A Coffin For Two ob-2

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘I saw the years that were left to me as a kind of retirement. I painted a little, and found that even without Salvador’s vision, I was still some sort of a genius. Some of my work is hanging on the walls of this room, to be with me for ever, as a sort of memorial. Though I say so myself, it is all quite brilliant.

  ‘But my masterpiece, beyond a doubt, was the Toreador of the Apocalypse. You have seen it, my boy. You know what I mean. It is my tribute to my crazy brother, to our Gala, and to the unsurpassable artistic force which the three of us became. She is in it, the ghostly figure. So is he, in the skeleton of the giraffe, the only thing he loved in his early possessed years. And so am I. It is brilliant, and the crowning jewel within it, is the tear on the face of the toreador, on my face. It is glistening and as you look at it, you can feel its softness on your cheek.

  ‘Nobody, Oz, nobody but Davidoff can paint the softness of a tear.’ His slim chest puffed out with pride as he said it. I raised my glass and drank a toast to the truth of what he had said.

  ‘I signed it Dali, of course, although the vision was all mine. For now, at the end, I realise that in my own way I am just as crazy as my brother.’

  I shook my head at that. ‘Not you, pal,’ I whispered. ‘Sanest man I ever met.’

  Davidoff shifted in his chair, the one in which I now sat, making himself more comfortable, more relaxed. ‘As I said, I treated my years down here as a kind of retirement. I had money, my secret home, and my little car. I hung around Pubol, La Bisbal, Girona. I walked a lot, and I swam in the sea. I was Davidoff, gentleman of means, man of mystery, who kept himself to himself.

  ‘Then some things happened. First and best of all, in 1990 I met Clive Gash, in the bar in Pubol. I liked him at once. He was no artist, just an ordinary man who happened to have made himself a billion pesetas or so. When he invited me to his home, it was the first time in my life, would you believe, that I had ever been invited anywhere in my own right, not as my brother’s appendage.

  ‘I loved it there in L’Escala, with Clive and Shirley. I told them nothing about myself, and they never asked. We just got on. Clive said that their summerhouse was mine whenever I wanted it, and I took him at his word.

  ‘Shirley was devastated when he died, but she insisted that I should still come to L’Escala, to her little house in the garden. I decorated it for her, you know.‘He laughed.’Before, it had plain white walls; now they are covered with murals that are absolutely priceless, yet she hasn’t a fucking clue what they are!’

  His laughter subsided. ‘Last year something else happened. A young man named Ronnie Starr came to Pubol. I met him in the bar, where I had met Clive, and I spoke to him. He was different, this young fellow, and he had talent, great talent as an artist. He could paint the sunlight, you see. Very few Northerners can do that, but Ronnie could. A great painter: not a genius, but still great.

  ‘He had something else too; a huge knowledge of the work of Dali. He would talk to me about him for hours. He knew that two sons named Salvador had been born to my mother. And he told me something very interesting. He had a theory that some of the early work in the catalogues was wrongly attributed. He showed me illustrations of some early works, which he said were quite different in style and quality from what came after.

  ‘Ronnie didn’t realise what he was saying, of course, but he was right. When Salvador and I were back in Port Lligat after college, he sold some of his own work, through another gallery in Cadaques. Real crap it was. I put a stop to it as soon as I found out, but years later, it found its way into the listed works.

  ‘My young friend from Wales had actually stumbled upon our secret. I couldn’t tell him that, of course, but I felt I had to reward him. More than that, he was a disciple, a true apostle of Dali, and I felt that he deserved recognition. So I gave him my masterpiece. I gave it to him, because in the end I could not bear the thought of it being buried in the dark for ever.

  ‘You understand that Oz, don’t you. You’ve seen it after all.’ I nodded, as if he could see me. ‘I told him that it was a Dali, but that it could never be authenticated, or shown as such. I gave him it to keep for ever, and to show to his friends as his proudest possession, on condition that he never sold it, or told anyone how he had come by it.

  ‘He agreed to all that, and he took it. In exchange, he gave me one of his paintings, of Port Lligat. It is very fine. You will find it hanging in this room.’ He waved a hand, vaguely, over his shoulder.

