Pedro and Celestino have been friends for about fifteen years, ever since Pedro moved to the island from Madrid and started doing the markets. Kathy, originally from Hampshire, and Celestino, met Pedro on the same day. They all became instant friends. Although I prefer to think of them as comrades since they've all told me on various occasions how their close bond developed over their mutual abhorrence of the resort development that has been taking place on the island since the 1980s.
I sympathise with their view, yet I can't help thinking it a touch parochial. Since when have the powerful in any nation the world over resisted the temptation to profit, personally, out of business deals? Although I'm well aware that this universal trend doesn't negate the specific conditions. A river is a river but each river is unique. There appears to be a business-as-usual mentality to corruption here too, and Celestino has told me often enough that anyone on Lanzarote who dares to seek change is hounded into silence. A shared disapproval of corruption isn't basis enough for shared confidences. Pedro has no reason to trust me except that I'm his friend's wife. I brace myself for my first interrogation.
Simple in design, the main parts of the farmhouse face away from the road in favour of the view of the coast towards Arrieta, the front wall containing a little used entrance door and two small windows. I catch a glimpse of the three daughters, frolicking on a concrete patio at the side. At two, four and six, the girls are full of the high jinks of spring, their squeals carried away on the wind. I round the corner and find Kathy pegging out washing. Kathy wears an open-mouthed smile, and with her thick hair tied back from her face she beams good health and wellbeing. When she meets my gaze, her joyful look gives way to concern. She reaches down and picks up a pink spotted dress. 'No Gloria?' she says, looking past me.
'She's with her grandparents.'
I yield to a rush of guilt. Gloria would have enjoyed the company of the Ramírez family. I might even have left her in their care for a few hours. Given my parents a break. But Gloria is demanding, as any three-year old can be, and a further distraction. No, Gloria is better off where she is.
'Is Pedro home?' I say casually, not wanting to reveal the only purpose of my visit, knowing my question is abrupt, if not rude, customary as it is to wait for and accept the invitation of coffee.
Kathy looks at me strangely. 'He's in his workshop. Would you like me to get him?'
'If you don't mind.'
'No Celestino then.'
'No.'
'This is very rare. He wouldn't disappear. Have you been to the police?'
'I don't think I can.'
'Good. You see …'
Pedro pokes his head through a pair of drying sheets. Kathy giggles spontaneously.
'Hola, Paula. ¿Qué pasa?'
He's a dishevelled looking man, heavy set, with scruffy hair receding at the temples. A long apron covers an old T-shirt and pants. He comes forward and kisses my cheeks. He smells of stale sweat.
'Can you spare a moment?' I ask.
'Follow me.'
As he turns, anticipation flickers through me. It's only the second time I've been in his workshop since my initial visit when they showed me around. Since then, when I visit I sit with Kathy on the patio outside and watch the children play.
He leads me inside and on through the kitchen, rounding the table in its centre. With a single sweep of my eye, I observe a room that, despite the house being two-hundred years younger than my own, is in much the same condition, with no cupboards to speak of, and a bench too small for meal production. It's Kathy who showed me how to chop vegetables in the palm of my hand, a technique she acquired from Pilar.
A door at the rear opens into a short corridor. At the end, five steps lead down to a glass-panelled door. He holds it open for me to pass through and once I'm inside he lets it go. The door closes of its own accord. I must have looked surprised because he's quick to explain that it's on sprung hinges to allow him to keep an eye on the children without them entering uninvited.
The workshop is lined with wooden benches strewn with an array of hammers of all sizes, awls, clamps, saws and an assortment of pliers. A solid and tall table takes up the centre of the room and an equally solid desk is set to one side. Pedro removes a pile of books and notepads off a stool and invites me to sit down. He leans with his back against the desk and eyes me appraisingly.
'You want to ask me about Celestino. He still hasn't shown up?'
'I'm worried he might be in some sort of trouble.' Even as I speak, caution rushes in from the wings. Can I trust this man?
