by Janet Pywell
‘You’re wrong. She needs friends, Mikky. We all do. It’s a big lonely world out there as you well know. She’s probably been surrounded by insincere hangers-on and social climbers that want to bask in her famous status, money and the perks that go with it.’
‘Like you?’
He frowns. ‘That’s not fair and it’s not true.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s just that–’
‘This is important to me, Mikky. Think about what is important to you. What would you like more than anything?’
I think of The Concert hanging on Mrs Green’s wall.
‘Well, this is just as important to me.’
He hasn’t read my mind. He hasn’t got a clue what I am thinking.
‘Have you not noticed how much she’s changed?’ he asks. He turns his back and removes his shirt.
‘Changed?’
‘Yes – since her final performance – since Tosca, she’s a shadow of her former self. She is weak and ill. You can see that she is struggling with her health. She has dark circles under her eyes that she covers with makeup and there is pain on her face whenever she moves. If you paid more attention to others and not just to yourself you will see that her left hand shakes, she also drags her left foot and her breathing is shallow, not to mention the perspiration constantly on her forehead.’
‘You sound like a doctor.’
‘And you are acting like a spoilt child.’
We glare at each other.
‘Sort yourself out, Mikky. This is my big opportunity. You are here to support me, not to rattle and upset the woman I am to paint – a woman who has had the most amazing career and is revered around the world. She–’
There are footsteps outside in the hallway and we wait while they walk away until they finally fade.
‘Andreas?’ I whisper.
Javier nods. ‘He’s harmless.’
‘I can’t wait to get back to London.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Every time I paint a portrait I lose a friend.’
John Singer Sargent
After breakfast Andreas drives us to the city centre. He stops outside a domed and historic building adorned with statues, overlooking the river Elbe.
‘This is the Semperoper, our concert hall, and home to the Semperoper Ballet. This is where we will go tonight,’ he says proudly. He eases the car away from the kerb in front of a yellow tram. ‘And this is the magnificent Zwinger Museum in the Postplatz.’ Andreas slows the car past the government buildings. ‘And the Kongresszentrum here, is on the river Elbe. We will follow it to the Albertinum.’ Andreas recites fact and figures. He knows his history and Javier nods encouragingly, like me, he is interested in history. I sit with my head resting against the leather and gaze out of the window – hearing the jackboots, bombs and shouts – imaging the fear.
‘On the 13th February 1945 the British bombed Dresden and over twenty-five thousand people were killed. In the initial years after the war the city centre was cleared of the enormous masses of rubble by tens of thousands of volunteer helpers,’ Andreas explains. ‘The reconstruction of selected architectural monuments was determined from the very beginning and the reconstruction of the Zwinger was completed in 1964. You will enjoy your visit there this afternoon, Mikky.’
I don’t reply.
‘The Elbe divides Dresden. This is the Court Church, Johanneum, Albertinum and the Royal Mews, rebuilt and restored in 1985. However not everything could be saved from the devastation of the war and sometimes valuable remains or monuments were demolished instead.’
‘So many lives were lost so much waste and destruction,’ Javier says.
‘All the cultural buildings were obliterated and the lives of ordinary people were damaged and destroyed,’ Andreas agrees.
‘Did we learn anything from the war?’ I mumble. I think of Caravaggio and his dark paintings and Christ suffering on the cross. Did we learn nothing from two thousand years ago?
‘After the war the construction and rebuilding replenished pride in the people here,’ Andreas says. ‘This is the Blue Wonder. When we cross it you will see it offers a view of the Elbe valley. If Josephine is well enough we’re having brunch up there tomorrow morning before your flight back to London.’ Andreas points a finger, beyond the blue suspension bridge, to a castle on the hill on the bank of the river.
‘The view should be amazing,’ Javier’s enthusiasm is endless and exhausting.
I yawn but I can’t take my eyes from the streets wondering what life was like before the Wall came down.
