Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

Gazing out of the bedchamber, over the river, towards Madrid. Gazing out to the Court in the distance. Look where I look. Look …

  Pausing, he felt a vibration under his feet and moved to the window. Outside a man was approaching on a horse, his presence unexpected at so late an hour. Although Goya couldn’t hear it, he could imagine the whinnying of the horse, pressed into nocturnal service, its hooves throwing dust patterns on the scorched earth. But why would someone be out so late? Come to the Quinta del Sordo on what night purpose?

  Still watching, Goya saw the man pause, staring at the farmhouse. He was wearing dusty black clothes, a white ruff marking him out as a fellow of the court, a gold cross swinging round his neck as he stared at the shape in the window. Goya knew that Leocardia was asleep in a chair downstairs, her daughter on her lap, but still he waited for the front door to be unfastened, for her to hurry over to the stranger and greet him.

  Seen before, noted before. Coming over the fetid river to the Quinta del Sordo – the Deaf Man’s House.

  Turning away, Goya glanced over at the painting of the Holy Office, recognising the man outside as the man in the picture holding the drinking glass. His offering, his gesture from the court, his salutation.

  This from the King, from Ferdinand. This from the Royal hand …

  When Goya returned to the window, the man on horseback had gone. Suppressing fear and exhaustion, the old painter resumed his work. It would not be long now. Soon he would be finished. Soon the evidence would be complete.

  His lifted his right arm, stiff in the joint, his full brush smearing the paint on the wall. He could sense the other paintings around him, sense them watching. Every figure playing a function in the grim commedia he had created. He had spent his life describing the indescribable – the cruelties and viciousness of his age, the tyranny of the Court and the ruthless hectoring of the Inquisition. Paintings, drawings, etchings had all presented the truth in vivid, brutal detail, but this time Goya was leaving behind a covert truth – an enigma, a riddle which depicted the unthinkable.

  A secret too dangerous to be committed to paper or spoken out loud.

  Let the court view him as a dangerous, treacherous madman. Let the world believe the same.

  Goya knew that eventually fate would intervene. The Black Paintings might remain a mystery for a little time or for centuries, but one day someone would come looking … He leaned against the wall, smearing the paint with his bare arm. Terror, age and exhaustion hung over him. He had lived through wars, survived the Inquisition, grown old amid plots, treachery and carnage, but now he wondered if – finally – death was imminent.

  A little longer, he pleaded. A little longer … it was almost finished, he reassured himself. When this last image was completed, he would leave the Quinta del Sordo.

  Or be buried there.

  64

  For more than an hour after Gina had left, Bartolomé sat motionless at his desk. His thoughts came adrift, untied themselves, then knotted back together into one twisted coil of rope. Dismissing his secretary, he thought about his wife. Wondered how a woman he had loved so much had cuckolded him with his own brother and managed to fool him for so long.

  Because much as Bartolomé wanted to laugh off Gina’s claim, he knew in his heart it was true. He knew it because – now he let himself admit it – he had always had his suspicions, never spoken aloud, but there nonetheless. How convenient it had been that Celina had finally conceived after so many failures to get pregnant – just in time to prevent the Ortegas from adopting a child! By giving birth to Juan, Celina had cemented her position in the family, securing her future and her son’s.

  There had been other pointers too, now blindingly obvious. Juan was a handsome child, not tall like his father but stocky – like Gabino. And his temperament had little of Bartolomé’s patience; Juan was mercurial, reckless, capricious. Even his interests told of his true parentage. Juan loved toy guns, cars, weapons. He had no time for books or music … It was so obvious, Bartolomé thought helplessly, but he hadn’t wanted to see it. And for four long years Celina had hidden the truth.

  For four years she had made love to Bartolomé and been privy to every aspect of his life and work. And for four years she had raised Gabino’s child as his.

  Shaking, Bartolomé clenched his hands together, pressing the palms into each other, heart line to heart line, lifeline to lifeline, crushing the blood out of the flesh. But it didn’t help. He realised that her betrayal was the reason why she had always defended Gabino. Had always stayed his hand when he had wanted to punish his brother.