'Trouble?' he says. 'What are you talking about?' He stares at me, his expression stern.
I hesitate. Not feeling I have much choice, I swallow and go on. 'I was at a restaurant in Costa Teguise yesterday. And the owner was in a fury over a painting that someone had hung in place of another. He was berating the staff when we walked in.'
'We?'
'I went with my neighbour.'
It feels like a confession but he shows no reaction. He must know how much Celestino loathes Shirley. Surely men talk about such things? Maybe he hasn't made the connection. After all, I didn't say, next-door neighbour. I might have been referring to anyone in my street.
Seated on his stool I'm disempowered and dearly want to stand up. His eyes haven't left my face. When I again speak, I note a defensive ring in my voice.
'The owner thought one of his staff must have switched the paintings since there was no sign of a break in.'
'I don't understand.' He frowns. 'What has this got to do with Celestino?'
'It was his painting.'
Pedro shakes his head doubtfully.
'I'm sure of it.'
'Have you seen it before?'
'It carried his signature. The one he's only just started using.'
'In Guanche.'
'You know about the signature?'
He doesn't speak. A troubled look flashes into his face. He turns away and picks up a clamp, twisting the handle of the screw. The squeak sets my teeth on edge.
Losing patience, I say, 'Pedro, please. It could be important.'
He puts down the clamp and crosses his arms over his chest. 'He told me in private, more or less. We were at the markets.'
'More or less? Someone else was there?'
'Only Fernando.'
I pause for a moment, trying to make some sense of the implication and cautioning myself against leaping to premature conclusions. I'll deal with the matter of Fernando later. Right now, I need answers, and they are not forthcoming.
'And this painting,' he says. 'What was it?'
I'm reluctant again, almost protective of my knowledge, as though in the telling I'm giving too much away. He listens as I depict the rendering of Los Ajaches, the little black beach, but when I get to the solar-panel crucifixes he laughs.
'Typical.'
'Really?' I say, resenting his reaction. 'I've never seen anything like it.'
'You haven't known him that long.'
His words sting but I try not to show it.
'It was as if he was trying to make a statement,' I say. 'And it must have worked because the owner was livid.'
'Do you know who he was?'
'Redoto.'
'Redoto Redoto.'
'Just Redoto,' I say drily. 'He didn't give his last name.'
'It's Redoto Redoto. Son of Juan Medina Redoto.'
'How do you know him?'
'Never mind.'
I let it go, realising I need a notepad. Sleuths always carry a notepad.
'Do you know if Celestino was working on a new corruption campaign?'
'Not that I know of.'
'He would have told you.'
'He would.'
I detect an evasive air about him. I make a mental note to write that down as well, the moment I get back to the car.
A silence descends. I can't think of a thing to fill it. My mind is a whirr. He remains leaning against the bench with his arms folded, head bowed slightly, gaze l
owered. I thank him for his time. 'De nada,' he says. He doesn't move. Slipping off the stool I regain some control and I manage to admire a partly finished bracelet on my way by, one hand slipping into my trouser pocket and closing around Celestino's broken necklace. I let myself out, the door springing shut behind me.
Kathy and the children are still outside. I forgo her pleasantries and words of sympathy and head straight through the kitchen to the front door, letting myself out into the street.
I've come away none the wiser, save for the little revelation that both Pedro and Fernando knew about Celestino's signature, something I presumed Celestino had told me in confidence. Then again, I might have known he told Pedro. He seems to tell him everything. Pedro was in no doubt that the work is Celestino's. He's almost certainly hiding something too; he was wary, cagey. In all likelihood Celestino divulged to his friend the subject of this new artwork as well, a work he kept hidden from me. And coupled with the physical loss of him is a renewed sense of betrayal, as though I've already lost a vital part of him—if I ever had it. My mind is grim. I feel thoroughly excluded from the important aspects of Celestino's life—his politics, his art—and wonder if I'll ever be included in the intimacy he seems to share with his friends.