‘This is the Albertplatz – King Albert was the King of Saxony. His reign wasn’t very exciting and he was a terrible fighter. In fact he lost nearly all the battles and then he lost the war. But, in his favour, he did spend all our money on collecting art.’ Andreas grins at Javier and stops at the traffic lights. ‘We have many Christmas markets all over the city. You must buy our famous Dresden Christmas Stöllen – it’s delicious.’
I think about returning to England and my life after Christmas. A New Year begins and I have a growing feeling that these weeks will be my last with Javier.
In the city centre Andreas pulls the car to the kerb. ‘One of the busiest markets is in Frauenkirche Square. Walk through it. You will enjoy the atmosphere and you can buy some German gifts or decorations for your home.’
I don’t tell him, I hate Christmas.
‘Don’t forget, Javier. We have one hour and thirty minutes precisely,’ I say, as we watch Andreas drive off. I breathe deeply and link my arm through his enjoying a flash of sunshine that appears from behind a dark cloud. Its brightness momentarily dazzles us and sends a welcome beam of heat to my cheeks. We are muffled up in hats and gloves but after five minutes I pull off my beanie and shake my mane free.
We browse market stalls, order mulled wine and savour the hint of cinnamon and lemon on our tongues. Fifteen minutes later we are sitting on the first floor of an Italian restaurant overlooking the old market square and the rebuilt Church of Our Lady. According to the guidebook that Javier reads from, the protestant church was only rebuilt after the reunification of Germany. Construction work began in 1994 and it was consecrated again in 2005. I sip my beer and watch tourists, schoolchildren and Asians queue in an orderly line waiting to get inside.
We order plates of steaming pasta with garlic and mushrooms and sip more iced beer. Javier has integrated himself into the affections of Josephine Lavelle and even the aloof Andreas but I am sulky, uncommunicative and unable to maintain a proper conversation.
After lunch Andreas is waiting for us beside the car. The thought of getting inside and going back to Josephine’s house fills me with dreariness.
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll find my own way back.’ I wink at Javier and pat Andreas on the shoulder then I disappear into the Christmas crowds before they can stop me.
Overhead dark clouds cluster, a storm circles in the east and thunder rolls in rumbling like a troubled giant. I raise my face to the sky and walk with purpose enjoying the majesty of the buildings each one more magnificent than the last – all breathtakingly stunning and adorned with statues, drawings and paintings. I pass cafes and inhale the aromas of baked apple strudel, strong dark coffee, roasting onions with potatoes and sometimes a whiff of cigar smoke.
I release my camera from the case and begin to snap with wild enthusiasm absorbing myself in colours, shapes and movement. I hear the sound of my own boots on cobbles then I imagine the city as a mass of rubble.
Posters advertise classical and pop concerts, individual artists, choirs, plays, operas, museums and exhibitions – this is the new Dresden. I take countless photographs and immerse myself in another culture, revelling in the sounds of foreign voices, the whine of trams and jolly, festive music. The Lutheran church of the Holy Cross is just another victim of the Dresden bombing and I am drawn to the starkness of its columns and its sober interior marvelling at the replicated detail.
Does a building or a city lose its value if it’s a fo
rgery?
The whole town is a beautiful and elaborate sham. It’s just as stunning as the original, just as pleasing to the eye with just as much attention to detail to each of the crafts but nevertheless it’s not the original city. Some may call it a fraud, imposter or a charlatan but I understand the skill in making an exact replica. A painting is challenging enough but a whole city inspires me and gives me hope. Do tourists marvel at the sheer beauty or at the sheer pretence?
The deception is exquisite.
I click photo after photo.
The city is a fake.
Perhaps one can accept beauty without knowing all the facts. So long as one believes it is true – therein lays the beauty. We admire what has been painstakingly rebuilt in the exact style of centuries before. There is no lie involved. If one did not pick up a guidebook it would not detract from the visual beauty of the city and the visitor who does not know the historical details would remain ignorant. They would bask solely in the pleasure of exquisiteness – thinking and believing it to be the original.
