Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  Disappointment left Bartolomé limp. If only he had got the skull away from Golding, taken the object under his own weighty and wealthy wing. He would have offered his services to the Prado immediately, impressing upon them the importance of the find and the equal importance of preserving it, and how he was the best person to undertake the mission. But his brother had kept quiet and Bartolomé had missed his chance. And now where was the skull? London, probably, with Ben Golding, Bartolomé thought bitterly. It could have been his. It should have been his – if his idle brother had secured it for him.

  His face expressionless, his eyes narrowed behind his dark glasses, Bartolomé kept watching Ben, thinking of the Golding brothers. Thinking enviously of their bond – a closeness he had never experienced with Gabino. He could see the loss in Ben Golding’s face and thought of the skull again and of the old rumour which had surrounded it. Some had sworn that it was cursed. That anyone who touched it was tainted. The same people spoke of the Black Paintings in hushed tones. There was a meaning to them, they said, but it was fatal to the person who uncovered it.

  Such superstition used to amuse Bartolomé, but he was no longer quite so sure that mockery was justified. And, as a cloud shifted over the cemetery, he felt a distinct unease. A hoarse wind blew up, throwing dust about the mourning stone angels and the dilapidated urns. Holding her hand to her face, Gina turned away, but Ben Golding stood motionless as though he hadn’t noticed the turn in the weather, the sun whey-faced behind a darkening cloud.

  Glancing at the grave, Bartolomé stared at the coffin of Leon Golding, the varnished wood already spotted with the first bold shots of rain. Soon there would be a downpour, he thought. Water would fill the grave. Over time a little would leach into the coffin, the Spanish earth holding fast to its adopted son.

  But it wasn’t Leon he pitied. Instead, Bartolomé looked back at Ben Golding and realised that if there was a curse, it had already found its next victim.

  47

  ‘What do you want?’ Gabino asked, walking past Gina in his office and moving out on to the balcony.

  The heat was stifling, the earlier storm having passed, the sound of traffic rising from the street below. He looked down, Gina moving over to him and standing only an inch away, their shoulders almost touching. She was banking on his previous desire for her, hoping it could help to reinstate her into the powerful Ortegas. But Gina was no fool. Gabino had rejected her once and she needed more than the lure of sex to reel him in.

  ‘I’ve missed you—’

  ‘Especially since Leon Golding killed himself,’ Gabino replied, bad-tempered with the heat, a sore throat making him irritable.

  ‘I loved you,’ she said, touching his arm. But the action only annoyed him and he shrugged her off.

  ‘It’s over. It was over a long time ago. Don’t come back here now you need another meal ticket.’ He leaned towards her, his face pushed close to hers. ‘You had your turn.’

  Stung, she kept her temper. This was no time to lose control. Gina knew that her looks were at their height, but within a couple of years they would wane, their rangy athleticism lunging fast to wiriness. If truth be known she had latched on to Leon at a party, hoping that by being with him she might move on to his more illustrious brother. But Ben had never shown the least interest in her, and Gina had found herself in the tiresome position of being the girlfriend of a brilliant, but hysterical, man. Determined to make the most of her situation, she had given herself another year to entrap Leon and had been sure of success – until events had altered everything.

  ‘Don’t you feel anything for me?’ she asked, still standing beside him, as though she could force some intimacy.

  He shrugged. ‘You were a good lay.’

  The words punched the air out of her and cemented her plan.

  ‘I see … So you’re not interested in the Goya skull any more?’

  He turned so quickly it was as though he had been spun round. ‘You’ve got it?’

  ‘What if I have?’

  Suddenly he was all attention. The skull – the way back into his brother’s wallet.

  ‘Gina, you sly one,’ he teased. ‘What are you playing at? I mean, I knew Leon had the skull, but I didn’t imagine that he gave it to you … Or did you take it?’

  Pausing, she juggled her words.

  ‘You want it?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  ‘For Bartolomé?’

  He shrugged again, but this time Gina laughed.

