“I had never felt so connected to the soul of another human being. There was destruction all around us and yet we saw in other human beings and in ourselves resilience and learning not to give up in loving and helping others survive from one day to another. I know this will sound quite ridiculous, but I have never felt happier than those first two years working with Gregoriano in Iraq. I was young. I felt that he poured all his knowledge, hopefulness of spirit and faith in human nature into me. I gave all of myself back to him. I didn’t even consider that it was an unequal giving and receiving. The age difference between us dissolved into a love which flowed from him, which I received. From an ageless being I didn’t know, he allowed himself to empty incredible love from the depths of who he was. This made it easy for me to allow the unknown depths of who I was to flow into him. When there is a mutual movement of love like the love we shared between us, the atrocities of war became bearable.
“There were only rare opportunities to make physical love together. It didn’t seem to matter – our exchange of being was at a deeper level than flesh. It was eternal. There were only three occasions when we lay together at a distance from the refugees in the camp, under the stars, embracing with only a blanket over us and our bodies bruised by hard stones and sand. On one of those occasions, I fell pregnant. I felt my age. I was twenty-five. Gregoriano was sixty. I was with child and for the first time and afraid. Not afraid for me but for the child we both were bringing into an insane world of violence.”
I ordered a bottle of white wine. The same as the one she had ordered for me when we first met in the Turning Torso in Malmo and another Fanta for Oñé who seemed totally absorbed by Laurel and Hardy.
As the waiter filled our glasses, I shared, “But what you are describing is a relationship which should never have ended. It sounds beautiful, unique and worth all the risks in the world which you had already taken in being together!”
“I know that now but I had to think of Oñé more than myself. I have to do that even more so now that I may soon die. Gregoriano wanted to marry me. I refused. I thought that his life was too unstable. Even now he is not only working in Syria but in Yemen where another ghastly conflict is destroying the lives of millions of innocent people. It is his vocation to work in these war zones. For him everyone has an equal right to life and he has a commitment to making that happen. He has Oñé but the children he meets in every hospital or refugee camp are equally important to him. As a mother I found that hard to accept.
“I told him that I needed to take Oñé to a safer place. Not one where he would learn through violence how to survive but one where he would grow up knowing love, security and community. I deliberately denied him access to seeing Oñé – apart from the one occasion when he held him in his arms as a baby of four weeks. I took a photograph of them together which I thought would be important for both of them. How insane of me to think that I could guarantee outliving him and be a carer for Oñé for the most important years of his life.”
I squeezed her hand. “Of course you will survive this cancer. You will still be here for Oñé. You will have him with you in only a few months when you are given the ‘all clear’ and know that your cancer is gone – like a cloud disappearing over L’Ofre.”
She kissed the top of Oñé’s head. She laughed and said, “Thinking back then I loved the way he accepted my mistakes. Not allowing him to see Oñé was probably one of them. He told me that imperfection is the organising principal of spiritual reality. He liked my imperfection.”
She shook her head, rubbed a little of her lipstick away as she cleaned her lips. She asked, “Why do you think he brought us together?”
I didn’t respond but made a grunting noise which could have been confused with laughter. The lamb tasted fatty in my mouth. I felt that I might be sick. I asked, “What have you learnt from your time with him?”
Sophia rubbed the top of her glass of cava and made it sing. She took her time before responding. “He nudges people to waken them up to do the right things, rather than apply force. You will have noticed that he doesn’t pressurise you to do anything, but he knows what you need to do. He lets you know when the time is ripe. He doesn’t rush things.”
Oñé dropped his fork on the floor. A waiter rushed to give him a clean fork. As he lifted it, he grabbed Sophia´s hand. “He hasn’t nudged me, telling me what to do. Yet he is my father. He mustn’t want to help me.”
“Of course he wants to help you. That is why you are here. He wants that for your good.” She was sweating. “It’s warm in here.” She removed her white beret.
