The Painter

by Deirdre Quiery

  Pep Serrano nodded. “It is unimaginable to me that a mother would allow her child to grow up in such a war zone. Neither do I understand what Ishmael was doing living in the house of Sophia Andersson.”

  I nodded. “I understand your confusion. I also was surprised to find that Ishmael had lived for a year in Malmo with Sophia and Oñé. I believe that it was a compassionate decision made by both Sophia and Gregoriano that he should stay there. Sophia is a Nurse who has specialist knowledge in Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Gregoriano managed to get a Visa for Ishmael to enter Sweden and invited him to stay under Sophia’s supervision until he felt well enough to leave.”

  José Miguel asked, “Did you observe any signs of Post-Traumatic Distress Disorder during the two years which Ishmael spent with you?”

  I shook my head. “Absolutely not. He had, if anything, a healing presence. The only concern I had was his unwillingness to speak about his past.

  “Now I understand that it could have been a sign of his PTSD. I have been told that it can lead to people to behave erratically and can lead them to commit suicide. I hope that has not happened to him. I suppose it is possible given the sudden way in which he left.”

  Pep Serrano picked his teeth with a toothpick even though he had eaten nothing. “So now we are looking for two missing persons not one. Gregoriano Balsano – the father of Oñé – and Ishmael Domini. What can you tell us about either of their whereabouts?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know where they are.”

  Sancho Panza interrupted: “You are Ishmael’s employer? Why would he leave without telling you where he was going and attempting to guarantee his job security?”

  “I don’t know enough about PSTD. That seems the most logical explanation for what triggered his leaving.”

  “Gabriela Gonzalez, your housekeeper, informed us that you had a deep friendship with Ishmael. This would make it even more unlikely that he would leave without saying anything to you. As for Gregoriano Balsano, Gabriela has informed us that he had a sinister control over you. Although she never saw him – she based this on what you confided about him to her. She told us that you could not refuse his wishes. Is that not why you went to Malmo? It was not your choice. The decision was made for you by Gregoriano Balsano?”

  I couldn’t remember that I had said anything to Gabriela about Gregoriano. But then again, I couldn’t be sure that I hadn’t. I had told Ishmael about Gregoriano but not Gabriela. Had Ishmael betrayed my confidence, I wondered?

  “I do not believe that Gabriela had ever seen Gregoriano. I am confused as to why she would share with you anything about my relationship with him and in particular to say that he had a ‘sinister control’ over me when she never saw him with me.”

  The two Policemen glanced at one another. I felt that I had won a point and that they were unsure of what to say next. Their eyes locked onto one another as if transferring shared data before speaking. I decided to speak first.

  “It is my belief that Gabriela was infatuated by Ishmael. I observed them having intimate conversations on several occasions – although I do not have evidence that it went beyond the early stages of infatuation before Ishmael left. It is quite possible that he left because of the oppressive nature of her clinging to him. Not being a psychiatrist myself, I would hazard a guess that it was she who was trying to manipulate him into a deeper relationship which he rejected. If we are to talk about control issues, I would say that she was attempting to control Ishmael and also me. I now know that Ishmael was a friend of Gregoriano. It is possible that Ishmael spoke with Gabriela about the nature of his friendship with Gregoriano. Ishmael may have felt controlled by Gregoriano and projected this onto me. You have to remember that Ishmael had a history of not staying long anywhere ever since his family was wiped out in a mortar attack in Damascus in 2012.”

  Pep Serrano glanced again at Jose Miguel. This time I thought that I had exactly anticipated what I needed to say to convince them of my innocence.

  I threw myself on the sofa where I had sat so many evenings with Ishmael. “Well, if you are going to need more time for your questions I hope you don’t mind if I sit down. This is tiring work.”

  Jose Miguel spoke first. “I think we are ready to see the garden and then Oñé. Before that, I would like to know how you would describe your relationship with Gregoriano Balsano?”

  “He is an acquaintance I see from time to time. In my work as the Painter I have many acquaintances – not deep relationships. He is such an acquaintance.”

