Masterpiece

by Janet Pywell

  ‘But it’s true, Andreas,’ Josephine says, ‘you will soon be performing on stage with Glorietta – I am convinced of it.’

  He blushes so I wink at him and drain my glass.

  Since Javier began painting Josephine he has become more serious and introverted. It happens each time he is with a new model. His concentration is so focused and intense. He remains partly in another world and I am pleased. It means he is concentrating on his career and enjoying his talent. But he fits easily into this group of people, smiling, nodding, saying the right thing and his manners are impeccable. But as the conversation flows amid plates of chicken, steak and pasta and chilled glasses of prosecco he is quiet and watchful.

  Opera has opened my eyes to a style of music that I have never appreciated before. It seeped into me from the moment the orchestra began its first note and I was mesmerised by the range and tone of Glorietta’s voice. Both on stage and off stage she has elegance, style and deportment that is at once intimidating and inspiring. It is a talent that I can now appreciate, one that comes with hours, days and months and years of hard work and dedication.

  Bruno refills my glass but I watch Glorietta and Josephine. How hard it must be to reach the pinnacle of a career through professionalism and dedication that is so publicly endorsed. It is a life of endless endurance and hard work; both physically and mentally and I begin to understand the perseverance and energy that Josephine invested in her profession. I also understand how pressure and stress took its toll – even understanding why she took cocaine. To rise to the top of the opera world and then to lose it all and to be abandoned by the public must have been devastating – it would have been a tragedy.

  Crash and burn.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Gloriettta asks leaning across the table and addressing me.

  ‘How different your life is to mine,’ I answer.

  ‘And what sort of photography do you do?’

  ‘Mainly exhibition work for galleries and museums.’

  ‘Perhaps you would like to photograph me?’ she says engaging me in conversation and I am surprised and embarrassed that I am the focus of her attention. But before I reply she asks. ‘You were brought up in Spain – what a delightful country – do you miss it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you will stay in London?’

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Do you know Italy?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not as well as I would like to.’

  I don’t mention Raffa. Now is not the time, nor the place. But he is in my heart and this is the common bond that links the three women at the table.

  After coffee and liquors Glorietta and Bruno stand up to leave.

  ‘Another party,’ Bruno raises his eyes to the ceiling.

  ‘But not a late night.’ She rests her hand on my arm. ‘We shall meet again, Mikky. I know we shall. Please come and stay with us in Italy. If your portrait turns out well then I might consider one myself.’ Glorietta announces with an air kiss to Javier’s cheeks.

  ‘We need a new one for our new home in Gsstad,’ Bruno adds shaking Javier’s hand. ‘The walls look empty without her picture hanging up.’

  Then they sweep out of the restaurant leaving a trail of magical mystery dust in their wake and we are all in a hurry to leave before the glamour and afterglow of their presence fades completely.

  I wait in the small foyer near the bar for Josephine to return from the ladies toilet. I’m glancing through the programme when Josephine appears smiling but a fan – a man – blocks her path and her face freezes. Her hand reaches to her throat. Her eyes are wide in fear.

  ‘Josephine?’ I call.

  There is something familiar about him then I hear his voice. ‘I know what you’re hiding. I know about your secret, Josephine. There’s no hiding from me.’ Karl Blakey reaches out to her but I’m faster. I shove him away but his shoulder is hard and he stands resolute so I push myself between them and face him.

  ‘Piss off! Leave her alone.’

  He is stronger than I expect and he slaps my hand away and says to her. ‘I know your secret, Josephine. You can’t keep it to yourself for much longer– Arrhh.’

  I grab him by the balls and push him back against the wall squeezing hard. He staggers and attempts to grab my hand but I karate chop hard with my free hand across his throat. ‘Stay away from her you arsehole,’ I hiss.

  He chokes and doubles over clutching his crotch. I grab his hair and pull his head back, ignoring his moaning. ‘Keep away from Ms Lavelle – or I’ll call the police.’ I spit then I smack his face with my elbow and watch him slump back against the wall and slide to the floor with blood streaming from his nose.