All of her beautiful hair was gone. She didn’t care that everyone looked at her baldness. She touched Oñé lightly on the nose with her finger. “He will tell you when the time is right. I said he doesn’t rush things. It’s like letting a plant reveal its beauty in time and not before.”
Oñé started to whimper. It was New Year’s Eve. I was afraid that there was going to be a scene and I would not be able to return to Can Pintxos which was one of my favourite places to eat. “I want to see my father.”
The waiter brought three plastic cups each containing twelve grapes for us to eat at midnight as a way of welcoming in the New Year. Sophia asked, “Can we go the Plaza to hear the Church bells at midnight?”
We moved through the crowds gathering at the Church steps. Young boys wore black suits, white shirts and black ties. They created a sense of stepping into a 1950s film set. The girls wore sparkling short dresses and sipped on free cava. I noticed for the first time that Oñé also wore a black suit, white shirt and black bow tie. How did he know the dress code for the Plaza? I was also a bit shocked that I hadn’t looked at him for more than a few minutes during the entire evening.
I had one hand in my trouser pocket; the other held the plastic cup with the grapes. I had become entranced watching my breath form clouds in front of my face when Sophia slipped her arm through mine. Oñé sat on the ground and counted his grapes for the third time. The Church bells began to chime and the three of us pushed a gritty grape into our mouths. We all managed to finish the twelve by the last gong. That was meant to be good luck for the New Year 2018. A firework soared into the air and exploded above the Church.
Sophia kissed me on the lips. I felt my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I knew that she would notice that I was breathless. I did not want to kiss her back. Her lips were slug-like. I couldn’t understand why my heart continued to beat so strangely when my head and heart told me to push her away. Luckily Oñé threw his arms around my legs not moving from the ground. I had a reason to release Sophia’s embrace, bending down to throw my arms around him.
It was then that I saw a shadowy figure on Oñé’s right. He was sitting on a bench as people began to dance to the band now playing in the doorway of the Town Hall. I dropped my empty plastic glass on the Plaza floor in shock. I thought that I had seen Ishmael.
Oñé pressed his head once again against my legs. I thought that I heard him sob. I reached down and whispered in his ear, “Oñé, I may be mistaken but I thought that I saw Ishmael sitting over there.” I pointed at the bench. “No. He’s gone. It must have been someone who looked like him.”
It was cruel talking to Sophia and Oñé about the possibility of Ishmael being alive. I had to stop this craziness of seeing Ishmael in other people’s faces. It was pure insanity.
Sophia caught my hand after I hugged Oñé and she looked at me with a gaze that seemed to be filled with awe and a frightening surrender.
“Will you marry me?”
What was she saying? Gregoriano was the father of her child. Why would she want to marry me after she had described her deep mystical love for him? She didn’t know me. She wanted me to step into a role to take care of Oñé if she died and Gregoriano was killed in some foreign war zone. That wasn’t in my mind a good enough reason for getting married to her – or maybe it was? I remembered her slippery lips and dreaded the thought of what more could be expected from me.
/> That kiss from Sophia with her question about marriage was like another form of death. I felt like a shark caught on a hook and desperately trying to find a way to wriggle free. I knew the fear of being pulled into a foreign world in which I would never survive. A world in which I wouldn’t drown yet where I would live yearning for water which I knew would drown me.
I didn’t answer Sophia. Instead, I sidetracked her question in the way I had become proficient doing with my public speaking, asking, “Did you see him?”
“Who?”
“I thought I saw Ishmael but it couldn’t have been him – could it have been?”
She held my hand. “It’s possible. It depends what state he is in. He will get in contact with us when he feels ready. We don’t need to rush him.”
20
PABLO PICASSO
“Art is a lie that makes us realise the truth, at least the truth that is given to us to understand.”
