by Ken Fry
“Perhaps we should?”
“Let’s discuss that at the hotel. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
Their footsteps echoed across the loneliness of the burial ground.
CHAPTER 32
Stephan De Witt stepped back from his easel and was less than happy with his progress. He’d seen all three of Cortez’s paintings over the last few days and had extracted as much information as he could from both the curator and from his own drawings and photographs. With the camera, he had zoomed in on every corner and part of the paintings. Working on an artist he’d not done before required a special degree of attention.
He’d established that Cortez had painted on both canvas and board. For stability, he’d used an egg tempera grassa mixture. Oil was used in a strict ratio to produce water soluble paint, but which could resemble oils. It dried fast but could only be applied in thin layers. To achieve any suggestion of depth, numerous coats and small strokes had been used.
De Witt found himself admiring the skill of Cortez. He was proving to be an unprecedented discovery. Examining the works through a powerful lens, he was convinced the paints Cortez used were hand-ground pigments consisting, as was common for the age, of cinnabar, containing mercury; the arsenic based orpiment with its rich lemony colour and varied lead whites. Replicating these substances had become easier as several modern painters were experimenting with medieval and contemporary techniques and processes.
Of the three works he had examined, Christ Crucified and the Mother Mary excited his attention the most. It revealed a maturity that made use of every component of the medieval painter. It was awash with symbols. He wasn’t being paid to investigate hidden meanings, but Cortez’s work was full of them. For a reason that Throgmorton wouldn’t divulge, he’d taken an unusual interest in Cortez.
Why does he want a fake Cortez showing Lazarus being raised from the dead? Whatever reason, he’s not doing it for the love of painting. There has to be big bucks in this. It’s going to cost him more than he thought.
Something was not going right. In front of him and to one side stood his sketches and a rough draft. First, he examined several works of the masters of the period and how they approached the subject. Rembrandt, he considered too ghostly, morgue like. Caravaggio missed the point in his usual over dramatisations. He preferred Salviati’s approach that embodied and captured the human qualities he thought would be present at such an event. He stared long and hard at Cortez’s works, wondering how he might have approached the subject .... the number of people present, foreground, background, expressions and postures; the colours employed, light and shadow, and the drapes and folds and the state of their clothing.
De Witt used the medieval religious practice of Lectio Divina to imagine he was Cortez participating at the event itself, to experience the emotions that would have been present there. He mumbled to himself in gibberish, waiting for a spark to illuminate his consciousness and guide his hand in the mysterious way it had done so often in the past. He closed his eyes and transported himself back to a Spain drenched in the sun of the mid-late sixteenth century. He reached out for Cortez. Stretching out his arms he called out his name, “Francisco Cortez, I pay you tribute. Please come to me, enter my body and soul and let me paint as you may have wished.”
Nothing.
De Witt was a patient man. It took time to be taken over and for him to absorb the essence of the chosen painter. He had agreed in his mind how he would scan out the composition and it came to him how he would place the figures and their number into the geography and landscape. Between them all, he formulated an idea for a structure.
He would depict a multi-figured scene from inside the tomb with the guarding rock rolled away, revealing unusual configurations of light from outside and faces peering in. It would be expressionistic, with figures and faces looking elongated with agonised curiosity. The inside light would be of muted yellows and greens breaking up shards of blackness. Some onlookers would be masking their faces to protect against the stench of death. They would be wide-eyed and clothed in simple robes. The major proportion would be in a tempera and gold combination around Christ.
Two things eluded him. The figures and placement of both Lazarus and Christ did not fit into his idea. He could place them anywhere, but it wasn’t right, and it wouldn’t have been what Cortez would have done.
The spirit of Cortez was not forthcoming. He knew he could paint a passable and accurate ‘Cortez’ but that alone was not enough. He felt offended at being ignored. There was more to his skills than copying techniques and processes. As with the other masterpieces he had painted, he needed to be possessed by the artist and this was not happening. The expressions of the two main characters eluded him.
He paced the studio. “I’ve tried wonderment, solemnity, incredulity and weeping gratitude … but nothing looks right. The expressions and the eyes, I cannot get what I want ... from either of them.”
He slammed his brushes down hard into his brush holder. “Rembrandt would have been easier than this!” He decided that unless he could get it right, he would do an amalgamation of the expressions in all three paintings and hope it would somehow look correct. Throgmorton wouldn’t notice. Yet, that wasn’t the point. He was more than a mere copyist ... he was the embodiment and upholder of a golden lost age. Professionally, for the first time, he was aware of an inadequacy.
Maybe I’ve been away from this too long?
But he knew it couldn’t be the case. It was like riding a bike. Once mastered, never forgotten. Cortez would not let him come close. He decided to make the best of something he knew he was not truly capable of producing. Around him, he lined up the enlarged shots and sketches he’d made from the other three paintings. He leant back, took in a large lungful of cigarette smoke and studied Cortez’s works. He didn’t know if he should curse or praise him. A cold shiver rippled through him. He looked around and had a distinct feeling of being watched.