  A waiter appears and sees Karl on the floor. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘This fan got too excited.’ I take Josephine’s shaking arm and guide her gently out of the restaurant and into the street where Javier and Andreas are waiting beside the taxi.

  They register the look on Josephine’s white face.

  ‘What happened?’ Javier says.

  I ignore him and settle Josephine into the back seat. ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  She shakes her head. ‘No – thank you.’

  I stand aside to let Andreas sit beside her then I slam the door and watch it pull away into the busy street.

  When the rear lights disappear around the corner I turn on Javier and push my finger into his shoulder. ‘You’d better sort out Karl Blakey. He nearly gave her a heart attack in there – the man is a nutcase – he wants to cause trouble.’ I don’t wait for him to answer instead I turn and walk down the street without waiting for him to follow me.

  I should go now. I should leave. The painting is mine. The funeral is over but I have the exhibition to finish then I can go. I must make things look normal and natural, perhaps even wait until Josephine has gone. But I will go soon. I will tell Javier that I need a change of scene and that England is too cold for me. I will say I am going on holiday then I will not come back and my new life will begin.

  Glorietta Bareldo and Bruno are unable to attend the opening of Sandra Jupiter’s Baroque Exhibition in the Kensington Museum but to my surprise and dismay Josephine Lavelle accepts with delight.

  The exhibition is busier than I expected and Sandra Jupiter moves elegantly between groups; networking, socialising and smiling. When she meets Josephine she is in awe, gushing praise on her performance as Carmen that she saw years ago in the Royal Opera House. When they realised it was ten years ago they laugh self-consciously.

  ‘It seems like yesterday,’ Sandra says.

  ‘Indeed.’ Josephine returns her smile but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

  How many times does she have to go through this performance, I wonder? So I take Josephine’s elbow and making excuses I lead her carefully away.

  ‘Are you protecting me again?’ she asks.

  ‘Do you need protection?’

  She doesn’t answer but she leans against me and we walk arm in arm companionably around the gallery. She doesn’t mention the incident with Karl Blakey two nights previously and we finally arrive in front of the Caravaggio.

  ‘The Cardsharps – it’s from a private collection and it is on loan for this exhibition,’ I explain.

  It measures thirty-seven by fifty-two inches and it shows a brutal low life scam – a sinister looking man, the boy who is duped and the cardsharp with an extra set of cards in his back pocket.

  ‘The dagger makes it seem that violence isn’t far away,’ she replies.

  I’m conscious of people in the gallery watching us as we discuss the painting and I grow in stature – being with Josephine makes me walk taller. She undoubtedly has an aura – a presence – a certain head turning effect on those around her.

  ‘He’s your favourite artist.’ She remembers.

  ‘And Raffa’s,’ I add.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Do you have any of his paintings?’

  ‘One or two, Glorietta kept mos
t of them and his wife – of course. It turns out he never divorced her. He didn’t want to upset his two children.’

  ‘He was a bit of a playboy, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That was his attraction.’

  We both smile.

  ‘When are you returning home – to Dresden?’ I ask, linking my arm though hers to continue our walk through the gallery.

  ‘Dresden is not my home. I was staying there temporarily to mentor Andreas but it is time for him to move on. I have given him confidence and I have trained him as much as I can. Now he needs a teacher better than me and I have someone in mind for him – someone in New York.’

  ‘That will be a big step.’

  ‘Yes, but a necessary one, he must grow and develop. He is outgrowing me and this is his time to shine.’

  ‘So where will you go? Where is home?’

  She sighs. ‘I don’t know. I like it here.’

  ‘London?’

  ‘Don’t sound so surprised.’

