In the darkness of the night questions easily flash into my mind. What am I meant to do with this little flicker of life appearing and disappearing in such a short time when you think of the evolution of the earth, formed 14 billion years ago? As I lie in my bed the mystery of it all envelops me. I find myself searching in the darkness for an Intelligence that created everything including me. It is frustrating because I know that it is here, hiding from me – like Gregoriano has hidden from me – appearing only occasionally since the age of ten. I am sure that it is no coincidence that he chose Oñé to stay with me. He wanted me to know something. Of course I need to remember what he wrote in that letter inviting me to Malmo. I imagine that there is more to it than that. I will find out if there is more. Everything is getting clearer. What remains unclear is why Gregoriano is interested in me when he has so many other people to think about in Yemen and Syria? I will find out. I’m getting closer to the truth of it all.
Tomorrow Sophia has to return to Malmo to continue her treatment. I don’t want her to go. She has not talked about her friends and how they support her during her treatment. The only people she has talked about are Oñé, Ishmael and Gregoriano. I am beginning to think that she is like me, that she has no friends.
Maybe we are destined to be together. She and Gregoriano know that better than I do.
I looked at the alarm. It was only six o´clock. Neither Sophia nor Oñé would be awake. I wanted to check Oñé’s painting to see if it had been healed and was suitable to show Sophia today before her departure to Malmo the next day.
I threw a jumper on top of my pyjamas and tip toed downstairs. I opened the front door and walked past the fountain, past the sculpture of Ishmael and then ran towards the Studio. Once inside, I removed the cover from Oñé´s triptych.
I laughed out loud and then covered my mouth with my hand, even though I was far from the West Wing where Oñé and Sophia slept. The painting was perfect. How had Oñé done this? I touched it to see if there was ‘scar’ tissue around where we had made the slashes.
No. It was smooth. The confusion about how this had happened didn’t affect me. I didn’t care. I danced back to the front door and found my way to my bedroom in the West Wing. I crawled into bed and slept a dreamless sleep until the alarm went advising me to get up and prepare breakfast.
I pulled Oñé to one side after breakfast and whispered to him while Sophia packed her suitcase.
“We can show Sophia your painting. It’s perfect. She will be so proud of you.”
“In what way will she be proud of me?”
“You’re ten years old – no, I mean eleven.” I slapped my head. “Your painting is exceptional. How did you fix the slashes?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t fix them. The only person who could do that is Ishmael. After all he painted it for real. I’ve only copied him.”
I put my finger over my lips and whispered insistently, “No. No. No. It can’t be Ishmael. It has to be you. Ishmael is not here.”
“You said that you saw him in the Plaza on New Year’s Eve.”
“I only said that I saw someone I thought was him or Gregoriano. Of course it wasn’t him or he would have joined us to celebrate the New Year. I made a mistake. Adults make mistakes. You have to forgive me. I made a mistake. It wasn’t a lie.” I looked at him. He looked sad. “I know that you must be upset that Sophia is leaving.”
Oñé put out his hand. “Give me the key. I will check the painting before we show it to Sophia.”
I handed over the key and followed close on his heels. Once inside, he whisked the cover away with a flourish.
“It is exactly as I painted it.”
I struggled for words to reply. What I saw was Sophia flying upside down descending into Hell, holding Ishmael with her right hand and Gregoriano with her left hand. I had changed into the observer of a thousand faces in the blackness watching them.
I shouted at Oñé: “You little brute – you are trying to make me think that I am going mad.”
He tucked his hands into his trouser pockets and placed a hand on the canvas. “That isn’t going to be so very hard to do is it? Let’s see what Sophia thinks of it.”
I lifted the cover from the floor and threw it over the painting. “How can you be so cruel as to show her that she is descending into Hell …” I hesitated, “knowing … that …?”
Oñé pulled the cover once again away from the painting. He turned abruptly, pointing his finger at me. “Knowing what? You are only looking at one part of the triptych. There are two more parts to it.”
