The Painter Read online

  He placed all four shopping bags on the ground and opened his arms wide to embrace and kiss her. “I am Ishmael Domini, pleased to meet you.”

  He carried two plastic bags in either hand, walking indoors. I felt obliged to copy his act of friendship and held my hands out for more bags from Gabriela. She handed me six bags.

  Ishmael smiled at her. “Let me to take another couple of bags. They are heavy.”

  She shook her head at him. I looked at her before walking to the front door. She didn’t look as if she had washed her hair. It was greasy and dull. She wore a pair of heavy black jeans and a lumberjack red and white checked shirt which made her look manly. Her feet looked weighed down with black leather Dr Marten’s, thickly laced up; although the lace of the right boot had become loose and trailed along the ground. I thought that she could trip on it but if she couldn’t work that out for herself, why should I tell her? She was an adult. I followed Ishmael into the house.

  He asked: “Where do you like to store your food?”

  I explained. He turned around, looked past me and warned Gabriela: “Be careful. Your lace is undone. It’s so easy to have a nasty fall. Do you know I had an aunt who tripped in the kitchen while making a cup of tea, hit her head against the tiled floor and died?” He gave a chuckle after he said that which I thought inappropriate. He explained: “Life is so uncertain. We might as well enjoy it and not take what it throws at us too seriously.”

  With food safely stored and the Serrano ham hanging from a hook in the cooler part of the kitchen far from the wood burning stove, Gabriela served us in the sitting room – a glass of chilled champagne, almonds, black olives and sobrasada with unsalted bread – before returning to the kitchen to cook lunch.

  I took my opportunity. “Well Ishmael – tell me a little about yourself. I have received excellent references for your work and attitude from José del Pardo. Congratulations. Where else have you worked? Where are you from originally? Talk to me.”

  Ishmael pressed a teaspoonful of soft bloody sobrasada – a Mallorcan minced pork with paprika delicacy – onto a small piece of unsalted bread and, before putting it into his mouth, said: “You have the references from José. I have been a bit of gypsy in my life. I am afraid I cannot put you in touch with anyone else with whom I have worked for a considerable amount of time and completed a significant project which would warrant a reference. Is that a problem for you?”

  I stuttered as I lifted an olive from the dish: “Of course it is not a problem.”

  There was a silence between us. Ishmael got up to place a log on the fire. Then he walked to a bookcase and began to flick through local walking books. “Which of these walks would you recommend?”

  I eagerly began to talk about my love for climbing the Barranc if it was not too hot, too cold or too windy. I told him of the marvellous views from the top of L’Ofre mountain. On a good day, you could see the entire island. As I extolled the beauty of the Barranc and L’Ofre, Gabriela called us for lunch. As I pulled a chair up to the oak table, resting a cotton napkin on my lap, I realised that Ishmael had not revealed where he was born, nor had he mentioned anything about his life in Malmo.

  As we sat at the kitchen table, I explained: “I have a dining room, but I prefer to eat here in the informality of the kitchen. Is that alright for you?”

  Ishmael clinked his glass against mine. “It is perfect.”

  He looked at Gabriela who was pulling on her coat after opening a bottle of wine for us and placing it beside me to serve. Ishmael pushed his chair back. It screeched across the tiles as he rose to his feet. “Surely you will have something to eat with us?”

  She laughed. “You are very kind. No thank you. I will be going home now – as always.”

  She glanced at me in a way that made me think that she felt that I was ungrateful for her efforts and for the way that I treated her as a maid rather than a friend. But she was my housekeeper. In 2015 we didn’t talk about maids, but she was one. I know that for sure because my mother Monica had been a maid to Doctor Alfonso in the 1960s right through to the 1990s. It dawned on me that Ishmael was merely a gardener. He replaced Pep Conejo. I never had dinner with Pep Conejo – only that mid-morning brunch I mentioned before which I doubted I would repeat after the arrival of Ishmael. Gabriela needed to understand that Ishmael was different. He was a guest in my home. Pep Conejo had his own home and family. He didn’t need to eat with me. His wife and rather unpleasant son and daughter-in-law awaited him at the end of a day’s work. It was not my fault that he ended up in a house of loveless people.