I rummage through the contents of my shoulder bag, but I can't find any paper, not even an old receipt. I look in the glove box. Nothing. Still, I don't have that much to remember, although Pedro has certainly left me with plenty to think through.
Along with my misgivings comes a fresh idea and as I turn down the road heading towards the coast, my earlier suppositions that either Celestino put the painting in the restaurant, or he was in some kind of danger, begin to waver. Perhaps it's nothing more than a practical joke. Which rules out Pedro straight away. I can't imagine him doing such a thing, not to anyone. He isn't the type. Besides, as far as I know he doesn't have access to the studio. Which eliminates him as a suspect.
Whereas Fernando does have access. Celestino had another key cut so that for a small fee Fernando can use the studio space on the days when Celestino is at the markets, on the condition that he packs away all his materials and takes them home with him, Celestino not wanting evidence that he's in effect subletting. Fernando works in chalks and pastels, easily transportable, and he has been content to take advantage of the arrangement having no space in his tiny flat for his art.
I stop at the main road intersection and wait for an opportunity to turn left. Cars whips by in both directions intermittently, not providing an adequate break. I reef the handbrake, happy to wait, until a small truck pulls up close behind, indicating right. Feeling pressured, I release the handbrake and nose forward, ready to shoot out once a blue Hyundai has passed by.
Professional jealousy would be the most likely motive. Celestino's works sell more frequently and fetch a higher price. Fernando doesn't like his job at the timple museum but can't live off the proceeds of his art. Yet what will he hope to gain from hanging one of Celestino's paintings in a restaurant in Costa Teguise? It can hardly be to discredit him since no one else knows the identity of the creator.
I come to a halt at the Arrieta roundabout and wait for a stream of cars heading down from the north. The Manrique wind sculpture in the roundabout's centre catches my eye; rendered in burnt orange, it's emblematic of the island's civic pride that pivots on the artist with entrenched reverence. A gap in the flow and I head up the road to Haría, returning to my preoccupation with Fernando.
One time a few years ago, I visited the studio to find Fernando at work instead of Celestino, who'd gone to an art gallery in Arrecife to discuss a forthcoming exhibition. He told me the night before but in my early-motherhood haze I'd forgotten, despite all the complaining he'd subjected me to as we were readying for bed. He was most unhappy about it, DRAT having scuppered his plans to hold his exhibition at the prestigious Casa de la Cultura Agustín de la Hoz, a grand old house containing a number of murals by Manrique. It was a controversial request, the house less a gallery and more a stately home. Celestino was planning his exhibition to coincide with an international conference on fresh-water management and conservation, and had created a series of works that in a somewhat unsubtle manner depicted Playa Blanca's on-going problem with sewerage.
I would have liked to attend the conference. As I lay there in bed waiting for Celestino to turn off the light my mind drifted, the island's culture of water conservation fascinating, the ancient wells, the aljibes and the alcogidas that fed them dotted all about the island evidence of the islanders' ingenuity. In each home would have been a stone water filter. For them, all of those methods amounted to water conservation and management. Tourism meant desalination plants to feed water-wasteful swimming pools and golf courses. Lying on my back with my hands folded beneath my head, I pictured those in attendance in their slick suits. And I imagined Celestino's works on the walls all around them, raw, brutal, confronting. I smiled inwardly. Of course, DRAT wouldn't let him have his way, and he was shunted instead to the Punto de Encuentro con el Arte, where, according to DRAT, works such as his belonged. He was furious. He even huffed in his sleep. After that, in our household, uttering DRAT was tantamount to swearing.
The following morning, when I arrived at the studio, Fernando was there in his stead, taking advantage of his day off to knock out a run of simple island scenes. I saw their appeal the moment I entered the room; volcanoes silhouetted against vivid sunsets in various hues forming a temporary frieze on the bench.
Fernando had his back to me. The unexpected inpouring of natural light from the patio brightened the floor at his feet, causing him to turn, the look of alarm on his face fading when he saw who it was. A short man, no more than me in height, and slight of build, he had a pinched face framed by a goatee beard that served to age him beyond his fifty years.
