by Janet Pywell
A couple dressed in hiking boots and walking clothes come upstairs and stand beside me. Seeing me alone they whisper and speak in hushed tones as if in a church. The canvasses do not reflect their happy holiday spirit and they leave quickly after murmurs of disapproval. The paintings are too obscure for them. It was during my dark period when I was obsessed with betrayal, religion and truth. When I was trying to make sense of my life.
‘Hola, Mikky?’
The tranquillity of my reverie is broken and I turn at the sound of the familiar and husky voice. ‘I hardly recognised you. It’s been a long time.’
The tall woman before me is over seventy. Thick black-rimmed glasses frame her serious eyes but she breaks into a grin as she gathers me into her arms.
‘You still give a good hug, Dolores,’ I say, as we pull apart.
‘You see – I still have your paintings, as I promised.’
‘You can’t sell them, more likely.’
‘They’re not for sale.’ She wears a vibrant yellow and orange patterned silk dress and her fingers and thumbs are adorned with an assortment of large glittery rings but nothing detracts from her charcoal eyes and her steely gaze. ‘You’re here to stay?’
‘If you have a room.’
‘There is always room for you. What has taken you so long?’
I shrug.
She scrutinises me as if I am a still-life subject who is to be painted. Her eyes travel over my bandaged wrist, the horrified face of Scream on my arm, the old scar on the back of my hand and finally it settles on my finger and the new tattoo of the Madonna.
‘You look tired,’ she says. ‘Is everything alright?’
‘How’s business?’
‘It’s quiet now – in the summer it’s busier – another month at Easter and I won’t have time to chat to you.’
‘I can’t believe you have kept these.’ I nod at my paintings.
‘I will never part with them – unless you want them back.’
I shake my head.
‘Come.’ She links her arm through mine and we walk back downstairs pausing occasionally to look at paintings.
‘I take it these are not the originals?’ I say dryly, pointing to Dali’s Swans reflecting Elephants.
‘This is the floor of our copies. Anyone who cannot afford thousands or millions of euros for the original but wants a specific painting comes here. We are quite well known.’
‘For forgeries?’
‘They are copies, Mikky – it’s not illegal if that’s what you mean. They are genuine fakes and are sold as such, and the artists like to look at it as getting their own back on the art establishment. Many of the so-called art critics cannot tell the difference and the artists enjoy fooling eminent art specialists and gallery owners but these are still copies. You should know that. Didn’t I teach you anything or is your head filled with photography now?’
‘Are these painted by more than one artist?’
‘Of course, I have lots of new artists who paint for me.’
‘Students that paint forgeries instead of their own work?’
‘In Asia they do both to supplement their meagre income. These modern paintings for example like Warhol are much more vulnerable to fraud than Old Masters and the struggling artist lives in the hope that they will get noticed – so they copy the originals hoping for a lucky break.’
‘Things haven’t changed.’
‘Not as far as the struggling artist is concerned.’
‘And the buyer is deceived.’
‘It is only a crime if they are sold with intent to deceive the buyer. Pastiches are not forgeries. If you can’t afford twenty million euro for an original then why not enjoy a fake?’
I walk along the gallery studying and examining the paintings. ‘But these are excellent. It would be easy to pass them off as originals…’
‘They wouldn’t pass under scrutiny. We have wealthy philanthropists, cosmopolitan art collectors and tourists who cannot tell the difference between an original and a fake – Gaicometti – Van Gogh – Braque – Ben Nicholson – Dubuffet – you name it we can paint it. I have many talented students that can reproduce just about everything.’
‘I’m surprised no one tries to buy one and pass it off as an original.’
‘Impossible. And you should know that. Did I not teach you anything? To pass off a fake, one has to be very clever and very lucky. Each painting needs to show authenticity through a record of its history of ownership and exhibitions, right down to the alleged current owners.
‘It’s becoming increasingly difficult to validate bogus provenances. You need to provide rubber stamps, authenticating seals and forged receipts of non-existent sales. Then you need to have a network of unsuspecting salesmen or someone of influence and offer them a percentage to help sell the painting as an original. It is not at all easy and quite honestly, it’s not worth the effort and the risk of going to prison if it all goes wrong – because it will. This is a far more honest way of earning a living…’ She waves her arm in the air, proud of the copies adorning her walls. ‘And I like it.’
‘I’ve never understood how art professionals can be fooled by fakes. It’s still a mystery to me,’ I say.
‘It’s because many wish to be misled. They’re easily duped into believing they have an original. There are many paintings hanging in famous and prestigious galleries worldwide or paintings cherished by private collectors who refuse to believe they have purchased a forgery. They have been deceived. Their egos over compensate for the extravagant funds they have parted with and they are victims of their own greed. So many prestigious art dealers and auction houses can’t even agree on the legitimacy of paintings but I don’t feel sorry for any of them.’
‘This Rembrandt is an excellent fake. Who painted this?’
‘Who do you think?’ she replies, tilting her head. ‘You want to stay in the studio?’
‘Thank you.’ I smile and link my arm back through hers but at the foot of the stairs I pause at a familiar painting. ‘Carmen Muñoz – is she still painting?’