Sophia clicked her way towards us dressed in high heels with which she amazingly navigated with ease the pebbled path. She wore a soft, fitted emerald dress with her black stilettos. Her head was covered in what seemed to me to be an ivory silk band. As she approached the painting my legs wanted to run. Sophia whispered in a strong voice that seemed to make the air in the Studio quiver as if her voice was coming from a viola or cello.
“Well, what have we got here?”
“It’s Oñé’s work.”
Oñé turned to look at me and wiped his hands on his jeans. “Do you want to see it mother? I don’t think Augustin likes it.”
Sophia approached the painting and slowly scanned it from left to right. She moved closer examining the layers of oil, thickly spread like icing on a cake, layered in gold, orange and emerald green like her dress. I noticed that in the painting she carried a large orange handbag flying upwards towards the Heavens as her head dived south. Around her head she wore an ivory silk headband.
“This is Ishmael’s painting. I am sure of it. Why is the paint not quite dry?” She looked at me with a quizzical look. “You have taken it from the Reina Sophia as a surprise haven’t you and adulterated it?”
I shook my head. “Of course not. Oñé painted it. Didn’t you Oñé?”
Oñé placed a finger over his lips and looked bemused. “I don’t quite remember. Everything goes quite blank when I paint. Did you not paint it Augustin? How could I paint Gregoriano’s face when I have never seen him?”
“How do you know that it is Gregoriano? No-one has mentioned that it is him – only you. You said that you were painting what Ishmael painted the night that he left. If you have a photographic memory you don’t need anything else than the gift of your photographic memory.”
Oñé looked a Sophia with a pleading glance. “It’s how I imagine him. It’s how you described him. Is it how you remember him? I imagine that I should have painted him as an older man. He is seventy now isn’t he? Do you not think it strange that in this painting, he looks younger than Augustin?”
I ignored what he was saying and turned instead to Sophia. “I think we should contact the Reina Sophia and see if the painting is still there. If not we will find out how it got here and return it.”
I pulled at Oñé’s cheek again with my finger and thumb. “It’s easy to dab a piece of oil on a finished painting to make it look as if you painted it.”
Oñé started to cry and rub his cheek with his hand. I could see that it was going to be bruised. I felt embarrassed that Sophia could also see it. I turned to Oñé and pointed at the painting. “This is excellent. You have done an amazing job on it since the last time I saw it. I know this is going to sound as if I don’t trust you, but let’s ring the Reina Sophia and put our minds at ease.”
“How could I steal Ishmael’s painting from the Reina Sophia? I have been here all the time. You have my passport. I don’t know anyone here yet. I only start school after Reyes on the 7th January.” He pointed at me with a hand beneath the painting gown he wore for protection which made him look even more ghost-like.
Sophia kissed Oñé on his purpling cheek. She rummaged in her handbag for her mobile phone, pressing the buttons quickly without referring to her contacts list. I heard her asking for someone by the name of Jordi. She waited for almost a minute as they searched for him.
Then I heard her say with a laugh, “Thank you Jordi.
I am sorry to bother you but as Ishmael has not returned, I wanted to be sure that everything was OK. As you know I am a bit obsessive about his art. You are saying that it is hanging on the wall and creating quite an interest – in fact a storm of interest – Madrid. That is good news. I will speak to you shortly. Thank you for your clarification. Speak soon.”
She finished her call without looking at me got on her knees in front of Oñé. “It is your choice. You can stay here for another few months or you can return with me. What would you like to do?”
Oñé picked up a paintbrush, dipped it into turpentine and then onto his palette of drying oils choosing orange paint, dapping a few dots onto the handbag on the painting. I saw that they were orange flowers on the bag she was carrying which he had overlooked.
“I’ll stay here.”
Sophia searched in her handbag again, this time for a paper handkerchief, and dabbed at her eyes. “Will you come to the airport with me?”