  ‘Don’t try and fool me! I heard about the court case. Well, everyone in Madrid’s heard about it. I suppose your luck would run out eventually – everyone’s does.’ She was baiting him, back in control and repaying him fully for insulting her. ‘I imagine that if you could give Bartolomé the one thing he wants above anything else he would do you a favour in return. Perhaps see to it that you don’t go to jail.’ She sat down, crossing her legs, mean-spirited. ‘Your brother could do that, couldn’t he? I mean, he has the money to organise something like that.’

  Silent, Gabino watched her as she continued.

  ‘But the question is, would he? Bartolomé’s really pissed off with you, Gabino. You always tried his patience. I remember when we were together you mocked him so much, and always expected him to take it. But no one takes it forever, do they? You’ve disgraced the Ortega name and he could make you pay for it. I mean, your own father was disinherited, wasn’t he? I suppose Bartolomé could do the same to you.’ She looked round. ‘All this money, power … all your toys – it would be hard to lose all that, Gabino. Not many women would be interested in visiting you in jail if you had nothing.’

  His expression was hostile. ‘So what are you offering?’ he asked. ‘You are offering something, aren’t you?’

  ‘I can get the skull for you.’

  ‘Really? Who’s got it?’

  ‘Leon’s brother.’ She was intent, watching Gabino’s face, watching him trying to disguise his interest.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, not sure,’ she admitted. ‘But Leon didn’t have it with him when he killed himself and it’s not in the house. I know – I’ve searched. So I reckon he must have given it to his brother.’

  ‘And you think Ben Golding will give it to you?’

  ‘No,’ she admitted. ‘I think I’ll have to get close to him, find out where it is, and then tell you.’ She paused, letting the implication work on him.

  ‘You’re such a whore.’

  ‘And you’re different?’ she countered. ‘You’d sell yourself for money any day, Gabino. You need this skull – really need it. And I’m the only person who can get it for you.’

  ‘And how much is this going to cost me?’

  She moved over to him, her hand resting against his flies, her fingers moving rhythmically.

  ‘I liked being your woman, Gabino. Liked the lifestyle.’ Her lips moved against his neck, her breath hot. ‘You missed me – you know you did.’

  He kissed her eagerly, then drew back, looking into her upturned face. ‘How long will it take you to get the skull?’

  ‘Not long,’ she said confidently. ‘Ben Golding’s a man, isn’t he?’

  48

  After his brother’s funeral, Ben returned to the empty farmhouse and walked the rooms like a stranger. His thoughts drifted between Leon and Francis Asturias, wondering why the dead reconstructor had had an email from the same source as Leon. Gortho@3000.com. Had he talked to someone? Had Francis found himself incapable of keeping the skull a secret? Or had the draw of big money proved too much for him?

  No, Ben thought, it wouldn’t have been that. Francis had been born into money, had no need to make more. So was it a need for excitement? Or danger? Francis was getting old. Did he crave some spark of a thrill? Did he fancy himself part of a scenario which spoke of the past, a dying painter, and a relic which would be lusted after? Perhaps he didn’t realise at first what it would lead to, and when he did it was too late … Above all, Ben wanted
to believe that his old friend had not betrayed him. That it had been folly on the part of Francis, not malice. Not treachery.

  Moving into the bedroom Leon had shared with Gina, Ben looked around. One wardrobe was crammed with Leon’s clothes, some arranged in perfect order, others haphazard on hangers. Next to it was another wardrobe. But this was empty and the adjoining bathroom that Gina had used was cleaned out too. All that remained was a deodorant and a lipstick in the medicine cupboard.

  Thoughtful, Ben moved over to the bedside cabinet and opened the top drawer, surprised to find Leon’s medication and remembering his brother’s panic.

  … Have you got your pills?

  They aren’t here!

  They must be. Look again.

  They’re not bloody here! And Gina’s not here either.

