The Painter

by Deirdre Quiery

  “I agreed that he could take you to the castle when you were ten. Do you think for a moment, that I did not approve of the guidance he wanted to give you? Of course I did. I thought that you might be more influenced by someone I thought you would see as ‘a magical man’. I knew that you did not respect your father. I felt weak in my inability to respond to you in a way that was capable of helping you to waken up to reality. I decided that the appropriate response from me was to do nothing other than to accept you for who you were …” She hesitated. “… and are.”

  She poured me a glass of red wine from the Macia Batle vineyard.

  I took a large sip, before asking, “Do you have Gregoriano’s contact details? I would like to invite him to a party at my home next week. I want to thank him for his presence in my life. He has introduced me to Ishmael, Oñé and Sophia, all of whom have enriched my life.”

  Mother shook her head. “No. I am sorry. He is not responding to my calls. I have not heard from him since early October of last year. That is not like him. He rang me every week on a Sunday at six o’clock in the evening. No matter what assignment he had chosen to work on, he never failed to ring me. I am worried that he has returned to Syria and perhaps something has happened to him.” She sighed. “Perhaps he is dead. I feel that he is no longer with us.” She wiped a tear away from her eye. “I mean in the same way. He’s not with us in the same way. Whatever the spirit of Gregoriano was, I know for sure that it will never die.”

  I leaned forward and placed my hand on top of my mother’s. I was aware how temporal that experience was – of touching her. One day, she would not be there for me, for others, with her wisdom and love. I felt a pressing knowledge in this moment of the uniqueness of her being, the specialness of the moment, its impermanence and the beauty of its passing. For a fleeting moment, even death was a part of everything. I did not mean that I could be spared from the consequences of killing another being – maybe Gregoriano. No, it wasn’t that I was blasé about killing or about death, but rather I understood the preciousness of death being intimately linked with life.

  The horror of deliberately and intentionally killing another human being, I now saw as an extension of what I did with harsh words, with deceit and lies when I killed the truth I killed the life that could have followed. I blew my nose into the paper napkin to disguise my tears.

  I asked, “Would you like to go into the garden?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I held her by the hand in a way I had not done since the age of ten. We looked at the mountains where clouds of green swept into the valley as fine pollen dust flowed from male cones in search of the female cones. I turned to Mother.

  “Ishmael told me that pine pollen is the most potent plant source of testosterone known.”

  She laughed. “So I will have a beard by tomorrow then?”

  I gripped her hand firmly in a way I had never done before in my life. I felt a warmth flow through me which I did not recognise. Perhaps it was love.

  “Not at all, breathe it in. Ishmael tells me that it boosts the immune system and is a tonic for the kidney, liver, heart and spleen. Take a deep, deep breath.”

  I pointed to the grass which bathed in sunshine and was covered with a creeping white flower and then to the purple and white daises bursting out of pots placed along the pathway.

  “You have taken great care of the garden.”

  I returned to the theme of the mythical qualities of the pine tree.

  “Did you know that along the Mediterranean Coast and in North Africa where they cut the pine trees in factories and throw the unused wood into the water, that female fish turn into male fish?”

  “Why are you telling me to take a deep breath then? I will become a man with strong a heart, liver, kidney and spleen.”

  She bent over laughing dropping my hand. I knew the beauty which I had never known before in my life about how it is possible to turn a tear into a smile and then a laugh.

  “Let’s go back. There is wine to finish.” Inside, she topped up my glass. “Gregoriano. Dear God, of course we cannot judge for good or bad, the soul of another human being.” She laughed as she sipped on her wine. “But then again why not? The Church has been doing it for centuries – creating Saints. Do you know the Church has never said that a single person has gone to Hell? Do you not see what that means?”

  She looked at me with a penetrating stare. I asked, “No, you tell me.”