  ‘Then,’ said Davidoff, ‘soon after, I did the thing which cost him his life. I introduced him to Adrian Ford, Shirley’s no-good, greedy, jealous, envious, grasping, murderous bastard of a brother. He befriended Ronnie, and Ronnie must have shown him the picture, of which he was so proud. You know the rest, and you have just seen how it finished.

  ‘I almost died when you showed me the copy in your apartment, Oz, and told me how you had come by it. I guessed at once what had happened. Tonight you know that I made amends. That is why I had to bring you here, and to make you the only man who knows all about Davidoff.

  ‘I place this story in your hands, my boy. I make you the keeper of the truth, of the legend of Dali. For it is time for me to die now. But one thing. I want to stay here for ever, beside Gala, and I don’t want my tomb to be disturbed. I trust you with this, because I see the honour in you, like I saw it in my poor friend Ronnie.

  ‘Some things you can do for me. First, finish the wine, for it’s the best you’ll drink this year. Share a last bottle with a friend.

  ‘Second, take the pictures on the easels and put them where they’re meant to be. They are what I’ve been doing since I shot that bastard Adrian.

  ‘Third, put the lid on my coffin, and say a prayer for my soul, if you have one in you. I carved the box myself. Yes, my friend, Davidoff was a sculptor too.

  ‘Fourth, switch out the light and seal my tomb on your way out. The mechanism which slides the slab is another work of genius. I designed it myself, and burned the plan, after I had it installed by a non-Spanish speaking engineer from America. He died in a car crash ten years ago … nothing to do with me, honest!

  ‘It only works when you insert a steel bolt into a slot in the stone. It’s in there now. The slab will slide back into place at a touch. When it’s perfectly positioned, you’ll be able to withdraw the shaft and it’ll be locked for ever. Next time you cross a river, toss my key away.

  ‘As a bonus for all these favours, you can keep the video camera. It’s a good one, I promise, and it’s only been used twice.’

  He paused, and he looked at me. ‘Oz, my true friend, for any wrong you may think subsequently that I have done you, I apologise most sincerely. Now go with God, and have a good life, one at least as long as mine. Remember, treat the body as a temple.’ Then he winked his one eye, and gave me a long slow smile. ‘Now, goodbye.’

  There was a click, and the screen went dark.

  I stood there staring at it, as I shared the last of his wine, savouring every drop. When it was done, I walked over to the three pictures, and took the sheet from the one on the left. It was a portrait of Shirley Gash, and a man I recognised from photos in her house as Clive, painted exquisitely, as if both were alive on the canvas.

  Moving on after a while, I unveiled the one in the centre, and gasped, not for the first time that night. It was Primavera. She was lying on a couch in silver moonlight, and she was naked. It was so real, I wanted to touch her.

  I was afraid, almost, to lift the third sheet, but I did.

  It was me, of course. In the background, I picked out the ghostly figure of a woman, the skeleton of a giraffe, and the very faint shadow of a man, with a patch over his right eye. In the foreground, I was wearing a toreador’s colourful uniform, with a red cape over my arm. My expression was solemn, and down my right cheek, a single tear ran, so bright that it seemed to glisten, so gently done that you could feel its softness. Like the other two, it was signed, ‘Davidoff’.

  When I could, I bent
over the coffin and kissed my friend on his forehead. Then I lifted the heavy lid and laid it over him, settling it into the grooves which he had carved to receive it. As I straightened up, and as I said my prayer for Davidoff’s soul, I looked into the eyes of Gala. Carved into the lid, she smiled up at me, with the same look that had bewitched the brothers Dali.

  54

  There is a bridge across the Riu Ter, near Verges. I stopped the Frontera half way across, got out, and threw a two-inch thick, two-foot long stainless steel bolt into its rushing water.

  As always, Davidoff’s word had been his bond. The slab had moved at a touch. It looked like a good video camera too.

  It was just after 2 a.m. when I slipped the Frontera silently into St Marti, and stepped silently up the stairs to the apartment. I didn’t think that there were any more surprises for the old bastard to throw at me, but as always with him, I was wrong.

