“No.” Most reluctantly Magnus opened the notebook. He took a deep breath and began to read.
My brain is like a sieve these days. My memories, they dribble from me. I no longer remember it all – don’t want to remember. My fingers tighten round the pen. My story. Must write it down, before it slips away from me. Magnus always says to start at the beginning. The beginning? Let there be Light, He said. Well, no, not that beginning. My beginning.
I remember I was born in Seville. No; I know I was born on the third day of Pesach in 1461. Or was it 1462? I’m not sure. But my mother was Miriam, my father was Benjamin, and I, I was Ruth. The house we lived in was tall and narrow, squeezed into a corner of a small plaza in the Judería of Seville. Lovely, lovely ochre walls, like honey in the afternoon sun. Sheltered, green courtyards, trickling water, heat, always so much heat.
On the first floor lived my grandparents and…no, I don’t recall. Irrelevant. On the second floor I lived with my parents and my sister, the third floor was my grandfather’s workshop, and on the ground floor, in a little room off the storage rooms and the kitchen, lived Geraldo. Yes, I remember Geraldo.
Geraldo was old. He talked all the time, and most of it was nonsense, but some of it was not. My grandfather had taken him in one night very many years ago, pitying this man who walked the streets in charred, odd clothing, speaking of thunder and lightning, funnels of bright, bright light, and of falling and falling. If he hadn’t done so, grandfather would say, poor Geraldo would likely have burnt as a witch, and all for the sin of being out of his head.
My father was a doctor. He had but to taste a drop of his patients’ urine to be able to diagnose them, and mostly he cured them as well. My mother was a chameleon, a woman who shone like the sun when my father was close, but wilted and faded when he was not. My sister was younger, happier, prettier, but I was the chosen one – oh, yes I was.
I remember paint. Colours. Amber, carmine, beautiful sienna red, cobalt and vermilion. Brushes arranged by size, easels and half-primed canvases, laughing sitters and on his stool my grandfather, eyebrows pulled together as he concentrated.
He was no ordinary painter, my grandfather – in my family we rarely are. No; we have magic in our fingers, and my grandfather was a painter of things unseen, evoking desert storms out of canvases the size of a hand palm, waterfalls from painted walls. But these were hidden skills, things we never spoke of. I’m not sure my mother ever knew.
“What? Like a family of weirdly talented painters?” John laughed. “No one can paint like that.”
Magnus hitched a shoulder. There was a painting in his bedroom that was very much like that, in palest whites and greens, here and there a dash of yellow. At times, if the light was right, it glowed into life, and it was him and Mercedes naked in a long gone Seville afternoon. But he didn’t feel like telling John this.
I was three – only three? no, that can’t be right – when my grandfather decided it was I that had inherited his talent. Blood red squiggles and my sister cried, long strokes of greens and browns, and my mother nodded to sleep. I was the wizard’s apprentice. I was taught to see and capture all the things most people never notice. The imprint of a hand on a surface of water; the rush of air that precedes a rainstorm. He tried to teach me his own special trick – painting his way into people’s heads – but I never mastered that; perhaps I didn’t want to.
When I wasn’t painting, I helped my mother – all little girls helped their mothers. I baked and cooked, sewed and washed, and swept the house clean before Sabbath. And when I had a moment over, I was mostly with Geraldo, begging him to tell me one more story, one more time.
He told good stories. About girls that fell down bunny holes and boys that grew up with wolves. But my favourite was the one about the thunderstorm – the one that made the adults laugh and say poor Geraldo was truly out of his head. Geraldo would scream it was true, all of it. I believed him.
One day he was out walking, he’d say, and just as he was trying to decide which way to take in the crossroads before him, a huge storm broke above his head. Terrible, he’d whisper, lightning and thunder but no rain, just very, very hot. And then…he’d swallow, shake himself…and then rose around his feet bright bands of greens and blues, they wrapped themselves around him, and those horrible colours tightened into a vice around him, propelling him towards a hole in the ground.
Like the bunny hole Alice fell through? No, of course not! This was a bottomless pit, a hole streaming bright, bright light, and he didn’t want to, but there was no way to avoid it, and so he fell. He fell and fell – and landed here.