‘A lot has happened,’ she says. ‘Come on, let’s get you settled then we can go across the road for tapas and we can catch up. I will close the gallery. You’re lucky the studio is empty. Carmen and Yolanda only left last weekend. She would love to see you again.’
‘They were here?’
‘Of course – just because you want to live your life as a hermit it doesn’t mean that other people do too.’
‘Is Yolanda still tattooing?’
‘Yes. You have room for another one?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Then you will have to go to Malaga.’
‘It’s on my list,’ I say.
‘I suppose you only came here to collect your parcel.’
‘I came to see you,’ I lie.
I sleep well. I am secure and relaxed. I wake up to a sky so bright and vivid that it makes me feel pleased to be alive. I stretch luxuriously on the mattress on the floor, throw back the light cotton duvet and pad into the shower. Afterwards I dress in black leggings, ankle boots and a Rage Against The Machine T-shirt. I pull a brush through my hair and add pink lipstick.
The door of the studio leads into the back street where I parked the car so I walk around the corner and into the cobbled main street where market traders have set up their stalls. Rows of cotton sarongs, trousers and shirts mix with handmade wooden toys, handbags, purses and belts imported from Morocco. Voices rise as a trader refuses to negotiate for spices with a tourist who holds a colourful tub of saffron. The air is filled with herbs, garlic and mustard seeds – all smells from my childhood when I would wander between stalls barely reaching eye level. Another stand, run by an English couple, is decorated with ceramic pots and handmade candles, their sweet scent mingling with roasting chickens turning on a spit. It is bustling and busy but the atmosphere is relaxed and I am filled with energy and my heart is light.
The cobbles are uneven and, shielding my eyes
from the bright sunlight, I stumble. I’m suddenly transported to another time and another place – back to Victoria Station when Karl Blakey followed me. Now he is sitting in the tapas bar and this time, instead of hiding, he beckons to me to join him. He stands up and pulls out a chair for me.
His rat’s eyes smile. ‘What a lovely surprise, will you join me?’
‘You’re following me.’ I don’t sit down. ‘What do you want?’
‘We need to talk.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘Javier told me.’ He signals to the waiter for two chilled glasses of Cava. He is fluent in Spanish. Antonio remembers me from last night, sitting with Dolores and he winks behind Karl’s back as if I am meeting a lover.
‘I might have guessed he would tell you.’ I sit down, silently cursing Javier.
‘You’re not answering your phone.’
‘That’s because I don’t want to speak to anyone.’
Karl grips my bandaged wrist. It hurts but I don’t flinch. ‘He told me everything. He told me how Annie lured him next door and that Roy beat him because he believes Javier stole the painting.’
I pull from his grasp and glare at him. My arm is throbbing.
Antonio returns to our table and uncorks the bottle. It fizzes and he serves us with an unnecessary flourish and a wide smile.
I pick up a ripe green olive and place it between my lips.
‘Roy has gone missing,’ he says.
‘Roy is not my problem.’
‘And guess what? The Vermeer is also missing.’
I sip the sparkling wine slowly relishing the cool dry bubbles on my tongue and the slight acidy, sweet flavour on my lips and I realise this is breakfast.
The spring sunshine is warm on my closed eyelids and I lean back and fold my arms knowing Karl is watching me. ‘I’m a journalist. My interest is art and paintings and I see the gallery across the road specialises in fakes and forgeries.’
‘They’re copies.’ I don’t open my eyes and I force myself to yawn.
‘What are you doing in Mallorca?’
‘It is none of your business.’ I stretch and when I open my eyes Dolores stands in the doorway of the gallery watching us, smoking black tobacco from a long holder. She does not smile and I do not wave at her.
He yawns and covers his mouth with the back of his hand then he raises his glass and drains the last of his cava. ‘You know I will find out, Mikky. I’m good at my job. Ask Josephine Lavelle if you don’t believe me.’
I lean across the table and gently take his hand and to my surprise he blushes.
‘I’ll tell you the truth, Karl. Dolores, the owner of the gallery, was my art teacher. She recommended me to study art in Milan. My teacher was Raffaelle who was Josephine and Glorietta’s lover. And I want to know – I have to find out – if he loved me. I couldn’t bear the thought that when he died he had loved them more than me. He was my life. I loved him like no other.’ I let go of his hand and place it on the table and continue speaking. ‘I’m sorry Karl but this is a personal quest for me. I have come here to speak to Dolores about him. Perhaps you will respect my wishes when I say that it is very private and I cannot rest until I know the truth.’ My eyes fill with tears. ‘Please, Karl. Let me find the truth then I will tell you anything you want to know – if that’s what you want. But please give me space. I must heal. I need to know the truth then I can move on and find peace and hopefully one day I will find love again.’ I place my hand on my heart.
‘You are an accomplished liar,’ he laughs.
I lean forward so my face is inches from his. ‘So, tell me what you want because if you don’t leave me alone and stop following me, you’ll regret it. I’m not a soft pussy like Josephine. I’m a tiger and I will maul and scratch you until you can’t take any more and it will be far more painful than me squeezing your balls like the last time.’
