seriousness of what was happening.
“The taxi tooted. Ishmael didn’t kiss me or shake my hand. He opened the front door and ran into the snow. Snowflakes settled on his hair like dandruff before melting. I heard him shout to the taxi driver, ‘Copenhagen airport’. He closed the door of the taxi gently. He never looked back at mother or me. I watched the dark outline of his head move towards the front of the taxi as if he were talking to the taxi driver but I knew that he was only looking ahead, longing for the long bridge which would take him from Malmo to Copenhagen airport and after that I did not know where he wanted to go and when I would next see him.”
When Oñé stopped talking, he looked at me, waiting for a response. There was an eagerness in his eyes to make contact with me. I knew he thought that I had understood him. Maybe I had, but his questions raised more questions for me than he was capable of explaining. I wanted to know why Gregoriano did not visit his son. I wasn’t sure if he wanted to or didn’t want to but that made the situation more complicated. Why did Gregoriano seem more interested in what happened to me than he was with helping his own son?
Oñé waited for me to reply. I had to do something to acknowledge the trust he had shown in me by telling me what he knew of Ishmael’s disappearance.
“So you think that you can recreate this triptych which triggered some kind of Post-Traumatic Stress response in Ishmael? You are ten years of age. Creating this triptych seriously disturbed Ishmael. You have been placed in my care by your mother. How do I know that painting this will not cause you to have an ‘episode’ like that experienced by Ishmael?”
I didn’t wait for his answer; instead, I pulled the installation from the first table and threw it on the floor. I thought that he would be impressed by how little regard I had for my art. His face remained expressionless. I walked slowly to the back of the studio and found an easel with a large new canvas and dragged them both towards him.
“Do you like to paint sitting down or standing up?”
Oñé rubbed his hand through his hair exactly the way I had watched Ishmael do. He narrowed his eyes as he asked, “Have you ever had a painting come alive?”
I shook the installation which I had thrown on the floor into the air. “Do you not see the birds flying?”
He laughed. “I understand why Ishmael would have enjoyed his stay with you.” He pushed a pine chair to one side. “I paint standing on my feet. I don’t run away, no matter what happens. I want to be rooted to the ground when I paint.”
I searched for oil paints laying them on top of the table, rummaged in a cupboard for turpentine, placed an array of brushes into a vase like a bouquet of flowers and pulled a large wooden platter from the wall for him to mix his oils.
“Begin.”
He looked around the room. “Can I have an apron and a cloth?”
I left him arranging his colours on the wooden platter and ran down the path towards the house. The sun was amazingly hot for November. My face tingled. My feet stumbled a little on the pebbles. I cursed that I had not put a paving path instead of a moving, crunching sea.
I hated the fact that I was running. I felt like a dog and Oñé was whipping me into submission. That thought made me change my mind. I searched for a white sheet. I cut a hole in the top of it for Oñé’s head to fit through. I hid the apron in the bottom drawer beneath the frying pan. “I couldn’t find the apron but this will protect you from splashes.”
Oñé placed his head through the hole and looked like a ghost. I sniggered. How could I have such an ambivalent response towards him? One minute I had empathy for not knowing what his father thought about him and the next moment I didn’t care. He ignored me or pretended not to hear me as he stretched his arms into the shape of a cross.
“Thank you. I would have preferred an apron but if you can’t find it I will find it later. I begin.”
He chose a large brush which I hadn’t cleaned properly. He dipped it into turpentine to soften it, left it in the turpentine and then squeezed yellow, blue, white, black and red oils onto the bread board which I had brought him as a palette. He gave the appearance of knowing what he was about to do.
The mobile rang. I didn’t recognise the number and it wasn’t in my contacts list. I immediately thought that it had to be the Local Police. Gabriela had said that they wanted to talk to me about Ishmael’s disappearance. I wondered why it had taken them so long to ring. I had been in Soller a few weeks since returning from Malmo. I had begun to think that they didn’t suspect me of Ishmael’s disappearance, or they would have met me at Palma airport and escorted me for questioning by the Guardia Civil.
It was the local Police from Soller.
“We would like to see you tomorrow. We need to talk about the disappearance of Ishmael Domini.”
17
PABLO PICASSO
“To draw you must close your eyes
and sing.”
