Masterpiece

by Janet Pywell

  ‘It’s with a friend. You hardly think I was going to carry a painting in my handbag,’ I reply.

  ‘Okay. So return it to Roy and that will be the end of the matter.’

  ‘It doesn’t belong to him.’

  ‘Who does it belong to – you?’ She laughs. ‘You’re a thief but you’re not stupid. I trust you to do the right thing. It won’t bring you luck – it won’t buy what you are looking for.’

  ‘It belongs to whoever has it in their possession.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me as if I’m stupid! I probably know far more about stolen artwork that you do.’ She turns away from me and says in a more reasonable tone. ‘Do you not understand? If Roy believes you’ve stolen the original he will stop at nothing. I know the sort of man he is. He will come after you–’

  ‘He doesn’t know I have it.’ I begin restacking the paintings on the ground.

  ‘It won’t take him long to work it out. Just like I did–’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘That’s what I said when some thugs came looking for something I once had.’

  ‘But you are not me. We’re two different people.’

  ‘He will hurt you.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’ I finish restacking the canvasses.

  ‘Return the painting, Mikky. If it’s money you want then I will help you. I will promote you. I will hold dinners and fund raising events or whatever it takes. I will make sure that your work is seen and recognised. I have some very good contacts and I will help you get known for your creative talents but not for being a dead art thief. Please, Mikky. Let me help you. Let me be the mother that I was never able to be before. Let me make it up to you.’

  I smile slowly. ‘I’ll tell you what – the Vermeer is a forgery – so go to the dealer in Bruges. Speak to him. Find out the truth and if it’s a fake I will keep it but if it is the original then I will return it.’

  She seems to weigh up my suggestion. ‘Promise?’

  There’s a noise downstairs, the door opens and a voice calls out. ‘Mikky? Where are you? Guess what?’ The sound of running flip-flops on the stairs precedes an elfin face and a breathless girl. ‘Mikky! Guess –wha– oh? Hello? You’re with someone, sorry…’

  Maria looks like her grandmother. At only thirteen years old she has the same disconcerting and hypnotic look in her eye as Dolores but she is the shape and size of a young boy. Her hair is cropped short and she rubs her nose nervously looking from me to Josephine and then back to me again. Her eyes are placed wide apart giving her an expression of wariness like a trapped fox.

  ‘What’s up, Maria?’ I ask. ‘Que te pasa? Does Dolores – does Grandma – want me? It’s okay. Josephine’s cool. You can tell me.’

  ‘There’s someone watching the gallery. He’s been sitting in the bar all morning and Antonio says he doesn’t take his eyes off the door. He takes photographs and makes notes.’

  ‘What does he look like? Is he ugly? Medium height with long blondish hair?’

  ‘Antonio said to tell you, it was the man who was here last week.’

  ‘Karl Blakey.’ I glance at Josephine and she pales. ‘Do you think he knows – about us – our…?’

  She shakes her head and shrugs.

  ‘Go to Bruges, Josephine – go and find out if it’s a forgery then you can leave me in peace,’ I urge. I want to get her out of the way. It’s time for the next phase of my plan – the one where I disappear forever.

  Josephine pauses at the top of the stairs then without a word she leaves and I hear the door slam behind her.

  I grin at Maria. ‘Phew!’

  ‘And what’ll I do?’ she asks.

  ‘You, my angel, can go to the post office.’

  ‘Post office?’

  ‘Yes. This is a commission for an Italian Count. I need to wrap it up and send it. Give me a hand?’

  Her face lights up as if I have given her the best present and the wheels of the next phase of my plan turn into motion.

  ‘Mikky? It’s Javier.’

  ‘Hi.’ I hold the phone against my ear and move around the studio stretching the muscles in my arms and neck.

  ‘You haven’t returned my calls.’

  ‘I’m angry with you. You told Josephine where I was and now Karl is hounding me.

  ‘I asked him to warn you. He is not as bad as you think he is.’

  ‘And Josephine?’