  I had expected to find Prim asleep, but the balcony doors were ajar and she was sitting outside, looking at the sea with a white shawl around her shoulders. She looked round as the front door opened. As I stepped out of the darkness, all the shocks and horrors of the evening must have shown in my face, for a frown swept across hers. ‘Oz …’ she whispered.

  Then she saw what I was carrying. I switched on the terrace light and showed her the portraits. The third, I had left in the boot of the car, to be delivered in the morning, once I had come up with a story to explain it.

  Prim glanced at my likeness, and then she looked at herself, recumbent, nude. I had never seen her really blush before. The pinkness just exploded, from the swell of her breasts, into her neck, and to her face.

  ‘The old bastard had quite an imagination,’ I said, with a half-smile.

  ‘Had?’ she murmured, fearfully.

  ‘Yes love. It’s over.’

  I sat down beside her and, because I know that he would have expected it, I told her the story of Davidoff, the second Dali, of his secret life and of his secret love.

  I told her, because I knew she wouldn’t disturb the old man’s rest, and because I knew that someone else had to share the burden. Davidoff believed in possession of the spirit. So do I now, because I’m certain that a part of his soul, a part too crazy to die, possesses me, and that in the final analysis he agrees with me that his story is just too magnificent to be lost forever.

  So I related to Primavera the tale of Davidoff’s gift to his friend, and of the revenge he had taken on the men who had betrayed him. My voice crackled several times during the tale, and at the end, as I described how I had positioned the beautiful carved lid of his coffin, and as I repeated my commendation of his soul, I broke down completely, crying like a baby for the first time as a man.

  When I composed myself, she was looking at me, her hand on mine. Then she stood up, moved to the edge of the balcony, and turned back to face me. As I looked at her a disturbing feeling gripped my stomach.

  ‘I have something to share with you now, Oz,’ she murmured. ‘Something about Davidoff. I have to tell you now, because every day I keep it secret, the more dangerous it will be to you and me.’

  I looked at her, and realised at once why I was so disconcerted. She looked vulnerable, more so than I had ever seen her. ‘Best tell me then,’ I replied, as quietly as she.

  ‘His portrait of me,’ she said. ‘It isn’t painted from his imagination.’ I looked at her, and I’m sure my jaw dropped, for the second time that night.

  ‘When he and I were left alone together, at Shirley’s, ‘she went on,’after you and she had gone off to identify Adrian’s body, Davidoff made love to me. And I let him; not as a gift to an old man, but because I wanted him.’

  She stopped, and seemed to flinch, very slightly, as if she was expecting me to roar at her, or worse. But such thoughts never crossed my mind; I just stood there staring at her, numb.

  At last she went on. ‘He touched me as we sat there in the garden. He held me with that black eye of his, and he touched me; he stroked my breast with the tips of his fingers. He just kissed my hand and reached across. And the strange thing is, I wasn’t surprised, or shocked …’ she hesitated ‘… or upset.

  ‘His fingers were smooth, very soft, incredibly sensitive. As he stroked me, he just kept looking at me, until all I could see was that eye, and the depth there was to it. For a moment or two, I tried to break away by picturing you, but I couldn’t. All that I was conscious of was him, his sandalwood smell, and his look. I knew that it was asking me a question.

  ‘Neither of us said a word, but I answered him all the same. I took his hand from me, I stood up, and I undressed for him, slowly, completely. Then I lay back down with him on the lounger. He didn’t seem old to me, not there in the dark. He was a man; and a unique, dynamic man at that, unlike anyone I’ve ever known. There and then I wanted him, very much, as much as I wanted you when we first met.

  ‘I kissed him. I didn’t feel anything but sincere when I asked him, “Would you like to make love?” He smiled at me and he said, “My darling, in the way you mean I could not do you justice, not any more.” I rubbed my hand against those tight satin pants. “Let’s try,” I said. “Let’s go into the summerhouse, where it’s warmer.” But he shook his head. “Please,” I asked him. “Let me drink from the well.” The way he smiled at me, I thought I’d given him the keys to heaven. But when I reached down to unfasten him, still he stopped me.