  She wiped tears away from her eyes, but they were not tears of sorrow as earlier but tears of joy. “You’re not going to Hell, Augustin when you die. Nobody goes there. You’re in Hell now. You’ve created it and you can get out of it, if you want to. You can do it right now. It’s only now. It’s now that everything exists. There is nothing else. Do you see it?”

  I pulled a piece of bread apart. I asked, “So there is no Heaven … No Hell. Only this? Is that not depressing? A piece of bread, an olive, a spoonful of paella, a glass of wine, the table, you and me and nothing else?”

  She shook her head. “You don’t see it. This … this … this if you allow yourself to truly experience it is everything beyond Heaven and Hell. It’s magical. Gregoriano knew what that meant. That was why he was prepared to die in Iraq, Syria and Yemen. He saw it. I can’t do any more for you than he did. You have to see it for yourself.”

  I searched in my rucksack for my notebook and a pen.

  “Well, let’s start with finding Gregoriano, someone must know where he is. He works for the Red Cross. They will know if he left the island to work for them somewhere in the world.”

  As Mother rummaged in a small notebook to give me two telephone numbers – one for Gregoriano’s mobile and the other for the number which Gregoriano had given her for his work in Syria and Yemen. As I wrote the numbers down, I could only think of his body being in that sculpture. What would mother think of me then if that was a reality? Would I ever be able to hold her hand again and for us to laugh at the angst and beauty of life? That would be for me a living death. I had to find Gregoriano alive. My mind was over imagining things. Gabriela was not sure that there were two men involved in the fight that evening. Even if there were two men and Ishmael had escaped, there was no evidence that the second man was Gregoriano or that I had killed him.

  Mother made me an espresso. “I have tried ringing both those numbers. The Red Cross told me that he is not in Syria but said that they were having problems in tracking if he had entered Yemen. They said that they would get back to me as soon as possible.”

  She served me with the coffee, and a slice of apricot tart, made from the last apricots which had fallen from her tree. She parcelled up portions for Gabriela and Oñé.

  As we said goodbye, I asked, “Will you come to lunch Thursday of next week? You will meet Sophia, Oñé, Pep Conejo. I have been told that Ishmael will be there.”

  Mother cut three more portions of the tart. “This is for Ishmael then, Pep Conejo and his wife. I have heard great things about Ishmael from Gregoriano. Yes, of course I will be there.”

  Wednesday 14th February 2018

  At mid-day Gabriela rang in a state of panic. She said that the local police Pep Serrano and José Miguel had called at the house that morning to see if someone by the name of Gregoriano Balsano lived there.

  Oñé was at school. I was making plans for the arrival of Sophia later that day and for the party the next day. I flipped into a meltdown. “What are you saying? The police know about Gregoriano owning the house?”

  She shouted at me. “He doesn’t own the house. I told you that it is transferred to me. They want to know where he is living. His identity details show that although he legally transferred the house to me, he continued to be registered as living here. He never changed his place of residence in the Town Hall in Soller.

  “Where is he living?”

  She snorted in despair. “You are not listening. I have never met him. How do I know where he is living? We communicate by phone or email.”


  I steadied my voice. “Why are the police looking for him? What has he done?”

  “Are you insane? He has done nothing. He has been lying in a coma in a hospital in Palma for four months. Apparently, he was found lying on the road to Soller in October of last year with a serious head injury. He wasn’t even on the pavement. He was lying in the road. Do you hear me? The police think that maybe he was placed there so that a car would run over him and make his death look like an accident or that maybe he took a stroke and fell trying to cross the road. They were suspicious and began to investigate the possibility that someone had tried to murder him. He appeared to have been attacked and had a puncture wound in his back. They said that indicated that someone may have stabbed him. They ran a DNA test on him and there was a match with the Cupid arrow which they had taken for forensic tests.”

  My brain was spinning. In my confusion, I felt an incredible sense of relief.

  “If they are looking for where he lives, then he is alive?”

