by Don Boyd
“Tilly explained her ‘mission’ as she called it. She was wanting to find interesting people, good subjects for her art. She wanted to use them in small movies that she was going to make and then put them on an internet site. They had to be very special people and they had to be prepared to ‘break the boundaries’. I volunteered at once. I told to her that I had been encouraged by my parents to explore. I came from a very different culture and so whatever Tilly had prepared for me would be an adventure. She told me to look on her website and I would find some of the art she had ‘made’! This was her word. ‘Made’. I love that word so much. And then, out of the blue, Xavier joined us in the bar. I was so shocked. And shy. He explained… he spoke beautiful French… that he thought I was the only interesting woman he had in any of his classes since Tilly had arrived. I was now so excited. We were all so excited.
“I had come to Barcelona because Obe is studying Spanish law. He helped me get a place on your husband’s course at the university because the principle reason we came to live here in this city is that Obe wants to practise law in South America. Barcelona is a gateway for many Brazilians. We have many Brazilian and Argentinean friends. So many, and they mostly talk in Spanish or Portuguese. And so Xavier, Paolo and Tilly were great. I could practise my English with them and of course I found Xavier very sexy. I like older men. White men. He explained that he had been introducing Tilly to some of the great paintings in the art galleries in Barcelona and that she had used these to inspire her, for her work. He loved les cinéastes who had used many paintings and art as inspirations. He told me about Derek Jarman. An English gay metteur en scene who had died of Sida, Aids. He said that he had made this beautiful film about Caravaggio. And another film about Christophe Marlowe, an English poet. Both these men had died very violently. But he told me that the films had beautiful images which had been inspired by great paintings. One of his films, an amazing music film called War Requiem, has a perfect movie image reproduction of a Piero del Francesca painting of St. George. Tilly had picked up on this idea and was using the people she found in Xavier’s class to help her make short films which were like this. Recreations of paintings. I made a joke about Caravaggio’s death. He was murdered. Xavier loved my joke. He said that he was fascinated by the circumstances of people’s death. He talked about a famous pop singer who hanged himself in the hotel room in Australia. And an English journalist that suffocated himself to death in London during his attempt to have the perfect orgasm. I suppose I should have realised then that he was weird. But he had so much charm and I found him very sexually attractive. He told me that he would like to ask me and my husband out for dinner one night. I accepted cautiously, knowing that Obe would never have let me have le diner with another man, alone. (I would have preferred this.) But Xavier is very smart, very quick. He had known this.”
A waitress brought Margot and Isobel a cup of a very dark, gooey chocolate concoction. A Barcelona speciality. Isobel waited until she had moved back to the serving counter at the front of the shop. She looked around nervously as she sipped the chocolate.
The paintings on the website. Of course. I love her voice, her awkward accent, and her careful use of language. I can see why Xavier was so attracted to her. And of course, I can see why she was so attracted to him. Xavier was the antithesis of all the men she would have been used to meeting through her husband. Why did she want to see me so urgently? Where was this leading to?
Isobel continued. “I needed to go home, to check out Tilly’s website. Tout de suite. Obe went to bed and I told him that I had to check my emails. Tilly used a very complicated security system. She had given me a user name and a password. But it still took a long time to find the site. And when I finally found it, I watched all her work, I was stunned. I had imagined that she would have made maybe some simple recreations of famous paintings. Obvious. Naive. And, yes, each short film she had made had many references to paintings, by painters très connus, which I recognised. But there was much more. Tilly had used her imaginings and her talents to be very shocking. Her films were very violent, sexually provocative, and très dangereux. I was fascinated, and I have to admit that I was definitely aroused, sexually, by the idea of being in them. I watched them over and over. They were not pornographic. They were very sensual. Brilliant, really.
“But there was absolutely no way that I could ever tell Obe that I had agreed to be in one of her films. Obe would have been horrified. I realised that I would have to be very careful. And of course, at this stage, I now knew a bit more about Xavier’s relationship with Tilly. What his work with her was really like.
“We all met again pour diner one evening. I told Obe that Xavier was charming and we could use him to practise our English. Xavier suggested Café L’Accademia. When he arrived, he told us that Paolo and Tilly were going to join us for dessert. I was thrilled in one way because it bore out the ‘innocence’ of my fantasies, but I was a little anxious. Tilly and Paolo were capable of anything.
“During dinner, Xavier was so charming to Obe and they talked about Brazilian football. Another of Obe’s passions. During a break in courses, Obe went to the toilet and Xavier and I were alone for the first time. He didn’t say anything but he knew what I was thinking. I told him that I had seen Tilly’s website and that I had been shocked. He said that he thought that she was brilliant. I pretended. I said that I could never be in one of her films. But he knew. He knew that I had been aroused. He laughed. ‘Of course you want to be in her films.’ And then, almost as if I had no control over what I was saying, I told him that I was very attracted to him sexually. He laughed again and told me that he felt the same way about me. I told him that Obe would kill me if he were to find out. Xavier said that he could understand how he felt and paid me a series of beautiful compliments. He seemed almost excited at the idea of Obe’s mortal threat. Outrageous? Just before Obe came back to the table, Paolo and Tilly arrived. My heart sank. They had been drinking. Too much. They wanted to go to Gimlet. When Obe finally returned, he apologised and said that he had an early start. He suggested that I should stay and go to Gimlet with them. He had obviously been charmed by Xavier’s calm exterior and was amused by Tilly and Paolo. They hugged him generously. They were immediately affectionate towards him but he left quickly after paying the bill, and then we all walked through the Born to Gimlet where we got more drunk. I didn’t want the evening to end. I was falling in love. And Xavier made it so easy. He insisted on helping me to sober up at his apartment…”
And this was the first moment that Isobel drew breath from her story. She paused.