Wednesday 8th November 2017
The Local Police in the shape of Jose Miguel and Pep Serrano arrived at ten o’clock. I made sure that Oñé was painting in the Studio before they arrived. I knew that he could be unpredictable in what he might blurt out. I heard the Police motorbikes rumble up the driveway. I pulled back the lace curtain to see them dismount from what looked like bright coloured toys with flashing antenna lights. They exchanged a few words with one another and then looked directly at the window. They had seen me.
I let the curtain fall into place and cursed myself for being so careless. I peered at them like a pervert who had something to hide. Of course I had something to hide and it was right in front of them in the sculpture. They wore black uniforms with dashes of white lettering. I thought that symbolised perfectly the mind of anyone who wanted to join the Police – black and white thinkers with no use of colour, no understanding of grey or paradox. They would need to find a ‘baddie’ set against a society of ‘goodies’, for which they were the foot soldiers. I continued to watch them through the lace curtain, stepping back a little to ensure that they couldn’t see me. They swaggered towards the front door, looking around them through large black sunglasses. The dwarf- sized one pointed at the sculpture and they approached it looking into the fountain and around the garden. The taller one pointed at the labyrinth before touching his pistol and knocking at the door. I opened it.
“Pep Serrano from the local Police.”
I shook his hand. “Agustin Silvero. I’ve been expecting you. You want to know about the disappearance of Ishmael Domini. Please come in.”
Pep Serrano looked at his colleague, who also extended a hand. “Jose Miguel.”
I waved a hand inviting them inside. “Delighted to meet you both. How can I help?”
Jose Miguel looked like a film star from a 1950s black and white Hitchcock movie – Dial M for Murder or maybe To Catch a Thief. He had a Clark Gable look – a dark bushy moustache, oiled black hair, brush strokes of eyebrows. Even in that short glance with the raised lace curtain, I admired his deep brown eyes, black locks stretching a little too far down his cheeks and his lips moving almost independently from the rest of his face. Pep Serrano was how I imagined Sancho Panza might look, as described in my favourite novel ‘Don Quijote’. He was a small, squat man with a bulging tummy pulled tight like a balloon twisted by the belt around his waist into a snake shape.
I watched myself rubbing my hands together, not knowing what to do next after the initial welcome. Sancho Panza spoke in a determined voice which surprised me. He hadn’t given me the impression that he was the leading officer on the case.
“Let’s cut to the chase. We are here, as you obviously understand, to talk about Ishmael Domini. About his disappearance. Your co-operation is appreciated.”
I took a few steps backwards. “Of course. I am more than happy to do so. Would you like a coffee?”
Sancho Panza scratched at his stubbly chin whilst Clark Gable folded his arms over his chest and stared at me. Neither accepted my invitation to sit and ignored my offer of coffee.
“Where is the son?”
“Who?”
“The son?”
Sancho Panza sat on the sofa, joined by Clark Gable. He snorted. “I see this is going to take some time. You seem to need everything repeated twice. Yes, a coffee would be welcome. What about you José?”
Clark Gable nodded. “It’s always helpful to waken up the brain cells.”
As I moved towards the Nespresso machine I fumbled with the pods and decided to give them a decaffeinated coffee. In a loud voice from beside the coffee machine, I said, “I don’t have a son.”
The Nespresso machine grumbled and spat.
Sancho Panza accepted his ‘cortado’. “We are not talking about your son – but somebody’s son. A boy who is living with you, who entered Mallorca with you on the 18th October 2017. Maybe it will help your memory if we remind you that his mother is Sophia Andersson. I am sure that you have his passport with you for identification purposes and know that he is the son of Sophia Andersson and Gregoriano Balsano. His name is Oñé Balsano Andersson.”
I rubbed my nails across the stubble on my chin, imitating Sancho Panza.
“Perhaps you know more about this child than I do. I have only responded to a compassionate request by both Gregoriano and Sophia to take care of their child for a six-month period, while she is undergoing treatment for cancer. I have to confess that I did not know whether or not they were married, although I knew that they were Oñé’s parents.”
Jose Miguel and Pep Serrano glanced at one another. Pep Serrano clarified. “We did not say that the parents were married. They are not married.”
