by Janet Pywell
‘Me?’
‘Did you?’
I sip my beer. ‘Why would I do that? It wasn’t even an original.’
‘I think you believed it was the original.’
‘Think what you like.’
‘That’s why I want to talk to you. I must stop history repeating itself. I don’t want you to be like your father. He was a thief. I want you to be better than that – better than him.’
‘A thief? I thought he was a doctor.’
‘At the end of the war Michael was a medic in Germany with the Allied forces. I told you that but he found hidden Nazi treasure that had been taken from museums and Jewish people’s houses and instead of returning them to the authorities he – along with his three friends – hid them and kept them safe until after the war.’
‘So, he found them.’ I lean my elbows on the table. She has my attention.
‘He stole them.’
‘He looked after them.’
‘He was a thief.’
‘An opportunist,’ I argue.
‘Do you think he was right to do what he did?’
‘Why not?’
‘Come on, Mikky! What have you done with it?’
‘What?’
‘Mrs Green’s painting?’
‘Why would I have it?’
‘A man’s life is at risk.’
I focus on a family walking past. ‘You’re not having an ice cream,’ the man says. The toddler whines and lags behind. ‘Hurry up, Daisy. Now.’
‘I want it, Mikky. I want to return it to Roy.’
I stare at her then I lean back and fold my arms.
‘Don’t you understand you silly girl, this can get dangerous,’ her voice rises.
I look away focusing on a group of tourists but she continues speaking.
‘You have no idea the danger you’re in, do you? No one is going to let you steal this painting. You will never get away with it. They will follow you and they will kill you. I know what it’s like. Look what happened to me, Mikky. I don’t want this to happen to you. I want to help you.’
‘I can take care of myself. I’ve had to for all these years. I’ve managed so far without you.’
She flinches and a thrill of pleasure ripples through me.
‘I’m here now, Mikky. I want to–’
‘Stay away from me, Josephine! I don’t need you.’
‘I think you’re wrong.’
‘Fine.’
‘You need a family. You need support and love.’
I lean forward across the table. ‘Michael – my real father was Mama’s cousin. She never wanted me to go to Ireland or meet any of my Irish relatives – even when she died. I never met any of them. I’ve managed without a family all my life.’
‘I’m here for you now.’
‘Mama and I weren’t close.’ There’s a flicker of hope in her eyes. ‘She was not an easy woman to live with. She didn’t like me. I was a mystery to her. She had no imagination. She had no interest in art or beautiful things. She had affairs with lots of men. She beat me and she treated my father very badly – she was a bully.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You have no idea what it’s like to have no one.’ I swallow hard.
‘Believe me… I do.’
‘Even Javier has betrayed me. He’s told everyone where I am. Dolores is the closest person to me now.’ I nod at the gallery. ‘And this is my home.’
After my outburst and with her calm patience and persistence we speak about art and in the end I relent and take her to the studio where I am staying.
It’s an old rustic building with cemented whitewashed floors. The ceiling is rusty pink, the walls are painted in ochre and overhead thick wooden beams have been painted white. Downstairs the living area consists of a kitchenette where I have left plates and dishes to drip-dry amid cooking oils, herbs, jugs and pots of marmalade. In the far corner is a wood burning stove and a basket stacked with chopped logs, pinecones and old newspapers.
An old architect’s table is littered with an assortment of shells, pebbles and unusual shaped rocks that I have collected from my walks. Ceramic figures stand beside burnt candle stubs. Empty yogurt pots, a bottle of red wine and empty beer bottles lay haphazardly with discarded CD’s and empty cover sleeves.
Sketches and pencil drawings are stuck to the wall and Josephine picks up a photograph of Dolores with her hand held up in protest, squinting into the sunlight, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She looks at one of Carmen and Yolanda beside a beach bonfire, and then one of Javier and Oscar taken last year. She replaces them on the shelf without comment.
