An Artistic Way to Go

by Roderic Jeffries

  ‘So the señor’s second marriage has been a happy one?’

  ‘It has.’

  ‘There have been no problems?’

  ‘Why should there be?’

  ‘It is an unfortunate fact that when a husband is considerably older than his wife, she sometimes seeks a companion of her own age.’

  ‘There’s been nothing like that.’

  Field had spoken with such emphasis that Alvarez gained the impression he had been denying the possibility to himself as much as to his listener. ‘You are a loyal friend.’

  ‘I have every reason to be. When my wife was so ill, Oliver went out of his way to help me. One does not forget that sort of thing.’

  There was, Alvarez thought, no doubting the sincerity with which Field had spoken.

  ‘There’s something more. Oliver gave, and gives, me the confidence I need to continue painting on my own account. Mary used to encourage me and say my work possessed a special quality, but I was sufficient of a realist to know that wives don’t make the truest critics. But then Davina and Oliver came to our place for a meal and Mary insisted on showing them my latest painting. He didn’t comment at the time and I presumed this was a silence of politeness, but later he said he’d been intrigued by a sense of quality and thought I had real potential and would I like him to help me in so far as he could? A question that didn’t have to be asked twice! Since then, he’s done everything he can to help, which potentially adds up to a lot because he still has contact with important people in the art world.’

  ‘And you are now successful?’

  ‘Shall we say, I’m improving. But Rembrandt isn’t ever going to have to move over.’

  ‘I wish you every success, señor … Tell me, have you recently heard the name Señor White; he is probably either an American or a Canadian?’

  Field thought for a while, then shook his head. ‘The name doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘He visited the señor here on Sunday morning, which raises the possibility that something happened between them which caused the señor to leave the house unexpectedly. I need to meet Señor White and ask him if that is indeed the case, but until I can identify him, it is impossible.’

  ‘Can’t Rachael help you?’

  ‘She does not know who he is or why he visited the señor and she was not at home at the time.’

  ‘What about Rosa or Clara?’

  ‘Unfortunately, they cannot help.’

  ‘Very frustrating!’

  ‘A common problem!’ He stood. ‘Thank you for being so frank.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t given you an unflattering picture? If I have, that’s wrong. Oliver has his faults, but who hasn’t? And it’s not given to many to have the inherent ability, taste, and confidence, to recognize and then promote a great artist in the face of indifference or ignorant hostility.’

  ‘You are referring to the person you mentioned earlier?’

  ‘Poperen used to be no more than a footnote to any article about the neo-impressionists; now he’s in the main text, thanks entirely to Oliver.’

  ‘Then indeed the señor is to be congratulated. But,’ Alvarez added lightly, ‘he would find my congratulations of small account since I know as little about art and artists as financiers and their mysteries. I have heard of the impressionists, of course, every time a painting is sold for more pesetas than a full ticket in El Gordo wins. But neo-impressionists? Are they a modern and unwelcome copy?’

  ‘Not quite, though there are critics who’d appear to approve of that definition.’ Enthusiasm for the subject spurred Field into speaking more quickly. ‘Theirs was the theory of optical mixtures – that one obtains brighter and truer secondary colours by making a series of dots of primary colours which at a certain distance mix in an onlooker’s eyes. Seurat and Pissarro are the best-known exponents.

  ‘Poperen was dismissed by the critics long after these artists and others had become valued. They called his work too strict and formal, too controlled to have any meaningful relationship with the fleeting effects and momentary forms that good work had. Of course, that was all tosh. What really upset them was the fact that Poperen, who pursued vice vigorously – he died at thirty-seven from the combined effects of syphilis and alcohol – did not separate his paintings from his vice.’

  ‘His paintings are obscene?’

  ‘Not at first glance. Indeed, one can only appreciate their obscenity by going right up to the painting which, of course, destroys the ethos of the theory. And further to confuse and annoy the critics, he gave his paintings titles that seemed to have no relevance – that was, unless and until one realized that these were a play on words and referred not to the main subjects, but to the “hidden” ones. The critics took all this as insults aimed directly and perversely at them. They were probably right … Does all that make sense?’

  ‘As I said, I’m afraid I know so little about art that…’ Alvarez became silent.

  ‘In other words, it sounds like arrant nonsense?… I tell you what. Come and look at two of the paintings and you’ll understand.’

  Alvarez was supremely uninterested in the artistic feuds of dead artists, but Field’s enthusiasm was such that he thought it would be churlish to say so. ‘That would be very interesting.’

  They went through into another room, half the size of the one they’d just left, which was both library and television room. On the wall facing the window hung two large paintings, in heavy, elaborate frames, above which were exhibition strip lights.

  ‘Viewing distance is critical, so you start by standing there.’

  Alvarez moved to where Field had indicated. The right-hand painting showed a river, filled with reflections, its banks spotted with flowers, that wound round to disappear from sight; a woman paddled at the edge of the water, where the bank was very low, and although her features were undefined, the viewer gained the impression that she was young, pretty, and romantically in love.

