“I told the police that my motorbike stalled at the bottom of the road. I walked back to the house in the hope that you could give me a lift home. Before getting anywhere near the house I saw two men fighting with you. I hid inside the entrance to the labyrinth. I thought that I saw one person run away. I couldn’t be sure. I ran to hide.”
She looked at me. My body quivered. I knew that she was telling the truth about the fight and the murder – but were there two men involved in that fight with me? I didn’t remember that. I only remembered one. I had to respond.
“There was a fight with Ishmael. It was upsetting but we had a dispute after you left. He ran away as you observed. I don’t remember another person there. I had to get the anger out of my system. I went to the Studio where Ishmael and I had been working on a sculpture. I worked into the early hours of the morning – to get the horror of that argument out of my mind. That is the way I work. Have you not seen me like that before?”
She shook her head. “No. Never.”
I reached towards her hand. She withdrew it. She looked at me in despair. “Don’t tell me lies. Do you still want me to work for you?”
“Of course I do. This is a misunderstanding. I do not mind the police hearing what you saw and heard. I know what happened. Ishmael and I had an argument, a little bit of a tussle; but I wouldn’t even call it a fight. He ran away. Of course, now that I understand his background, I know that what seemed to me like innocent banter, touched something deep in him, with his PTSD. I didn’t know that then. He fled. He will come back, just as you promised Oñé yesterday. The question I have for you to help me understand that evening is that you said that there were two people engaging in physical contact with me. You know that one was Ishmael – what did the other person you think you might have seen look like?”
Gabriela walked to the fountain, placed her hands in the water. “This is where he died, isn’t it? The person who you don’t even remember murdering.”
I took the coffee cup from her hands. “Why do you want to continue to work for me then, if you think I am a murderer?”
She laughed. “That is for me to know. Do you still want me to work for you?”
I reached a hand towards her. “Please. I need you.” She took a step towards the sculpture. “Did you murder Ishmael?”
I walked towards the house. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I kill him? You know what kind of relationship we had. He simply had an ‘episode’ – maybe a psychotic breakdown about something I had said. I don’t even remember what it could have been. I could have been wearing the wrong colour of clothes or made him feel rejected by not topping up his wine. God, I don’t know the workings of his supersensitive mind.”
Gabriela did not follow me into the house but sat on the edge of the fountain and stared at the sculpture. “I guess you’re right. You don’t have a supersensitive mind. Let’s talk straight. You don’t have a sensitive mind, much less a supersensitive mind. Let’s talk even straighter – forget about the mind, do you have a heart?”
She waved her hands around the garden. “I think that Ishmael is not dead. I have seen him. Who have you then killed? You don’t know, do you?”
22
PABLO PICASSO
“The world today doesn’t make any sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?”
Monday 22nd January 2018
Oñé has been at school for two weeks. He doesn’t seem to be enjoying it. His nightmare has come true. In his Art class they have told him that he lacks basic skills in creating structure and form. That enraged me. He is only eleven years old. How can they say that to him? I think it is because they know he is living with me. The feedback is for me. I will show them what structure and form are all about.
Our lives have settled into what I would describe as an ‘uncomfortable, and at times, a comfortable current of being’. The drone has at least made a difference. He is infatuated by it and plays with it constantly when he returns from school.
However, let me tell you what he did.
With the help from the packing company I always use, I packed five boxes for the installation which needed to go to Japan. I wasn’t able to use the installation which Oñé had cut into pieces the day that Sophia returned to Malmo. Toni and Miguel arrived to take measurements and make the coffins, as Oñé called them, for my installations nailing the edges of the boxes together.
That was two nights ago. They were to be collected today. When I went to the Studio one of the five boxes had been badly burnt, including the installation inside which was scorched rather than completely destroyed. I knew that Oñé must have done it. No-one else had a remote control for entering the property, apart from Gabriela and Pep Conejo who both kept a low profile. Who had a key to the Studio to allow precious little Oñé time to do his painting? There was no-one other than myself, Oñé, and Gabriela who cleaned the Studio once a month who entered the Studio unless it was a special day for guests visiting either to view the garden to my art in the Studio. Oñé and I watched the cctv together. There was no evidence of anyone entering the Studio other than Oñé.
My work for the Japanese exhibition was estimated at two million euros. That may be a price placed on my art but I know that it is priceless. It annoyed me that Picasso’s painting ‘Garcon A la Pipe’ sold for over one hundred million dollars while my exhibition was only valued at two million euros. What infuriated me was that Oñé could torch what is priceless. Of course I am insured but the insurance premiums will soar for next year. The insurance inspectors reviewed the cctv footage and gave Oñé, who watched it with them, a quizzical look.
They asked me, “Has he a history of playing with fire?”
I assured them that he hadn’t. I made up a story about there being a terrible storm (that part of it was true) on the evening that the installation had been destroyed. I suggested to them that the most likely explanation for the fire was that a fireball had entered the house, perhaps down the chimney of the unlit snug corner fire. I surmised that the fireball had rolled around the skirting board and connected with the boxed installations, setting one of them on fire.