He pushes back his chair and stands up. ‘Javier asked me to find you. Roy has gone missing and so has his painting. Two Romanian businessmen are looking for him and he cannot hide forever. I came to warn you…’
‘All of this has nothing to do with me.’
‘It’s Javier who’s worried about you – not me – I couldn’t give a toss.’
When I stand and face him he has to look up to meet my gaze.
‘Stay away from me, Karl, it’s bad enough that you have ingratiated yourself with Javier but I don’t like you and I certainly don’t want you near me. I know the damage you cause and the lies and crap that you write, so piss off.’
‘I hope that when we next meet you will be more grateful.’
‘You’re not the cavalry, Karl. You’re a slimy worm following me on the pretext that you want to help but I want nothing to do with you.’
‘Javier didn’t take the Vermeer and he didn’t replace it with a forgery. There’s only one person who could have done that and I won’t leave you alone until I find it.’ He turns on his heel and I watch him walk away, down the cobbled street until he is engulfed between the market stalls, shoppers and tourists and I am left with the tangy, stale after taste of his visit.
I lean back in my chair and order another glass of cava for breakfast and settle down to brood over my situation. I’m under suspicion and there is no one I trust. I stretch my neck and begin thinking and plotting my next move.
CHAPTER NINE
‘If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn’t seem so wonderful at all.’
Michelangelo
I spend the next few days thinking of a plan and I start painting immediately. It will be my safety net – my security. How could I have been so naïve to think that I could send the painting here and that no one would come looking for me?
Oscar, Javier, and Karl – they all want a piece of me but Josephine is more persistent. She won’t take no for an answer. We have spoken on the telephone twice and I even promised her a painting hoping she would leave me alone but after I have been in Arta for a week she leaves me a voicemail.
We must talk. Javier’s told me where you are and I’m coming to Mallorca.
I’m furious with Javier and I won’t take his calls then I wait for her in the tapas bar with my back against the wall enjoying the sun on my face. She doesn’t see me at first and even though she wears sunglasses she scans the tables shading her eyes with her hand so I wave to her.
She walks more upright as she weaves between the tables. There is an improvement in her posture since we met in Dresden before Christmas when she had looked so ill. Now she moves with more freedom, less rigidity and the pain that was firmly etched across her face is replaced with a warm and welcoming smile.
‘Hello, Mikky.’
I have known for eight days that she is my birth mother but she still looks like an opera star – not a parent.
‘You took your time. You said you’d be here at two,’ I say in greeting. I don’t stand up and I sit with my legs splayed wide and my arms folded.
‘I got a little lost trying to find my hotel.’ She pulls out a chair and sits elegantly, crossing her legs and placing her elbows on the table. A gold chain hangs around her neck and a matching bracelet on her wrist catches the light. She eludes confidence and seems unfazed at my bad manners. ‘You’re painting again?’ She points at my paint-stained shirt and my favourite blue denim shorts.
I yawn deliberately loudly and don’t bother to cover my mouth and I revel in a shiver of satisfaction when she recoils. ‘I told you. I need time to think. I want to be alone,’ I say.
‘I’m worried about you.’
I sigh theatrically.
She is a strong woman and in spite of being ill she is used to getting what she wants. I’m angry that she has manipulated me but worse than that I’m frustrated that I still feel sorry for her. I don’t want her to like me and I don’t want to form any attachments, certainly not now. Not at this critical stage when my plans are being reworked.
Antonio appears with a chilled glass o
f beer for me.
‘Aguita for the artist,’ he jokes. His face is chubby with heavy dark eyebrows. ‘Are you going to eat, Mikky?’
‘No tengo hambre.’
‘Y tu amiga?’
‘Tampoco tengo hambre,’ Josephine replies. ‘But I would like a glass of white wine.’
‘You have a good accent,’ I say after he’s gone. There is so much I don’t know about her.
‘I’m a trained opera singer. I sing in many languages and Spanish is just one of them.’
‘I like Tosca – Vissa d’arte. Wasn’t that your favourite? You sang it at Michael’s funeral.’ I cannot bring myself to call a stranger – a man I knew nothing about until last week – my father.
She raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘I’m surprised – you told me you don’t like opera.’
‘It helps me to paint.’
‘To listen to – opera?’
‘To all music – it depends on my mood. Normally I like heavy metal… rock. I was brought up on it. Papa loves Iron Maiden – it’s his favourite group.’ I say deliberately to hurt her as if I am in touch with him and we are the best of friends.
‘How is my painting coming along?’
‘I didn’t agree definitely to paint one for you.’
‘I will pay for it.’
‘You may not like it.’
‘I will.’
I shrug.
‘I’m pleased you’re painting again,’ she smiles. Her mouth is wide like mine but she has told me that I have Michael’s eyes.
I wave my empty glass at Antonio to bring me another beer while Josephine tells me how pleased she is with Javier’s portrait of her then she says.
‘You remember the night in your flat when I came for dinner and Roy came looking for his painting and he threatened Javier?’
Antonio returns with our drinks.
‘Yes.’
‘I think you took it.’