With my conscience cleansed I leave the sanctuary of the church and I make my way to the Gemädegalerie Alte Meister Art Gallery where I shake rain from my hair, wipe my face dry and blow my nose. I am exhilarated; my heart is racing, my soul is pumping.
The brochure tells me of its excellent collection of masterpieces from fifteenth to eighteenth–century; paintings that were acquired during the reign of Augustus Strong and his son between the years, 1694 to 1763. As Andreas said – he was not a fighter but a collector.
I walk slowly absorbing the atmosphere of the building and upstairs I find a leather bench where I sit and stare at Vermeer’s Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window and I compare the similarities in the painting to The Concert. In this painting a lady reads from a letter similarly, in The Concert, the singer reads from a sheet of music, both women show the same gentle scrutiny and intensity on their faces at what they read. Even the Oriental rug in the foreground on the left makes me believe the similarities are unquestionable.
Afterwards I stroll through the rooms taking a particular interest in the Italian master painters; Caravaggio and Raphael’s Sistine Madonna, known for the depiction of two little angels that appears on books and posters all around Dresden city and in Bellotto’s paintings of historic Dresden.
I think of my art master and mentor Raffaelle Peverelli and how he mixed techniques of the Old Masters with surrealism. In his most recent exhibition he had copied Rembrandt and Michaelangelo and he painted iPods and iPads onto the canvas mixing oil painting skills with modern technology. The exhibition had been called Juxtaposed Evolution and the critics had slated it until his death. Now his work is hailed as innovative and creative, and Raffaelle, an art master and hero.
There had been a strange look on Josephine’s face when I told her I studied with Raffa. Had it been jealousy? Had she believed me?
It was difficult for me to believe that such a passionate and gifted man could be dead but it must be harder for Josephine – she had loved him.
I wander through the galleries from one floor to the next, each one more splendid than the last, immersing myself in a time gone by with Old Masters, and I look to the future through the eyes of new artists with equal enthusiasm wishing I could capture their work with my lens but my camera along with my bag and coat is shut firmly away in a locker behind the foyer on the ground floor.
I return for one last look at the Flemish master painters: Rubens, Van Dyck and Rembrandt but once again it is Vermeer’s painting that draws me. Captivated I stand back gazing at it from different angles then I sit for a while lost in thought until I sense someone move close to me.
I turn. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ms Lavelle didn’t want you to be alone.’
‘You mean, she wanted to be alone with Javier and they threw you out.’
Andreas shakes his head. ‘She is concerned about you. You have been missing a long time.’
‘Missing?’ I stand up. Having Andreas with me is like having a chain attached to a heavy boulder around my ankle. My sense of freedom as well as my good humour evaporates like a fading rainbow as we stroll through the gallery and by the time I collect my belongings from the locker my mood is as dark and as cold as the evening outside.
Andreas guides me toward the car through the illuminated Christmas market where rich cheeses and roasting meats chase me and my stomach rumbles.
‘Have you tried mulled wine with anise?’
I shake my head and he takes my elbow and steers me through the crowd. He orders two glasses from a woman dressed in a thick fur hat and a traditional dirndl dress and we stand quietly watching the bustle of people listening to snatches of their conversation.
‘This is my favourite time of year,’ Andreas says, looking at a man who grips his daughter’s hand as he steers her toward a small stage.
When I don’t reply he asks.
‘What do you do for Christmas?’
‘Nothing.’
He laughs.
‘I hate Christmas,’ I add.
His eyes widen in surprise. ‘How can you hate all this?’
The anise and hot wine is warm in my stomach.
‘What about you parents? Don’t you celebrate with your family?’ he insists.
‘My parents never needed Christmas – every night was a celebration.’
‘Wow, lucky you – happy parents,’ he smiles in misunderstanding.
The rain has stopped and the sky is filled with smoke and the smell of freshly baking bread curls around us. The aniseed is sharp and sweet on the back of my throat.
