by Janet Pywell
I stare at Javier. ‘You spent the afternoon with him, didn’t you? That’s why you were late back. Did you have lunch with him?’
‘Mikky, I–’
‘Tell me the truth, Javier. Is that where you were? With him?’
‘He’s different. He’s special. He understands, Mikky. It’s like…it’s as if he knows me–’
‘He’s gutter-press Javier. He digs for dirt then writes trash to ruin people.’
‘I thought he was awful but he’s really nice. We have a lot in common and he’s interesting. It’s his job to investigate.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve met him again.’
‘He wants to raise my profile – he can introduce me to–’
‘How can you be so naive?’
‘He’s working with Alexandru Negrescu and if he trusts him, then–’
‘He’s Romanian Mafia, Javier. He’s probably paying Karl big money to dig around for information. How can you be such an idiot? What have you told him? Poor Josephine, I thought she was your idol.’
‘She is. The Romanian is only interested in the painting. He told me they want to find the Vermeer that was hanging in the apartment in Munich–’
‘How can you be so stupid, Javier? They want it to sell for drugs or to finance prostitution. Besides the painting in Munich is a different one to Mrs Green’s. She has had this one for two years. If there are two paintings, and the one next door isn’t the original Vermeer then the one in Munich must be. You’re looking in the wrong place if you keep thinking Mrs Green has it. You mustn’t get involved, Javier. They’re all crooks.’
‘They want to know about the painting Josephine saw in Munich. They think it has turned up in Eastern Europe but Christie’s don’t seem to think it could be the original.’
‘Then they are both fakes, Javier. It’s simple. The original is lost – gone to Eastern Europe or China or further afield – forever. It’s not hanging next door.’
‘I’m just curious. I never saw it. It seems a coincidence that Mrs Green has the same painting – even Karl said so.’
‘Oh no, Javier! Don’t tell me that you told Karl Blakey about Mrs Green’s painting?’
His olive cheeks flush and he looks down into his glass. ‘It wasn’t a secret – was it?’
‘You have told him, haven’t you?’ I stand and walk to the kitchen and flick the switch for the kettle.
‘We were just talking,’ he says. ‘It was conversation about art, nothing else. Karl cares–’
‘Cares about what? Himself?’
‘He knows about art. He’s knowledgeable about these things. Besides he knew about the other copy. He told me that Roy is trying to sell his mother’s painting.’
‘He knows Roy is our neighbour?’
‘Well…’
‘You told him that too?’
‘He knows that Roy is trying to sell a painting – he heard about it–’
‘Mrs Green only died yesterday,’ I say. ‘How can he be trying to sell it?’
‘Annie lied to you about him sending it to Bruges or he lied to Annie.’ Javier stares at me and I glare back at him.
‘But this must have all happened this morning,’ I say.
‘It did – I was with Karl when the dealer phoned to tell him about Roy and the painting. It seemed an amazing coincidence. But Karl knows everyone.’
‘How could you speak to Karl about all this? Where is your loyalty to Josephine? I thought you wanted to be recognised for you own art work and now Karl is dragging you into this murky world of stolen paintings and trying to cause trouble.’
I reach for a coffee mug and slam it onto the counter and heap in a spoonful of coffee. It was going to be a long night. The net is closing in.
Javier stands up and leans across the breakfast bar. ‘I know you’re angry, Mikky. But Mrs Green isn’t here now and Roy shouldn’t have that painting. We need to get it from him and get it valued. Now, we’re both tired. I’m going to bed and I’ll talk to you some other time when you are not so emotional–’
‘Emotional? Me? Listen to me, Javier – I went to Dresden because you begged me to go with you. I have supported you and your career. I have avoided Karl Blakey twice to be loyal to you and to make sure your career isn’t damaged. I have even spent hours with Josephine Lavelle – all for you. And now you turn around and tell me you have not only spoken to Karl Blakey but that you actually like him. I’m furious with you, Javier. Go to bed! And you can go to the opera on your own next week because I’m not going with you. I’ve had enough. She is your muse not mine.’