CHAPTER 33
Early the following day, the Condesa rang and asked them if they could pay her a visit. There were several things she wished to discuss and preferred not to talk about them over the phone. They agreed. It was a wiser move than going up to Madrid to pay Throgmorton a visit.
Ladro slid into the driving seat.
“Do you see what I see?” she asked.
“Our two amigos are back again. This time it’s a car.” He indicated the grey coloured BMW parked beyond the approach to the hotel. “They don’t give up, do they?”
“The pay must be good.”
“Let’s pretend we haven’t seen them.”
Ladro adjusted the wing mirrors so they both had a clear view of the BMW. Tourists were arriving in buses and cars and the car park was filling. The fine weather of yesterday had vanished and metallic clouds rolled with menace above. Rain was on its way. Guadamur wasn’t far but Ulla wanted to lose their tail.
“If we run north of the place and then double back through the hills and across country, we could lose them. We don’t want to put Maria in any more danger than she is already.”
“Agreed. Let’s go.” Ladro cruised out of the hotel area and through the stone arches that once guarded the city. Clear of the outskirts, he checked his mirrors. The BMW was still there and keeping a discreet distance.
“You reckon you can lose them?”
“Yep. I’m going to do it as they do in the movies.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see.”
A short time later, Ladro swung the car into a sharp turn and began heading north away from Guadamur. Ten kilometres ahead, the road forked. One went direct to Guadamur and the other skirted up into the hills toward Valencia. He decided that was the route to take. The BMW continued to follow. Since they were exposed in the emptiness of the terrain, any pretence was abandoned.
Another roll of thunder and a flash of lightning signalled a deluge of heavy rain.
“Damn.” Ladro flicked on the wipers and switched on the
lights. He was forced to slow down. The road was empty, and in his mirror, he could see the BMW closing on them and it was drawing level. The passenger window began to slide open and a gun appeared, pointing in their direction.
“Hit the deck!” he shouted at Ulla who needed no second command. “Change of plans!”
He floored the pedal. Turning the wheel hard right, he skidded into a tight bend sending up a volume of spray and fine mud. Without firing a shot, the BMW spun left and right and lost ground.
“This is getting nasty. You okay down there?”
“Fine. Just get us out of here.”
He avoided aquaplaning around the next bend as his pursuers closed the gap between them. Keeping the car steady was getting tough as the tarmac took on the consistency of an off-road event. It was getting difficult to know where the edge of the road began and finished. The rain got harder.
A bullet smashed through the rear window and passed with a neat hole through the front, but without causing the glass to shatter. Another one and it would explode. The rain made it hazardous to maintain the zigzagging course through straight stretches and bends in the road. Only when a crunching sound arose did he know he was on the edge of the road. In front of him, he spotted a car approaching in the opposite direction, causing him to wrestle with the wheel and swing the complaining vehicle back into his own lane.
“Ulla! For God’s sake! Use the Glock!” he shouted over the noise of the screaming engine, his head bent low. “It’s got a full clip and there’s another under my seat! Don’t miss.”
From the corner of his eye he saw her find the pistol, lower her window before extending her arm out and take aim.
“Make them count!” In a blink, he heard her blast off three rounds.
They had the desired effect. The pursuing car dropped back with a shattered headlamp and another hole through the windscreen. Brodie swung the car to the left as he lurched around the next bend, his foot spread across both accelerator and brake, alternating both in a crazy unison. His racing car days hadn’t been forgotten.
It was time to reveal some hidden skills.
An approaching vehicle passed by in a blur.
A brief glimpse of a startled driver.
Brodie shouted out. “Hang on!” He slammed on the brakes. The car struggled for grip as it wriggled and shook to a slippery halt. The BMW overshot. At once, Ladro let off the brake, moved up to second and hit down on the accelerator hard, using a rapid heel and toe technique.
Struggling to grip, the tyres faltered for a microsecond before the car sprinted forward. The seatbelt caused his body to lurch and jerk his head back. He screamed the car to maximum revs in all gears.
The BMW was now in front of him.
“Come on, car! Come on!” The needle of the speedo moved up to seventy. On the twisty route, his heart began to pound. “Ulla, get ready.”
The road straightened and he moved the car up to almost alongside the BMW as they crested a short incline surrounded by fields of yellow sunflowers and bright red poppies.
Looking across, Ladro recognised one as the man he had grabbed the other night. He was crouching low and preparing for a shot. He was too slow.
Ulla let off three rapid rounds that sent the man’s weapon spinning into the air and out of sight, into the slushy roadside mud. Ladro heard his yell echoing above all else just as he confronted the back of a lumbering farm lorry laden with tomatoes and well over its safety limits. It was what he had been hoping for. If he kept his course running in tandem with the BMW, there would be no way out for it. Its only escape would be to stop ... unlikely at this speed. He would have two options ... crash into the back of the lorry or veer into the wire fence and into a mud-soaked field.
Ladro hugged in tight, sped alongside the truck and passed it. Looking in the mirror, his guess was correct. The BMW had swung into the mud in a cloud of spray and steam.
“Wow!” Ulla shouted. “Amazing!”
