There followed a tense silence. If Eduardo’s comments had bothered Arthur, he certainly didn’t show it. After a few seconds, he got up to have a private word with Ibrahim. They spoke in hushed tones, in French. Then Ibrahim left the office. Arthur went back to his armchair, but didn’t sit. He stroked its leather back roughly, as though his fingers were unaccustomed to anything delicate.
“I hope you won’t mind my using the being informal tú with you…You want to find out who I am through a painting? Come on, you can’t be serious. You, better than anyone, should know that art is not truth: it’s nothing but ‘a lie that makes us realize truth…. The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.’ Do you know who made that incredible statement? A buddy of yours.”
Eduardo knew: it was Pablo Picasso. And in essence, he agreed. But the truth he was searching for was not a simple metaphor, an image. He examined Arthur’s profile with a critical eye, already unconsciously sketching him. The Greeks would have no doubt called him a beautiful man, but at the same time he seemed to transcend any such frivolity, to possess something much deeper. Something that a stranger to his life would never pick up on. The man was intriguing and captivating in equal measures.
“Art is the thing that brings us closest to the human psyche. We can’t lie to art.”
Arthur smiled, as if not taking Eduardo’s words very seriously.
“I remember having those sorts of ideals. I had them too myself, once. Beauty, truth. The distillation of the human soul into one astonishing sentence, one magisterial brushstroke, one magical note…But I no longer believe in art’s capacity for redemption.”
“Then why did you ask me to come?” Eduardo asked, his voice coming out hoarse.
Arthur approached and sat on the arm of the chair, his arms crossed. He inspected Eduardo as though he were a little animal.
“Logically, I, too, did a little research on you. I know everything: that you lost your family, that you killed the man who caused the accident, that you spent thirteen years locked up, and that you’ve tried to kill yourself half-a-dozen times…So my question is: is there an element of the artist in his own work? Are you going to paint me, or are you attempting some sort of self-portrait, Eduardo? What’s the link between us? Loss? Guilt? Remorse?”
Eduardo felt like an idiot.
“I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”
Arthur remained pensive.
“I also found out that the idea of doing my portrait didn’t come from you. You work for Gloria A. Tagger, the mother of the boy who died in the accident.”
Eduardo felt the back of his neck grow hot. He went to say something, but Arthur cut him off.
“Did you know that Mallarmé had a son, Anatole, who died when he was eight years old? Mallarmé wrote hundreds of fragments and notes for a funeral poem he never managed to finish. The poet wanted to bring his son back through his genius, give him back the life that Death had snatched away. He never managed to finish it—he, who could do anything with words. He never could cover the emptiness left by ‘the wind of nothingness / that breathes…and a wave / that carries you away.’ He didn’t even dare to write that his son was dead, because doing so would have required admitting that it was true: ‘no I will not / tell it to you—for then you / would disappear—and I would be alone / weeping for you, me, / mingled.’ I can picture his quiet, candlelit hours, pen in the air. And then his desperation, the inability of words to truly unleash and express his pain, night after night.”
He regarded Eduardo as though he’d already gotten from him what he wanted and had no need to ask anything else.
“What that woman is trying to do is not forget her child, by means of the hatred she ascribes me.”
“Maybe not,” Eduardo ventured. “It may be that our mutual losses are something we all have in common.”
Arthur let out a sneering laugh. “You don’t know much about Gloria A. Tagger, do you?”
He’s going to say no, Eduardo thought, distressed.
But Arthur spread his hands and nodded. “Where would you like me to pose?”
That meant he was saying yes; it took a few seconds for the confirmation to reach Eduardo’s brain.
“I, I haven’t thought about it yet,” he stammered. “At my place, or any other place. At first, all I’ll need is a few sketches. Then we can figure it out.”
“We can start tomorrow, early.”
“All right,” Eduardo agreed, still in shock.
Arthur held out a hand, and he shook it firmly.
“You can paint my portrait on one condition. You tell me everything Gloria does or says. Quid pro quo.”
Their meeting was over.
* * *
—
Ibrahim was there waiting on the other side of the door. From his intent expression, it was clear he’d been listening in on a good part of the conversation. He offered to accompany Eduardo to the exit.
“Are you familiar with Sufi music and poetry? It’s almost metaphysical; it uses algorithms to explain the essence of the human soul, and it does it through verses, numbers, meter…But even we fail in the attempt to create a true voice of authenticity. The most we can aspire to is harmony—balance, if you will. But what you’re aiming to do, friend, is to convey something unconveyable. You’re trying to map out a man’s inner soul.”
Eduardo observed the scars on Ibrahim’s face, fascinated. Two men full of scars, he thought. Though in essence they were quite different. His own were the scars of surrender; Ibrahim’s were the scars of struggle.
“Ugliness reveals more about a person than beauty, don’t you think?” Ibrahim asked, as though he’d read his mind. “Sometimes we’re drawn to that which we most condemn, that which we find most hateful, but in time we manage to accept what we found so repulsive. That’s the way humans are—complicated, changeable. But I have learned one thing: what we feel in the deepest part of our souls never perishes, it just awaits the right time to emerge…Be careful, painter. You might end up creating the portrait of your own personal hell. Think about that when you pick up your brush.”