John made a strangled sound, looked as if he intended to say something. Magnus shook his head; no more interruptions.
So easy, no? Just like Geraldo described it. A swirl of blues and greens, a dot of burning white, and there I was, leaning expectantly towards this bright point of light. My grandfather yanked me away, screaming that what had I done, I had near faded away before his eyes. He burnt the painting. I didn’t paint one like it for very many years.
When I was eight, my grandfather choked to death on a plum stone. No more painting. Don’t know why. It made me angry. To distract me, Father brought me along to see a patient, promising he’d buy me a pet on the way. A magpie. I danced by his side. That was the day I met Hector Olivares – eyes like aquamarines, hair like gilded copper. He took my bird! He opened the cage and set it free, laughing at me when I cried. My father offered me a new pet but I shook my head. I wanted my bird.
At fourteen I was María de las Mercedes, no longer Ruth, no longer Jewish but Catholic. No choice. My father was Benito Gutierrez, not Benjamin ben Isaac, and my mother stopped shining at the sight of him – she cried. And died.
At seventeen I met Hector again, and I stuck my tongue out, still angry at him for my bird. But this Hector was not a nasty boy, he was a young, handsome man, and he laughed and offered me a white rose in compensation for the lost bird. To Dolores, my sister, he offered a red rose. She blushed.
Ay, ay ay! Dolores and Hector, always together, and Dolores grew secretive and smug, disappearing for hours on end. Two years, a few more months, and Dolores was bright-eyed and rosy, whispering to me that soon, yes very soon, Hector would ask for her hand.
He never did. He laughed, and said he couldn’t marry a marrana, a Jewish convert. But he liked his little mistress, his hot-blooded little Jewish bedmate. Dolores cried when she told me this. Never again would she see him, never, ever again!
But one afternoon she was out, sent by me to buy marzipan from the nuns, and it grew dark, and still she didn’t come. And when she finally did, there was something wrong with her face, with her eyes, and she smoothed at her skirts, all the time her skirts.
My father found out. He cornered Hector and dragged him off his horse, beat him, kicked him, leaving the young grandee covered in mud and chicken shit. People laughed. Hector got to his feet and promised revenge.
Despite this, the coming years were calm and peaceful. I married, an older man, a prominent Christian. He was kind to me, indulged my fascination with paints and brushes. Long, orderly days, no Hector, just a steady roll of weeks and months. Until the eve of Dolores’ wedding.
They scaled the walls, they came through the gate, and we were dragged into the patio, all of us – my father, Geraldo and me. And Dolores, God help me, Dolores as well. She was undressed by these men, and Geraldo might have been old, but he loved us, and he picked up a spade and hit one of the men. They killed him. And they laughed, forcing Dolores down on her back.
I recognised Hector behind his mask, and when they were done with her, I thought they might turn on me, and I almost hoped they would, because it was unbearable to stand and watch. But they didn’t. My pregnant belly and my husband’s name protected me. I was shoved into a room, tied and gagged.
Next morning the house was empty. No father, no Dolores. No Dolores! My father, I looked everywhere for him, for them, I knocked my way round all the houses in
the neighbourhood but all I got was shaking heads and hastily hooded pity in their eyes. Hector; I…yes, I would go to the queen, to the Inquisitor himself, tell them what he had done. Geraldo dying in his blood, my sister ravished, and my father… My husband wouldn’t let me. What proof but my testimony?
Two months later, and we were standing on a balcony overlooking the plaza. A festive occasion – an auto de fé no less – and the square below was crowded with people, the air heavy with the scents of fried pork, of bread and too much sour wine. And there they came, the penitents, a straggling line of men and women that filed silently after the chief Inquisitor himself, Alonso de Hojeda. By his side rode Hector. And among the penitents… No! Dios mío, no! I don’t want to remember this, but I must, I must. My sister, my Dolores, but she was no longer a happy, pretty girl, she was a hairless waif, dressed in rags. And there was my father, and I wondered what they’d done to him to make him stagger along as he did – but I didn’t want to know.