Oñé shook his head. “I’ll stay here.”
Sophia’s voice quivered. “You are too young to stay alone.”
“I’m not alone. I’m never alone.”
I whispered although I would have preferred to have shouted at him: “Lock the door and do not go out until I return. We will go to dinner at your favourite pizzeria when I return.”
I made myself smile at him and ruffled his hair in feigned friendship. Sophia shook her head and texted someone. She waited for a reply and when it came back her lips curled up in a way I couldn’t work out if she wanted to laugh or cry.
The drive to the airport was dreadful. She didn’t say a word but texted someone every few minutes. I felt sure that she was meeting him (it had to be him) to travel back together on the plane. I thought it had to be Gregoriano. I helped her with her luggage to the check in. She was silent.
Then, as she moved towards the escalator for departures, she took my hand. “You don’t know yet what it is like to live on the edge of life. That edge that takes you to death, where we are all going. It is too much for us to bear. Yet we all get through it. There isn’t a single human being born who hasn’t got through it. I am like everyone else – so are you.”
I held her hand as I went with her up the escalator. She kissed me on the lips before going through security. Her lips were still slug-like and unpleasant.
I heard myself say, “I will.”
As she placed her boarding pass to enter the security area, she turned and looked at me with what I would say was a lost look.
“You will what?”
“I will marry you.”
She didn’t turn back to embrace me but rather walked through the opened gate and then turned to look at me.
“So be it.”
She walked past the bottles of Jack Daniels, refusing the samples of gin, past the shelves of Clinique and Mac and turned left towards her gate.
After leaving Sophia at the airport and before arriving home to take Oñé out for his promised meal, I drove to the Port of Soller where I knew that one of the few places to eat or have a drink at this time of the year would be open – the Albatross Bar. It was cold, so I went inside. It had been recently refurbished and felt quite warm and inviting. I ordered a beer and then tapped into the internet on my mobile. I searched Google for information on Ishmael Domini. This time there was a post. Previously when I had searched there was nothing. There was a post now from art critic Akoo Larsson from Sweden. I opened the link. His review had been posted on the 2nd January 2018.
“Reflections on the work of Ishmael Domini at the Reina Sophia, Madrid.”
Ishmael Domini is a recluse. You will find nothing about his life on Wikipedia. You will not know where he is living or how he lives. As an art critic visiting the Reina Sophia, Madrid, I discovered a triptych by Ishmael with a notification identifying that he created this work in Malmo, Sweden. The triptych’s title is “You and Me” Being inspired by his stay in Sweden, his work had a particular interest for me.
The first part of the triptych “You and Me” is “Descent into Hell”, the second, “The Judgment” and the third, “Transformation”. I was first entranced by his use of colour – swirling turquoises, orange and faint touches of rose which contrast with the greyness of his native land. It is reminiscent of the works of Marc Chagall who saw his work as “not the dream of one person but of all humanity.” Ishmael expresses this within “You and Me”. The observer drops into the triptych as a snowflake falls to the ground and melts into his world of colour which you know as the swirling of your mind, body and soul. Forms are not readily recognisable as if Ishmael is telling us that they are unimportant in definition and more a reflection of mystery and change which are a part not only of the eternal human condition but of the cosmos itself within which we are implanted.
In “Descent into Hell” there is the shape of an amphora from Greek and Roman times which is a large two handled storage jar for oil or wine. It has a narrow neck and two handles. It is turned upside down and hurtling towards Hell. Each of the handles is clutched at by shadowy shapes. The amphora is being emptied and emerging from the narrow neck appears to be a Eucharistic host. As you look closely at the host, you see yourself within it. I challenge each observer of this painting to see if this is not the case for them. I have asked others for their perspective and have had the same response. They either see themselves in the Eucharist or the faces of friends or enemies they love or hate. It symbolises creation in all its human form being emptied into Hell and two people hoping for their salvation by holding onto the empty amphora.