Ibrahim patted his shoulder and walked back toward the office.
Eduardo heard him let out a laugh so soft it was hardly distinguishable from air hissing quietly through his teeth.
* * *
—
Despite their agreement, Eduardo hardly progressed on his work at all in the weeks that followed.
Arthur was not your typical model. It was impossible to know if he was going to turn up at the agreed time, or whenever he felt like it; sometimes he didn’t show up at all and didn’t bother to let Eduardo know, leaving him there with his canvasses set up and brushes ready to go. And when he did show, he had a hard time sitting still for more than twenty minutes. Arthur couldn’t stand motionlessness and fidgeted, and his face hardened when he felt himself being watched. The further he got, the more Eduardo doubted he’d ever be able to capture what Gloria had commissioned him to do.
That’s what he was thinking on the flight to Barcelona. Gloria had gone to Barcelona to finalize details for a foundation that was to bear her son’s name, and despite Eduardo’s reluctance, she’d insisted on seeing his early sketches. The window seat allowed him to daydream, gazing absently at clouds and patches of clear sky. The flight attendant took his empty whiskey glass from the tray table and replaced it with a full one. Eduardo preferred vodka, but they didn’t have any on board. He couldn’t smoke either, and it was impossible to escape the sickening cologne of the guy sitting next to him. He wanted to land at Barcelona’s airport, El Prat, as soon as possible and get good and sozzled. Drunk, he could better accept the utter absurdity of his life; sober, it was so unbearable he almost couldn’t breathe.
“She’s very pretty. You’ve got such a skilled hand,” said the man seated beside him, examining the sketches
of Gloria he’d been doing to pass the time. Eduardo noted a twinge of jealousy in the man’s tone. But what he envied was a ghost, a nonexistent perfection, one unchanged by time, something invented by the mind.
When the door is open, people don’t knock, they just walk right in—so Eduardo closed his sketchbook and stared out the window as the pilot announced their initial descent into Barcelona. He could see the foam on the waves breaking below, the narrow strip of beach, and the luxurious housing developments in Gavà, with their identical houses, lawns and pools. To the right lay the city, trapped between the sea and mountains. From above, it looked perfect. Like everything when seen from a distance.
His hotel was economical but clean. In exchange for the narrow room and inevitable carpeting, he got a balcony with magnificent views of the Barrio Gótico and narrow alleys of the Jewish quarter. Rooftop terraces were joined together in a seeming labyrinth of antennas, washing hung out to dry, birdcages and chimneystacks. He had just enough time to unpack his weekend bag and down a small bottle of vodka, with lemon, from the minibar.
Gloria was meeting him in twenty minutes. He had the restaurant’s address and asked for directions at reception; it wasn’t far. He decided to walk. Strolling through Barcelona was a magnificent experience if you were not prone to falling in love. Like all lovers, the city’s defects began to surface as soon as you got to know her.
Gloria saw him arrive and raised a hand to wave from the other side of the street. That woman seemed to continuously reinvent herself, Eduardo marveled. Maybe it was the effects of the Mediterranean, or the crisp morning light—so phosphorescent—or her informal attire, but whatever it was she looked ten years younger than the last time he’d seen her, at her house in the outskirts of Madrid. Her eyes were hidden beneath enormous sunglasses, like a diva, and her hair fell loose around her shoulders. The wind coming in off the port blew it back and forth across her face, and she did nothing to stop it.
They greeted one another affectionately—Gloria even stroked his cheek for a moment, which gave a sense of familiarity he found irresistible. They walked among the bobbing masts of pleasure boats, along a wooden gangway where water lapped at the sides. It could have been Monaco, or Cannes, or Casablanca, with the two of them sidestepping rigging and pails of fish destined for the market, bringing each other up to date like two old friends who’ve been longing to see each other for ages. Eduardo sensed that it wasn’t all quite true, that it was too perfectly staged, but somehow he didn’t care; he simply let himself be led along by Gloria’s cordial laughter, by the sea air, by his own self-deceit. What was he playing at? Who cared? All he had to do was let himself be led along, and believe whatever she wanted him to believe.
The restaurant was exclusive: only half-a-dozen or so empty tables. The owner greeted them, congratulating himself on his luck; he recognized Gloria and claimed to be a fervent admirer, lavishing her with excessive praise and leading them to a pretty corner by a large picture window looking out over the pier and breakwater. The walls were decorated in nautical motifs, old nets and fishing tackle. After a few minutes, melodious music began playing softly in the background. Sitting there opposite one another, their faces were barely illuminated by a small lamp that cast everything else in shadows, evoking a sadness that didn’t fully materialize.
They chatted for a few minutes about trivial things: trips, projects, everyday nuisances. Eduardo got the feeling Gloria was avoiding the subject that had brought them together, that she was putting off—perhaps out of fear—the moment to bring up Arthur. He wasn’t in a rush either, but out of sheer nervousness he’d have liked to pull out the drafts and first sketches the moment he’d sat down. He wanted to please her, to see a look of admiration in her eyes.