  I soon noticed a difference in Gabriela. Before Ishmael arrived, I enjoyed Gabriela’s anonymity. She faded into the white walls. There was a spaciousness around her that allowed me to breathe. I think it was the absence of make-up and hair falling onto her shoulders like waves embracing the rocks in the Port of Soller, that gave her a natural existence which I didn’t have to pay too much attention to. Within a week of Ishmael’s arrival, she was like an exotic flower, pushing herself against me to smell her scent. It was as if Ishmael had begun to nurture and prune her into a person who could blossom. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  2

  PABLO PICASSO

  “The purpose of art is washing the dust of daily life off our souls.”

  Tuesday 20th October 2015

  During the following two weeks, I discovered that Ishmael indeed knew that I was a famous painter, visited by the rich and wealthy. I told him that they liked to ask me questions about the inspiration for my art. I thought he would be impressed by the successful people who thought that my art had value. Ishmael was not interested in that at all. From an early observation of him, I thought that he wanted to learn how to bury himself into the earth and to reach for the stars at the same time. He was one of the few people I knew who was ‘embodied’ or incarnate.

  He told me, when I shared with him how I thought he was different from everyone else that I knew, that he thought that many of the people he had met were ‘split’ people – split within themselves – from mind, body and soul, from one another, separate from life and death and split from what you might say is an acceptable self and an unacceptable self. That last split he found interesting.

  He asked me: “Do they not know that they can be seen through? Nobody believes that an acceptable self is real – no matter how well it is dressed up. It is not credible that you see yourself as acceptable based on your fame, fortune and creativity. When you know who you really are, you know who everyone else is too. You can’t be fooled anymore by anyone because you are not fooling yourself.”

  If anyone else had said that to me, it would have angered me. With Ishmael I found myself nodding with him in agreement even if I didn’t understand what he meant. It wasn’t lost on me that I was one of the ‘split’ people.

  Maybe it was because Ishmael was a gardener that he found it easier to be embodied rather than to be split. He had his feet in the earth – not on the earth. The earth I remembered is called ‘hummus’ and the word humiliation means to fall to the earth. I need humiliation to become embodied – an earthed human being. I wondered what had humiliated Ishmael to the extent that he had become a real person. What happened to him to make him so vibrant and alive? Every time I attempted to ask those questions in different ways, he skilfully side-stepped giving me an answer. He did it in such a way that I didn’t feel that it was right to press him further. I thought it a better strategy to give him more time, to build our relationship; and when he was ready, he would tell me willingly. He would allow me eventually to know as much about him as I needed to understand.

  Instead, we shared thoughts about the development of the garden. The garden before Ishmael’s arrival embarrassed and annoyed me. Pep Conejo did his best but it wasn’t good enough. There were orange trees but not an orangery. There was a pathetic fountain with water spouting from a Cupid’s penis. Visitors pointed at it and laughed. It was vulgar. It spoilt the impact which I wanted to make f
or my guests which was for a garden to be an expression of beauty – like a carpet of rose flowers scattered on the earth taking them somewhere mysterious.

  Within a short time of Ishmael’s arrival, he drew up detailed plans for how he could create a garden which included a labyrinth beside a swimming pool, a proper orangery, a series of fourteen Moorish-influenced fountains and a patio close to the where we could have parties for invited guests to the Studio.

  The labyrinth had a complex design with high Cupressus Leylandii hedges intermingled with the occasional Red Robin shrub for colour. When completed, he led me inside to the centre and then ran away laughing. I was lost in there for over an hour. It was only the sound of his calling to me which guided me safely to the entrance. He embraced me as I emerged confused and irritated by his cheeriness. He kissed me on the cheek. Although it is a common gesture to be kissed on the cheek in Mallorca, when I returned his kiss, it felt to me that we were two Judases destined to betray one another.