  ‘Now move to your left. Keep the same distance away.’

  In the second painting, a woman, again undefined yet unmistakably pretty, lay on a blanket on which was an unpacked hamper, in the centre of a field; beyond the field there was a wood; the sky, though clear overhead, promised stormy weather and by some alchemy of art, this raised in the viewer’s mind the impression that the woman’s lover, out of sight, was in some danger of which she had no immediate knowledge, but would soon learn.

  ‘Can you read the titles from there?’

  ‘I think so. The Cherry Biscuit.’

  ‘And the right-hand one?’

  He moved across. ‘Come Here.’

  ‘What do you make of those titles?’

  ‘They appear to have nothing to do with the paintings.’

  ‘“As meaningless as the work they should describe,” was one critic’s comment. And what offended him even more, since he was French, was that Poperen should use English titles … Now get as close as possible and look at the corners of the paintings.’

  He moved forward. The picture came out of focus, blurred, resolved into a myriad of dots which ceased to have any coherence. At this point, he first discerned figures in the top corners. Yet only when even closer, could he make them out. A naked man and woman were engaged in a popular variation of a well-known enjoyment. That such detail and sense of passion could be painted into such minute figures ironically left him far more conscious of the artist’s genius than did the compositions as a whole. He studied the figures in the left-hand corner – same variation, different position.

  ‘Now does the title make sense?’

  Come Here. Field had said that it referred to the ‘hidden’ composition. But it seemed not only an unnecessary exhortation, but also one that neither of the figures would at that moment be able to make.

  ‘Poperen had a Spanish father and an English mother, from whom he probably inherited his love of playing with words.’

  After a while, Alvarez said: ‘I’m afraid I have a very slow brain.’

&
nbsp; ‘Certainly no slower than all the critics who prided themselves on the brilliance of their intellects. It took an Englishman with a wide knowledge of Spanish slang to solve the riddle.’

  That provided him with the solution. He laughed.

  He moved to the left-hand painting. In the two bottom corners was the figure of a naked woman in a generous pose. Cherry Biscuit. Now that he knew there would be a double word play, he quickly understood.

  ‘His sense of humour has been described as third-form smut,’ Field said. ‘I think that that is being rather harsh.’

  ‘These paintings must be very valuable?’

  Field jiggled some coins in the pockets of his linen trousers. ‘The last major Poperens sold in London for a shade under four hundred thousand pounds. It’s probable that with the market indicating recovery, that figure will soon be overtaken.’

  Alvarez said, in somewhat awed tones: ‘Then there is nine hundred thousand pounds, or more, on the wall?’

  ‘I suppose the most generous estimate of their true value would be a hundred pounds each.’

  ‘But you said … I don’t understand.’

  ‘I was quoting the value of the genuine article. These two paintings are fakes, forgeries, or copies, depending on your definitions, and their only value is in their frames which are somewhat elaborate for modern tastes. Oliver has a love for Poperen’s work that equals a miser’s lust for gold; but he couldn’t afford to have even one of his minor paintings, having championed the artist so successfully. I’d done a fair amount of restoration work on Poperen’s paintings – particularly on one that was badly damaged – and Oliver, defying the purists who claim that a true connoisseur can never enjoy what’s false, asked me to see if I could make a reasonable copy of The Cherry Biscuit. He liked the result sufficiently to get me to do Come Here as well.’

  ‘You painted the figures in the corners?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But they are incredible!’

  ‘Only when you haven’t seen the genuine article.’

  Alvarez noted the touch of bitterness in Field’s voice. It seemed misplaced. Perhaps they were not as miraculously painted as the originals, but to an amateur they were the work of genius. ‘No wonder that Señor Cooper has had faith in your painting!’

  Field’s earlier diffidence suddenly returned. ‘There is an ocean of difference between following in another’s footsteps and leading the way … Yet when I become depressed, Oliver cheers me up by saying that I can become a leader. I hope he’s right.’

  ‘I’m sure he has to be. Is there a painting of yours in this house for me to see?’

  ‘I gave Oliver one, but I’m not certain where he’s hung it and I don’t like to look around; a bit too much like prying.’

  ‘That’s very understandable, so perhaps another time … Señor, may I ask you to do me a favour? Since you are an old friend, I feel it would be better if you, rather than I, explain to the señora that her husband’s car has been found, but that there is still no sign of him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Field said.

  CHAPTER 11

  The phone began to ring as Alvarez poured himself another drink. He passed the bottle to Jaime, who hid it under the table.

  ‘Is anyone going to answer the phone?’ Dolores demanded from the doorway of the kitchen.

  They were surprised by the question.

  ‘If you were paid to be idle, you’d be rich men.’ She marched past them and through to the front room.

  ‘If I could get my hands on that stupid old cow on television who said a loving husband would give a hand around the house, I’d tell her what I thought!’ Jaime drank.

  She returned. ‘It’s for you, Enrique.’ Her voice sharpened. ‘She says her name is Rosa. She sounds very young.’

  ‘Rosa Puta. She’s twelve and owns six fincas and three luxury flats along the Paseo Maritimo.’