Maybe Olga was right, why deny it? He was falling in love with a fantasy.
It was upon finishing their main courses, waiting for the coffee to be served—neither of them wanted dessert—that Gloria asked him directly.
“Can I see it?”
Eduardo gave her an imploring look, wanting to ensure her support.
“They’re just early sketches.”
Gloria responded with poorly disguised impatience. Eduardo pushed the plates aside to make room and took the drawings out of his portfolio bag—half-a-dozen sketches that he spread across the table like a hand of cards. They could be seen as a sequence that unraveled the passing weeks, days, hours, even minutes. In each one, though the image was the same, the nuances of Arthur’s frame of mind could be sensed, as could the time of day he’d been drawn, by the light—or an increasing lack of it—emanating from the model. In some he was wearing a black open-necked shirt and the detail was so precise as to include the wrinkles on his loosely tied necktie, the thread coming off a button, the creases in the cigarette he held—you could almost hear the tobacco crackling as it burned, the smoke being exhaled through the unseen hairs of his nostrils. And yet despite the detail, there was nothing trivial or anecdotal. Everything served to explain something about him, to highlight some nuance of his body.
In another image he appeared lying on his side, on a sofa, looking scornful, exuding an affected carelessness that faded as the sessions went on, each one slightly less forced and less forceful than the last, each one slightly closer to expressing the metaphysical essence that Eduardo aspired to, as though by sheer force of repetition Arthur’s face and body would eventually throw in the towel, lower their guard and simply be. Eduardo showed undeniable talent in the way he handled his subject, always searching for the exact light and backlight to make his skin, eyes, red hair and parted lips seem transparent, like an X-ray; you could almost hear the way he spoke, hear his voice, hear what he was saying at the precise moment he’d been captured by the brush. His deep voice seemed to murmur a few words of mistrust, discomfort on realizing he was being possessed, dissected rather than painted.
“I have to say, I am totally caught up in this project,” Eduardo murmured, fascinated with his own drawings.
Gloria examined Eduardo’s work as if contemplating a chilling, empty landscape. But deep in her eyes was a glimmer of increasing curiosity.
“What’s he like up close?” she asked, almost embarrassed.
Eduardo remained pensive. He gestured, making no sound whatsoever, as if stirring his thoughts into some sort of order so they might be expressed.
“He comes to my studio; we sit, chat, fall silent, and then he poses for me, though not for long—he’s fidgety and gets tired. I’m trying to capture his essence, but it might be early still for that. If I’m honest, I think the chances of really getting to know him through painting are very remote.”
“But that’s what this is all about, that’s why I contracted you.”
Eduardo squirmed in his chair.
“Nothing about him seems entirely true or false. His expression makes me uneasy. It’s like a knife scraping at the useless top layers of skin, removing dead scales. He’s always watching you, at every moment. And it’s only when he realizes that the intensity of his expression is going to suffocate me that he pretends to be distracted by something else. But even then, I can hear the sound of thoughts swirling in his head.”
Gloria brought her glass to her lips and drank slowly, as though buying time in order to rectify her mask—distant and dispassionate. There was a visible tension there, a struggle to see who would take control inside her. And from that tension arose the true Gloria, the perfect image.
“Why did he abandon his promising career so rashly? He could have been a great poet.”
Eduardo was surprised by the confidential tone to Gloria’s question. As though she felt some affection—an affectionate sorrow, if that’s possible—for the man she was supposed to hate.
“Something terrible happened with the professor who was his adviser. He had to leave France quickly.”
Gloria seemed to already know this. In fact, Eduardo was beginning to su
spect that she knew everything there was to be known about Arthur Fernández. And he got the same uncomfortable feeling that she also knew much more about him than she’d let on the first time they met.
“Did he tell you that?”
Eduardo nodded. Dreams can so quickly turn into nightmares. It only takes one move, one second, a single impulsive decision, for one horizon to disappear and another to emerge.
* * *
—
At just twenty years old, Arthur had been a student that Cochard—his advisor and mentor—saw as one of the most promising; saw him as a sort of experiment in which Arthur played the role of noble savage, and the eminent professor that of generous, intellectual father and teacher.
One afternoon at the Sorbonne, there were very few students wandering through the cloister—it was late, it was Friday, and classes were almost over for the trimester. Old Cochard was awaiting his most talented student in the gloom of his office, in the west wing. Sitting atop the professor’s desk was a framed photo of himself shaking hands with Pope Pius XI, signed by His Holiness. On the wall above it hung a heavy, ornate cross.
The professor, with an air of ceremony, invited Arthur to sit. He was normally distant and haughty with his students but felt a special predilection for the young pied-noir—a diamond in the rough, and one he intended to polish with care and patience, for the greater glory of the Republic’s letters. Cochard spoke incessantly, moistening his hot lips—cracked and austere—with his tongue, his breath smelling of English tobacco. As he spoke, he gestured frequently, his hands furtively touching Arthur’s forearm, shoulder, biceps. The young man pulled back carefully, but the old man kept on as though nothing was the matter, pretending not to realize, amused, condescending and paternal. Paternal.
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