A Coffin For Two ob-2

by Quintin Jardine

  ‘When his mad son was about two years old he let it be known that he had died. He determined that he and my mother would look after him in secret, in the sound-proofed attic of the house in Carrer Monturiol, that they would be his nurses and his jailers, until he was full grown and could be put away in an asylum. They could simply have sent him away at that time too, of course, but my father believed in duty, and he loved Salvador, crazy or not.’ Davidoff smiled. ‘My father was a great man, Oz. He made Dali, but as you could never have imagined.’

  He paused, picked up a glass of red wine from the floor and took a sip. ‘I was born in the year after my father made his choice. He named me Salvador also, hoping that he had not cursed me with the name. But he had not. I was the opposite of my brother in every way, a loving, thoughtful, intelligent, happy little boy.

  ‘I was born into comfort. My father was a merchant, and rich. Many people worked for him in his warehouses. One of my earliest memories is of the sea, and of my mother. I remember visiting Cadaques by boat. I would have been three years old at the time. We took many excursions, my mother and I, when I was too young to wonder, far less ask, why my father never came with us.’ He smiled for a second, his eye blank, looking into the past.

  ‘I suppose I must have known from an early age that there was something strange about our house. I was never allowed to bring playmates home with me. In fact no one ever came there, other than my grandparents. As I met other children too, I noticed that their parents had servants, and I began to wonder why I had none. Yet I never asked.To complain about these things would have been rude, and as I have said, I was a polite little boy.’

  Davidoff took another sip of wine, then topped up his glass, as I watched, fascinated. ‘My parents felt that I was too young to understand, so they kept their secret from me for almost seven years. Maybe if they could, they would have held on to it for ever, but that would have been impossible. I suppose it was only because I was such a submissive little bastard that it lasted so long.

  ‘Our house had three floors, and the attic. We lived during the day on the ground floor, mostly. My bedroom, the music room and the nursery were on the first floor, and my father’s study and my parents’ bedroom was on the second. I was allowed up there only rarely, and never at all was I allowed to go up to the attic.

  ‘Of course I could not contain my curiosity for ever. My father used to spend long hours in his study, or so I was told. I wondered more and more what he did there. I had my toys, and eventually my crayons, pens, brushes and paints, for my talent began to emerge at an early age, but what did he have? Did he draw and paint too?

  ‘I wanted to know, yet I had always been told that it was not polite to ask questions. So one day, just before my seventh birthday, I went up to his study, when I had been told by my mother that he was there, I opened the door just a fraction and I looked inside. The room was empty. I closed the door and turned to go. My father was standing on the stair to the attic, looking at me, very sadly. I got such a fright I almost pissed my pants.’ As Davidoff grinned at the memory, I realised that my mouth was hanging open. I snapped it shut.

  ‘I thought that he might beat me,’ he went on, ‘though he never had before. Instead, he took my hand and he led me up to the attic. At the top of the stair there was a big, heavy door. He unlocked it, and opened it, for me to see inside.

  ‘Everything in the room was soft. The walls, the back of the door, even the floor coverings. They were all padded so that my brother could not damage himself. There was no bed as such, only a big cushion against one wall. There were toys on the floor, stuffed animals, all shapeless and battered.’ He paused. ‘I remember an elephant. It had no ears, because he had torn them off.

  ‘Yet also there was the giraffe. It was stuffed like all the rest, but it was undamaged. My father told me that it was the one thing that he did not destroy, the only thing in his life, up to that point, for which he had shown any affection.’

  Davidoff’s face twisted with the sudden pain of his memories. ‘Salvador was sat strapped into a harness, attached to a big padded chair,’ he said. ‘He was nine years old when first I saw him, yet he wore a diaper. There was a commode in the corner of the room, but when he was tied in his chair, as he usually was when my mother or father were not with him, he wore that diaper.

  ‘You must understand, Oz, that they loved him as much as they loved me. All those years were an ordeal for them. They spent hours alone with him, feeding him, bathing him, touching him, although he was like a wild beast and would not respond to them. When I saw him first he was dressed in fresh white clothes, unusual only in that they had no buttons. My mother made them herself, as she made some of mine.