  Pep Serrano followed up as if they had written a script together. “So how do you explain that, having a superficial acquaintance, you follow his orders to travel to Malmo where you spend time with someone who turns out to have a relationship with Gregoriano and with whom he had a child? Do you not think that is a rather odd kind of relationship with someone you describe as an acquaintance?”

  I threw my hands behind my head on the sofa. “He asked me in a letter to take care of Oñé and explained Sophia’s need for support while she was having her cancer treatment. For once in my life I decided to do something for someone else. Perhaps we human beings are capable of being more altruistic if given an opportunity to be so.”

  As I uttered those words I knew that they were unconvincing.

  Pep Serrano rattled the handcuffs attached to his belt. “Can we see that letter?”

  I scrambled to my feet, almost slipping on the tiled floor. “I apologise but that will not be possible. As you can see my house is rather orderly. I have an obsession with having everything in its place and if no longer needed, I throw it out, give it away or burn it. On this occasion, I burnt Gregoriano’s letter. I had no longer any use for it.”

  Pep Serrano yawned as he commented, “It’s not sounding convincing considering the vast number of photos, letters and memorabilia in your house which we have seen relating to your ‘friends’ praise for your exhibitions. I would say you are rather a hoarder than someone who throws unusual items away or who burns them. However, as you are not prepared to be open with us, I suggest that we look at the garden.”

  Jose Miguel took out a notebook and jotted down a few words. “Before going to the garden, may we see where Ishmael slept?”

  “Of course. I think I locked the room after he left.” I lifted a key from an olive branch attached to the wall.

  It held all of the keys for the house. My legs trembled as I climbed the four stairs that led into the West Wing. I heard sturdy boots clump behind me along the corridor. I reached Ishmael’s room, placed the key in the lock to find that it was already open. I pushed the door. The bed was smooth with a scattering of purple cushions on top of a cream bed cover. The fire had been raked clean. I remembered removing the sheets from the bed, but I was sure that I had left unraked ashes in the fireplace. Who had tidied the bed and cleaned the fire?

  Pep Serrano pulled back the bedspread. “So here we have freshly ironed, clean sheets. Is this in preparation for your next guest? Who are you expecting?”

  José Miguel took out his notebook again and I was sure that he was going to ask if Gabriela had cleaned the room. Jose Miguel opened the wardrobe, rattled the empty hangers and opened the three drawers below.

  “There are no signs that he will be staying anytime soon. Was the room empty of his clothes when he left on the 5th October?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed my eyes. “Of course. He took everything with him. That’s why I knew it was unlikely he would return. After my visit to Malmo, I realise that this is what he does. Having said that, I have not spoken to my friend José del Pardo. It seemed that he planned his departure from La Coruña in a more orderly fashion to accept the offer of being a gardener here in Can Animes. I was fond of him. His departure has been quite a shock.”

  Pep Serrano sat on the bed beside me, resting his hands on his black trousers. For a moment I thought that he was going to take my hand. I pulled my hands together in a desperate praying position on my lap to escape
that possibility. Pep Serrano heaved himself a little forward on the bed to allow his feet to reach the floor. “He was a painter – like you?”

  “I didn’t know he was a painter until I went to Malmo. He was my gardener. It is true I should have thought about the ease with which he created sculptures with me. On reflection, I should have known that he had talent, but I was arrogant to think that it was my great teaching on how to make sculptures that made them so wonderful.” I laughed and got to my feet. “How we are to be humbled in life.”

  José Miguel looked at his watch, tapped it, nodded at Pep Serrano, and said, “Let’s see the garden and then Oñé. It’s getting late. Does the boy not need to be fed?”

  We passed through the front door and I walked towards the fountain followed by the policemen. “This was created by Ishmael, together with the fourteen fountains and the other sculptures you will find scattered in the garden.”

  I pointed at the sculpture which held Ishmael’s body and then pointed swiftly at the fountain.

  José Miguel and Pep Serrano approached the sculpture. “Yes, Gabriela your Housekeeper mentioned she saw this on Thursday 5th October.”

  I tried not to hesitate but felt myself shivering. “What else did Gabriela tell you?”