'I'm sorry,' I said, momentarily confused. 'They're beautiful,' I added, at a loss for something appropriate to say.
'Thank you. They're for a gallery in Puerto del Carmen.' He returned to the work on the easel.
'I didn't know there was a gallery in Puerto del Carmen.'
He didn't answer. I went over for a closer look at the works.
'Is the gallery new?' I said, turning to catch his gaze.
A look of irritation flashed into his face.
'It's an arts and crafts shop. Not an exhibition space. No one consigns to a gallery. Not even Celestino.'
At the time, his resentment took me by surprise, but looking back I have a better understanding of the context for it. Fernando hails from Arrecife. He claims to have been one of Manrique's protégés back in the early 1990s before a terrible car accident stripped Lanzarote of its cultural ambassador and ecological crusader. Fernando was then in his early twenties. He's a self-important man and I don't put much store in his claim that he was a protégé. Many are prone to gross exaggeration when it comes to associations with the famous. Fernando uses his to puff up his artistic abilities. No wonder. Alongside Celestino, who has an exceptional talent of his own, Fernando must feel diminished.
Given Fernando's irascible manner, I marvel at Celestino's loyalty. Since that occasion at the studio I haven't considered Fernando entirely truthful. How vindictive he's capable of being is impossible to gauge. What might have triggered an upsurge of professional jealousy of such magnitude that he would seek to discredit his friend? Surely not the La Mareta commission? Celestino has only just entered. There's no certainty of success. Besides, I have no idea if Fernando knows about it. Considering how he felt about applying, Celestino may have chosen not to tell him. And if Fernando is behind this, then discrediting Celestino might jeopardise his chances, but only if the creator of the work at Redoto's 'El Viento del Mar' is exposed. And even then, only if it could be shown that the creator made the switch. It all seems far-fetched but my suspicions fly off Pedro and land on Fernando like a bird on a passing ship. And I can't decide if my conviction is a comfort. If my husband is the culprit, at least that implies he's alive. If Fe
rnando is behind it, or some other enemy, then what of Celestino?
Back at my parent's house, I walk in on Bill entertaining Gloria with a collage of scenery and animal photos he's cut out of old copies of the National Geographic. One Christmas, a sister-in law gifted a subscription and, despite neither of them having much of an interest, Angela packed them, along with all his other magazines, when they moved here. Bill and Gloria are having a merry old time. By the look of it, not one copy of the National Geographic has escaped the scissors. Gloria, who has her back to me, is absorbed instructing her grandfather as to what parts of a flamingo she wants cutting out. Bill obediently follows her directions. The moment she turns she squeals, 'Look, Mummy!' and holds up a scrappily cut photo of a headless giraffe in one hand, a pair of child-size scissors in the other. I grin and go over to inspect the progress, forcing myself to focus. It takes quite an effort, but for a brief time I feel the stress fall away and I'm at ease. In noticing the change, it's as though I've alerted my anxiety to something it has predetermined I've no right to feel, and the tension returns with force. Feeling somewhat cheated out of that scrap of wellbeing, I inhale and leave Bill and Gloria to it.
My mother is in the kitchen, preparing lunch. Four rolls, each on a plate and split in half ready for the crumbed fish she's frying in a large, flat-bottomed pan. The table is laid, with a bowl of mixed salad in the centre.
'This situation is quite dreadful,' Angela says without preface, as though she's done nothing but fret about it all morning. 'I don't know how you're managing to cope. I'd be in pieces.'
She slides the breaded fish onto the rolls. I step forward to put on their lids.
'Don't press down too hard, Paula.'
There is nothing I can say that won't sound childish. I take the plates to the table and call to the others.
'No sign of him then?' Bill says as he sits down.
I shake my head. Gloria removes the top half of her roll and pulls off the crispy coating of the fish. Before long her plate and the surrounding table are sprinkled with bits of fish and bread.
A Matter of Latitude Page 13