“You have been there? I know you have been there… You know what it is like and what he is like. At first he was very cautious with me, kind, like a father, but then one thing led to another and that night he made love to me… That was almost one year ago but what happened that night drew me into his web, Paolo and Tilly’s web. I had no control over it. I was out of control… I want to show you something.”
Isobel stopped again and pulled a pocket digital camera out of her purse. She played with its technology for a few seconds and then showed Margot its display screen. “Xavier has maybe ten cameras rigged around his apartment. They are all wireless, linked up to his computer. This is what he showed to me when I told him on Tuesday that I could never see him again.”
Margot watched the screen for about five minutes. A succession of beautifully edited mini movies. All of them were essentially pornographic records of Xavier’s sexual exploits with Isobel. Graphic and unambiguous. And then one, quite staggeringly beautiful, short, moving picture of Tilly in a recreation of Rossetti’s great Pre-Raphaelite image of Ophelia’s suicide. Margot gasped.
“That is a Pre-Raphaelite painting. Oh my God!” And then very quietly, “He’s a murderer! He coaxes them… because he needs to.”
Always images of people dying or at the instant of death. Paolo. And then Tilly. The scalpel. There is something hideously familiar about all this. Kant… Freud, the pleasur
e principle… Lacan.
A series of essays she had studied in Chicago about the relationship between death and sex began to flash through her mind. Kant’s story about the choice a man has between the opportunity of sexual intercourse with the woman of his dreams and the gallows. Freud’s theories about the pleasure principle. And Lacan’s brilliant seminars about jouissance.
Margot looked at her watch. She still had about ten minutes. She was ashen-faced.
Isobel looked intrigued and continued.
“All these movies are on the hard drive of his computer. Of course, we must find some way to destroy all these pictures. But the reason I wanted to see you is different. I need your help and I think that you need my help. When I saw him on Tuesday he made a mistake. He had left his laptop computer screen open on the kitchen table and I caught a glimpse of some images on the screen. They meant nothing to me at the time. I had seen hundreds of similar images…” She paused. To take in Margot’s reaction… “And when I saw you at the funeral, I knew… Those pictures on the screen were you!”
Margot stared at Isobel. Isobel was defiant. She became cold. Perfunctory. And oddly naïve.
“Together we must trap him and steal those pictures. He had been doing another movie. They were all trying to recreate the English painter Waterhouse’s painting of Santa Eulalia. Waterhouse was a friend of Rossetti who painted…”
“I know,” Margot interjected. She was trying to recover. She squeezed Isobel’s hand. She paused. Isobel’s almost innocent naiveté was infectious.
“Why did you go on seeing him for so long?”
Isobel laughed. “I shouldn’t have to answer that question. You know exactly why. I know you know.”
Margot nodded, sheepishly.
“What if you are wrong about him? The police are interviewing Robert. And my husband.”
“The police are interviewing Robert and your husband because they are stupid. Robert likes young girls. He likes me. He knew Paolo. He was trying to have an affair with Tilly. But no way is he a killer. Xavier will have given them some very clever explanation, an excuse… I think that they were probably disturbed when they were shooting the film. Maybe the night-watchman.”
“I don’t think the police are stupid. Just doing their jobs. Have you ever been to that warehouse?”
“No! For all I know that was another one of his secrets.”
“What do you want me to do? What about the police? They will need evidence. Surely he will have destroyed all the evidence?”
There is something desperately silly about all this. But I can’t resist it. It’s almost as if this is part of one of Xavier’s games. Ridiculous. Extreme. And yet compulsive. Almost sexy. Being with Isobel is also a little alluring. Seductive.
“I think that we can trick him. But you must make me one solemn promise. When we find his computer, we must steal it. It can never become evidence. I don’t think that he keeps any copies anywhere else and if there are, I can find out by checking from his computer log.”
“Have no fear about that. If he has pictures of you, he will have pictures of me, too… I must call him if I am going to stay here any longer with you. We need some more time.”
Margot pulled out her mobile ‘phone and punched the keys. He answered.
“Xavier! I am running a little late. I will be with you in half an hour… À tout à l’heure! Je t’embrasse!”
Isobel smiled wryly at Margot’s use of Xavier’s favourite valedictory phrase.
“He seemed to be normal. I hope he hasn’t smelt a rat.”
“Smelt a rat?” Isobel looked confused.
“An English expression – it means that if he has smelt a rat he will have figured out what we are doing, in this case!”