Tuesday 2nd January 2018
Oñé spent most of the time in his bedroom during Sophia’s visit, only emerging to eat a morsel or two. I ordered a takeaway pizza thinking that there can’t be a boy on planet earth who wouldn´t want to eat a pizza margarita. He ate a small slice.
Sophia needed to rest a lot so I decided that I needed more help to cope with the practicalities of having two house guests.
I plucked up the courage to ring Gabriela. I said, “Happy New Year. How have you been?”
“It has been complicated.”
“I’m sorry for not being in touch sooner. I promised to reimburse you for all of the money you would have received since last October.”
“Thank you. You gave me enough to last until the end of the year.”
“I’ll give you a bonus for Christmas and the New Year.”
“Thank you. It’s not really necessary but as you have money to throw around you might as well throw it in my direction.”
She asked, “Have the police been in touch about Ishmael?”
A wave of anxiety moved through me. “Yes. They came because of what you said to them.”
“Of course.”
“What did you tell them?”
“What I knew.”
“Which is precisely what?”
“That Ishmael seemed happy that last night I saw him with you. Something happened to make him leave so abruptly. He didn’t say goodbye to me. That is not the Ishmael that I know. You know that they have completed their DNA tests?”
“Yes. There is nothing to report.”
She laughed sarcastically. “That’s not what I was told. We will see. It’s not a closed enquiry. So you are saying that you want me to return to work?”
“Yes. That is what I am saying. I need help with Oñé. Sophia, his mother is in the process of receiving treatment for cancer. She returns to Malmo on the 4th January for more chemotherapy. As you can imagine I could do with some help. I’m not used to taking care of a young boy.”
Gabriela said, “OK. I’ll see you on the 7th January – after Reyes.”
She signed off without saying thank you or Happy New Year.
Sophia spent quite a lot of time in bed. I didn’t talk about her proposal of marriage. After the call with Gabriela, I told Sophia that my housekeeper was returning in a few days. She seemed pleased that Oñé would have a woman’s touch around the house.
That night, we each went to our separate bedrooms after preparing a cup of hot milk and honey for Oñé. When I knew that they were likely to be asleep, I got out of bed and walked to the Studio. The moon was a slither of silver against a velvet blanket of darkness. The wind had picked up, howling around my ears and chilling my body. I had not put a coat on over my pyjamas. My slippers slid along the gravel as if I was skating. I gave permission for the wind move up my legs, buffeting at my pyjama trousers as if I were a boat at sea and the trousers were sails. I enjoyed the coldness of those creepy fingers which I imagined came from near the moon. Hadn’t I read somewhere that the moon was a piece of the earth’s mantel jettisoned into deep space? As I stared at that scythe in the darkness, I imagined that it was throwing itself back to me. I had to catch it. I had to undo the failure of Oñé refusing to catch the ball on the beach. I held my hands out and watched the light of the moon fall upon my empty hands. The wind fluttered up my pyjama trousers.
I opened the door into the Studio. It felt as though I was seeing it for the first time or maybe that I was aware of how many things I hadn’t really seen before. The lock was of black iron, the olive wood on the door dry and wizened. The door fitted within an arch of grey stone. As it squeaked open, I worried that Sophia or Oñé would hear it. I only pushed it a little to allow me to squeeze through. I didn’t close it behind me in case there would be more noise. I walked quickly towards Oñé’s canvas which I had covered a few days ago in Egyptian cotton instead of plastic. I threw back the cover and looked.
Something had dramatically changed. The painting had been healed. The slashes repaired in some unknown way. It didn’t surprise me. Somehow it was what I expected. I covered the painting, left the Studio and walked as silently as I could towards the house.
I heard persianas open from the bedroom in which I knew Sophia was sleeping. I looked up at her leaning out of the window.
Her head was like a full moon glistening in the darkness. Her whispers carried towards me like a small boat on a stormy sea, heading into the safety of the Port of Soller.
“What are you doing out here? I thought you had gone to bed.”
