by Leanne Hall
Iris’s breath fogged the glass; she wiped it clear. The shadows were gone.
There was a knock at her door and Elna carried in a TV tray.
‘Supper?’
Iris reversed from the window. ‘Did you give the envelope to Aunt Ursula?’
‘She is nowhere in sight, but I leave it on her bed.’
Elna arranged a bowl of tomato soup and a plate of toasted cheese sandwiches on the coffee table.
‘What does Aunt Ursula do all day?’ asked Iris.
‘So tomorrow you go to Barcelona?’
‘I guess so.’ Iris picked up a sandwich. Elna never answers my questions, she realised. No one here answers my questions!
Elna didn’t leave. She stood and twiddled the ends of her hair instead.
‘What is it?’ Iris spoke with her mouth full, but her mum wasn’t exactly there to tell her off.
‘Your fingernails are terrible.’
Elna prised Iris’s hand off her sandwich. Elna’s own fingernails were pearly white with fluorescent orange tips. ‘You cannot go to the city like this. I paint them for you.’
‘Elna, how long have you worked for Aunt Ursula?’
‘It has been five years. Sometime I think I will never escape this house of crazy people. What colour you want? I go get it.’
Aunt Ursula had said that Elna was new, Iris thought. But five years is a long time. In five years I’ll almost be finishing high school.
‘Purple?’ she said eventually, trying to be polite. ‘I like purple.’
The sky was lavender when they left Bosque de Nubes for Barcelona the following morning. It was cool outside, but Iris wound the car window all the way down anyway. The house looked stately as they pulled away.
The forest was all twisted shadows in the morning light. As they gathered speed around a corner, Iris glimpsed something moving in the shadows. Where the forest was darkest, there was a momentary glint, down low.
‘Wait!’ Iris jolted up in her seat.
‘What is it?’ asked Aunt Ursula. But they had already zoomed past.
Iris looked through the back window but there was nothing more to see. There had been a shape, though, she was sure of it. A dark object moving fast—really fast—through the trees. It had been close to where Jordi had said he’d seen something.
After they’d crossed the first lot of mountains, the rain started: first soft, then hard.
‘It always rains in late October.’
Aunt Ursula pulled a book and her reading glasses from her bottomless handbag. Her cheeks were plush and rosy, as if she’d been using special face cream.
‘Don’t worry. I’d bet my little finger it will be sunny by the time we reach Barcelona.’
Craggy mountains rose beside them. Terracotta-roofed towns clung to the lower slopes; below were the neat lines of vineyards.
As Aunt Ursula had predicted, the rain soon stopped and the sun came out. Every now and then Señor Garcia would silently point out something of interest: a farm, a donkey, a bridge spanning a ravine.
Once they’d reached the outskirts of Barcelona, the houses and roads seemed to go on forever. The streets started big, then got narrower. Houses were replaced with apartment buildings. They drove down a wide, busy road, surrounded by scooters and delivery vans and taxis.
The car eventually stopped outside a gargantuan white building with walls that rippled like shaken bedsheets.
‘Meet us outside El Angel at two o’clock,’ Aunt Ursula said to Señor Garcia. Iris caught a glimpse of Señor Garcia’s heavy eyebrows and straight nose in the rear-view mirror before she hopped out of the car.
‘What will he do while we are in the gallery?’ asked Iris.
‘I suspect he’ll head for the hills, though he won’t tell me. That creature has as many secrets as I do.’
Aunt Ursula swept Iris across the plaza, through a door, and past the front desk of the contemporary art museum. The ticket clerk waved them through.
They walked up a ramp to the next level, then kept going. Aunt Ursula’s rings struck the handrail musically and Iris glimpsed the plaza below. The people walking across it had already been reduced to specks.
Iris pointed them out. ‘Ants.’
‘Exactly,’ Aunt Ursula agreed. Today she was wearing a multicoloured Mexican skirt and a flowing blue kimono. Depending on how she held her arms, she either resembled a moth, a witch or a kite.