  She held her head a little higher and her mouth a little tighter as she continued through to the kitchen.

  ‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Jaime muttered.

  ‘Only a joke,’ Alvarez said, as he stood.

  ‘But you know what she thinks of your jokes.’

  He picked up his glass and went through to the front room. For once, Jaime was probably right. Never bait a fighting bull, stroke a spitting serpent, or jest with a virtuous woman. He lifted the receiver.

  ‘It’s me, Rosa, from Ca’n Oliver. I phoned the post and they gave me your number. I thought you’d want to know that Señor White has been here.’

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘To speak to Señor Cooper.’

  ‘He didn’t know the señor had disappeared?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have called if he had, would he?’

  He realized that because his thoughts had raced ahead of his tongue, he had sounded stupid. ‘Was he surprised to hear that the señor was missing?’

  ‘If you ask me, he was more like angry. Kept asking questions. I told him, I didn’t know anything more than I’d said. So he left.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he gave any indication where he’s staying?’

  ‘Nothing like that. But knowing you was interested, I took the number of his car.’

  He was so surprised by this display of initiative, that he said: ‘I could kiss you for that.’

  ‘Then it’s a good job I didn’t get his address as well!’

  She gave him the registration number. The last two letters, CA, showed the car to be almost new. Remembering that White was a foreign visitor, the odds had to be that it was hired. He thanked her, said goodbye.

  He drained his glass. The obvious conclusion was that since White had not known Cooper was missing, he could not have had a hand in the other’s disappearance. But a clever man might reckon that to put a hand in a hornets’ nest would suggest to others that he had not known it was one. And even if White’s surprise, or anger, had been genuine and he had not known that Cooper was missing, he could in all probability explain why he had vanished … About to ring Traffic in Palma to ask them to trace the number, he heard sounds that made it clear luncheon was being served. He went through to the dining-room and sat, filled his tumbler with wine. ‘Where are the children?’

  Jaime said, ‘They’re out to lunch.’

  ‘Who with?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘They are at Cecilia’s,’ Dolores snapped as she handed a bowl to Alvarez. ‘Which is a very great mercy since they have not been shamed by hearing their uncle engage in an obscene conversation.’

  About to put the spoonful of Pancuit into his mouth, Alvarez stared at her with confused surprise. ‘Hear me doing what?’ Some of the bread and garlic soup spilled back into the bowl and he hastily put the spoon into his mouth.

  She served herself, sat.

  ‘You can’t think that Rosa is…’

  She interrupted him. ‘Being a respectable woman, I am not prepared to suggest what I thought when I heard my cousin say he wished to kiss a woman he himself described in a way I shall not repeat.’

  The inference was so ridiculous that he forgot the wise words about jesting with a virtuous woman. ‘Surely, being so respectable, they could only be respectable thoughts?’

  She looked at him with her dark-brown eyes flashing. ‘I have a headache,’ she announced.

  Jaime groaned.

  * * *

  A siesta was like a dream about paradise – when it was over, one longed to return but could not. It was twenty minutes later, during which time he’d enjoyed two cups of hot chocolate and two slices of coca, that Alvarez felt ready for work.

  He drove through the narrow, winding roads of the village, intending to park in the old square, only to find that this was closed to traffic because workmen were preparing it for the festival. He swore.

  Every side street seemed filled with cars, but eventually he found an empty parking spot by the health centre, only to lose it to a tourist. He swore again. Ten minutes later, he was force
d to park on the outskirts, which left him with a long walk to the post, a prospect that left him too exhausted to swear yet again.

  Breathless, sweating heavily, he slumped down in the chair in his office. He must, he finally accepted, give up smoking, reduce his drinking, and take up regular exercise.

  He phoned Traffic. Would they trace the ownership of the car number he was about to give them …

  He was interrupted. It had very recently been decreed that all such requests had to be made on the appropriate form and be countersigned by a superior officer. Forms were available only from Palma. Perhaps it would mean delay, but rules were rules … In turn, he interrupted. The identity of the car’s owner was urgently needed in order to pursue an important investigation and the superior chief, who was a Madrileño and therefore extremely short tempered, had declared that he would personally have the cojones of anyone who delayed the investigation …

  ‘Ring back in an hour’s time,’ snapped the other, annoyed to find himself outflanked.

  Alvarez replaced the receiver, leaned back in the chair. White had to offer the most promising lead, but this could not be followed up for the moment. So what was the identity of the man who had swum naked with the señora?

  Such heat as the island was now suffering sapped a man of all energy. His eyelids closed …

  * * *

  He left the post and walked across the square, now almost completely criss-crossed by white streamers, and up past the church. Slowing as the ground rose, he reached Carrer Almas, in the oldest part of the town. Outside the first house, an old couple were sitting in the shadows, enjoying the opportunity of conversing with passers-by as much as searching for a cooler freshness than they could find indoors. He chatted with them for a while, as custom dictated, before asking in which house Jorge Amoros lived. They directed him to one at the end of the road.