They looked at one another. “Exactly how much of that explanation do you think it’s worth capturing in the investigation summary and recommendation sheet?”
I was prepared for this. I opened a briefcase and handed them a brown paper envelope. They walked outside and counted it. I considered asking Oñé to switch on the cctv camera or record it with his drone, but I knew that it would adversely affect the claim.
They walked indoors smiling. One of them – I couldn’t be bothered remembering his name – smirked as he asked, “It’s odd that the fire didn’t do more damage to the other four boxes of installations or the ceiling or the surrounding area. There is no sign of anywhere else being singed, including the skirting board, or of the fire spreading. How do you explain that?”
“The walls, skirting board and ceiling are all painted with a fire-repellent paint. The sprinklers did a good job in stopping extended damage, or the claim would have been higher.”
I reached into my briefcase again and took out a second brown paper envelope. This one obviously bulged more than the first one and they didn’t bother counting it.
The primary investigator, who asked most of the questions, touched his hat.
“I think we have everything we need. You have been most helpful. We are saddened by your loss. Although we will recommend that you receive full financial compensation, we understand you have lost something which can never be replaced. Would you mind if I took a photo of you?”
He reached for his mobile phone. I asked, “Is this for your investigation into the claim?”
“Absolutely not. It is purely to have a record of meeting one of Mallorca’s greatest artists.”
He turned to his friend. “Alfredo – can you take it?”
Alfredo stood to my left and the other inspector on my right. He said, “Why don’t we do a ‘selfie’?”
He clic
ked on his mobile. I forced a smile.
I slammed the door closed behind them after they left and watched them walk into the orangery like tourists, before nosily heading over to the entrance of the labyrinth and swimming pool, taking photos on their mobiles. I could imagine the story they would tell over an expensive lunch with friends, paid for with the contents of the brown paper bags.
For my sanity, I decided that I needed to take revenge on Oñé.
I spent a few days reflecting on what would have made him set fire to one of the ‘coffins’. I had thought that our relationship had been improving. We were having conversations over meals and he gave the impression that he was enjoying walks in the mountains, watching the almond and apricot trees burst into white flowers signalling the arrival of spring.
However, in spite of my attempts to concentrate and focus on the positive improvements in our relationship, I knew that I had to do something with him to allow out the anger I felt about the destruction of my art.
I decided for a limited time I would give him tips not to improve his art but rather to destroy it. I encouraged him to paint over what he had already done with black oil and then to add splashes of white oil into which the observer could imagine himself observing the observer. It was totally nonsense, but it was successful in releasing my frustration with him. From time to time, I had to stuff a silk handkerchief into my mouth, to stop Oñé hearing me laugh. When he looked at me, I faked a few throaty coughs. Guilt kicked in after seeing him produce one painting. That was enough.
With my anger subsiding, I persuaded Oñé to work with me completing the installations for the Japanese exhibition. To my surprise he found a way of incorporating the charred remnants of the burnt installation with the chopped-up installation which he had vandalised and we created five installations which were an improvement on my original work. There were now mountainous reliefs, valleys, swirling dinosaurs with vibrant colours, against the charcoal background of the singed installation.
The new installations were dispatched to Tokyo with only two weeks delay, in perfect time for the opening of the exhibition.
Sunday 28th January 2018
Yesterday snow fell on the mountains above Soller. Oñé jumped on top of me in bed and said that he wanted to go up into the snow – it reminded him of home. I felt sad when he said that because I was beginning to think that living with me felt like home for him. I realised that there was still a lot to do before he would trust me. What I had noticed with him being here is that I can sleep. Sleep had become beautiful. I no longer rolled around the bed in a fever asking all sorts of questions to which there were no answers. I had learnt to find stillness within myself.
Sometimes it feels as if death is creeping over me. It must be how Socrates felt when he took the hemlock. It no longer frightens me. If death is like that it is peaceful. It might be better than this struggle I have turned life into day after day. I remembered thinking that when Socrates was sentenced to death, he asked “Who knows whether the place you are sending me to is better or worse than life?” He had an open mind about whether the people who were putting him there were doing him a favour or not.
I let Oñé bounce on top of me and pull at my ears which he had a habit to do now. I thought that he was trying to tell me to listen to him. Even though he was tall for his age, I carried him downstairs in my arms, sat him carefully on a chair at the kitchen table and toasted him a piece of baguette, spooning on copious amounts of home-made Mallorcan apricot jam which he loved.
Then we drove towards Lake Cuber. I knew that the snow would be heavy there. On the way up the winding mountain road, we passed cars descending with little snowmen on the bonnets. Oñé seemed distressed. He touched my arm and asked, “Is it not dangerous driving like that? They can’t see where they are going.”
I replied, “You’re in Mallorca. It’s good to learn how life can be different. People do things differently. Sweden is good. Mallorca is good. They’re both good.”
We stopped at Lake Cuber. There must have been a hundred people building snowmen. It was quite a production line. Oñé and I began making snowcats. We found pebbles under the snow for eyes and twigs for whiskers. I wanted something red for the mouth and peeled the skin of a purple plum which I had brought with us for a snack, shaped it into lips and added another circle of purple for the nose.