  I could almost hear Gabriela stamping her foot on the ground. “Yes – as far as I know – unless he has died since discharging himself from the hospital.”

  I asked, “Why did it take them so long to match the DNA? You know that they tested you, Oñé and I and we had the results back quickly. I would have thought that they would have turned up at your door months ago.”

  “It seems to be a case of human error. The hospital staff in Palma called the police when he was admitted in a coma state in October. They expressed concerns that there was foul play at work and showed evidence of the stabbing wound to his back. DNA samples were taken. Gregoriano remained in a coma state until yesterday. The DNA samples were misplaced before being recorded digitally and were only found this morning.

  “The police interviewed him before he discharged himself and he denied that he had been attacked. He said that he didn’t remember exactly what happened that evening but he had not felt very well – he had felt dizzy, I think he told them. After the police left, Gregoriano discharged himself from the hospital against the Doctor’s advice.”

  “The police would have taken a full report and asked him for his address. Did he not tell them where he was living?”

  Gabriela sighed. “He gave this address.”

  My mind raced. I had no time for Gabriela’s tears. “Why did the police not come here if there is the DNA link to the arrow?”

  “I think they wanted to question Gregoriano further before approaching you. I don’t know. If I were you, I would expect to see the police at any minute.”

  I couldn’t believe what I said next. “What does Ishmael think?”

  There was a pause. It seemed a long pause before she replied. “He’s glad that Gregoriano is alive. He says that he will be in touch. He reminded me that you don’t get shot in Iraq, tortured in Syria and Yemen and not manage to survive coming out of a coma in Mallorca. He asked me to check if you are still going ahead with the party tomorrow.”

  I knew that I had to continue with the party. What else could I do? Why would I cancel it? Sophia was arriving at six o’clock this afternoon. Oñé, for the first time seemed to be excited about seeing her. Mother would be there. Gabriela and Ishmael would be there. Pep Conejo and his wife, Francisca, would also be there. I began to feel as if I really had a family – real people – not people who wanted to hang out with me because of my fame and money.

  I was so looking forward to seeing Ishmael. That was an understatement. I hadn’t words to say how intensely happy I was to know that he was still alive. It’s hard to describe how I felt. Maybe the best way to say it is to imagine the reaction of the parents of Lazarus in the Bible story when he came back from the dead – imagine how they felt. I felt even better. It was also excellent news that Gregoriano was alive. The world was falling into a place of beauty that I had not known for a long time. Of course I would party. I hadn’t had a better excuse to do that in a long time.

  I said to Gabriela, “Yes, the party is organised. We will go ahead with it. Tell Ishmael it will be great to see him – to see you both.”

  I had decided that we would pull the sculpture apart at the party. I wasn’t sure if I could tell people why I wanted to do that. I would leave that until the moment but I wanted every new moment to be a moment of honesty and truth. That would be good enough for me for the rest of my life.

  I had also decided that before we destroyed the sculpture, I would take a photo so that Ishmael and I could recreate it together for the King and Queen of Spain. I was convinced now that Ishmael was alive. I had to have been dreaming that night, having a nightmare.

  Thinking of Felipe and Letizia, neither would know that it was not the one which they had seen. It was still an original. To give the sculpture a final farewell, we would make a party game out of it – a piñata – where a Mexican paper donkey filled with sweets is hit with a stick by children to release its treasure. That would be a fitting end to the sculpture which symbolised and would always remind me even if in the palace gardens of Marivent, of my descent into Hell.

  After breaking the sculpture into small pieces, we would together burn it in a fire pit which I will ask the caterers to create. The symbolic burning of the art of my insanity will draw a line under the last six months and my whole life until today – St Valentine’s Day, the 14th February 2018.

  My life was only just beginning.

  27

  PABLO PICASSO

  “Who sees the human face correctly: the photographer, the mirror, or The Painter?”