  ‘I stared and stared at him from the doorway. Then I looked up at my father, and saw that he was weeping. That made me afraid. The boy in the chair stared at me. I asked my father, “Who is he?” He told me, “This is your poor brother. He is possessed.”’

  As he paused, I saw that his eye was glistened with tears, as, I realised too, were mine. ‘I slipped free of his hand and I ran into the room, up to the boy in the chair. My father tried to stop me; he was afraid for me. But Salvador just looked at me, and he smiled. I said “Hello, brother.” He made a strange baby sound. He was nine years old, yet he had not learned to speak properly. I unfastened the straps of his harness. I hugged him, and he hugged me. Behind me, I heard our father say, “It is a miracle.”

  ‘If Salvador was possessed, as I believe, maybe I drove some of the demons from him. I know that my father truly believed that. Certainly, from that day on, he was never violent again; at least never when I was about. When my parents were convinced that it was safe, he was brought down from the attic. He slept with me in my room. He watched me in the playroom. He copied me and he learned from me. There were no doctors for Salvador, only me. He learned to speak by listening to me. He learned to read and write by copying what I had done at school.

  ‘Yet still he was a secret from the world. My parents were afraid for him, afraid to let people see him because of how they would react. I was forbidden to speak of him, and I withdrew from all my childhood friends. My poor mad brother became my life; we grew up together in our own little world.

  ‘When Salvador was twelve, and I was ten, my father made a decision about our future. He bought a villa in Port Lligat, a tiny place near Cadaques. Salvador, my mother and I moved there, where no one knew our family, and where we could live a more normal life. There was a garden in which Salvador and I played, and a big room at the top of the house in which I was able to paint, and where my brother would draw. A tutor was hired, a nurse for us, and a maid for my mother. Father would visit at weekends, and for holidays. My parents’ ordeal was over, and for the first time in our lives, we were a happy family, if not a normal one.’

  Davidoff stopped again, and took a deep draught of his wine, then put the glass down again, out of camera shot. ‘We stayed in the villa for seven years, in our contented isolation, until it was time to contemplate life as adults. Salvador had come a long way since first I met him in the attic. He had learned proper behaviour, and he could look after himself physically like anyone else. To a stranger he would have looked normal.

  ‘But behind his eyes — ’ he reached up and tapped his head ‘- in here, he was still as crazy as a bedbug. Also, emotionally, he was completely reliant on me. I was only seventeen, but one thing was clear to me. I was, and I would always be, my brother’s keeper.’

  He paused. ‘My talent as an artist was developing, until finally I told my father that I wanted to study painting at college. He found a place in Madrid, with a good reputation but where the only entry requirement was money. Of course, Salvador had to go also. He had developed a limited talent for pen and ink drawing, and so he was enroled too.

  ‘At that point, our shared name became a problem. I suppose I could have become Felipe, or Jacinto, but I hated them both. However I had just read a book in which the principal character, a young man
like me, was called Davidoff. I persuaded my father to enrol me simply as Senor Davidoff, Salvador’s cousin. That is who I have been from that day on.’ He smiled again at the camera and gave a brief nod. I couldn’t help it; as he resumed his story, I nodded back.

  ‘College was a problem, for several reasons. First, having lived in virtual seclusion for most of my life, I found myself overwhelmed by the mass of humanity amongst whom I had thrust myself. I was shy, and reserved. My brother, on the other hand, in my company … and meeting outsiders for the first time, behaved as bizarrely as always. His flamboyance made him a celebrity. It was very difficult to control him at times. I never let him out of my sight, although by now he was not afraid to be without me. You will find references to that period in the book. You will also, if you look carefully, see a young Davidoff beside Salvador in a class photo which is reproduced there.

  ‘Our studies were a drama also. Because we had to be in the same classes, Salvador had to take painting with me. The trouble was, while he could draw well enough, he could not paint worth a damn. His work was awful. Mine on the other hand, was technically far and away the best in the college. However, my subjects and my compositions were as shy and reserved as I was. There was no soul to them.