  But the pills had been there all along. And the police had said that when they checked the house Gina had been there too. So had Leon been mistaken? Walking out of the bedroom, Ben paused on the corridor outside, looking towards the window at the end of the landing. Long ago Detita had arranged to have bars fitted. She told Leon that it was to stop anyone breaking in, but to Ben she had said it was to stop his brother jumping out.

  Breaking in, jumping out … Flicking on the lights to brighten the sombre hallway, Ben moved downstairs. He tried to convince himself that the funeral proved Leon’s death, but his brother was still everywhere – a garden hat on a hook by the back door, a glass with his fingerprints, and the desk chair with a worn cushion which Leon had always tucked into the small of his back. Memories choked the farmhouse, they hovered in the garden and called from the cupboard under the stairs. Every little terror Leon had ever felt crowded into the house; every broken night and hazy day stood in testament to him until Ben could bear it no longer and made for his brother’s study, slamming the door behind him.

  He had checked on Abigail earlier. When he phoned the Whitechapel he had been told she was sleeping. Telling the sister not to wake her, Ben passed on a message. Then he asked to speak to Dr North. To his intense relief, Ben was told that the biopsy was benign.

  ‘… but there’s some muscle degeneration in her cheek, due to scarring from previous surgeries. It will need an operation, Ben. I can do it, if you want me to.’

  ‘No one better. Have you told Abigail?’

  ‘Yes, she was fine about it. She’s had enough operations to know the drill. She did say she wanted to talk to you though.’

  ‘I rang earlier, but she was asleep. I’ll talk to her in the morning,’ Ben had replied, pausing. ‘Is it complicated?’

  ‘No,’ Dr North had replied calmly. ‘And I mean no. I realise Abigail’s your partner, but I’m not lying to you. It’s a simple operation—’

  ‘So how soon can you do it?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon. She should stay in for a couple of days—’

  ‘Keep her in longer, will you?’ Ben had asked. ‘I’m not in the country and she needs looking after.’

  It would be ideal knowing Abigail was safe in hospital. Dr North would undertake the operation and she would be looked after as she convalesced.

  ‘Abigail needs to stay in for a week, in case there are any complications. Her skin’s fragile after all the previous operations, so her recovery needs to be watched carefully.’ He had paused, no longer the doctor, now the lover. ‘Take care of her, will you? She matters a great deal to me.’

  Remembering the conversation, Ben sat down behind Leon’s desk, fingering a millefiori paperweight. On one side there was a small chip from where his brother had thrown it in a fit of anger many years ago. It had been Christmas and Leon had been slighted by a colleague who had questioned his work, intimating plagiarism. Always an original thinker, Leon had reacted badly and had hardly spoken for the remainder of the holiday. It had been Detita who had finally drawn him out. And within half an hour Ben had heard them laughing in the kitchen and felt the sharp anguish of the sudden outsider.

  Dismissing the memory, Ben opened his case and took out all of his brother’s notes, finally preparing to read Leon’s theory on the Black Paintings. Noticing the fading light, he pulled the desk light closer to illuminate the notebook.

  To Whom it May Concern

  This is my full and studied theory of Francisco Goya’s Black Paintings. I told no one that I had finally completed the solution, possibly in a mistaken attempt to protect myself and my brother. The finding of Goya’s skull has caused much grief and confusion. Anxious to avoid further problems I did not want it to become known that I had solved the Black Paintings. Whether my secrecy was necessary or just an absurd overreaction, only time will tell.

  Here follows what I believe to be the meaning of The Black Paintings.

  Pausing, Ben stared at his brother’s words. So Leon had finished his theory, and had lived long enough to set it down. Slowly, he turned over the first page and began to read the solution to pictures which had haunted generations.

  Goya, being a liberal, was hated by Ferdinand VII and when the King regained the throne he was terrified. It was common knowledge that in the past the Inquisition had investigated his affairs. His lover, the Duchess of Alba, had been poisoned. And now here he was, deaf and old, at the mercy of a vengeful king.

