He told me that he thought everything had a consciousness – even stones – and his role as a gardener was to help this unstoppable energy express its beauty. It was important where he placed a stone and how he tamed a bush or pruned a tree to allow the light to enter and fruit to flourish.
I had not got the energy to talk about this difference in their approaches with Pep Conejo. He wouldn’t understand. I let it be.
I prepared for my first studio exhibition since Ishmael’s death. Before Ishmael died I regularly offered an ‘artist in residence studio’ – typically before an exhibition – where selected guests watched me work and reviewed my paintings. This often resulted in pre-exhibition sales. There would typically be extensive coverage in the local press, fuelled by interest in the celebrities who attended including royalty and an extensive network of actors and actresses who have holiday homes on the island.
I felt no joy in doing in preparing for this particular exhibition.
I imagine that every human being does things that they regret. I believe we all have a conscience built into us by Nature. You might call it God, but I prefer not to call it God. For me the word God is too coloured by images of an old man with a long white beard sitting in judgement and separating the sheep from the goats. What Nature does is it educates me. It calls to me from deep within my body. It allows me to feel the wisdom of shame and guilt. That’s how I evolve.
Monday 5th February 2018
The Monday of the exhibition I wakened at five o’clock with a sense of apprehension. I sat by the fountain on my favourite chair, sipping coffee. Bats circled around in the sky like moving dark stars. I didn’t move until the sun shone in an azure blue sky. Birds cheeped within the shade of olive trees.
I didn’t ask Gabriela to cater today. I couldn’t face her presence with the guests demanding my full attention. She has continued to have an accusing look about her when she looks at me. Of course that could be me, being paranoid again.
I chose instead to use the German catering company – with Chris and Doris – who I had used before when Ishmael was alive. They assembled the tables, and covered them with white table cloths, cutlery and polished glasses. A dozen vases filled with red roses were scattered around the tables, randomly splashed on the white cotton tablecloths like a Pollock painting.
Chris and Doris cooked in the kitchen. I heard them hitting the Le Crueset pots which then sang like a meditation bowl. I watched them for a few minutes chopping carrots and peppers into small diced shapes which they then threw into a wok with oriental spices, fresh garlic, chilli and ginger. Delicious spice clouds from Arabia filled the kitchen and drifted outside. Chris emerged outside to prepare a fire to cook the suckling pigs which were already skewered onto a long rotating roasting spit. The buffet tables outside where being filled with dishes with a Moroccan theme, including, couscous, chickpeas and aubergines cooked in tagines.
Oñé hid in his bedroom. I asked him if he would join us for lunch but since Christian’s disappearance, he had become melancholic. He sat in the hollowed space of the labyrinth where we hid Christian from the surveillance plane and stares at the well. I think he was hoping Christian would return. Why is he not happy that he achieved what he wanted, that Christian is free? What am I going to do with this boy who has endless desires which he hides from me? How can I fulfil them if he doesn’t tell me what they are? I managed to persuade him to come downstairs and join us by asking him if he would show the King and Queen of Spain around the labyrinth.
Felipe the King of Spain arrived with his wife Letizia. Felipe wore a silk Italian charcoal suit, with a white Egyptian cotton shirt and cerise tie. Letizia wore white roses in her hair and as she walked her chiffon dress swirled in the gentle breeze which appeared to move the leaves on the olive and orange trees into life. They wandered around the garden, smiling and waving at the catering staff, before entering the labyrinth with Oñé for a private viewing before the other guests arrived. When they emerged, I walked with them around the garden highlighting the orangery, with its rose garden, the fig tree garden, olive grove and herb garden. I shared with them Ishmael’s thoughts that the garden was meant to give the impression of stepping into one of my paintings. I explained that there were surprises in my new art work. Felipe stopped at the sculpture, holding Letizia’s hand. He looked at her.
“What do you think of this?”
My heart thumped rapidly.