  Thursday 15th February 2018

  Yesterday Sophia’s flight arrived on time. Oñé had painted a small icon for her in which a woman held a bouquet of roses, her lips sparkled with diamonds and her eyes were two fishbowls with goldfish swimming in them. The fish reminded me of Mother’s eyes which transformed from amber to something within this icon, once again fluid, moving within a liquid, no longer the resin of amber but seeing from a liquid holding moving life.

  Sophia looked intently at it for quite a few minutes before she commented. “I love the mystery of it. You don’t look at an icon. You enter it. It sees you. I see myself swimming within your eyes.” Oñé smiled at her. An adult smile – one of knowing something which maybe I had to learn. They embraced and kissed one another. She turned to me. “What a difference.”

  I blushed. “What do you mean?”

  “You both look different.”

  “Is that a good different or a bad different?”

  “It’s definitely a good different. Has something happened I should know about? Is there something that you haven’t told me?”

  “There’s a lot to tell you. But first of all – would you do me the honour?”

  I handed her a small box. I hadn’t wrapped it in paper. She looked at me. “You didn’t need to do this.”

  “I know but I wanted to.”

  She opened it. There was a ring inside. I had it especially made by Carlos, the jeweller, in la Calle de la Luna. He created an amber heart surrounded by twelve small diamonds. I wanted Sophia’s engagement ring to hold the love of my mother’s eyes always within the touch of Sophia’s hand.

  Oñé and I watched in silence as she placed it on her engagement ring finger. It fitted perfectly. I knew that it would. I had tied a string around her finger on New Year’s Eve. I handed it to Carlos who I knew would not make exactly what I envisaged but make something even better.

  I took Oñé’s hand and that of Sophia and instead of kissing Sophia, we looked at one another within a small circle of life.

  Oñé started to jump up and down in excitement. He dropped my hand. I embraced Sophia, kissing her deeply on the lips. With my eyes closed, my lips softly exploring hers. I disappeared into a flow of love between us. I scarcely knew her and yet I deeply knew her. It was right. What was happening was right. She was sounding herself through me with her lips. I would never again be alone. I would always be able to give to her and Oñé the immensity of which I now knew that existed between u
s as love.

  Love. What an overused and misunderstood word. What it meant for me now was a peace, an acceptance of everything and everyone. I felt as if I should invite the whole Soller community to the party. Everyone. I loved them all, including the ‘lepers’ of Soller. After all, I was one of them. I can show you the stumps of my arms which cannot embrace Sophia in the way I would like to and the ulcerated wounds on my soul which I know are healing.

  Lunch was to be ready at two o’clock. Chris and Doris had prepared a banquet. There was once again suckling pig roasting on a spit. The buffet table creaked with food and buckets of ice to chill champagne and white wine.

  Pep Conejo and his wife Francisca were first to arrive.

  Michael Lucarelli a classical Spanish guitarist played ‘Malaquera’ with a fast-paced bubbliness as I guided Pep Conejo and Francisca to their seats.

  “Francisca – welcome. What can I offer you to drink?”

  She looked at Pep and then at me. “Should I not wait for others to arrive?”

  “Of course not. Please let me help you to …”

  I looked around at the buffet table and tried to spot the most expensive drink which I knew Francisca would never buy or have tried for herself.

  “What about a glass of bubbly?”

  “What?” Francisca wiped sweat from her upper lip.

  I explained. “Krug … champagne?”

  “Can you put a bit of brandy in it?”

  “Of course. A champagne cocktail – what could be better. Pep, what about you?”

  “A small beer.” He opened his shirt and pointed at the scar from his heart operation. “You can’t overdo it.” He shot Francisca a reprimanding glance.

  Mother arrived next. She moved quickly towards Sophia and Oñé. She tripped on the edge of a rug which had been scattered on the ground to give a Moroccan feel to the décor, landing face down with her arms outstretched. I ran to help her. She laughed at me as she struggled to her knees.

  “It’s only a sign of respect you know.”