An old red sofa is draped with colourful sarongs and an assortment of patterned cushions like those found in a fortune-tellers tent. The open–plan room is divided with a bookcase crammed with art, crime, thrillers and biographies and at the far end is a double mattress covered with a white Egyptian cotton duvet.
‘Bathroom is in there.’ I indicate a shower room under the stairs painted with aquamarine blue. ‘Come up.’ I lead the way climbing an open, stone staircase and into a magnificent studio with large patio doors that lead onto a terracotta tiled terrace.
Josephine ignores the paintings and numerous canvases and steps outside where pots are filled with an assortment of cacti and marigolds and the air is filled with the warm aroma of sage and rosemary. She weaves past the old, mismatched wicker chairs and a rickety table where yellow mosquito candles have burnt to their stubs past a faded parasol that hangs lopsidedly and she stands at the low terrace wall and sighs deeply.
‘That’s the back of Dolores’s art gallery.’ I point to the building in front of us. In the neighbour’s garden below wild blue flowers grow amongst the rubble of the old stone house. A builder calls out from the unfinished building and a three coloured cat stalks along the wall toward the scaffolding.
‘That’s considered lucky in Germany,’ she says.
‘And food in Asia.’ I reply.
The bell of the old church in the square tolls three. Its square tower rises over the red-slated roof tiles and in the distance the sea glistens like a shimmering illusion.
‘At night the tower is illuminated,’ I say.
‘It reminds me of my terrace in Comaso – in Italy. I had views of the village and the pretty lake below. This is breathtaking,’ she says. ‘Inspirational.’
A lemon fragrance from the trees wafts up on a light breeze and its familiar aroma comforts me but when Josephine turns there is something in her eyes that I cannot fathom.
‘We are quite alike, Mikky. We are quite similar.’ She has a half smile on her lips. ‘Let me see my painting?’
In the studio she scans the room absorbing the details; canvases all shapes and sizes, some used and some new, paint-stained easels and baskets filled with watercolours, thick and soft brushes and jam jars filled with dirty water and most noticeable of all, tubes of oil paints.
‘You don’t use acrylics?’
‘Sometimes, they dry within an hour whereas oil paints can stay wet for days even weeks depending on the humidity.’
‘My goodness, each painting must be five feet square. They’re like Caravaggio’s,’ she says staring at the large unframed canvasses on the wall.
I perch against the bench.
‘The Palm,’ she reads the name aloud before standing back to study my work. ‘Your paintings are dark and rich in colour.’
Jesus is lying on the cross as Judas hammers nails into his hands. Much of it consists of shades of brown and grey, which come from Judas’ shadow. Light from a lantern above their heads shines onto their faces reflecting the serenity of Jesus’ forgiveness that contrasts with Judas’ anger and frustration.
‘The forty pieces of silver are scattered at Jesus’ feet…’ She leans forward to scrutinise the painting. ‘Is it a woman’s hand that holds the lantern? Her face is in shadow. She is hidden. Is it the Madonna? I want to see her face,’ she whispers.
I circle the room. �
�You’ll never see her in one of my paintings.’
Josephine turns her attention to the second painting and I say.
‘In the moment that Christ has been pulled from the cross the light has moved and the face that holds the lantern still remains elusive.’
Josephine stands beside me. ‘Jesus’ chest is smeared with dark red blood. It’s the only colour amongst the shades of black and hues of dark brown and grey and his eyes are closed in death.’
I move away but she continues accurately narrating the scene.
‘Judas’ tears glisten on his cheeks and he cups the falling ones in his hand but they’re transformed into glistening silver coins.’ She reads its name aloud. ‘Forty Pieces of Silver – money and greed – the love of it – is the root of all evil,’ she adds.
‘Only for some people.’
‘Why don’t you paint the Madonna?’
‘Her pain would be too raw. Her grief too deep.’
‘Because of his death?’
‘Because he was her son and she couldn’t protect him.’