Isobel smiled. “Our plan must not smell of any rats… It’s very simple. We need to steal his laptop for long enough to destroy the pictures of us that he has. We can lure him into feeling safe. When you have done that, I can arrive and when he comes to fetch me, you can take it.”
“That seems too simple. Where does he keep it? I have never really noticed it. I have only been there twice. And what happens…”
“It is always in the same place in the kitchen, by his projector.”
“What if it isn’t?”
They looked at each other anxiously, like two frightened schoolgirls plotting a midnight feast.
“I am sure that it will be in the same place. Why not?”
“What do we do then? I can record him. I have a tape recorder on my cell phone.”
Margot was now petrified but she decided to go along with the plan. All the psychological detective work she had been trained to do seemed hopelessly redundant and she knew that Isobel was right. This was a golden opportunity to trap Xavier; she trusted her new friend’s instincts. It seemed simple enough and with two of them working together, the risks and inherent danger were diminished. She was also absolutely clear in her mind about Xavier’s mental make up.
Isobel reminded Margot of the layout of the apartment by going through it in great detail, detail Margot found easy to remember. They hurriedly rehearsed a schedule which included a strategy for Margot’s behaviour when she was alone with Xavier, before Isobel was to ring the doorbell.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t just go straight to Carlos? To the police.”
“I cannot risk that until I know we have my pictures on his computer.”
“He may have copies.”
“I doubt it. He is very careful to hide everything. Everything is very secret. He did not want to give Tilly or Paolo anything; he refused to let me have my copies but he transferred these onto this camera for my birthday gift last year because he knew he was safe because of my husband’s jealousy…”
“Blackmail.”
Margot paused for a few seconds while she collected her thoughts. Isobel played with the sugar cubes on the side of her saucer.
“And what about Paolo and Tilly?”
“I am sure that he was responsible for their deaths.”
“You think that he murdered them? ”
“I think that he will have many questions to answer.”
“He is a very dangerous man.”
Margot paid the check. Isobel was going to give Margot about ten minutes with Xavier alone and so she was going to wait behind in the café for a little longer. Ten minutes to keep him at bay, enough time to find the computer and distract him. They exchanged and checked cell phone numbers – their ‘phones were to be their only alarm system. They also agreed that Isobel would go straight into the church when she arrived, to avoid any unwelcome curiosity. It would be easier to wait there for Margot’s signal.
“One last question… Did Xavier ever mention that he knew Archie, my husband?”
“I don’t think so, but then everyone knows your husband, Margot. He’s adorable.”
Margot felt vaguely reassured. They shook hands – a prolonged gesture – and then Margot left.
Isobel looked lonely and afraid when Margot looked back at her from outside the café. She blew her a comforting, but inevitably forlorn, kiss and set off towards the Plaça Santa Maria feeling mysteriously ambiguous about her mission. Quite suddenly, all her previous feelings for Xavier returned as powerfully as they had ever been. Margot had to find a way to subjugate them. They were so obviously perverse and inappropriate. Despite herself, she had been seduced by a paedophile, and by a man who was also almost certainly a killer. To nurse any residual feelings for a man like this seemed to be so outside the boundaries of normal behaviour. The image of Tilly floating as if dead within Paolo’s recreation of Rossetti’s autumnal leaves was certainly powerful visual evidence. It suggested premeditation. It suggested complicity. But even the Pre-Raphaelite connection could be afforded a simple explanation. She remembered one of their Sunday lunches. Paolo and Tilly had been intrigued when Archie had shared with them his enthusiasm for their work, and had so cogently explained the connection between late Victorian painting and Raphael.<
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She hardly needed to rehearse in her mind other specific accusations she would level against him – Xavier was a self-confessed paedophile for a start – Paolo had made that quite clear. His antics as ‘Guy’ were a matter of public record. These facts alone should have been enough to trigger Margot’s disgust and anger. But what if he had a powerful and subtle defence to that, too? Some cunning explanation about reform and apology? Or some cock and bull story about Archie. As she walked towards the square, she wrestled with the cold-blooded facts and the analytical details which nailed Xavier so specifically. She hated herself for her weakness. She hated herself for being suspicious about Archie. She felt ashamed, and strangely felt almost like a guilty accomplice. She and Isobel had been part of the world he had constructed for all his victims.
We had been his ‘special friends’.
Was Archie part of all that, too? His accomplice.
She shivered at the thought. Finally, she managed to come to terms with one inescapable fact: whichever way he or she might try to rationalise or justify his behaviour, Paolo’s and Tilly’s lives had been horrendously sacrificed as part of Xavier’s blatantly evil and unacceptable modus operandi. She had to hang onto that fact and any fear or apprehensions disappeared. The images of their dead bodies, of the violence and the blood which must have been part of that fatal, horrendous ritual. These neurotic thoughts thankfully helped to destroy any vestiges of her lust. She could finally become clinically cold-hearted in her purpose. When she arrived, she noticed that the police car had gone. The shops were opening and there were one or two tourists outside the church. She recognised the owner of the Indian restaurant where Archie had taken her last summer, sweeping away some broken glass in front of his doorway. She said hello, and he returned her greeting with a smile. A young couple emerged from Xavier’s apartment building.