  ‘She cares about you. She told me that she’s spoken to you. We’re worried. Roy thinks I have the painting and he won’t take no for an answer. Karl spoke to the Romanian and Roy has three days to get the painting.’

  ‘It’s a forgery. And if Roy believes that the one his mother owned is the original then he’s delusional.’

  ‘It should be returned to the Museum,’ he insists.

  ‘It’s not the original.’

  ‘What are you playing at, Mikky? You are the only person who could have swapped the painting.’

  ‘Why would I take–?’

  ‘You wanted to live in this area. You wanted to get close to Mrs Green and I think you made her your friend with the intention of stealing the painting.’

  ‘I suppose you processed this theory of yours with Karl?’

  There is silence for a minute then he replies.

  ‘Karl helped me piece it all together and as I can’t walk I sent him to warn you.’

  ‘How thoughtful.’

  ‘What’s happening to you, Mikky? I don’t know who you are.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, Javier – who are you? I always thought our friendship was important but you have betrayed me.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. These men want the painting.’

  ‘And what is your role in all of this, Javier? What do you want?’

  ‘I want to protect you, Mikky.’

  ‘You’ve stitched me up. I bet you or Karl have already told Roy where I am.’ And I know from his silence that I have spoken the truth.

  I’m lying in bed with a cool cotton sheet across my naked body but I cannot sleep. I punch my pillow and turn on my side gazing at the patterns and shadows the moonlight creates as it streams in through the open window at the far end of the room.

  My mobile tinkles with a text message so I flick on the lamp and squint in the darkness.

  You’re in danger. Where is the Vermeer? KB.

  I type slowly and truthfully.

  I have no idea.

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘I shut my eyes in order to see.’

  Paul Gauguin

  I lay in bed gazing at the ceiling thinking about the details of my plan. It’s not ideal and it’s not the best solution but I will be prepared for Roy. I think of what I will tell him – the truth about Josephine will let me off the hook. It’s a shock and I want to avoid any publicity but I’ll spin a tale of sadness and I will cry and tell him it’s the reason I left London. I smile perhaps I have adopted Josephine’s acting techniques.

  ‘Adopted, now there’s a word,’ I say aloud and stretch my hands pushing my palms against the wall above my head.

  I was born without a chance but it’s up to me to generate my own opportunities. It’s up to me to create my own path and my own destiny. There was – and only ever will be – me. I spent hours on my own, a solitary child whose parents never stayed in one place long enough for me to make friends. It made me introverted and I found it difficult to speak to children of my own age. Instead I spoke to priests, nuns and curators, even tourists or worshippers in churches and I saw their faces as they prayed. I listened to their diligent reverie and watched the way their lips moved as they clutched and counted beads reciting their sins, asking forgiveness, begging for a miracle.

  I knew the stages of the cross by heart, a million times over. I had seen depictions of them in all shapes and guises; painted, sculptured from wood or cast in reflected light from stained glass.

  I understood Christ; his humiliation and betrayal by his twelve closest friends but it
had been nothing compared to the betrayal of two mothers. At least Jesus had God on his side.

  I was her responsibility and she gave me away. How could she believe – for all these years – that she had given birth to a son? And what sort of man had my father been who could lie about me so easily – a liar, a thief – both?

  I swing my feet onto the floor and the cotton sheet slides from my naked body. I shower and brush my teeth.

  Who am I?

  I go over the details: I have already taken Mrs Green’s key and dropped it while I was standing in the middle of Kew Bridge. No breaking and entering, no fingerprints. No proof. Mrs Green is dead. Annie is dead. Roy has skipped bail.

  I dry my body and pull on jeans and a loose fitting Biffy Clyro T-shirt that I bought at their concert last year and I am whisking eggs when my mobile rings.

  ‘Mikky?’

  ‘Sí,’

  ‘It’s me. It’s your moth– Josephine. I’m in Bruges. He’s admitted it’s the original and he’d made a deal with Mrs Green.’

  ‘He’s winding you up.’