I place the milk in the fridge and slam the door.
Javier doesn’t say goodnight. He leaves the room silently leaving me to switch off the lights and put the fireguard across the dying embers. Twenty minutes later as I walk down the hallway I hear Javier murmuring into his mobile. I close my bedroom door but instead of going to sleep I illuminate the room professionally. I must finish my work and when it is dry I will be the first person in the post office queue.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Have no fear of perfection, you’ll never reach it.’
Salvador Dali
During the next week I hardly see Javier. He is busy with Josephine and I am working on Sandra Jupiter’s exhibition. It is only when Annie slips a note through the letterbox with the funeral details that Javier insists he will come with me.
Inside the church of St Nicholas there’s a tall archway leading to the west tower and a stone altar below the east window. My body is shaking inside my skin, rattling like a skeleton in an empty cupboard, and our footsteps echo as we walk down the aisle.
‘There are only a dozen people here,’ I whisper to Javier as we slide into our pew. ‘There’s no recognition of her life, her loves, her achievements or her personality just that brown box.’ I shiver and nod toward the altar.
‘Most of her contemporaries and friends are probably dead,’ he whispers.
I stare ahead. ‘It looks too small for her. It’s like a child’s box.’
Roy and Annie sit slightly apart in the front pew. Behind them is a chubby man in a dark suit and with him an older man with grey hair who regularly checks the Rolex on his wrist.
‘Lawyers,’ Javier murmurs.
Behind them Aaron and his wife sit with their heads bowed. Only their son Salman, turns and he smiles at us and I wonder who is looking after their corner shop this morning.
On the other side of the aisle five old people are spread out among the pews. They appear to be lost in memories or was it grief? Did they know her? One old man coughs and blows his nose. He looks gaunt and ill – one more cough and it could be his last.
I sit and stare at the stained glass and think of Jesus dying on the Cross – for all our sins – and I am filled with a sense of melancholy and déjà vu.
Mrs Green had been like my own grandma. I miss her sparkly blue eyes and her inquisitive train of thought. I wish I had done more to protect her. I should never have left her with Roy and Annie. I should have looked out for her.
Had Roy really killed his own mother?
Javier squeezes my finger. He doesn’t let go and I am comforted by the reassuring warm grip of his hand.
Was he walking along the riverbank that morning?
I wish I could stop shaking. I am remembering another funeral seventeen years ago in another church, another country, at another time. Then I had kept my eyes firmly on a life-sized figure of Christ carved onto a wooden cross behind the modern altar. It hung against natural stone and was illuminated from dormer windows in the roof. I had concentrated and I had prayed. Never believing for one minute that Mama was in the small coffin only two feet away – she was too tall to fit inside. Not even the strong grip of Papa’s trembling hand could make me look up from the floor but when I did, all I saw were his swollen eyes and tears cascading silently down his stubble cheeks.
Roy stands up. He is slim and handsome in his dark suit and his hair and beard are neatly tri
mmed. He was so different to the intoxicated and angry man that had forced his way into my apartment.
The balding and bespectacled vicar moves aside as Roy takes his place at the lectern. He coughs and stares around at the small audience but without focusing on us.
‘Adeline Green was a kind and loving mother and a thoughtful and fun-loving grandmother.’
Adeline? How pretty! Why had I never known her name?
‘Ecclesiastes 3, verses 1 to 4.’ He clears his throat and reads from the scriptures. His voice is melodious and strong. ‘For everything there is a season and a time for every matter under the heaven.’
I will not look at her coffin instead I think of her sparkling eyes and her delight when she saw me. I think of her eagerness to chat, her persistent optimism and how she pressed her door key into my hand – ‘just in case,’ she had said.
‘A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to rejoice.’
I hear the tinkle of her laughter and remember the way her eyes crinkled when she ate biscuits always pushing crumbs into the corner of her mouth and dropping most of them in her lap. She had been happy to be reunited with Roy. She had company. She was willing to change. She had stored her things in the attic and they had taken over her home.