They burnt my father next morning and I stood as close as I could. For an instant I met his eyes. He roused out of his stupor, drew in a lungful of scorching air and screamed that he was Benjamin ben Isaac, and that hear all, hear all that the Lord our God is one. Only one. I hope God heard him.
Dolores they burnt a week later, and it was awful, awful, awful. And to one side was Hector, and I walked over to him, spat in his face and promised him he would pay. My husband dragged me away, but not before I saw Hector pale.
My son was born. I didn’t care. I painted. All day I painted, and one day I heard that Hector Olivares was tied to his bed, stricken by an inexplicable burning disease. I smiled and added further touches of red and black to my picture.
I recalled Geraldo’s story, and I painted exquisite swirls of blue and green, and in the centre a point of beckoning, soothing white. I went to visit Hector, bearing my painted canvas as a gift of sweetmeats on a plate. He looked awful; no youthful radiance, only a suffering husk, eyes sunk so deep into his grey cheeks they shone black, not blue. Did he hope I’d come to forgive him? Heal him? He took the extended painting and looked. Before my eyes he vanished away, and I was filled with black joy – until something clawed at my legs and dragged me along.
So many lives, so many places; these I don’t remember nor recall. Not important. I painted. Oh, God how I painted. I fell, and fell, but always to new places, new lives, never back to where I belonged. At my heels was always Hector, accursed, angry Hector, no longer ill and weak, but full of life and purpose; to find me and punish me.
One day I realised one fell towards what one saw at the bottom of the funnel of light. I had painted myself to a dull, dreary place, had to leave, hurry, go, before Hector grabbed me and had me burnt like a witch. I locked myself into my little attic, they banged up the stairs, pounded on the door. I held my painting between my hands, closed my eyes, and in my head rose the image of the previous place – Greece somewhere? Two seconds later I was there.
But no matter how I tried, no matter how hard I prayed, I have not once been able to bring forth the image I need to take me back home. God’s punishment, I think. I don’t always like God.
Yet another fall through time and I was overjoyed at the sight of the Guadalquivir. This was my river, my city. But not my time. For days I wept. So close, so damned close! And then on a bridge I met him. Magnus. I knew immediately he was meant for me. Did he feel the same? Hands hovering millimetres from each other, eyes that met, darted away, met again. My man. A new life, a new beginning. My past receded, my hunger to return was dulled. And no Hector. For years and years no Hector.
One day I woke, looked into the mirror and screamed. Not my face, but an old, old face, shrivelled into an elongated raisin. I blinked. The image returned to normal. I began noticing other things. How if I was angry fire rushed through my veins, scalding my fingers.
I spent hours in the shower, before my mirror, looking for signs of my real age. I splayed my hand against a sheet of paper, thought about Hector, and the paper crackled under my touch. And in my brain it grew; a clamour to go back, to die. Maybe that’s the way it is; life becomes tedious after years and years of living. But not my life, not my precious days with Magnus.
I fought these whispers. I closed my mind to the alluring sounds and smells of my childhood city that seemed to float constantly around me. One day I succumbed, squeezed out ultramarine and azure on my palette, added dabs of forest green and lime, and began to paint. That is five – no, six years ago by now. My studio is littered with my magic swirls, and not all of them work, most of them don’t, they lie flat and lifeless on the table. My magic is dying, and exponentially my anguish is growing. What if I don’t make it home? Will I ever die, or have I cursed myself as well as Hector? And where is he? I sense him close, and at the thought my fingers, my toes begin to burn. So much anger, so much hate. I set my digit to an empty canvas and it sizzles and turns black. Oh my God; what have I become?
Sometimes I sit in my studio, surrounded by all my paintings, and I can hear them; my people, my family spring to life for an instant. My mother laughs at something my father says, my grandfather whistles as he paints. Magic. Dangerous magic. I should burn them all, every single one of them. But I can’t. I have to go home, I want to stay here. Magnus. Does he know I love him?
I am Mercedes Gutierrez Sanchez. Once I was Ruth. When I hold my hand up to the light, I see the flames that curl inside my fingers. I must go home – or self-combust.