  ‘Javier suspects you took it and so does Karl. But I know, Mikky. I know you took it. I’m going to meet a friend of Glorietta’s. He’s a policeman in Barcelona. He can give you advice–’

  ‘Not interested–’

  ‘He’s with the Art Squad. Trust me. I will tell him. You must return it. I will not let you behave like this. You’re better than a common art thief. I will not let you behave like your father–’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Like…’

  ‘I heard. Don’t be so moralistic. You’re the one who slept with your father-in-law.’

  ‘Mikky, I–’

  ‘Listen to me, Josephine. The painting is mine and I never want you to come here again.’

  ‘Please, Mikky–’

  ‘You want the Vermeer for yourself. You’ve lost everything. You have nothing–’

  ‘I didn’t–’

  ‘I don’t want to see you and if you start following me I will get you arrested so just leave me alone.’ It’s an unrealistic threat but I need to keep her away.

  I hang up the phone but it rings immediately. I don’t recognise the number but I know his voice.

  ‘Mikky?’

  ‘What do you want, Karl?’

  ‘Roy has been here – he’s pissed off.’ His voice is husky and faint.

  ‘You told him where I was…’

  ‘I’ve a black eye and I think a few broken ribs–’

  ‘Fuck off, Karl.’

  I toss the phone down and breathe deeply. Now the end begins. How can I survive and keep the masterpiece?

  That evening Dolores smokes continuously. We are sitting on the terrace of her villa on the outskirts of Arta. The sun has long since set and I’m wearing a warm fleece, listening to the clicking of the crickets and enjoying a glass of Armagnac.

  I have told her. ‘Josephine is my biological mother,’ I repeat softly.

  Dolores replenishes my glass. She has a cheroot clasped firmly between her lips and she frowns in concentration listening to me.

  ‘At first I wanted her to like me. I wanted her approval. I wanted to be special. Someone she would look up to and respect and be proud to call her daughter but now I don’t – I don’t care.’

  A sea breeze is blowing cool on my cheeks and I push a strand of stray hair behind my ears.

  I have also told Dolores about Mrs Green and how Roy believes I have the painting. ‘And I am the only one who would know it was a fake, Dolores, but he’s going to come after me anyway.’

  ‘We must not take any chances.’

  Maria wanders out onto the terrace with a new bottle of brandy. ‘Should we tell the Guardia Civil?’ she asks.

  Dolores takes the bottle from her granddaughter. ‘No police – officially – but I will telephone a friend in Palma. He has helped me a few times in the past.’

  ‘No police,’ I say.

  ‘You need to be safe. What about your father?’

  ‘If he knew a stolen painting was involved he would sell me to the highest bidder. I won’t go to him.’ I stand up and stretch my aching shoulder muscles.

  ‘Would you stay with Carmen and Yolanda? You know she’s the curator at the Picasso Museum now?’ Dolores squints, lifts her glasses and rubs smoke from her eye.

  ‘I haven’t decided but when I go away it must be our secret. No one must know.’ I lean on the balustrade overlooking the garden where olive, orange and lemon trees fill the air with heavy scent. I take a few paces down the steps into the shadow of the villa and inhale the pine trees that, in the summer, provide welcome shade to the garden. I remember my first summer here and the swimming pool beyond the rocky wall where comfortable rattan sun loungers lay under windswept Tamarind trees. In the distance almond, fig and olive trees are dotted along the undulating hills branching out like Indian headdresses and I experience a sense of deep sadness. I cannot stay here. It’s time for me to move on.

  Sounds of a television from the villa next door and snatches of a broken conversation reach me in the solitude of the garden. A motorbike accelerates on the street and the crickets busy themselves clicking in the night air. The familiar sounds have a calming influence and my heart slows and I breathe more easily, stretching the taught tendons in my neck and yawning with satisfaction. It’s time I found a place of my own with no more running but first I must be prepared. I can only brazen it out. The time has come.

  The next morning I lay dozing and the neighbour’s dog is yapping when the door to the street slowly opens. The smell of paint, clay and varnish must tickle her nasal passages and she sneezes loudly. She wouldn’t make a very good burglar.