  ‘That landed us in trouble. Once, my tutor said to me, in front of the class, “Senor Davidoff, you have a great talent: for painting biscuit tins. You should stick to that.” Salvador roared and threw his paints at the man. He was almost expelled, but our father’s fees were more important than the tutor’s suiting.’

  Davidoff laughed and shook his head. ‘We left eventually, but for another reason. As my brother came to realise, if not to understand, his sexuality, he developed a fondness for girls, for very young girls. He touched no one, you understand, but he used to stare at them in the street, sometimes to the annoyance of their parents. It came to a head when he made some filthy, obscene drawings, and sold them for publication in a magazine for people who liked to indulge in that way. Someone gave the Principal a copy … or maybe he was a paedophile himself … and that was the end.

  ‘Salvador passed it off by announcing that there was no one in the college fit to judge his work, and with that he and I returned to Port Lligat. We were hermits again, for a while, and it was in that period that we found our destiny.’ His face lit up, with pride. As he paused, for more wine, I fidgeted in my seat, impatient for him to go on.

  ‘As I have told you, Oz,’ he resumed at last ‘my brother Salvador was quite mad. Also, he could not paint.Yet he could draw; and he could see things, my friend, visions that were not accessible to a sane eye. One day at Port Lligat, while I was painting the same old hillside, he made a drawing of the scene. It was bizarre, but as he explained it to me, I could see what he meant, and I realised that I could paint it as he saw it.

  ‘When I was finished, I signed it “Dali” and we showed it to my mother. She didn’t understand it; in fact it disturbed her. But next day, we took our art round to Cadaques, where many artists lived, and we put it in a gallery. My brother did the talking, for I was still a shy boy. Next day it was sold, and the gallery owner said, “Gimme more.” So Salvador did more sketches, Davidoff painted them, and the gallery sold them. Gradually the reputation of Dali spread, until one day, we were invited to exhibit in Figueras.

  ‘We worked all winter in Port Lligat. The show opened in the spring, and it was a sensation. The newspaper critics came and declared Dali a genius, the inventor of surrealism. Salvador spoke to them, and agreed with them all. I sat by his side, and said nothing.

  ‘Surrealism is a good word, and appropriate. It means “surpassing reality”; some would say that means madness. The work of Dali sprang from the visions of my possessed brother’s mad eye, and for that reason, I was happy that he should take all the credit for our joint creations.

  ‘The fame of the work spread beyond Spain. In 1929 we went to Paris to exhibit, and it was there that Dali met and fell in love with Gala, the wife of a poet, Paul Eluard.’

  He leaned forward and looked at the camera, hugely intense. ‘I say “Dali”, Oz, deliberately, for Dali is the artistic identity of the brothers Salvador and Davidoff, and it was both of them who fell in love with Gala. Yet it was Salvador she saw first. Before I could do anything about it, they had run off together. I was left to organise the exhibition in Paris, and to console Paul, while they fucked each other’s brains out in Spain. It was the first time that Salvador and I had been apart in almost twenty years.’

  He paused again, and even on the screen, I could see his eye mist over again. ‘It didn’t last long between them. Pretty soon, he became dysfunctional without me. Pretty soon, we were back at work in our studio in Port Lligat. Gala was there too, only now she was sleeping with me. Her influence began to pervade Dali’s work, because she was almost as crazy as Salvador, and she contributed to and featured in his visions.

  ‘Our fame and our reputation grew through the thirties. So did Salvador’s notoriety, for his public behaviour and his appearance were always bizarre. But then the Civil War came along, and with it the curse of Franco. I hated the fascists, although I was no communist. I was, as I still am, a liberal. Yet I left Salvador with Gala, and I went to fight against the dictator. Like I told you once, I learned many things in the war. How to kill, and how to avoid being killed. Most of all, I learned how to look after my body. Seeing so many torn to pieces made me realise what a precious gift a healthy body is.