In that flicker of a moment our eyes meet, so I move to an easel nearer the wall. ‘This is your painting, the one you want me to paint for you; Tones of Truth.’
‘Tones of Truth,’ she repeats.
It’s my turn to narrate. ‘Jesus is in a fishing boat on a wild and choppy Sea of Galilee. Instead of casting a net he has a baton in his hand. It is night and the moon casts an eerie glow illuminating the rapt faces of four men staring at him as if waiting for his word or instruction.’
‘My goodness,’ Josephine examines them.
‘Inside the fishing boat each man holds an instrument: Peter blows into a saxophone, James holds a cello, Mark strums a mandolin and Judas taps a tambourine.’
‘It’s magnificent. It reminds me of Raffaelle’s work. He painted in a similar theme.’
‘I need a little more time…to finish it.’
‘And why don’t you sell more paintings? You should be exhibiting in London or New York or Rome? Why did you give all this up to become a photographer? You silly girl – you have so much talent.’
I snort derisively. ‘Tell that to the art critics. They are so up their own arses they know nothing. They’re a bunch of self-centred egoists. They’re not interested in talent. They think my work won’t sell. They say I am too emotionally repressed and that my paintings lack the spark that Caravaggio displays. They say I am a poor imitator of art and that I have no creative skills and that my images are repetitive and dark. The list is endless. I could go on. I won’t let it affect me. They know nothing about me.’
‘But there must be gallery owners or art dealers who could represent you. A friend of mine has a gallery in New York. I will tell him. I will help–’
‘He’ll be like all the others. They profess to be experts but they don’t even agree with each other. It’s a battle of egos and reputation. They have no idea about art or its meaning. They’re only interested in money and what sells and how to rip people off. They’re an unscrupulous bunch of crooks – and I don’t need them.’
‘What about Sandra Jupiter or that other lady who owns her own gallery…’
‘Phyllis Laverty.’
‘Yes, wouldn’t she help you?’
‘I wouldn’t ask them. They only know me as a photographer besides they are no different to any other art dealers. They’re just as corrupt.’
‘That’s a little–’
‘It’s true!’ I interrupt. ‘Look at the originals that come to light. They can’t decide if they’re fakes or forgeries. Besides I don’t care any more. I’m a photographer now. I have only painted this for you – as a favour. It’s my last painting. ’
She ignores me. She doesn’t believe me.
‘Is this yours too?’ She moves over to a second easel facing the window. ‘This style is so different.’
‘It’s a watercolour,’ I reply.
‘And so much smaller.’
It’s approximately three feet by three feet. She leans to examine it closer. ‘It’s very modern – very different.’
‘It’s Cubism. Be careful! It’s still wet. It’s a commission for an Italian and it’s what sells in the gallery. Look…’ I flick through a stack of paintings propped against the wall pulling them out at random. ‘This one is a Frampton, this one a Dali. Here look at this one – hey presto – it’s a Picasso.’
‘Did you do them all?’
‘No! Other artists paint here; students, local artists, Carmen – a friend who once went out with Javier – Dolores gives them a roof over their head and they paint for her. It’s what the tourists want. And they sell. When someone likes a painting and can’t afford to pay millions for the original they are happy to pay a few hundred euros for a copy to hang on their wall.’
‘Is Carmen your girlfriend?’
The bluntness of her question takes me by surprise. ‘No.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘I don’t want a relationship. I don’t trust anyone. They all betray you in the end. It’s human nature.’
‘Not all men are the same. Michael was the only man I ever trusted–’
‘And he lied to you. But it’s not just men – it’s people. They can’t help themselves. My parents were as bad. When I was thirteen I pretended that they weren’t my parents. I spent hours on my own and I found refuge in churches, monasteries and chapels.
‘It was solitude. It was somewhere to go. It gave me peace from the never-ending arguments and it gave me security in their continual gypsy wandering. I spent hours studying paintings, sculptures, stained–glass windows and evening after evening I began studying the bible. I even had this tattoo done on my sixteenth birthday. I pretended I was eighteen.’