‘A time to forgive and a time to be forgiven.’
Someone behind me coughs, hairs prickle on my neck and I turn my head.
On the other side of the aisle Karl Blakey sits two rows behind us. His expression is downcast as if he knew the dead woman.
Who told him when the funeral would be?
I glance at Javier but he remains focused on Roy.
When Karl sees me staring at him he winks and I want to drag him by the collar away from Mrs Green and away from us all. I want to reach out and thump him.
‘A time to hurt and a time to heal,’ Roy reads.
Javier notices Karl and I see a conspiratorial smile pass between them and so I pull my hand from his grip. I will have to be more careful with my emotions. I must not under estimate the headiness of fame or the desire for opportunity that he will pursue at the expense of others. I am on my own as I have always been.
To keep the peace with Javier, I agree to attend a pre drinks reception at the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. Glorietta and Josephine are regal divas casting a warm glow over handsome couples, men in dinner suits with manicured fingers and women with designer dresses and matching handbags who fill the room with tinkles of laughter. They are people whose names I barely hear and have already forgotten when greeted with air kisses and fake smiles. It makes me think of Josephine. I’m like her acting a part and tonight is my debut performance at the opera as I smile and air kiss in return.
Andreas is broad shouldered and handsome in a white dinner jacket so I smile and flirt with him taking refuge in the company one of the few people I know.
‘London life suits you Andreas,’ I say. ‘You look very happy and debonair.’
He nods curtly. ‘I wouldn’t recognise you, Mikky.’
‘What? In this old thing?’ I laugh and tug on my expensive black dress but the joke is lost on him.
‘Nice aftershave, Hugo Boss?’ I ask, frightened he may wander off.
‘Bulgari.’
‘It suits you.’
He glances over his shoulder and moves closer to whisper in my ear. ‘How are things with Josephine? Are you getting on any better?’ His voice is warm and deep and I imagine him singing Meat Loaf, Bat Out of Hell.
I hold out my hand and undulate my palm. ‘So-so. I think she needs educating. I might take her to a rock concert.’
‘It would mean a lot to her.’
We both smile.
Josephine’s hair is cut in a fashionable bob and makeup hides the pain and grief normally etched around her eyes. She wears a pearl grey dress and carries a red shawl across her shoulder. Diamond earrings match a gold musical clef brooch on her chest and she weaves her way effortlessly through the small groups until it is time for us to be seated.
As she steps into the box she is greeted to a standing ovation. She stands in the spotlight, raises her hand and smiles graciously. Tonight, momentarily, she is a star again.
Beside me Bruno, Glorietta’s Italian boyfriend, seems to find amusement in everything around him including admiring glances from women of all ages. His arrogance is refined and filled with confident humour. When he sees the tattoo on my forearm he says. ‘Is that you screaming at the opera?
‘Yes – to get out.’
He laughs and when he turns away I poke my tongue playfully out at Javier. I am still angry with him but he has promised not speak to Karl Blakey again until after he has finished Josephine’s portrait.
Andreas guides me to the front of the box to sit beside Josephine. Her eyes shine when she sees me. ‘That was very special,’ she says.
‘They clearly remember and adore you,’ I reply.
‘Indeed.’ She gazes around the theatre lost in thought absorbing details of the scene below us.
I sit back and Bruno refills our glasses with a seemingly endless supply of champagne. I relish the fresh fruitiness on my tongue and wish I could have brought my camera. I could snap images of the audience looking at the stage, so many varied expressions, so many faces and so many poses.
Norma – I hold a glossy programme in my hand.
A sudden butterfly quiver wells up inside my stomach. It takes me by surprise and I breathe in quickly. Surreptitiously, I cast a quick glance at Josephine. Is this what she feels – this sense of nervous anticipation?