I found his tone quite aggressive but replied in a gentle voice which I knew was essential when working with either the local Police or the Guardia Civil.
“I can find Oñé’s passport for you if you wish?”
Clark Gable took control. “Thank you. We have certain details on file but would want to see the original passport. Do you have a means of copying it here?”
“Yes, I have a photocopier and scanner if necessary.”
I was becoming bored thinking of them as Clark Gable and Sancha Panza. I was also afraid that I might say those names out loud by mistake.
José Miguel continued: “We understand that Ishmael Domini knew Oñé. What was the nature of their relationship?”
I sipped on my double strength espresso.
“Ishmael Domini is my gardener who left my home on the morning of Thursday 5th October for unknown reasons. He worked here for two years. Prior to that he was a gardener in La Coruña, working for a good friend, José del Pardo. I believe that he was one of the unfortunate immigrants from the conflict in Syria and took refuge in the house of Sophia Andersson with her son Oñé before leaving for La Coruña to work for José del Pardo.”
Sancho Panza asked, “Did you check when he arrived here, that he had the correct visa requirements to work in Spain as your gardener?”
I shook my head. “No. To be honest I made the assumption, which I now know to be inaccurate, that he was Spanish.”
“Are you aware if he had been involved in any terrorist activities in Syria?”
“I am sure that he had not. He was a Lecturer in Fine Arts at Damascus University. When his family were all killed in a mortar attack, he helped refugees under the guidance of the International Red Cross.”
“Yet you had no evidence of this background, when you employed him as your gardener.”
“That is correct. I accepted the recommendations and references for his work from my good friend José del Pardo.”
“How did he develop his reputation and skills of being a gardener if his formal education was as a Lecturer in Fine Arts?”
“I knew nothing about his previous career of being a Lecturer in Fine Arts in Damascus until I visited Malmo and met with Sophia on the 11th of October of this year. I discovered that he had learned how to grow plants, shrubs, trees and medicinal plants in the refugee camps with the help of specialist knowledge from the refugees. He had a gift for making anything grow, which was quickly recognised by others. He knew that if could make plant life and trees grow in desert conditions, he could do that anywhere. He was right. I can show you around the extraordinary garden he created here if it would be helpful. You won’t find another garden like this in Spain. I have photographs of what it looked like before he began his work. You can also speak to my previous gardener, who has returned to work for me. You may know him – Pep Conejo. He is well aware of Ishmael’s gardening genius.”
Sancho Panza nodded his head. “That would be helpful. Let us see Oñé’s passport, photos of the original garden and it would be helpful to see the new garden and have a word with Oñé before we leave … today.”
I could see that they were planning to return. They must have received more information to cause them concern than what they had chosen to reveal to me. I explai
ned: “The photos are on my mobile. Let me find them for you.”
I scrolled down through my gallery to the photos Ishmael and I had taken together of the old garden layout the week after he arrived. There were a few photos taken by Gabriela of Ishmael and me together; my arm around his shoulder, looking at him, whilst he stared straight ahead, smiling at Gabriela. I handed the phone over to Sancha Panza making sure that the first photo he would see would be of Ishmael and me obviously happy in one another’s company. “I’ll find Oñé’s passport.”
I left them scrolling through the photos and heard them from upstairs making comments about them to one another. I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, even though I hovered over the landing in the West Wing and tried desperately to at least hear what was implied by the tone of their muttering voices. They seemed suspicious of me. I was convinced that they had lowered their voices to ensure it would be impossible for me to hear them.
I removed Oñé’s passport from the safe in my bedroom and descended the stairs.
José Miguel looked through each page of the passport. “I see Oñé was born in Baghdad in 2007. That is one year after Saddham Hussein was hanged. It continued to be a dangerous place to live for several years after that. Why did his mother Sophia not return to the safety of Sweden before 2011?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have an answer to that question. I know that Gregoriano Balsano was a Doctor working with the Red Cross, who left Iraq to go to Syria in 2011. Sophia was working as a Nurse in Iraq with Gregoriano. That is where they met and where Oñé was conceived. I imagine that by 2011 when Oñé was four, she thought the time had come to return to Sweden – the country of her birth – and to take care of Oñé’s education.”
The Painter Page 13