I turn around and pull up my shirt revealing the tattoo across my back.
‘It’s the betrayal – in the Garden of Eden. If God couldn’t trust Adam and Eve then who could he trust? Man is always out for himself and nothing has changed.’ I pull down my shirt. ‘After Mama died I went crazy for a while and I thought that I belonged to the Virgin Mary and that she would look after me. I had an affinity with her. I understood her sadness and pain. But no one was there for me. Then for a while I took love from where ever I could find it. I surrounded myself with lovers: men, women, strangers and friends but then I realized…’ I glance outside at the blue sky in an attempt to quell my tears. ‘None of them ever loved me – it was purely sex.’
‘I’m so sorry, Mikky.’ She doesn’t move but her voice tremors.
‘It doesn’t matter – I am who I am. This is me and this is now.’
‘If I could change things I would, believe me–’ She breaks off midsentence. Her hand is warm on my arm and her touch is soft and caring. ‘Knowing that I gave you away was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It was more painful than anything I have ever been through. If I could change–’
‘You’re a very good actress. You must have been excellent on stage.’ I pull away from her. ‘Your painting will be finished by the end of the week. I can send it to you.’
‘I’m happy to stay until then.’
‘I need to concentrate,’ I say with deliberate malice. ‘I don’t want you here.’
‘Roy promised to sell the Vermeer to a Romanian businessman. You took it from Mrs Green’s house and I want to know where it is. You must return it. It’s called stealing.’
‘You hardly think Mrs Green got it legally.’
‘She paid for it.’
‘Says who?’ I stand defiantly with my hand on my hips so she can see my strength and the muscles in my arms.
‘Javier says she bought it from an art dealer.’
‘A crook in Holland–’
‘A reputable dealer in Bruges.’
‘Yeah right,’ I laugh. ‘Why are you so bothered?’
‘Because it doesn’t belong to you – it belonged to Mrs Green and it must be returned to her estate or to the authorities or those in charge, an
d they can do what they want with it.’
‘Listen to me, a Vermeer painting supposed to be one of the most sought after and expensive in the world – worth approximately 200 million pounds was stolen over ten years ago from an art gallery in Boston. You hardly think it is going to turn up hanging on the wall in a house in Strand-On-The-Green, where an old lady says she bought it from a reputable dealer in Bruges?’
‘You must give it back.’
‘She’s dead!’
Josephine winces at the coldness in my tone but I continue theorising.
‘The estranged son turns up out of the blue with debt problems knowing she has money. He thinks the Vermeer is the real thing but it isn’t and these businessmen were stupid enough to believe him and now he’s trying to blame someone else.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a fake or not. It doesn’t belong to you.’
‘I haven’t got it. Roy’s lying – he has the painting.’
‘Javier says, it isn’t the same one.’
‘It must be.’
‘Roy left the painting that you substituted on your doorstep. Javier says it’s not the same painting as the one hanging in Mrs Green’s house before she died. It’s a poor substitute.’
‘He never saw the one hanging in her house.’
‘He knows by the way it was put back in the frame.’
‘So you believe Javier, over me?’ I bang my fist on the bench.
She raises her voice. ‘In this instance – yes. I know you stole the painting. You think money will save you and give you the security you crave but believe me it won’t! I’ve been there and I know. You can never run from who you are or where you came from–’
‘You can say that again,’ I shout. A flashback of my empty childhood shocks me: another time, another place and another mother. The image is so vivid of Mama but in an instance her face is gone and I’m standing before a wily and manipulative woman who says she is my birth mother – my own flesh and blood.
We glare at each other. Her chest is heaving as heavily as my own.
‘Where is the painting, Mikky?’ she asks quietly.
I pout like a small child. ‘Everyone wants the painting for themselves.’
‘That maybe true but one thing is certain. It does not belong to you.’ She raises an eyebrow.