  Jose Miguel laughed. He threw back his head, his oiled hair resting on the shoulder of his jacket. “We ask the questions.”

  I rubbed my lips with my hand. Jose Miguel leaned towards me, stared into my eyes. I saw myself reflected in his pupils.

  “Answer the question once again – when and where did you last see Ishmael Domini?”

  “We had cena together cooked by Gabriela on Wednesday 4th October. She will have told you that no doubt. It was a pleasant evening which we finished with a nightcap and we went our separate ways to bed.”

  I emphasised ‘separate ways to bed’ with a slowed down pace and a deepening, meaning-filled voice.

  Pep Serrano asked, “Where did he sleep?”

  “Why are you asking that again? It is the room which I have already shown you in the West Wing.”

  Pep Serrano took his handkerchief out again and wiped the side of his face, breathing heavily asked, “So remind us again of when you realised that he had gone?”

  “He didn’t appear for breakfast on the morning of the 5th October. I had made pancakes with maple syrup – his favourite. As the pancakes were going cold, I checked his room to find that it was empty. He wasn’t there. All of his possessions – few as they were and mostly clothes – were gone.”

  Pep Serrano ignored the path I was taking to the swimming pool and instead turned right, followed by José Miguel, towards the labyrinth. He staggered a little as we walked toward the two fountains which marked the entrance. I wondered if he had taken a drink before arriving or whether he had suffered a stroke. He was unsteady on his feet and one leg trailed behind the other in an ungainly way which I hadn’t noticed before.

  He asked, “What did you do then?”

  I shook my head. “What could I do? He had no mobile phone. I had no way of contacting him. I could only wait to see what would happen next.”

  Jose Miguel ran his fingers through his hair as if he was looking at himself in a mirror. “Did you ask Gabriela on 5th October what she thought might have happened to him?”

  I shook my head. “I wanted to protect his privacy. If he wanted to escape from her it was none of my business.”

  Pep Serrano tapped on his truncheon with what I observed were brittle fingernails. “I can see that you may have a problem distinguishing truth from fiction. Gabriela has shown us photos taken on her mobile which indicate that their relationship was one of a significant, deep friendship.”

  “Did Gabriela also tell you that she had subsequently seen Ishmael in the Plaza before I returned from Malmo? He tried to escape from her and ran down a side street.”

  Pep Serrano touched one of the fountains at the entrance to the labyrinth. “That is new information which we will check out. It all helps to sort out lies from the truth.”

  Meanwhile José Miguel was taking an unusual look at the labyrinth wall. “Cypress Leyandii and Red Robin Shrub – a great idea.” He smiled at me. “I am a keen gardener myself. This works well to disguise the monotone nature which can come from using only a Leyandii hedging.”

  He reached his hands into the depths of the labyrinth wall. I looked away. I could not bear to witness what I knew was going to happen next. It was my worst nightmare. His arm disappeared into the depths of the hedge and retrieved the Cupid’s arrow with its leaden tip which I thought I had expertly concealed.

  “What is this?”

  I looked at the entrance to the labyrinth, pretending for a few seconds that I had not seen what José Miguel was holding. Then I mustered a voice of surprise. I rushed towards him with arms outstretched.

  “That is wonderful. I didn’t know where it had gone. It is the other arrow belonging to Cupid. It had disappeared from the fountain. Gabriela asked about it. I noticed that it was gone myself but thought that Ishmael had taken it with him to make a sculpture. He never much liked it.”

  Pep Serrano said, “Obviously he didn’t take it with him. He couldn’t have, could he?”

  I stuttered. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s here in my hands, after being deliberately hidden in the labyrinth. Who hid it? Why did they hide it? From my experience it looks like a panic hiding. It’s not particularly well hidden do you think, if I found it so easily? José Miguel, pass me the bag please for forensic testing.”

  José Miguel pulled the rucksack off his back, opened it and produced a large plastic bag with a zipper seal. He put on a pair of white gloves, took the arrow from Pep Serrano and inserted it with precision into the forensic bag.

  José Miguel asked, “Can you give us your explanation as to why the arrow was hidden in the labyrinth?”