  I curl up in bed like a foetus but she pulls the duvet and raises her voice.

  ‘Get up, Mikky! Put some clothes on, now.’ Her American accent is stronger when she’s angry.

  Stretching lazily like a cat in warm sunshine I open my eyes and gaze up at her smiling with amusement, watching the horror and shock on her face as she scans my body.

  ‘Oh my, God – get up!’ Josephine says. ‘Cover yourself.’

  ‘Don’t you want to see your baby naked?’

  I want to upset her and I rise slowly to my feet watching her eyes travel over my body.

  ‘Well?’ I ask. ‘You like?’

  ‘You didn’t invent tattoos. So don’t think you did.’ She picks up a pair of shorts and my creased T-shirt from the floor and shoves them into my chest. ‘Get dressed!’

  ‘This is Peter’s Betrayal,’ I say pointing to the image that covers the lower part of my stomach. ‘And this is The Supper at Emmaus.’ I point to my right thigh. ‘I’m sure you’ll recognise this one The Last Supper?’ I hold out my left leg and her eyes remain fixed on the skilled artwork covering my body. I’m a walking religious icon.

  ‘But this is my tour de force.’

  She raises her eyes to my chest and breasts.

  ‘It’s the most perfect death scene, don’t you think?’

  Salome is gloating victoriously as she lifts St. John the Baptist’s bloody head with bulging eyes from a golden platter. Seven colourful veils wind around my waist and envelop my nipples. ‘You should get one, Josephine. You said, we’re alike, didn’t you?’

  I prowl naked toward the kitchen, leaving her to stare after me, enjoying her discomfort.

  ‘Not at this present time, you’re behaving like a spoilt and difficult child.’

  ‘And you are like a wilful and angry mother.’ I search the fridge, open a bottle of chilled water and drink thirstily. ‘Why have you come back? If it’s for the painting – I don’t have it.’

  ‘We have until six o’clock and then the Guardia Civil will be here.’

  ‘Oh, so you’ve come to save my soul?’

  She stands barely a metre away from me and tilts her head to one side. We’re the same height and her overlarge mouth and broad nose resemble mine.

  Why did I not see this before?


  Her eyes rest on my forearm and Scream; swirling volcanic colours, symbolic of the horrors and insanity I went through. Her eyes darken and when she looks at me her face is pained and tired.

  ‘Why did you have the Madonna tattooed on your finger?’

  ‘Because she’s the ultimate truth, she is what motherhood is all about; forgiveness, love, understanding and sacrifice…’

  She takes a small icon of the Madonna from her pocket.

  ‘Take it.’ Josephine thrusts it into my hand.

  I trail my nail across the icon’s body and twirl it in my fingers before holding it to the light. The detail, the curves and the edges, her cheekbones and her shoulders are exquisite.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘It’s the one you showed me in Dresden.’

  ‘I had believed the role was mine. I thought I was Tosca. It was the greatest role I ever played. Glorietta Bareldo gave it to me on the evening of my last performance and I believe this Madonna saved my life.’

  I turn the icon in my hand.

  ‘Afterward, she visited me in hospital and then she took me home to her villa. She cared for me and showed me what forgiveness, love and friendship truly are. She was my nurse and she became my friend and I began to heal. She was the first person I told about you and she helped me find a private detective. She gave me encouragement and hope. Finally, I had a purpose and a reason for living.’

  ‘You didn’t think to involve a professional? One who would offer counselling?’ I place the small icon onto the worktop beside the scalpel, next to the marmalade.

  ‘It’s not too late to seek professional support. I can get help for you. There’s a specialist in London who…’

  ‘It must have been hard to see me for the first time and not to say anything. Why didn’t you tell me sooner – in Dresden?’

  ‘Because, I wanted you to like me for me, and not because I was once famous. People have always wanted to know me because I was an opera star and rarely for the person I really was – or am.’

  ‘And Michael?’

  ‘I loved your father. He was the only man who ever understood me.’