Iris stared as they passed a group of students sketching a sculpture on the next landing. It was a large metal spider perched on long spindly legs, its tiny round body suspended above their heads.
The cool kids were easy to pick out, at the rear of the pack, looking bored, refusing to sketch. Maybe high school was the same all over the world.
Iris and Aunt Ursula walked the rest of the way in silence until they reached the exhibition on the third floor, with the title Convulsive Beauty printed across the entrance arch.
Sounds like the name of a heavy metal band.
‘I have it on good authority that your painting is in here,’ Aunt Ursula said.
Iris’s nervousness peaked as they entered. There were paintings on the walls, sculptures hanging from the roof, glass displays of magazines and sketchbooks, and even a film projecting in a nook.
Iris kept close to Aunt Ursula as they paused at a colourful painting of a woman with monkeys sitting on her shoulders.
‘I met her when I lived in Mexico,’ said Aunt Ursula. ‘A wonderful woman.’
‘Aunt Ursula, is all this stuff surreal?’ Iris still wasn’t sure she understood what made Uncle James and these other people’s art different from others.
‘I suppose so. But that’s just a label, Iris, I wouldn’t trouble yourself about it. Think of this art as surprising and odd, as dreams can often be.’
Iris had never dreamt of monkeys, but she liked the painting a lot. She could have looked at it for quite some time and not get bored.
Aunt Ursula did not let them linger, though.
‘It’s not in here,’ she said, ushering Iris along. ‘Ah! Now we’re cooking with gas!’
The next room was as big as the ballroom, and crowded. A tour group gathered around a guide with a flag. A whole corner had been devoted to Uncle James’s work.
Iris tried to peer through the throng. She saw something familiar in the gaps between bodies.
‘Oh, Aunt Ursula, look!’
The insect portrait was larger than any in the ballroom—and the funniest yet. The bug wore a judge’s wig and a bored expression. He raised a wooden hammer, as if about to deliver a verdict.
Iris scanned the walls until she found Iris and the Tiger. It was surprisingly small, no bigger than a tea towel, and it was housed in the plainest of wooden frames. She felt a momentary flush of disappointment.
In the painting, the original Iris stood at the window. Her hair made a golden halo around her pensive face, and her stripy brown jumper looked fuzzy enough to touch. She was barefoot. The trees had thousands of individually painted leaves, and patterned trunks.
Iris was no longer disappointed. The painting was small but perfect. She imagined herself standing at the circular window and looking at the churning ocean.
Iris Freer looked calm, but the purple trees were threatening and the sea dangerous.
Maybe Uncle James painted this after a bad dream? Iris thought, remembering Aunt Ursula’s words. Or perhaps it was an example of automatic art, like the Exquisite Corpse game—he had just painted whatever came into his head.
Aunt Ursula still stood near the entrance, talking to an old man in a beret and a younger woman. The woman was clasping Aunt Ursula’s hand, almost kissing it.
Iris got to work quickly, with her notebook, a pencil and a magnifying glass. She started with a section of sea, holding the magnifying glass close. A stern gallery attendant came over to check she wasn’t touching the canvas.
Iris checked every millimetre of sea until she was sure there wasn’t a tiger hidden in its
depths. After that she moved onto the forest, and then the very edges of the canvas. The eyeball tree appeared more intriguing than ever.
The tour group filed past.
‘An exquisite work,’ said a loud English voice behind Iris. ‘The famous painter James Freer at the peak of his power. He was nobody until he came to Spain, but something here agreed with him.’
‘Perhaps it was like that blues singer, Robert Johnson,’ chimed a softer voice. ‘Maybe Mr Freer sold his soul to the devil in return for talent.’
The louder woman was instantly dismissive. ‘It had something to do with the climate. And love.’ She said love as if she was talking about a hideous disease. ‘That’s his wife in the painting. He was very nearly disinherited because of her. She was a communist.’
‘Those artists were all communists, weren’t they? Ooh, I do adore these insects. Most comical.’