  Looking at the painting of The Dog I believe that Goya was making a metaphor for Ferdinand – the Dog of Spain.

  Leaning back, Ben stared at the accompanying paintings, matching Leon’s notes against the relevant work.

  I believe that Goya – always a liberal, always an ally of the liberals – became directly involved with the liberals who made up a substitute government in Spain, in 1822. Unfortunately, their attempt failed in 1823, and the reinstated King was brought back to Madrid. Back on the throne, his power absolute, Ferdinand VII went after his perceived enemies in order to exact a terrible revenge.

  At the time Gentz wrote:

  ‘The King himself enters the houses of his first ministers, arrests them, and hands them over to their cruel enemies … the king has so debased himself that he has become no more than the leading police agent and jailer of his country.’

  The painting which hung next to The Dog is entitled Asmodeus. The title was not chosen by Goya, so – if it is not viewed as some mystical allegory – the image becomes more immediate, its message lucid.

  This picture has puzzled art historians for many years. But perhaps its meaning is not as profound as previously believed? It depicts men floating on air, at the mercy of the elements. Unable to reach the safety of the high mountain, or the firm ground beneath them, they are buffeted by fate, dreading the future ahead of them and looking back fearfully at their past. This scene depicts the fate of Everyman. And also Spain, uncertain, cut off from her roots.

  As we read the paintings, we next come to The Holy Office …

  Ben turned to the reproduction, then back to Leon’s notes.

  In among the crowd of hags and the feared and vicious clergy is a man dressed in courtly robes. Elegant and groomed, he stands out from the procession of grotesques, his head bent towards the swollen form beside him. The gold of his chain is luminous, drawing the viewer towards him. He seems to be an Inquisitor, and I believe this man was sent from the court to deal with Goya on the instructions of a King who believed himself betrayed

  … He is carrying a glass of water, which signifies life, and beside him is a monk. Monks and nuns were the very people Ferdinand VII hired to spy on his captives and report back to him. They were his own black army of quislings.

  Underneath, Leon had jotted down some short, scribbled notes, almost as though he was thinking too quickly to put them into proper sentences.

  (Goya was watched while he was at the Quinta del Sordo. Was Detita right? What of the mountain in the backgrounds of the paintings? The same shape, over and over again. The shape of some terrifying, ever-present threat? Or the place of safety, always out of reach?)

  Ben read the passage again, then turned the page. This time Leon had organised hi
s thoughts into a lucid continuation of his essay.

  Deaf and old, Goya had exiled himself at the Quinta del Sordo. Away from court and ridicule of his infirmity, he was confronted by the silence of his own thoughts and memories. Guilt, remorse and fear colluded to force him into a malaise which would kill him unless he conquered it or escaped it. From what we know, his illness was not a recurrence of his old sickness, but on closer examination there is a pattern – a very clear intimation of the slow death of Francisco Goya.

  Whistling through his teeth, Ben read on.

  The Black Paintings are a ruse, a way for the artist to chart out a map of the history of Spain. And of himself. And of his life. Ultimately his death.

  A creak on the floorboards made Ben tense. The threat on the phone had unsettled him, and here he was – alone in a remote house, in his dead brother’s study. He thought of the skull and cursed Francis for hiding it, for leaving him guessing. And worse, for leaving him doubting a man he had long taken for a friend.

  Every memory seemed a gargoyle hunched over the past. Lack of sleep, his grief over Leon and Francis and the threat left on his answerphone were finally undermining him. His thoughts, usually incisive, were becoming mushy. He wanted to confide in someone, but didn’t dare. He wanted to get help, but couldn’t.

  Dry-eyed, Ben turned back to his brother’s notes.

  … the next painting, entitled The Ministration, depicts a man masturbating,

  something which would have been distasteful and certainly not commissioned by a patron. But we look at the act with judging eyes, without considering another viewpoint – that the man is not relieving himself, but is caught forever without relief. Sexually impotent, like Goya, not just from age, but from disease.