  He was born an Ortega, and he will die an Ortega …

  She had said that about Gabino, but she was also saying it about their son. Saying that blood was everything. Even crossed blood, treacherous blood – even that was to be accorded respect.

  But to choose Gabino!

  The lusty, violent, coarse Gabino. To choose the brother he hated, despised, to bring his cuckoo into their sweet nest … Bartolomé struggled to contain his anger, remembering Celina’s old jealousy of Bobbie Feldenchrist, the pressure she had put on him to end the relationship. No other person had ever fazed Celina like Bobbie. No other woman had ever caused her a moment’s concern. Jesus! Bartolomé thought. Why hadn’t he married the American? They were alike in so many ways, they were both collectors, and even if the relationship had faltered they would always have been bound by their common passion.

  Bartolomé’s face was expressionless as he tried to decide what he should do. Divorce his wife? Disinherit his brother? But if he did, he knew only too well what the outcome would be – the whole sordid story would be exposed, his business colleagues in Madrid and Switzerland mocking him. Celina was right about one thing – if you came from a powerful family body you could never risk cutting off any limb, however septic. You had to treat it, cure it, but never amputate and risk a corpse.

  Slumping back into his seat, Bartolomé felt ashamed and foolish the same time. Then his gaze fell on the envelope Gina had left on the desk and he reached out for it, his mind clearing. Carefully he drew out the papers, Leon Golding’s handwriting indecipherable in a few places but otherwise readable. A slow excitement shifted over his despair as he began to read. Leon’s theory was strange, oddly convoluted. He leaned back, reading on … Was it true? Bartolomé wondered. Could Leon Golding really have solved the enigma of the Black Paintings?

  A solution to his problems came to Bartolomé in that instant. He might not have the skull of Goya, but he had the theory of the Black Paintings. True or not, it was artistic Semtex, enough to cause an explosion of interest in his own collection overnight. If he said the theory was his, who would challenge him? And if anyone did, he had been working on the paintings’ meanings for years so it was quite plausible that he might have come to the same conclusions as Leon Golding …

  Bartolomé’s usual integrity deserted him, bitterness taking precedence. Honour was for fools. His grandfather had known that. Gabino knew that. So why should he behave differently? he asked himself. What reward was there in being noble? What recompense for industry and integrity? What was the prize awarded him for a blameless life? A cheating wife. A treacherous brother. Another man’s child foisted upon him.

  His thoughts slid onwards. No, he couldn’t punish his wife or his brother publicly, but he could torture them privately. Clutching the papers, Bartolomé thought of Gina and how she would make Gabino jump. How every day of their marriage she would torment and hound him, curtailing his activities, and if he resisted she had only to come to Bartolomé and he would reduce his brother’s allowance to a pittance.

  As for his wife … Bartolomé’s hands rested on the papers, then he reached for the phone and tapped out a number he hadn’t used for over a decade.

  And in New York, Bobbie Feldenchrist answered and began to listen.

  65

  London

  Anxious for the safety of Carlos Martinez, Ben drove over to the old man’s house and knocked. Then he
knocked again. Impatiently, he waited, looking around, but the place was in darkness and when he peered through the letter box, the hall was cool and empty.

  ‘What you doing?’

  Ben turned to find a sullen girl watching him. She had a baby balanced on her hip and was wearing a plastic bomber jacket, with three rows of silver rings in her ears.

  ‘I was looking for Carlos—’

  ‘He’s not in.’

  ‘D’you know where he is?’

  She shook her head, shifting her baby from one hip to another. ‘I dunno. Why d’you want him?’

  ‘I was just coming to see him—’

  ‘I never seen you round her before,’ she said, her plucked eyebrows raised. ‘You don’t look like anyone I’ve ever seen round here. You police?’

  ‘No.’

  She thought for a moment. ‘He went out – Mr Martinez. He went out a bit back. Rushed off, in a hell of a hurry.’