  He questioned me about the labyrinth. “Do you like it? It was originally designed by Daedalus for King Minos of Crete to hold the Minotaur – a monster half-bull, half-human. Trapped within the labyrinth the Minotaur was eventually killed by the hero Theseus.”

  I looked at his triumphant and what I fleetingly interpreted as a sadistic grin. I knew that he thought of himself as a Daedalus and a Theseus. I was the Minotaur. Imagine that I would ask for a labyrinth to be created to make my death at the hands of Ishmael inevitable. The half-human person I knew myself to be could potentially be destroyed by his genius. That didn’t happen.

  Nevertheless, I was absorbed with Ishmael – in the way I cannot stop myself watching an engrossing film unfold and develop an unhealthy passion for the key protagonist no matter how good or evil they are. They grip me. I surrender willingly or unwillingly to their power.

  3

  PABLO PICASSO

  “Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.”

  Ishmael and I fell into a comfortable routine together. On a Saturday, he had the habit of ringing me from the pay phone in the market. He would tell me if he had discovered a new flower or cactus for the garden at the flower stall in the Plaza. He would also forage for food for lunch. “Do you want me to buy fish for lunch? There is fresh swordfish with new potatoes or fresh salmon.”

  Saturday and Sunday were Gabriela’s free days. Ishmael and I cooked together.

  On Saturdays, Ishmael was the key chef. I sat at the kitchen table, talking about my paintings or how work was progressing within the garden. Garlic sizzled; onions splashed into hot virgin olive oil. He timed the swordfish in the oven to perfection – even in the best restaurants I often found swordfish tough and inedible. Ishmael’s swordfish was juicy and placed on top of a bed of creamy herbed mashed potatoes.

  It was a simpler way of living than I had been used to before his arrival. The sun shone through the kitchen door and the smoke from the pepper sauce swirled around him as if he was buried within a cloud. The sun at times broke through the smoke clearly and shone on his face as he turned to talk with me. I found myself holding my breath in anticipation of what he would say. His face glowed. Our conversations were a mixture of spontaneity and a deepening knowing of one another.

  I breathed out deeply and on those Saturdays, I touched a peace I had known before I became the Painter. I remember that peace when I was seven, before I met Gregoriano. With Ishmael, it wasn’t at first as deep or as lasting, but I was deeply contented to know that I could still find it – even if without the same intensity. I hoped that with Ishmael the peace would begin to flow, to expand like the sea around us.

  On Sundays it was my turn to cook. Often, I made a suggestion that instead of cooking in the kitchen we go to the Port of Soller and eat in a restaurant. We sat outside in the sun on the Repic side of the Port listening to waves breaking on the sand and ducks quacking to one another as they splashed in the Torrente where it rushed to embrace the Mediterranean.

  One Sunday we decided to lunch in a boutique Italian restaurant with atmospheric golden lights. We listened to the sounds of the world and were quiet. As we ate pasta with a sage and butter sauce, I was overcome with an urge to talk with Ishmael about Gregoriano. I started with a question: “Who has made the biggest impact on your life?”

  He sipped on his glass of wine and shifted in his seat. I knew immediately that he didn’t want to answer. “There have only been a few people.” He raised his right hand. “There have been less than the fingers on this hand.”

  I laughed. I was familiar with his games of avoidance. “Well I only can think of two significant people – a man called Gregoriano and my mother Monica. If I tell you about both of them, will you trust me enough to tell me about two of yours?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but I will not tell you today – another day. I know you like to talk and no doubt it will be getting cold with the restaurant closing before you are finished.”

  I ignored his sarcasm by transferring the last ravioli from my plate to his which was empty. “You need this more than me. OK, I will first tell you about Gregoriano. I would appreciate hearing what you make of him. I am clueless.”

  He played with the ravioli on his plate, swishing it around in the remaining butter and sage sauce. He tried flattery with me, which he didn’t do often. “You have a way of getting my attention.”