Letizia looked at Felipe. They smiled at one another without saying anything. Felipe broke the silence. “I think it is perhaps your best sculpture. Congratulations. I see it in the gardens of the palace of Marivent.”
I smiled at them both, disguising the anxiety building in my stomach. “Thank you. Of course it is yours. You only have to name your price. When would you like it to be delivered?”
“If possible before the summer season when guests arrive.”
I nodded.
There was a round of applause from the newly arrived guests as if I had staged my comment for approval. I didn’t even know that they had either arrived or were listening. We sipped champagne, picked at tapas of gambas and lobster while a quartet played Sibelius in the background. It was a dreamy rendering, with violins like sirens tempting the listeners to look at the violinists rather than to engage in the food. Oñé emerged from the labyrinth, after his success with the King and Queen of Spain and seemed animated as he walked around the tables helping serve champagne.
Felipe and Letizia excused themselves as they had another lunch engagement. Letizia squeezed my hand, kissed me on the cheek and whispered, “Remember the sculpture is for Marivent. Don’t allow anyone else to tempt you to sell it to them.”
I bowed and said, “It was created with you in mind.”
As I raised my head to look into Letizia’s eyes there was a loud scream, a woman’s chilling cry. Everyone looked towards the studio. Oñé dropped the bottle of champagne he was serving and the quartet fell silent.
It was Gabriela. She ran along the pebbled path. Her hair streamed behind her like an advertising banner from a small light aircraft. She wasn’t wearing shoes. She ran towards me, pushing Letizia and Felipe to one side. I felt her hands turn into fists thumping into my chest with the rhythm of a heartbeat.
She screamed at the guests: “You need to know. He killed him. He killed Ishmael. Who will be next?”
It was a member of the Royal family’s entourage who was first to use her mobile and call for an ambulance.
“This woman needs help. She appears dangerous. Keep away from her. She may have a knife on her.”
I bowed to my guests. “I apologise to you all.” I turned to Gabriela. “You are upset. You know that you are not well. Let us help you.”
Leaving the broken bottle of Veuve Clicquot which had slipped from his hands onto the ground, Oñé ran towards Gabriela taking her hand. “Why are you saying that he killed Ishmael? It can’t be true. You have seen Ishmael and so have I. We both know that he is alive.”
I looked at him with mixed feelings wishing that he would stop talking about Ishmael and drawing attention to his absence. Yet another part of me was grateful for his attempt at defending me from the madness of Gabriela. Felipe and Letizia looked at one another as a black Mercedes rolled up the pathway, followed by an ambulance sounding a blaring siren.
Without haste, the King and Queen sidled into the Mercedes, waving at the guests as the car reversed and disappeared in the direction of Soller.
Gabriela dropped Oñé’s hand and ran in the direction of Boulder Hill. There was a huge rock which had fallen from the top of the hill, which rumbled towards her as she attempted to scramble over the fence. The rock stopped without breaking its way through the fence. Gabriela fell back on the grass where she was gently helped to her feet by the ambulance crew and then led into the ambulance. The siren stopped as it made the slow journey down the pathway, before turning right to follow the King and Queen’s Mercedes
I tapped a spoon against a glass to ga
in the attention of the guests.
“Thank you for your patience in dealing with this rather awkward incident. I am sure that Gabriela will be taken good care of and I hope that she will soon be back helping me as she has masterly done for several years. Life brings us challenges in different ways. Let the next challenge today to be only your choice of dessert – a raspberry Pavlova and a favourite on the island, flan Catalan. Please can I invite you to offer a round of applause for our wonderful cooks and waitressing staff.”
I clapped my hands triggering a lacklustre wave of acknowledgement around the table.
After lunch had been served, the guests’ children ran around the garden as Oñé watched them from a chair. I had hoped that he would join in and play with them. To my horror, I realised that what was entertaining and amusing everyone was that they had decided to use the sculpture as a climbing frame. One red haired, freckled boy climbed up the arms and stood with a foot on either shoulder. Three others followed him. I panicked.