‘There’s quite a fascinating story about them. The insect portraits were only discovered after Freer’s death. They’d been stored in a farmhouse attic somewhere. Absolutely dozens of them. No one had any idea he’d been so obsessed.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘They sold for a great deal of money at auction. Galleries and collectors all over the world scrambled to secure one.’
‘Do you think there are more out there?’ The second woman grew excited. ‘Can you imagine if we found the genuine article in a dusty junk shop?’
The two women moved on, their heels sharp on the floor.
Iris packed her things into her backpack. Her suspicions—that the tiger had disappeared from the painting long ago—had been confirmed. But even though she’d looked as hard as she could at Iris and the Tiger, she had the sense that she still hadn’t seen it clearly.
Aunt Ursula had ended her conversation by the door and was now contemplating another painting by the Mexican monkey woman. Her kimono wings were slack and she seemed a little sad.
Perhaps she misses all her old friends, Iris mused. They were sure to be scattered around the world or dead.
Iris wandered into the last room, which had a wall of touch screens. The school group from earlier were scrolling through digital versions of the artworks.
Iris sat down at a screen. She ran through the alphabet until she came to ‘F’. To her surprise, there were two entries for Freer: FREER, J and FREER, U.
Iris clicked on FREER, U and a headline flashed before her:
Sister fools art world with bold prank
There was a photo of a young woman flanked by security guards. Iris tapped and zoomed in. It was Aunt Ursula, dressed in a men’s dinner suit.
Iris scrolled down to the text.
In 1951, New Yorkers were the victims of an elaborate hoax at the opening night of James Freer’s exhibition, Self. Attendees were engrossed by Mr Freer’s speech on the meaning of many of his paintings, only to later discover that they had in fact been addressed by the artist’s younger sister, Ursula.
Those present were bamboozled by Miss Freer’s impersonation, with many reporting that they had no idea they’d been talking to a young woman. It later transpired that Miss Freer had hung several of her own amateur paintings among her brother’s without detection. Many art collectors said they could no longer trust the gallery or the artist. Mr Freer did not make an appearance at the exhibition opening.
Iris leant back from the screen. After the melting-on-the-stairs incident, she probably shouldn’t be surprised that Aunt Ursula had been pranking all her life. Young Ursula wore the most triumphant look on her face in the photo, as if she was pleased to have been caught.
The hoax was a funny story, but Iris felt more unsettled than ever.
Is there something else I should be paying attention to? she wondered. She slid off the stool to find her great-aunt.
Lunch happened underground, in a restaurant where the walls were cold bluestone and lanterns cast shards of light. It could have been any time of day at all, because there were no windows. Everyone else in the restaurant was an adult; Iris was careful to sit up straight and use her cutlery correctly.
Aunt Ursula looked pale and tired. She moved her food around her plate without eating.
‘What did you think of your painting, young Iris?’
‘It was beautiful. The colours were brighter in real life.’
Iris stabbed a croquette. She was incredibly hungry.
‘But I think I’m missing something with it. Was it definitely painted at Bosque de Nubes? The trees look right, but not everything is there, so…’
‘Aha, I get your point. You’re wondering about the sea, aren’t you?’
‘Oh. Yeah, the sea.’
‘The coast is hundreds of kilometres from Bosque de Nubes, so how could there be an ocean in the painting?’
Aunt Ursula fished in her tapestry handbag and drew out a flat case that held a cigar. She lit it and began puffing clouds of dirty smoke into the air.
Iris glanced around. No one else in the restaurant was smoking.
‘As I said, everyone was very interested in dreams at the time. In dreams, water symbolises emotions. So I think that James was telling us how he felt about Iris. Then, of course, there’s the tiger—’
Iris drew a sharp breath.
‘I’m sure you’ve noticed there’s no tiger in the painting. That’s typical James…’
Iris waited, but that was the end of Aunt Ursula’s sentence.
‘Are there any tigers near Bosque de Nubes?’ she asked, eventually.
‘No. Mountain goats, maybe, and I’d say definitely some wild boar. I think the title was a practical joke. But tell me, Iris, in your opinion, is Iris and the Tiger really James’s best painting? Or perhaps you find the insect portraits more interesting?’