  ‘Did he say where?’

  ‘Nah, I just saw him. I didn’t talk to him.’

  ‘Was he on his own?’

  ‘Relative?’

  Ben frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Are you a relative? I mean, coming here, asking all these questions. You must be family.’

  ‘No, I’m a friend.’ Ben paused, then corrected himself. ‘I was a friend, a long time ago … Mr Martinez’s son—’

  ‘He was killed, wasn’t he?’ she said, putting a dummy in her baby’s mouth and jiggling him on her hip. ‘Shame that. People round here talked about it a lot—’

  ‘Did you know Diego?’

  ‘Nah.’ She studied Ben, curious and wanting to talk to ease her boredom. ‘Never met him.’

  ‘Does anyone know why he was killed?’

  She cocked her head over to one side. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

  ‘I’m worried about Mr Martinez,’ Ben said in reply. ‘You said he left in a hurry.’

  ‘That don’t mean nothing.’

  Glancing about him, Ben hesitated before asking the next question. ‘Look I need some information and I’m wondering if you can you help me. I’m looking for a shop.’

  ‘You do a lot of looking too.’

  He smiled, the girl smiling back in return. ‘What kind of shop?’

  ‘Mama Gala’s.’

  Her friendliness closed off as she turned and began to walk away, Ben following. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you …’

  She was walking fast, the baby mewling and mouthing at its dummy.

  ‘Just tell me where the shop is.’

  She stopped and turned to him. ‘Three streets from here. Turn left, right, walk to the end of Lamb Lane, cut through the alley into Gardenia Street. It’s the shop in the middle of the row – you can’t miss it. Although, frankly, I would.’

  ‘Has it any connection to Emile Dwappa?’

  ‘It’s his mother’s place,’ she replied, turning then turning back. ‘It’s not for the likes of you—’

  ‘How d’you know that?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ she said, moving off. ‘You’ll see.’

  Mama Gala was sitting in the semi-dark. She had closed the shop and finished cashing up, and was now listening to the soft moaning coming from the room above. The bloody Englishwoman had woken up. Fuck her. Heaving herself to her feet, Mama Gala walked to the bottom of the stairs, calling for the old woman above. A moment later, her wizened head appeared over the banister.

  ‘Shut her up,’ Mama Gala said simply. ‘Shut her the fuck up.’

  The old woman said nothing, just moved off. Mama Gala waited – two seconds, three seconds, four, and then silence. The moaning had stopped. Her slow gaze moved to the front door of the shop and then out into the street beyond as she scratched the back of her head.

  She had given her son one last chance to prove himself. She hadn’t asked what the drugged woman was for; she wasn’t interested what Emile did with her. All that concerned her was money and the getting of it. She had guessed that the woman was to be bartered – for what, she didn’t know and wouldn’t ask. All Mama Gala had done was to elicit a promise – under threat – that her son would make a deal to transport them from Gardenia Street to Money Land and remain firmly, irrevocably, under her greasy thumb.

  Sitting down again, she stared at the locked door of the shop. Something told her that tonight would bring changes, that by morning the life she knew would be over. Slowly and deliberately Mama Gala hummed under her breath, her breathing rank and quick with excitement.

  Checking his watch, Ben frowned. Time was slipping away from him and before long he would face Emile Dwappa and be forced to admit that he didn’t have the skull. That he had nothing to offer in return for Abigail. And then what?

  Ben knew that if he had any chance of saving his lover he had to find the real skull before ten p.m. Getting back into the car, he reached for his mobile and put in a call.

  Mrs Asturias answered immediately, her tone imperious. ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Ben Golding. I came to see you the other day—’

  ‘I remember, I’m not senile!’ she snapped. ‘What is it now? Did you find the skull?’

  ‘No,’ Ben replied, ‘and I have to. You’ve no idea how important it is that I do.’