  ‘I never forgot that. Today, Oz, I am more than ninety, though no one would think me older than my seventies. I have looked after my body for all my life. I have treated it like a temple. I have always done what it permitted me to do, no more, no less. Ten years ago, I had a heart by-pass in New York. Seven years ago, my prostate gland was removed because of cancer. I survived both crises. I had intended to live until I was one hundred and ten. Sadly, because of what has happened, that cannot be.’ He snapped his fingers suddenly and sharply, making me jump. ‘But more of that later.

  ‘My luck in the war ran out eventually, when I was wounded, and so, for a while, did our time in Spain. Dali, the public face and the unknown brother, childhood roles reversed, went to America, taking Gala with them. Eventually, the dictator begged us to return. Like everyone else he thought it was all Salvador. He didn’t know about me, or my part in the war against him.’ He chuckled. ‘In the end, I said we should go back just to spite the bastard!

  ‘Through the decades Salvador’s visions continued, and our riches grew to unbelievable proportions. As my crazy brother grew older, his madness deepened into true genius. Happily my art was able to grow with it. We saw the strangest things together in our joint life, and together we gave them to the world. The thread of Gala runs through it all, for we both loved her ceaselessly. Over the years, she moved from one of us to the other, then back again, time upon time. She was Dali’s woman, in the truest sense.’

  Davidoff shook his head. ‘It was Salvador who promised her the castle, but of course, he forgot, so it was I who kept his promise. I found it, I bought it, I restored it. It was I whom she invited to see her here, never Salvador. It was Davidoff who prepared the Delma as her tomb and who placed the second slab beside hers. Salvador never even thought of being buried here. He knew nothing of it.

  ‘When she died, a very old lady, at Port Lligat, it was Davidoff who put her in the Cadillac and drove her back here. Salvador’s madness was edged with senility by then. I brought him to the funeral, though. He stood beside me, nodding and dribbling slightly, until it was over, then I took him back home.’

  Davidoff reached up and wiped his eye. ‘I have loved five people in my life, Oz. My parents, Salvador, Gala, and one other. When Gala went, I told Salvador that Dali the artist had died also, and he agreed. She had been so much part of the visions, you see. It was her influence and her involvement that made the work truly great.

  ‘My dear brother lived on, in my care as always, for a few more years, until 1989 when he died. It is
quite fitting that he is buried in the museum, in the town where he was born, and where he spent his first strange and unhappy years. For most of the design of the place was his alone, his vision executed by others, not me …’ He paused. ‘… apart from the great foot in the ceiling, of course. We did that in secret, by night.’

  On the tape, he sighed audibly, looking incredibly sad. ‘With Salvador’s death, Davidoff was free. I was lonely, and bereft, but I was free. I handed over control of the Dali Foundation, which I had exercised for many years, ostensibly as Salvador’s Trustee. Then I came back here, to live in the secret apartments below the Delma, which I had discovered when I bought the place, and had made ready years earlier during the restoration, to become eventually my own tomb, beside that of Gala.

  ‘You see, Oz, it was always my intention that in the end, I would have her to myself. What’s wrong with that, I ask you? Everything else of my life, I gave to my brother: even my identity.’

  All of a sudden, the shock and enormity of it all caught up with me. I hit the ‘Pause’ button. Davidoff’s face froze, his eye staring at me, his mouth turned up in a smile. I shook my head, thinking back over everything he had told me, taking it all in, realising how perfectly the pieces of the puzzle fitted together. I looked around the room again, and my eye was caught by a bottle on the floor, not far from where I sat. It was red wine, a 1979 Rioja, I saw from the label, and it was half full. A glass stood beside it; clean, waiting for me. I walked across and poured myself some of Davidoff’s fine vintage, then, taking the bottle with me, returned to my seat and set the video to play once more.

  ‘There was a fire once,’ Davidoff went on, ‘while I was in Port Lligat with Salvador. I left the work of repair to the Foundation. Had I known they were going to open the castle to visitors, I would have forbidden it, but I did not find out their intention until too late. Still, I have come and gone by night for years, before and since the tourists. Occasionally I have lived at Port Lligat, and at Shirley’s of course, but mostly here. No one knows of this apartment, and the secret entrance, not even the people in the Foundation. Gala never knew, nor Salvador; only me.