Hell, as depicted by Ishmael, is not a fire but rather a sea of faces, unknown animal shapes and bizarre plants from which gush forth hot steam which reaches to the hands and arms of those who clutch at the amphora.
The second part of the triptych – “The Judgment” – is even more enigmatic. Colours have almost disappeared. There is a blank white canvas onto which are strewn distorted shapes of buildings, twisted human faces, splashes of crimson blood and dots of blackness. It seems to be influenced by Jackson Pollock. It is the whiteness of the canvas which gives the sensation of the observer of the painting who is judging. Hints of appearances and disappearances on the canvas give an impression of missed opportunities in life which, within the whiteness of the canvas, are now known in their significance. There is calmness in this knowledge symbolised by a golden sun to the top right of the canvas which appears to be a loving magnet for all of the objects of judgment. They are moving towards it in the dynamic which Ishmael builds into his wave-like structure of form.
The third part of the triptych “Transformation” returns to the vibrancy of colour and imagery of “The Descent into Hell”. We are swept into greater expansive waves of light and shifting perspectives – reflecting the power of an undulating sea or the swirling beauty of clouds with contrasting turquoise and orange. You see mysterious forms again – wondering if they are animals, flowers or human beings. You have fallen into a dream world for a few moments, feeling yourself a God within the canvas which you have created, absorbing the whole of creation within one loving embrace and knowing it will die to give new life.
There is a question mark hanging over the painting which art critics have been unable to resolve. Who are the characters portrayed in “You and Me”?
I think we may be witnessing the emergence of one of the greatest artistic talents in the Western world with “You and Me”. I am looking forward to seeing more from this artist.
I breathed deeply. This description of the critic bore no resemblance to what I had seen Oñé paint and what Sophia confirmed what was hanging in the Reina Sophia. However, I realised that maybe it was the same painting – it is the observer who interprets what they see, not the painter. My mobile sang at me. There was a text from Oñé.
“Emergency. Come home.”
What had happened? I had been away for less than two hours.
I threw euros on the counter to pay for the beer. The waiter looked at me with his s
urprise. I think he expected me to order a second beer or a whiskey as I normally did.
I jumped into the car, screeched around the roundabout and turned right.
I drove home in a crazy mood of mind, terrified about what Oñé could have done, or what might have happened to him. Although Soller is a small town, there are still drug dealers looking for opportunities to rob from wealthy house owners. They could take Oñé hostage and demand a ransom.
Then I had yet another of my crazy thoughts – what if Sophia had left Oñé with me with the intention of having him kidnapped and blackmailing me? I know nothing about her. Why should I believe her story about Ishmael and Gregoriano? Why would she want to marry me? It seemed too rushed, a proposal of marriage. I should be more cautious and give myself more time to see if I am the right person for both of them. Yet, I have told her that I will marry her. I feel controlled and manipulated by her. Should I not be the one proposing to her? She controlled Gregoriano by not allowing him access to his own son and now, because he is seventy years of age, she has made a decision that he continues not to be a suitable father for an eleven year old because he is too old, too courageous, and too unselfish.
Why didn’t she think of that when she was sleeping with him under the stars in Syria? From what she has told me, Oñé could learn a lot more from Gregoriano than he can from me. Gregoriano saves lives, puts himself in danger to help children survive in desperate conditions. I have a lived a life of indulgence, privilege and pride. I am not a saver of lives but a taker of lives.
I had a terrible thought. Although Gregoriano is not permitted to see his son Oñé, I know that he communicates with Sophia. Had he told her about the fact that I had murdered my own father? The tidal shame of that reality hit me like a hammer blow and raised questions why she would want to marry me if she knew. More than anything, the shame felt like a premonition for what I would have to face when the truth emerged not only about the murder of my father, but about the murder of Ishmael.
The Painter Page 18