  ‘My husband died because of that bloody skull, so I can guess.’ Her tone was sharp, businesslike. ‘You rushed off very quickly the other day after you’d read something on Francis’s computer. I have to admit I couldn’t help looking at it afterwards. Meant nothing to me. What was it?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Ben said honestly, ‘but—’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Have you any idea where Francis could have hidden that skull?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that ever since you came to see me, but I’ve no more idea than I had then.’

  ‘He had a strange sense of humour. Maybe he put it somewhere only you could guess? Or maybe the hiding place is a play on words?’ He was scrabbling for inspiration. ‘Francis liked reading, liked crosswords and jokes. He always had a clever turn of phrase. He was good with words—’

  ‘Especially four-letter ones.’

  ‘Perhaps he put it somewhere funny.’

  ‘Funny?’

  ‘Humorous. Somewhere that would be a joke.’ Ben faltered. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.’

  ‘Believe me, Mr Golding, if there was anything obvious – or even peculiar to us, to Francis and me – I would have told you.’ She sighed expansively. ‘I went through all his things, like people do when someone dies. I thought I’d find something which might help you, or maybe even a love letter he had never sent. To me, of course. I find I’m rather sentimental all of a sudden.’ Her voice teetered, then righted itself. ‘In some ways, Francis was a bloody fool of a man. I used to tell him that I’d leave him and find myself someone better, but he knew I never would … God loves drunks and fools – and I find I agree with Him on the latter.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course! I shall snap my way through old age like a cornered crocodile.’ She paused. ‘And you? How are you?’

  ‘Under pressure.’

  ‘Because of the missing skull?’

  ‘And other things.’

  ‘You sound exhausted. Shouldn’t you get some rest?’

  ‘I haven’t got time.’

  Highly intelligent, she picked up on an undercurrent. ‘Are you in trouble?’

  ‘Yes, serious trouble. And it’s not just me.’

  ‘Are you afraid?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s good to be afraid sometimes, Mr Golding. It makes us fight for what we care about … Will you let me know what happens to you?’

  ‘If I can.’

  They both knew what he meant.

  ‘Diego Martinez, your brother, Francis – they weren’t enough?’ she carried on hurriedly, without giving him time to reply. ‘Of course they weren’t. And now it’s your turn, is it?’

  Ben avoided
the question. ‘No one’s been bothering you, have they?’

  ‘No, Mr Golding! No one bothers old women. I dare say I shall have to live out the rest of my life unbothered.’

  ‘Promise me, Mrs Asturias, that you’ll never talk to anyone about any of this. Never mention our conversations or the skull—’

  ‘You told me once, you don’t need to repeat it!’ she snapped. Then her tone softened. ‘Make it worth it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘My husband’s death. Make it matter. Or what’s the bloody point?’

  66

  It was just after eight p.m. when Ben reached the Whitechapel Hospital and parked around the back of the cardiac unit, avoiding the consultants’ spaces where someone would be sure to recognise his car. His trip across London had been delayed and he was almost running when he entered the back entrance of the hospital, taking the narrow stairs up to the laboratory two at a time.

  Across the door was blue and white tape, POLICE – DO NOT ENTER, which fluttered as he opened the door and walked in. The darkness surprised him and for an instant he was tempted to turn on the light, but he waited until his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. Outside rain had begun to fall; it drummed on the glass roof of the hospital dome and rattled the metal sign which hung at the entrance to the Radiology department below. Six lengthy workbenches stretched out in front of Ben as he moved towards the first one, which Francis had always used. Moonlight, at once brilliant and sombre, lit the wooden surface and the chalk outline of the last of Francis Asturias.

  It required no effort to conjure up the memory of Francis with his stringy grey hair, shabby suede shoes and gauntlets – madly, weirdly practical. Above Ben’s head he could see the punishingly bright lights Francis used when he was working, and on a plinth to his left a reconstructed head sat waiting for a master who would never return. In the sink lay an old mug and a glob of clay, their shabby poignancy surmounted by the silver shapers Francis used to smooth his sculptures. And more stirring than this, than any of his belongings, was the smell of chemicals and the soft, dry scent of discarded clay.