  ‘I’m not – it’s just that…’

  ‘Well, now I am making new friends, it may make sense for me to stay here.’ She squeezes my arm. ‘And I’ve caught up with old friends and they have made me welcome. I have Javier – and you, if you will both let me into your life…’

  Thankfully Javier, Andreas, the artist – Marcus Danning and Phyllis Laverty from the art gallery in South Moulton Street make a beeline for us and I make the introductions.

  Marcus is bald. His head and neck are perspiring. His tight yellow jacket is fastened in the middle by a large gold button and a purple bowtie at his neck reminds me of a hangman’s noose.

  ‘I’m delighted to meet one of the greatest sopranos of our time,’ he guffaws. ‘You look beautiful, Ms Lavelle – all things considered.’

  ‘I’m still alive,’ Josephine remarks, shaking hands with him.

  ‘I work with the Laverty Art Gallery. Phyllis is kind enough to employ me on occasions,’ I explain to Josephine.

  ‘You’re the best,’ Phyllis says. ‘Although sometimes a little distracted by the beauty of the art but I always call on you first, in fact there’s a job I need you to do, so call me soon.’

  ‘I won’t be able to take on any more work for a while.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m going away…’

  ‘Back to Spain?’ ask Phyllis.

  ‘Yes.’

  And I don’t know who is more surprised Josephine or Javier.

  A few nights later Javier tells me Josephine has booked her flight. She has finished her sitting with him, she has seen Glorietta in Norma and there is no further reason for her to stay in London. It is late and we are at home drinking coffee and I am watching the dying embers in the hearth.

  ‘I can’t believe Annie painted over my mural. I wanted Josephine to see it.’ It’s the first time we have been alone for a week and I assume he has been sleeping at the studio working on the portrait. He looks tired and there are dark circles under his eyes.

  ‘She did that the morning Mrs Green died. You’ll have to do another one,’ I suggest. ‘When Oscar gets back – perhaps a London scene this time?’

  ‘I want to invite her for dinner before she goes.’

  ‘Can’t we just go out?’

  ‘She told me what happened in the restaurant with Karl. She seems genuinely upset. She has been talking about him all week. It’s like she is obsessed. He has unsettled her and except for the Baroque Exhibition she hasn’t been out at all.’

  ‘Karl terrified her that night. He accused her of having a secret.’

  He rests his head back against the sofa and closes his eyes.

  ‘Do you know what it could be?’ I ask.

  ‘Karl said that Josephine saw several paintings in an apartment in Munich last August but they found the guy dead – who lived there – a few days later. And when the police got there, the paintings were gone. Karl seems to think she took them.’

  ‘Josephine – an art thief? That’s crazy,’ I laugh.

  Javier shrugs and looks at me. ‘He thinks that she only handed over the Golden Icon because Raffaelle brought it to her back stage before her final performance. She had hidden it.’

  ‘She wanted to give it back to the Italian people. Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘Yes but Karl said that she wanted to keep it, but because she was shot and Raffaelle was killed, it’s like the authorities have agreed to cover it up. Karl wanted to tell the truth but no one would print it.’

  ‘So they made her out to be a hero when she was really a thief? I don’t believe it. She’s not the type.’

  ‘He’s convinced. He’s certain that she knows where the painting went to–’

  ‘What sort of hold has Karl Blakey got over you, Javier? Why do you believe everything that scumbag says when Josephine quite clearly tells you another story.’

  Javier looks away and will not meet my eye.

  ‘Don’t let fame go to your head,’ I caution.

  ‘It isn’t.’

  ‘He’s not worth it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You promised not to see him – and besides Josephine is your friend.’

  ‘I do like her.’

  ‘All right, invite her for dinner. You’re making me feel sorry for her. She can’t rely on anyone. Not even you, Javier. She told me over lunch that all the men in her life – all the men that she has ever met – have let her down and it would appear that you are no different, Javier. You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  A few nights later Josephine arrives alone and in a taxi. She is dressed in navy slacks and a pink shirt. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles but she looks appreciatively around the room and the dining table with its red cloth, silver napkins and burning candles. The wine glasses have been polished and fluted champagne glasses are chilled. A dish of homemade guacamole and tacos are on the coffee table beside the fire and a warm glow fills the room.