  I nodded. “The most obvious explanation is that we have visitors to the garden. There is a competition for who can visit as many sculptures as possible within a given time. Children love to get involved in this. I imagine that one of the children visiting has hidden the arrow as a prank. They may even have been planning to return and steal it.”

  José Miguel raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Let’s see what the forensic team say. I think we will save a thorough investigation of the garden for another day. Now we will see Oñé.”

  I pointed at the Studio. “It’s not far, follow me.”

  On the way to the Studio, I could not believe why I had not left the leaden headed arrow in the fountain. Gabriela had spotted the morning after the murder that it was missing. That was the second biggest mistake that I had made that evening.

  We reached the door of the Studio. What was Oñé going to tell them? I opened the door and shouted: “Oñé, we have visitors to see you.”

  Pep Serrano and José Miguel spent fifteen minutes ‘interviewing’ Oñé. I listened insisting that as his temporary guardian, I needed to be present. Thankfully he repeated the story which he had told me about Ishmael leaving Malmo. He even looked quite cheerful as he squashed oils onto the palette. There was only one comment which he made which Pep Serrano captured in his notebook, writing feverishly.

  “I get the feeling that Ishmael is around – not far away.”

  Pep Serrano asked him, “Have you seen him here?”

  Oñé shook his head. “No. It’s only a feeling that he is close by. He is watching over us. He will appear when the moment is right. He does that, he picks his moments for appearing and disappearing.”

  I knew they thought that he was a ten-year-old without a developed capacity for critical thinking. I was delighted that Oñé hadn’t uttered anything to implicate me in Ishmael’s murder. Of course how could he?

  For now, I was safe – although it was disturbing watching them take Cupid’s arrow out of the rucksack and ask him if he had seen it before. He shook his head. They nodded. He was a boy, confused by his mother’s illness and his aba
ndonment by his father. There were more pressing issues, like women being thrown off balconies by jealous husbands. They didn’t ask me to go to the Town Hall and make a statement. That was a good sign.

  Instead Pep Serrano asked Oñé: “Do you have an item of clothing – anything which would not have been washed which Ishmael would have worn prior to leaving you in December 2014?”

  I could see that Oñé’s eyes watered as he replied, “Yes. I have a hat.”

  Pep Serrano patted Oñé on the head. “Can we please take it with us for a few days? It might help us find Ishmael and make sure that he is well. I promise you that we will return it.”

  Oñé looked at me asking permission with his eyes. I said, “Of course Oñé – please go and find it for our friends here.”

  When he left the studio José Miguel said, “It will be for routine DNA testing. We will send specialist officers around tomorrow to take samples. They will also test the arrow which we found in the labyrinth hedge.”

  I stayed calm. “Anything which can help trace Ishmael is much appreciated. I would love to see him again and have him return here to work.”

  José Miguel and Pep Serrano shook my hand. “Thank you for your co-operation.”

  Oñé returned within minutes holding the hat I had seen him wear several times when we were on the beach or climbing Barranc. It was unusual – a sports cap covered in what looked like sheep wool. Oñé proudly said, “Ishmael told me that it was a Swedish military cap. He placed it for me on my pillow, the night that he left us.”

  Pep Serrano placed it into a plastic bag. “It will be returned when the investigation is completed.”

  When they left, Oñé asked, “Did I say or do anything wrong?”

  “Of course you didn’t. You behaved perfectly.”

  I gave him a deep appreciative hug. We went to the kitchen and I made him a cup of thick hot chocolate.

  When I went to bed that night I wondered what DNA evidence would they find. Was Ishmael’s blood on the Cupid arrow? Could that be traced back to Ishmael by evidence which the forensic experts would collect tomorrow? That was a terrifying thought. Equally frightening was the thought of what my mother Monica would think of all of this. I put my fingers in my ears as if she was talking to me. I didn’t want to hear her words in my head. I knew what they would be. It was worse that they would be loving words, filled with forgiveness. I wanted, needed, harsh words like those of the art critics who proclaimed to the world that I had lost my talent.