“I told you to wait and see. I enjoyed that.” With a broad smile, Ladro slackened the speed a fraction before he picked up another auxiliary route back in the direction of Guadamur.
§
Ulla noticed Brodie’s triumphant mood changing the closer they got to the town. He’d gone quiet.
They arrived in forty minutes. The rain had stopped and now the sun shone, sending up wafts of steam from the nearby road, surrounding hills and countryside. A rainbow struggled to make an appearance.
They got out of the car and strolled up to the main entrance. She thought Brodie looked nervous. The walls looked bigger, and there were suggestions of arches and steps leading to forgotten areas that had been turned into gardens and what looked like places of sanctuary. Brodie looked only at the ground in front of them.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Something about this place gets to me.”
Without warning Maria appeared from behind a bower. She was dressed in a lightweight black trouser suit, topped with a flimsy chiffon neck scarf. Everything that she wore, Ulla, thought, accentuated her illness. She looked ashen, thin and drawn. One hand gripped a silver mounted walking cane and in the other she held a small volume. Ulla noticed the title: Nothing Lasts: How to Beat Pain.
Ulla gave a questioning look. Clearly it isn’t working.
The Condesa put down her book and extended a knobbly hand. “Ulla and Brodie, I’m glad you could get here.”
“We came through the scenic route.” Ladro shook her hand and gave Ulla a sidelong glance.
“I hope the rain didn’t spoil it for you. Please sit, I have something to tell you.” She indicated a long-cushioned bench beneath a protective blue striped awning. She patted the seat, sat down and let out a deep sigh.
Ulla wasn’t sure if the sigh was from pain, tiredness or both. For a moment, there was silence as if the Condesa wanted to imbue them both with the mystery that draped itself around the place.
Ladro broke the spell and spoke first. “Before you speak, we have something to tell you.”
She lifted her chin.
Ladro, without missing any detail, told her about their visit to the Cathedral in Valencia. He explained what Ulla had seen in the painting, the clues and symbols and the pregnant woman crying out for help.
“It was then we were shot at,” interrupted Ulla. She avoided mentioning returning fire. “To cut a long story short, on the way back, Ulla spotted a hillside that looked the same as in Cortez’s paintings. We drove up there and discovered very old ruins of a monastery we now know as San Vicente de Valencia.”
The Condesa’s alert expression did not change. She leant forward as if devouring a plate of her favourite food.
“He got taken over again.” Ulla found herself laughing as she explained the event, omitting some details.
The Condesa closed her eyes. Ulla noticed her lids had begun to flutter, slowly at first, before a short burst of rapid movement bought them to a halt. She opened them again like a drawbridge reluctant to complete its movement. She spoke, her voice sounding lower than before.
“You are getting close. I sense it. Lean nearer and listen to what I am going to tell you.”
She paused and spoke with effort. “I was told that the monastery that stood here often got caught up in the fighting and harboured battle worn and injured Crusader knights in the early centuries. Somewhere in the codex, you will find a list of names of many of the knights who took part in the wars. Amongst them is the name of one, Custodio Baez. He was an artist and slain in battle, but not before he had finished his work which he intended for the monastery. It was said he was exceptionally handsome but loved no one as he did Christ. Every moment and action were devoted to him. He was known as the Guardian, from our word, custodio.
Ulla interjected. “That painting would be The Eyes of Christ?”
“Exactly. I was told that when he died, the work was discovered, and it was wrapped in his blood-soaked tabard and taken to the monastery. The painting was said to have p
ossessed miraculous powers.”
“In what way?”
“Both grandfather and my father said they had heard stories passed down since the last days of Christ, of devout people being cured of their affliction by gazing into the eyes of Christ.”
“That would explain the frequent attempts to steal it.”
“As prophesy predicted, it was lost, destroyed when the monastery was razed to the ground. Somewhere and somehow, it was said there would be a new work to replace it. I believe that Borgoña and possibly Cortez were part of that holy lineage.”
Ulla looked at the Condesa and knew with certainty what was behind her drive. “Maria, there are a few things we haven’t told you.”
“We think he was a successor. Cortez’s diary tells of Juan Borgoña’s fresco The Raising of Lazarus. It makes a significant reference to what happened to him back in 1553 and the miraculous effect it had. It also mentions what had happened to the fresco. His tutor, Señor Méndez, saw the event. The wall on which it was painted, collapsed.”
Ulla noticed the Condesa’s excitement as she blurted out, “I know I’m right. What else have you managed to find out?”
“We suspect what we are trying to find is not far from this area, possibly guarded and protected in some way. What it is, we have no idea ... Brodie, how’s that antenna you’ve developed of late?”
Ladro looked grim. “Who knows? I have no control over it. A month ago, I would have denounced such things as a heap of deluded rubbish. What I’ve seen and heard, plus the frantic attention of Throgmorton, leads me to believe otherwise.”
“You are blessed.” Maria laid her hands on his arm.
“Not so, after the attacks we’ve experienced. The answer, I’m certain, is in the records of the Bodega Cortez. On top of that, Raúl Cortez is feeding the information we give him directly to Throgmorton, for money to help cover his debts.”