Walking very slowly, Oñé carried one of the snowcats to the car. He placed it gently on the bonnet and we drove home.
Before Oñé’s arrival, a day could feel monotonous – boring. I increasingly felt excited to hear what he would say or do next. Sophia rang every day. I dreaded her phone calls. She talked about the wedding. At least she wanted to make it a small occasion, not to have a big fuss.
The last time we spoke on the phone I thought that I heard Gregoriano’s voice in the background as if he were having a separate conversation on a mobile to someone. I struggled to ignore what Sophia was saying and to focus on the background dialogue. I heard someone say, “It will be the first of April. You must be there.”
I nearly dropped the mobile onto the tiled floor. What did that mean? Who was he talking to? I thought the wedding was to be a small event with no strangers invited. I called to Oñé. “Your mother wants a word.”
I passed the phone to him. He looked at me, shaking his head to let me know that he didn’t want to talk to her. I insisted that he talked by passing the mobile to him, staying silent and looking at him in the eyes. “Hello Mother. What would you like to know?”
I wanted to grab the phone from him, appalled at how he could be so cruel knowing that she was still having her cancer treatment. I realised that for him, he wasn’t being cruel, only honest. He also maybe wanted to continue to punish her for not letting him see Gregoriano.
After Sophia spoke with him about making the snowcats, Oñé passed the phone back to me. Sophia whispered as if she didn´t want Oñé to hear. “Have you heard or seen from Gregoriano? It’s unlike him not to be in contact.”
I replied, “I thought that he was visiting you in Malmo. Did I not hear his voice in the background?”
I imagined her shaking her head. “No. There is no-one here. I am alone. It has been months since I’ve heard from him. The last time was before you came to Malmo. He said that he was going to visit you. I’ve tried ringing his mobile but it keeps going through to voicemail.”
I heard myself laugh in an unexpected way – it was more like a series of nervous grunts. “Don’t worry. He’s probably working in Syria. I know he will turn up for the wedding. He never misses a special occasion.”
There was a silence at the end of the phone. “That’s what I am worried about. That he will be killed in Syria, taken hostage and tortured. Oñé would be devastated. I don’t want you to take this the wrong way but I would be really disappointed if he couldn’t make the wedding. He wanted it to happen. He was right. I see what he saw in you.”
I reassured her. “It is quite normal for him not to be seen for months – perfectly normal. Try not to be anxious.”
Her voice steadied. “I was also wondering if you have heard any word from Ishmael? He needs to know about the wedding.” She hesitated before asking me, “Do you still want to get married?”
There was a part of me that saw this question as a door I could find a way through to escape the turn of events in my life which would leave me handcuffed to Sophia and to Oñé forever. Yet another part felt that this was my destiny. It seemed the only way that I could become a sane and loving human being. For the first time in my life I had responsibilities. I had to live up to them.
“Of course I do. As you have said, it is not only what I want but it is what Gregoriano wanted. There is nothing wrong with an arranged marriage. That’s what happens with on-line dating – except a computer chooses who you might marry rather than a human being. We both know that Gregoriano is wise. He knows what he is doing.”
I listened to myself chuckle out loud. I think I sounded quite unhinged but So
phia also laughed. Perhaps my insanity was catching. She said, “It will be a marriage made in Heaven.”
We ended the call promising to talk the next day. Oñé had gone to his bedroom. I had the urge to sit on his bed and tell him a story. It was something that had never happened to me before.
I climbed the stairs to Oñé’s bedroom and knocked on the door before entering. He was lying asleep. Or was he pretending to be asleep so that I would go away?
I sat on the bed. I touched his forehead with the back of my hand. He looked as if he could be dead. His face felt cold. He was unmoving with scarcely a trace of breath obvious in the stillness of his body.
Suddenly, I was startled by a sound at the window. It was a tinkling sound like glass breaking. I got to my feet and strained to listen more intently. There were two more strikes at the window. I recognised the sound now. Someone was throwing pebbles at the window. I rushed over and scanned the garden which was in almost total darkness as there was no moon. A man ran into the labyrinth. I didn’t recognise him but he had seen me. He must have wanted to contact Oñé.
I raced downstairs, opened the door and stared intently at the entrance to the labyrinth. I felt fear rising from my stomach into my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to go into the labyrinth to find the stranger. Without Ishmael, I could lose myself within it. Even if I found the well at the centre with its dark and murky depths, which was like a magnet for everyone who entered the labyrinth, there was no guarantee that I would find my way out.
I closed and then locked the front door, pushing the memory of the stranger out of my mind. I slowly climbed the stairs to return to Oñé’s bedroom. I gently knocked at his door before entering although it was now past midnight and I was sure that he would be asleep. The door squeaked as it opened. I peeped into the room.
His bed was empty.
I breathed deeply and quickly. Where could he have gone? I had been standing at the front door. So there was only one other possible exit he could have taken. It was through the door in the West Wing which led into the English country garden.
The Painter Page 20