  I began, knowing that he was right, that I talked too much. He feigned interest. “Gregoriano. That’s an unusual name here. Where is he from?”

  I shook my head. “That is the problem. I don’t know where he is from, where he is now or what he wants from me. I Googled the meaning of his name and discovered that in Latin it means ‘vigilantus’ or ‘watchful’. That made me shiver as that is what he does – he watches me.”

  “I’m sure a person of your fame and fortune must be used to being watched. You’re on a public stage when you talk about your art or hold an exhibition. People will want to know who you really are.”

  “I know that the public want to know who I am, but you know that I keep myself to myself. I need solitude to paint – so what people know about me is limited. They know what they read in the press or what I choose to reveal in building my brand as ‘The Painter’. Gregoriano watches me in a way that only one other person does – my mother Monica.”

  Ishmael ordered a second bottle of red wine. “I might as well make myself comfortable. I see you have a need to get something off your chest. Begin.”

  I didn’t really want to talk about Gregoriano, yet something made me – some emotion deep within me which wanted to release itself through words. I started: “I was ten when I first met Gregoriano. I climbed the Barranc on my own as I used to do and still do. He was then thirty years old. The age you are now. Then he had a bushy black beard that is all the fashion these days, but it was unusual in those days. His eyebrows almost joined the beard and his hair was curly – even curlier than yours. He sat on a grey stone wall looking at me as I approached him. I breathed deeply. I thought I should run past him as there was something about him that scared me.”

  Ishmael interrupted. “What scared you?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. The peace he radiated sitting on that stone wall, jolted me. It felt paradoxically like a lightning bolt, burning my body with a previously unknown knowledge and an anaesthetic at the same time. Does that sound insane?”

  He rested his chin in both of his hands with his elbows on the table. “So far, no. Continue. Nothing much has happened.”

  I smiled at him. “Maybe nothing much has happened so far, but I have only just started. Wait until I have finished. When I was younger, I smiled at myself in the mirror, knowing that I had a gift which nobody else could give to the world. I knew that I was different. I felt full of endless and infinite promise.”

  Ishmael laughed again. “It’s called being young, delusional and egoistical. At that age it is perfectly normal to believe that you are the centre of the world.”

  I wa
ved at the waiter to order a dessert. I asked Ishmael grumpily, “Exactly, when did you grow out of that feeling of being the centre of the world?”

  Ishmael, looking at the dessert menu, replied, “When I saw it for what was.”

  The waiter arrived with a notebook. “How can I help you?”

  I looked at Ishmael. He pointed at the menu. “The chocolate coulant, thank you.”

  I glanced for a second time at the menu, but it was a blur. “I’ll have the same.”

  I was irritated that asking for dessert had interrupted my story. I also found Ishmael’s comments slightly offensive, if not patronising. Was he hinting that I acted as if I were the centre of the Universe? I wished that I hadn’t started this disclosure about Gregoriano. I snapped at him: “I’m going to move through this as quickly as I can. OK?”

  “Of course. Take your time. We are in no rush. The chocolate coulant takes at least fifteen minutes to cook.”

  I continued, slightly out of breath. “Gregoriano clicked his wooden walking stick three times on the ground as I levelled with him. I noticed that he wore sandals, although it was winter. He slapped his chest with his right fist. He rose to his feet like a wave on the sea approaching land. “You have arrived at the right moment.”

  My heart beat in a feverish way. I asked him, “Who are you?”

  He answered, “I am Gregoriano. You have nothing to be afraid about.”

  I looked at Ishmael to gauge his reaction. He seemed re-engaged with me. He looked into my eyes in silence. I continued, gesticulating with circular movements of my arms for emphasis.

  “Yet how could I trust him? I knew that I had every reason to be afraid of him. He was a stranger. I was a fly caught in a web waiting for him to spin a cocoon around me. What surprised me was that I didn’t struggle to get free. Instead, I listened to him say, ‘Follow me’.