I jumped to my feet and shouted, “Get off the sculpture. It has been commissioned by the King and Queen of Spain and must not be damaged.”
Parents jumped to their feet and gathered children into their arms, excusing themselves, piling children into cars which rolled down the driveway. I was alone again with Oñe. The catering company cleared the tables in silence and removed dishes and glasses. I wished that they would talk to one another. I so much wanted to hear laughter, jokes being exchanged and an explosive bubbliness of happiness in the air, a joy of being alive – manifesting itself in Can Animes. Chris and Doris were letting me down.
I sat on a wooden swing bench waiting for Oñé join me. He sat on the bench, pushing it with his feet to move swiftly backwards and forwards. He asked, “Why do you think Gabriela said what she said?”
I pushed the swing also with my feet to go even faster before answering. “I don’t know why she said what she did. I didn’t murder Ishmael did I? How could I have – you swam with him in the pool.”
Oñé stopped the bench swinging by scraping his feet on the ground. “I know that you didn’t kill Ishmael.”
I rested my head in my hands and swung the bench slowly. “You said that Ishmael would appear when I said that I was ready to see him. The next time that you see him, tell him then that I am ready and would be pleased to see him.”
Oñé nodded. “I will do that.”
He then changed the subject, asking me a question. “Do I look like Gregoriano?”
I didn’t want to tell him that he looked like his father – even if he did look very like him. It was also hard to tell him the truth that Gregoriano is a wiser and better man than I am, knowing that I am soon to be his ‘father’. It didn’t matter what DNA he had inherited. I would act like his father. I had to be a father. It was the only way to redeem my life. I had to take care of him and Sophia. It was destiny.
Yet Ishmael’s death would haunt me. That terrible deed would stay with me and potentially destroy every relationship, including that with Oñé and Sophia. Was I capable of living such a lie? What damage could it do to both Oñé and Sophia?
I remembered one night with Ishmael when he sat on a chair in the sitting room. Logs burnt in the open fire. We looked for music on Deezer and he told me that he liked Cat Stevens. We found Tea for the Tillerman and listened to Hard-Headed Woman. He told me that he knew a hard-headed woman whom had saved his life. I knelt at his feet and listened to him talk about her. I didn’t know then that he was almost certainly talking about Sophia.
Whoever this woman was, I felt that she could never come between me and Ishmael. We were friends without boundaries separating us. We merged into the chair, within the room, within the labyrinth, within the sky and its slither of moon, within the flow of the sea in the Port of Soller. We were the kind of friends that could never be parted – even death could not separate a friendship like the one that I had with Ishmael.
Answering the question which Oñé asked me about whether he looked like Gregoriano, I replied, “You do. You also look like Sophia.”
25
PABLO PICASSO
“To finish a work? To finish a picture? What nonsense! To finish it means to be through with it, to kill it, to rid of its soul, to give it its final blow the ‘coup de grace’ for the painter as well as for the picture.”
Thursday 8th February 2018
I wakened to lights flashing in the bedroom and in my head. For a moment I thought that I was having an epileptic fit. What was strange was that it didn’t worry me. I was interested in what was happening within my brain. What were these flickers of light and darkness? Ulysses the cat jumped on me asking to be taken outside. I ran downstairs as he followed me. The flickering continued. As I opened the door, the dark sky flickered in the distance, shifting rapidly between light and darkness.
As the storm rumbled towards us, the house shook with each roar of thunder. Lightning illuminated the sky through the window – a frame for a painting. At times it was as if the world was blotted out. On occasion there was only whiteness. It made me think that was what death would be like – a world of light and nothingness. At other moments lightening hid behind Boulder Hill, flashing and made a dragon shaped contour which stood out every few seconds, when the darkness was interrupted by lightning. I heard the sound of pebbles against Oñé’s window next door. I knew what that meant. Whoever had swum with him in the pool had returned to talk with him.