  ‘How delightful.’ There is real warmth in her eyes and there is a hint of what she may have looked like as a young girl before the stresses of life ravaged her and the drudgery of fate subjected her to its hidden dark side.

  ‘I hope Javier hasn’t been tiring you out? He can be quite ruthless when it comes to his models,’ I say.

  ‘He has given me regular breaks. He has been very considerate but I can’t pretend that I would like to sit for any longer.’

  We drink prosecco and Sade’s Sweetest Taboo melodically fills the room. Javier’s choice – not mine.

  He refills our glasses and wanders over to the kitchen leaving us to talk, encouraging us to bond and to make friends. It’s the last effort I will have to make. This is the last time I will see her.

  ‘A girl from our class at Uni, Carmen Muñoz, vowed never to sit for him again.’

  ‘She was twitchy and nervous,’ he responds in defence. ‘She was a great artist but lousy model.’

  ‘Three days in the same position, standing – Carmen wanted to sit down– and you didn’t give here any breaks,’ I tease.

  ‘She was young and she moaned a lot,’ he grins.

  ‘And have you never modelled for Javier?’ Josephine asks.

  ‘You must be joking. He tells me that my nose is too long and my mouth is far too wide.’

  ‘And you can’t sit still either,’ he adds.

  ‘That’s true. I do like to be active. Besides I’m not model material.’

  Josephine stares at my baggy black Nirvana T–shirt, tight jeans and unruly hair and I can tell by her smile that it is something they both agree on.

  The room is filled with spices and warmth; Thai green chicken curry, jasmine rice and naan bread and I sit watching the flickering flames suppressing a yawn, determined to be polite.

  Javier has betrayed her. He spoke to Karl Blakey. She deserves more. She deserves better. Just like Carmen did all those years ago.

  ‘I hope you will come to Lake Como for the unveiling of my portrait in the summer,’ Josephine says. />
  There is silence and when I look up I realise she is speaking to me.

  ‘Delighted,’ I reply. I have no intention of going to Italy. My plans are already made. I will be spending the summer in Spain and after that South America and travelling the world. Photography is my passion and one that takes time and money both of which I will have in abundance.

  ‘I had the impression you were an opera convert when you saw Glorietta in her role of Norma. Perhaps I can invite you to the opera in Verona?’

  ‘Don’t get too carried away, Josephine. I was impressed with her but I’m not making a habit of it.’ I smile to cover the harshness of my tone.

  ‘She’s a rock chick, Josephine and if you ever met her father you would understand why,’ Javier calls out from the kitchen.

  ‘Does he sing?’ Josephine asks.

  Javier walks round and refills our glasses. ‘Her father’s a hippy – the man’s a biker. He’s covered in tattoos and blasts heavy metal or rock music all day. He’s got eight speakers running through his garage and he struts around playing air guitar. He’s nuts.’

  ‘He’s not just nuts. Papa’s an enigma.’ I am savouring the tangy bubbles on my tongue.

  ‘He has no morals or scruples, and he would sell his own mother for a joint – and I’m not talking about a Sunday roast,’ Javier adds.

  Josephine looks concerned and I am irked that Javier is speaking badly about Papa when he hardly mentions his own dysfunctional family.

  ‘How did you manage as a child?’ Josephine asks.

  ‘It was the only thing I knew. I saw other kids at school and their parents were just different to mine. Some kids envied my life. It was unconventional but they saw it as exciting.’

  ‘What about the rest of your family? Where are they? Didn’t you have aunts, uncles or grandparents?’

  ‘Papa was from a remote village in Asturias in the north of Spain and my mother’s family lived on the west coast of Ireland.’

  ‘Did she ever go back to Ireland?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  Javier calls us to the dinner table and Josephine sits between us.