Magnus closed the book. He rested a trembling hand on it, fingers caressing the cover. Why hadn’t she told him this before? Now he’d never have the opportunity to hold her hand, comfort her with his presence. I wish you’d trusted me enough to tell me, he thought. In his head rang her laughter. Trust you? My sweetest, sweetest man, I’d trust you with my life. But you would never have believed me. He sighed; no, he probably wouldn’t.
“Herre djävlar.” He tried to smile at John, hoping to see something in the younger man’s face that would relegate all of this to the make believe. Instead he saw shock. Magnus groaned, large hands wringing the note book. Why, oh why, hadn’t he thrown it out with all the other rubbish in the cabinets?
John extricated the notebook from Magnus’ hands. “It’s late,” he said, “let’s go to bed. We can talk about it tomorrow.”
With John’s arm around him, Magnus made it up the stairs. And Alex? His little girl, where was she? Had she been catapulted down a funnel just like the unfortunate Geraldo?
Chapter 10
“This is beautiful,” Alex murmured a few days later as they stood on a crag. He didn’t reply, his arms open to embrace all that openness. “Where exactly are we going?” She shaded her eyes as she looked towards the south. He took her by the shoulders and turned her southwest.
“There.” He pointed into the hazy distance.
“And how much longer will it take us?”
He shrugged. “A week? Two? I don’t want to walk straight back.” He smiled down at her. “If you release a homing pigeon, where will you look for her?”
“At home.”
“Precisely.”
“They will always come looking,” she said.
“Aye, but once I’m home, I’ll get fair warning.”
“Not if that bloody Luke is still around.”
“He isn’t, and if he is, he’ll rue it. Hillview is closed to him.”
He turned her back south and drew a half circle to indicate how they had walked, moving vaguely northeast for some days before beginning the long turn west. He stood with his hands on her shoulders and sniffed her, inhaling her scent. He tightened his hold on her shoulders, and she leaned back against him. He let his hands slide along her arms and then sat down, pulling her down to sit beside him.
“My mother hated this,” Alex said. “She said it felt like the heavens were planning to fall on her and squash her flat. Magnus always laughed when she said that, promising he’d stand and hold the sky above her head should it happen. It didn�
��t comfort her in the least, and she’d sigh and tell him that she was a city girl, and that to her nature at its best were the planned gardens in Seville, her home town.”
“Well, to each his own,” Matthew laughed.
“A cada uno lo suyo,” Alex nodded, “one of my mother’s favourite expressions.”
Matthew lay back against the warm rock, staring up at the nothingness above. Should the sky fall down he imagined it would be like being smothered in a featherbed, a slow drowning in an enveloping softness. His mind leapt from one kind of enveloping softness to another, and he lay in the sun with his eyes closed and felt his cock stir. He wondered what it would be like, to undo those glinting buttons of her djeens and pull them off her, and if she’d want to keep that bra thing on or not. Not, he decided, sinking into a far too pleasurable daydream, one hand moving downwards. He sat up so fast it made his head spin, looking down at Alex who lay beside him, a contented expression on her face.
“So, you’re Catholic.” Unfortunately; all papists were destined directly for hell.
She opened one eye. “I am?” She sounded very surprised, and Matthew swallowed back on a chuckle.
“Well, aye; if your mother’s Spanish, she’s a Catholic, and then so are you.”
Alex made a very disinterested sound. “I don’t think I’ve even been baptised, and I’ve definitely never been to mass or confession or all those other things you’d do if you were a Catholic.”
“You’re not baptised?” He was scandalised.
Alex opened both eyes, raising herself on her elbows. “I don’t think so. My parents weren’t that much into religion.”
“But…” He cleared his throat. “That means you’re a heathen!”
“No I’m not. Heathen are people living in primitive countries that have never heard of God. If anything, I’m agnostic.”
“Agnostic?” Matthew said. “Do you mean to tell me you don’t believe in God?”
Alex regarded him with obvious caution. “Of course not, it’s just that I don’t think you need to be part of a church to believe in God. I can just as well pray to Him here, out in the open, as in a dark and smelly little chapel, right?”
A Rip in the Veil (The Graham Saga) Page 10