I cannot take my eyes from her face. She is caught up in rapture, lost somewhere in the past and I see a tremor of excitement ripple through her slight frame. She pulls her shawl closer to her throat, squares her shoulders and blinks away a tear from the corner of her eye. She must have memories, flashbacks and images of her past life and they have returned to haunt her this evening. The smell of grease paint and the lights on the stage must be like old friends but she will never perform with them again. She grips the rail closing her eyes inhaling deeply. I want to reach out and touch her hand but then she turns and our eyes meet and I am drawn in to the intensity of her black irises and her hypnotic gaze, broken only when the orchestra appear and begin tuning their instruments. Only then the spell is broken and she blinks and turns away. Behind us Andreas, Bruno and Javier share a joke.
A surge of expectancy tingles through my body, my chest tightens and I straighten my back listening to strings, wind instruments and drums fine–tuning and getting comfortable.
The audience’s faces are eager with anticipation, flashes of glossy lipstick, cufflinks and expensive jewellery. Hushed tones, gentle coughs and the tinkle of laughter carry upwards toward our box and I wish I could capture it all on camera.
Karl Blakey is sitting in the front row with the Romanian and his two daughters and as the lights dim he stares up at me. Javier squeezes my shoulder but Josephine’s gaze remains firmly fixed on the stage so I breathe deeply and settle back into my seat just as the opening Act begins.
Tonight belongs to Glorietta Bareldo the opera star who replaced Josephine Lavelle as one of the greatest sopranos in the world. Bellini’s melodies, the drama of the opera and Glorietta’s intense performance of Norma portrays strong passion and at the end, after the battle and huge sacrifice, I sit transfixed. I cannot take my eyes from her when she sings Casta diva and it’s as if the whole audience has collectively stopped breathing. The auditorium is alive with her voice. Nothing else matters and I am caught in the sheer beauty and emotion of her tone and timbre. It is magical, beautiful and bewitching.
Josephine rises to her feet applauding with rapturous enthusiasm. The audience join in for a standing ovation and cries of ‘bravo,’ and ‘more’ fill the auditorium. The noise is deafening. Glorietta is called again and again for over fifteen curtain calls and when Josephine turns to me her eyes are filled with tears. She grips my hand and for a fleeting moment I am proud to be
associated with these strong and talented women and I brush away a tear that slides down my cheek.
Afterwards we make our way to a small Italian restaurant where a table has been reserved for our small party. A little later when Glorietta and Bruno join us, diners stand and applaud as she weaves her way gracefully to our table. She takes Josephine’s elbow and lifts her gently to her feet and the crowd cheer with more enthusiasm and excitement as the two divas stand side by side, smiling – best friends. Mobile phones are held high and snapshots and video clips are taken.
‘They’ll probably appear on the Internet later this evening,’ Andreas whispers.
‘I had never realised that they were so famous or so popular,’ I whisper back.
He beams at me. ‘This is truly a special moment.’
Glorietta is filled with adrenaline and energetic rays of magical light seem to radiate from her eyes. She is both charming and gracious as she regales us with amusing and entertaining stories about life back stage, catastrophes and rehearsals that don’t go to plan as well as anecdotes of stage and crew.
She involves Josephine in her tales and they reminisce, talking of productions, conductors and venues around the world and Josephine comes alive. It is like she is transported to the opera star she once was; animated, passionate and entertaining and her laughter is happy and warm.
Like me Andreas is happy to take a backseat out of the limelight. We are listeners. Occasionally his eyes linger on me gauging my reaction but I won’t meet his gaze, instead I focus on Bruno and Javier and when Glorietta joins their conversation Bruno sighs theatrically and calls across the table.
‘This is your life Andreas – your future.’ He is helping himself to a slice of Carpaccio. ‘This is how you will spend you evenings when you are a famous Tenor – in the company of excited, babbling women.’ Bruno’s good humour and laughter is contagious.
‘Babbling?’ Glorietta says turning her lips down at the corner to look sad and serious like a clown. ‘I think you mean entertaining, my darling.’