  ‘Instead, he laid me along the lounger, then he knelt beside me. And he showed me his way of making love. He began to massage me, with those soft, dark, velvet hands of his. They were strong too, stronger than you could imagine in anyone as old as him. He kneaded my body, slowly, turning me over on to my face, then back again: my arms, my back, my breasts, my legs, my belly, my thighs. I felt as if I was swimming, that light way you go. Until at last, he came to …’ She stopped, and shivered slightly, as if in recollection.

  ‘At the very end, there was a little trick he did with his fingers, the sort of thing that very few men learn in a whole lifetime. And I had an orgasm, as fine as any I’ve had with you. I really thought I might die.’

  She looked down at me. ‘There was nothing sordid about it, Oz. Davidoff made love to me, in his way, and in it he was an artist. I let him, because I wanted to. I sensed a huge longing in him, and it transferred itself to me.’

  I stared at her wide-eyed, still numb, still stunned. And yet I realised, that there was no anger in me. I knew that I couldn’t summon it up either, even if I’d tried. ‘And afterwards?’ I asked her, quietly.

  ‘Afterwards,’ she whispered, ‘he cried. We lay there in the moonlight, on the lounger. I was gasping still, his hand was hot on my belly, and I could hear him sobbing, very gently.

  ‘We looked at each other and I could see that there were tears running down his face, soft and glistening on his cheeks. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “You’ve given me pleasure. I wanted you.”

  ‘His face sort of crumpled. “That’s it,” he said, and I remember every word. “You wanted me, because you love Davidoff. The idea may be too ludicrous for you to admit, but tonight you love Davidoff. I know this, for my Primavera would not let a man touch her like that if she did not love him. Yet look at us. I glory in your body, so beautiful, and I think of mine, which just now I could not bear to let you see. You are so young, and I am so, so old. I have had my last moment, and that is what makes me sad. Now I must return you to my friend Oz. He is alive, and I am dead. But thank you for being the other love of my life. You will not see me again, after tonight.”

  ‘Then he stood up, and walked around the pool, back to the summer house. At first I thought he had gone inside. After a while, I stood up to follow him. I wanted to dry his tears; they had upset me. I wanted to ask him about his first love, who she was. I wanted …’ Her voice faltered, for a moment.

  ‘I was in the doorway of the summer house when I heard his car start, and he was gone. I listened until the engine sound had faded away. Then I dived i
nto the pool, and swam and swam. I was still there, remember, when you got back and found me.’

  Yes, maybe I should have been angry. I don’t know. In the event, I was unspeakably moved. I gazed at her and saw her tears glistening, as had Davidoff’s. I reached out and touched them on her cheeks. I felt their softness.

  ‘I really won’t see him again, Oz, will I?’ She was only just beginning to believe that he was dead.

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘And Davidoff killed Eames and Adrian? That’s what he said?’

  ‘Oh yes. You can believe it, too.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘For what he saw as the best of motives, I suppose. For honour. They killed his friend. He killed them.’

  ‘And the picture, the Toreador?’

  ‘Davidoff painted it.’

  ‘So it really isn’t a fake, after all.’

  I shrugged. ‘Maybe it isn’t, maybe it is. I don’t know the answer to that. I’ve already told Gavin Scott that it is, though. I called him last week. He accepted it pretty well. He said he’d hang it on the wall of his boardroom anyway and let it be judged on its merit. The artist would have been okay with that. He’ll have to tell the shareholders, of course, but he’s made three million profit this year, so he reckons he’ll survive.’

  I looked at her again. ‘But tell me, love. Just suppose Davidoff’s Noddy car hadn’t started first time. Would you have gone with him?’

  She smiled through her tears. ‘You mean would I have left you and gone off with a man as old as Methuselah? Probably not.’

  ‘But you did feel for him?’

  She looked at me for a long time. ‘I was drawn to him,’ she said, at last. ‘He was a fantasy, I suppose.’

  ‘The coming together in the garden. Could that have been a fantasy too?’