I pulled the string on my pyjama bottoms tighter. I waved at her as if saying goodbye. “No. I thought I heard an animal in pain. I was looking for it. I think it was only the wind.”
Sophia laughed. “I am beginning to think that your hearing isn’t the best.”
I knew that she was thinking of that proposal she had made. I blushed and shivered in the darkness. I waved at her a second time. “Sorry to have wakened you. Sleep well.”
I heard her bolt the persianas closed. I gazed once more towards the moon. That little slither of silver against the darkness reminded me that even if you can’t see something fully it doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.
There was a scuffling sound to my right, towards the Studio. I turned my head quickly. Now I thought that Gregoriano was there. I was sure of it. It struck me that they looked quite similar in spite of their age differences. Maybe it was Gregoriano I had seen in the Plaza on New Year’s Eve. Now, in the darkness I recognised an outline which could have been of his body. He strode confidently into the depths of the orange grove.
I ran in his direction. I reached the tree where I expected him to be waiting for me with another place to go, a message to be fulfilled. I thought I could hear him breathing in the way he breathed on the yacht during our trip to Deia. He had a deep out-breath, followed by a short gasping breath as if he had surprised himself that he was still alive.
He wasn’t there. Instead I spotted a tiny white hedgehog, trapped amongst the orange trees and attempting to scuttle through dry leaves. Should the hedgehog not have been hibernating? It stopped to look at me. I swore it had the eyes of Gregoriano. They were green. When I heard myself thinking like that, I knew I needed to return to the house. I was losing my senses again. I imagined that when I looked at Oñé’s painting the following day, I would see it slashed. It would not be healed or repaired.
I would not be able to show it to Sophia.
I lay in bed listening to the wind rattling the persianas, wishing that I had kept a journal much earlier in my life. It would be so much easier to remember facts. It would have been good to have started it after that first meeting with Gregoriano when I was ten. I could then have tracked my thoughts and allowed myself to erase everything that I had written that wasn’t the truth. That would have helped me. Insane thoughts are now a part of who I am. I don’t know which thoughts to delete. A journal would have helped a discernment faculty to evolve in me.
I wondered whether Oñé keeps a journal in which he
records his experiences with me in Soller. I wanted to encourage him to do so and at the same time, I dreaded that thought – that my whole reputation as the Painter would be destroyed by the wild ramblings of a ten-yearold. What would be even worse would be if he told the truth – if he discovered the truth. He was capable of doing that. Yet, I wanted the world to know who I am. That is why I have started to keep a journal. I want the truth to be known at the right time and to be told by me.
21
PABLO PICASSO
“What might be taken for a precocious genius is the genius of childhood. When the child grows up, it disappears without a trace. It may happen that this boy will become a real painter. But then he will have to begin everything again, from zero.”
Wednesday 3rd January 2018
In the morning, I caught the sun in my hands – the heat from nearly 6,000 degrees centigrade rushing towards me from deepest space. I held it. I wanted to drop it and dive again into the darkness of the night. There are people who like to see the sunrise. I like to see it the sun set and feel darkness smother the Earth. The darkness brings with it silence. It scares and comforts me. I live more with paradox these days. I can be scared and comforted at the same time.
When I lie in bed the darkness takes away my body. I feel that I am dispersed in the space within the room. Maybe that it what it is like when you die. You’re everywhere watching. Whereas in this body, I watch my thoughts as I lie in clammy sheets. Thoughts are mostly images which jump out of the darkness like a breaching whale and disappear again. I have the feeling that is what my life is like; a brief emerging from nothing and then disappearing. If the Big Bang did take place over 14 billion years ago and if matter was then imbued with spirit, I have to ask myself the question ‘why’? Especially when I listen to Sophia explaining to me what her life was like in Iraq, in Syria and now for Gregoriano moving between Syria and the Yemen. I hear about the suffering of the world against the background of my decadence and privilege.
The Painter Page 17