‘She’s not well. You know that don’t you? The bullet punctured her lung and she still hasn’t recovered. She had a series of complications and an infection that almost killed her. She is lucky to be alive.’
‘Opera’s not my thing.’
‘But you knew, Raffaelle?’
‘We weren’t in touch,’ I reply.
‘Where have you been living? Where were you last August?’
‘I was travelling through the Atlas Mountains – in Morocco. I’m a photographer.’
‘That explains it.’ He turns away distracted by a traditionally dressed trio with an accordion who climb onto the stage.
‘I did some work for The Matisse Art Gallery in Marrakech for a few months. It was showcasing Ari Mashood’s work and other local Moroccans and international artists. My friend Carmen told me but I never knew what…’ my voice loses momentum as the singing from the stage begins.
Andreas looks directly into my eyes. ‘She was shot on stage during her final performance of Tosca? She moved to stand in front of him but he died – lying on the floor beside her. She will never sing again.’
‘She must be–’
‘Devastated? She is. But she understands the passion of opera and that is why she wants to help me.’
‘How did you meet her?’
‘Glorietta Bareldo introduced us. She saw me sing in La Traviata and she suggested that Josephine tutor me. I think she saw it as a solution for us both. I needed a tutor and Josephine needs to know that she is still, how would you say, worthwhile?’
‘Valued.’
‘Exactly. Valued. But she should not travel. She should rest. She shouldn’t be pushing herself like this. She said she is going to London so that Javier can paint her.’
‘What? Can’t Javier paint her here?’
‘She is insisting. She is determined. There is something else, too…’
‘What?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. It is like she has something she must do. Something that she must find – I’m not sure what or who it is.’
‘Have you asked her?’
‘She won’t speak about it. I think there is a man who is helping her. She has been different these past few weeks, excited, worried, nervous – I’m not sure.’
‘She can’t travel if she is not well.’
‘I think that is why she wants to ret
urn to London. It is as if she must make amends for her past.’ He shakes his head.
‘She can’t go to London!’
He smiles thinking that I actually care about her. ‘That’s what I say to her but she has her own mind. She will do as she pleases. I think it is the only way that she will find inner peace…’
I shake my head. Around us the crowd are laughing at the trio singing in exaggerated pantomime voices.
‘I doubt she will let me go with her.’ He leans closer to my ear. ‘I would like to help her. But if she won’t let me, I want to ask you a favour.’
‘Favour?’ The anise is welcoming and I finish the glass in one gulp and look around needing another.
‘I want you to look after her. If she needs anything then you must let me know. You must keep an eye on her. I am worried that she will overdo things–’
‘Why should I look after her?’
‘Because you are a kind woman.’
I shake my head. I think that Andreas has led a very sheltered life. ‘Josephine Lavelle is able to look after herself. I know her type of woman,’ I reply with my best smile.
‘You do?’
‘Absolutely.’
It is true. I have known women like Josephine. They have this knack of keeping men at their beck and call. I see the way Josephine has them hovering around her. Weak men who bend to her whims and desire, and grown men who have turned into ingratiating servants like Stepford Men who have had their personalities erased, their only aim to please her like Javier. He has put her on a pedestal and he treats her with undiluted adoration and I am filled with loathing and rising anger. It brings back memories and feelings I had as a child. Papa was constantly at Mama’s side, doing her bidding, always fetching and carrying, attending to her every need while I was neglected and cast aside. She manipulated his feelings with practised skill and it was no wonder I had spent vast chunks of my childhood in the sanctuary of churches trying to convince myself that I was loved and wanted.
I brush a tear from my eye and focus on the neatly tended stalls of soaps, jewellery, decorations and candles. Sweet, heady and nauseating scents like the cannabis of my childhood home invade my senses. I look down at my hand and I trace the deep white scar running along the back of my hand to my wrist then Andreas rests his fingers on the sleeve of my coat.