Iris tried not to get annoyed about the change in topic.
‘Hang on—do you mean there was never any tiger in the painting?’
‘That’s correct, yes.’
Iris slumped into her seat. She felt deflated.
Aunt Ursula has no idea how important the tiger is to me. I thought this was something I could solve on my own. She tried to rally her spirits. I’m sure Uncle James wasn’t playing a prank by calling it that. He had to have a reason.
She remembered another practical joke.
‘I found something else interesting at the gallery.’
Iris showed Aunt Ursula the photo she’d taken with her phone of the touchscreen.
The older woman’s face brightened. ‘Where was that?’
‘It was on the computer.’
With her head bent down, Iris saw that Aunt Ursula needed to dye her hair again.
‘Why did you do it, Aunt Ursula?’
‘Oh, well, my brother considered it to be very funny. And I was…rather angry, actually.’
‘What about?’
‘It was like this: the male artists back then were a club, and women could be part of it, if they were someone’s wife or girlfriend. Or you belonged if you were a muse—that is, if you were pretty enough to photograph or paint. I was none of those things.’
Aunt Ursula rearranged the folds of her kimono.
‘I also wanted to make great art—I wanted it more than anyone. But people wouldn’t take me seriously.’
‘How did you do it?’ Iris asked. ‘You fooled everyone!’
Aunt Ursula puffed on her cigar.
‘I’m a very good actress. I was always asked to perform in art films despite my plain looks. That silly Elna of ours, she wants to be on one of those terrible soap operas, but she appreciates nothing of the craft.’
Iris crossed her fork over her knife.
‘Was Uncle James disinherited because of a communist?’ she asked, carefully.
That made Aunt Ursula laugh.
‘Oh my! All the skeletons in the closet are rattling!’ She tapped the cigar against her teacup. ‘That’s only half true. My parents were displeased when James eloped with Iris, but it had nothing to do with communism. They didn’t appr
ove of her family background, that’s all. James didn’t lose his inheritance. Not like your father.’
‘Oh, oh yeah. Exactly.’ Iris did her best not to fidget.
‘It was a terrible choice for your father to make. Please his family or marry the woman he loved. Quite noble, when you think about it. Giving up his share of the family fortune—a considerable fortune, if what I’ve heard is correct.’
Iris tried not to flinch at the idea of her parents and their noble love, but in the end she couldn’t help it.
‘Gross,’ she said. Ursula did not disagree.
It had been so long since Iris had heard her phone ring that she almost didn’t recognise the sound. She scrabbled through her backpack. The elevated terrace was crowded with tourists taking photos and admiring the view.
‘Hello?’
‘Oh. Iris. Well, this is a surprise.’
‘Mum, you rang me—how can it be a surprise?’
‘I’ve tried, of course, but it’s never gone through before. This line is very clear.’
‘Aunt Ursula and I are in Barcelona for the day. We’re at Parc Güell.’
Iris sat down on the long mosaic bench that snaked across the terrace. She could see treetops and mottled roofs and the towers of the Sagrada Familía, a famous cathedral. They were high above the city. Parc Güell was a cross between the Botanic Gardens and a carnival and a fairytale palace. Some of the buildings looked as if they had been made by elves.
Iris waited for her mum to speak.
‘Now, we got your message, Iris. It’s all very interesting, and your father and I want to thank you for the work you’ve done.’
Why is Mum being so weird? Iris wondered.
Aunt Ursula was in the distance, trying to coax a parrot to feed from her hand. She looked smaller, somehow, outside the confines of the estate. Even further away was Señor Garcia, awkwardly holding a parasol.
‘We think the key lies inside Aunt Ursula’s home, among the people closest to her.’
‘Um, okay. Well…I mean what about the developers? They’re more important than the housemaid, aren’t they?’
Iris heard muttering and interference.
‘I don’t think you should bother yourself with those outside concerns,’ said her mum. Again, there was muttering.