I heard Oñé run downstairs, open the door. I walked to the top of the stairs, peered down as Oñé embraced a man and then walked hand in hand with him in the direction of the labyrinth.
I followed them into the labyrinth using Oñé’s ribbons. I easily reached the centre and sat on the edge of the well as rain pelted me with tiny bullets.
There was no-one there. I searched but couldn’t find them. I slowly made my way out of the labyrinth. It took quite some time, even with Oñé’s help of the numbered ribbons. The storm flashed and shook the hedges around me. I staggered against them as if in a stupor. I clutched at thorny edges as if I was drowning. I held onto trembling branches before I ran into blackness broken by a silver light that erased my vision.
I reached the house, carefully taking hold of the handrail as I climbed the stairs. I felt that at any moment I might fall.
Oñé’s door was closed. I opened it. Lightning continued to gently flicker on and off as the storm moved away. I saw Oñé’s head pressed deep into the pillow. He sighed as if relieving himself from some dreadful burden. I took my shoes off to avoid making a noise which might waken him and padded towards the bed. I listened. He gurgled in the way a baby might blow bubbles at you. I slipped into the bed beside him and placed an arm close enough to allow him if he wanted to; to know that I was near but not wanting to waken him.
I closed my eyes. My body filled with an intensity of peace. This heaviness of peace within me felt as if I had been placed in a cleft in a rock and the hand of God was pushing me deep into this protected opening of earth. I was squeezed into a place of safety. I opened my eyes and saw Oñé’s back. I had an urge to roll him over and look at his face but I knew that I couldn’t. I closed my eyes, allowing the peace to begin to dissolve, to lose its solidity, I felt it flow effortlessly within me.
I placed a hand on Oñé. He did not move. His breath turned into a snuffling sound. I tapped him three times on the shoulder. I don’t know why I did that before my hand dropped onto the sheet beside him. I fell asleep.
In the early morning, I awakened. Oñé was still asleep. I slipped from the bed.
I prepared a special breakfast – French toast dipped in egg and covered in icing sugar. Oñé ate two pieces of toast and drank two cups of hot chocolate before I picked up the courage to ask, “Did you sleep well last night?”
“You’ve forgotten haven’t you?”
I poured him another cup of hot chocolate and sat facing him. “Forgotten what?”
He sipped on his chocolate. “You said that today we
would go out on a yacht.”
He was right. I had forgotten. “That’s not a problem,we can still go. I will ring the owner of the yacht in Porto Cristo.”
Oñé pushed his empty cup of chocolate to one side. “Let’s do it then.”
We drove to Porto Cristo. I was reminded of how magical the island of Mallorca is with its rugged mountains, flat valleys, vineyards and coves. Storm clouds were again building filling the sky with orange fire, surrounded by a blackness waiting to descend over the island. I was no longer sure about the sailing trip. We arrived at Porto Cristo to find the boat Mambia moored at the side of the wharf and two Germans who Carlos told me were to join us on board.
This time, I did not have a panic attack as I did when I was with Gregoriano on the yacht making our way to Deia. We easily crossed the gangway to where Carlos waited inside. He welcomed the four of us, reading a list of instructions about where life jackets were stored and told us that we needed to shower after swimming and not allow saltwater to enter the boat. A thirty-metre mast reached to the storm clouds. Carlos’ assistant Kike from Columbia unmoored the yacht and then went to the back to raise the sails. Oñé sat and looked at our German companions.
Gunter was a man of my age. His hair shaved at the sides leaving a long crop of hair on top which he caught into a small knot. His partner introduced herself as Friederike. She wore a white bikini which matched her whitened teeth. Each had the same colour of spray tan over toned bodies. They smiled a lot, took selfies and Friederike passed the camera frequently to Gunter who snapped photographs of her standing by the mast.
The Painter Page 22