Memory of Bones

by Alex Connor

  ‘I asked how you knew the skull was a fake.’

  ‘I … I … had it examined.’

  ‘By who?’

  ‘Mr Ortega,’ Leon started, his nerves beginning to show, ‘what’s all this about?’

  ‘The skull, Mr Golding,’ Gabino said coldly. ‘It’s about the skull. Who examined it?’

  ‘A colleague,’ Leon replied, ‘A man I trust implicitly—’

  ‘He could be wrong. Where’s the skull now?’

  ‘Buried,’ Leon said shortly.

  ‘Where?’

  Disconcerted, Leon blundered on. ‘I gave it to the church to deal with—’

  ‘The church.’

  ‘Of course. So they could lay it to rest in consecrated ground …’ Leon glanced around, as though anxious no one should hear what he was about to say. ‘To be honest, I feel rather awkward about the whole matter. I was very nearly taken in, fooled. I should have known better after being in the business for so long. Should be used to disappointments. The art world’s full of forgeries. But you keep hoping … I’m afraid I have to be getting on now. I have an appointment.’ Leon ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his smile wavering. ‘It was good to see you again.’

  Hurriedly, he turned and walked off, his gait stiff because this time he knew he was being watched.

  10

  Shaking two headache pills into the palm of his left hand, Leon took a gulp of water and swallowed them. How the hell had Gabino Ortega heard about the skull? Ortega of all people. If he’d heard about it, Bartolomé would want the skull, and Gabino would want to please his brother. He was always trying to ingratiate himself, or get more money off him. And Gabino would do anything to placate his brother after that public brawl with the banker … Jesus! Leon thought, panicked. He would go to any lengths to get hold of the skull. He was disreputable – everyone knew that. Besides, how easy would it be for Gabino Ortega to steal it?

  But the skull was in London, Leon told himself. It was safe. Ben had it. Besides, Gabino looked like he had swallowed the story about it being a fake. He’d seemed shaken … Leon sighed raggedly. Who was he kidding? By now Gabino would have recovered his cunning. He’d be trying to find out more, like who had examined the skull or which church had been supposedly approached for burial … Leon found himself trembling, hardly able to hold the glass of water in his hand.

  It was his find! He had been given the skull. It was his discovery, his stab at greatness. The Ortegas had no right to it. They had so much, why should they steal his triumph? Bartolomé Ortega had spent fortunes on trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings and failed – he wasn’t the man who was supposed to succeed. It was Leon’s triumph and his alone.

  His anger was childish and desperate, the glass dropping from his hand and shattering on the floor just as Gina walked in.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine, fine …’

  Puzzled, she glanced at the broken glass. Over his shoulder she could see the reproductions of Goya’s Black Paintings. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m working on the book. You’ve been encouraging me for weeks.’

  She slid into his lap, red hair falling over her cheek. ‘I hardly see you any more, darling. And I could help, Leon – honestly I could.’

  ‘I can manage,’ he said, dismissing the idea out of hand. He didn’t want anyone interfering in his work, not even Gina.

  Although she had encouraged him, researched books for him, even obtained reproductions of some of Goya’s more obscure works, as the days passed Leon had found himself becoming more absorbed with the painter and less with her. Reluctant to share his ideas, he cut Gina out. He realised he was embroiled, sliding in and out of the Black Paintings, reading them as if they were written works and then testing himself against the stack of research. But he wouldn’t – couldn’t – share his passion with her. Instead he consoled himself with the thought that he would present Gina with the solution, not the mechanics. That he would impress her with his insight, knowing all along that he was being selfishly, childishly, possessive. After all, Gina wasn’t a competitor. She was his lover.

  But still he cut her out. All his energy and passion went into Goya … He had become convinced that he alone could solve the meaning of the paintings. Hadn’t he spent most of his childhood living within sight of where the Quinta del Sordo had once stood? Hadn’t Detita filled his mind with Goya’s life and works? Hadn’t the painter’s shadow fallen over Leon’s existence like Goya’s own picture of The Colossus? It was fate – even Diego Martinez finding and passing the skull on to him. What chance was there of that happening, if it hadn’t been meant?

  For decades Leon had been rocked in a cradle of mental instability. He had felt like a man forever destined to float on a rolling tide, unable to stand, prone to every movement and tipping of the elements. But no longer. Suddenly he was in charge of something which could change the world and make him – and his memory – indelible.

  ‘Come to bed,’ Gina said softly.

  ‘It’s too early.’

  ‘You’re not getting enough sleep—’

  ‘Stop nagging,’ Leon retorted, pulling his notes towards him. ‘I have to work this out before someone else does.’

  ‘The Black Paintings have been around for centuries, Leon. No one’s going to pip you to the post now.’ She stroked his narrow forehead tenderly. ‘Haven’t you got any results on the skull yet?’

  He tensed. ‘Nothing yet.’

  ‘Who’s doing the research?’

  ‘Some Spanish doctor at the University,’ he replied, wondering how the lie had come so easily to him – and why he hadn’t told Gina that his brother had taken the skull back to London.

  ‘So, was Goya involved in witchcraft?’ she asked, nuzzling Leon’s neck.

  ‘Maybe. He was involved up to a point.’

  ‘You think that’s what the Black Paintings are all about?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why are you being so distant with me?’ she asked, her tone injured. ‘You used to love talking about your ideas.’

  His enthusiasm momentarily overshadowed his reserve.

  ‘Look, Gina, keep this quiet but I think I might be close to solving what the Black Paintings actually mean. I think Goya was leaving a message behind, but he had to keep the meaning secret because otherwise it would have been dangerous for him.’

  ‘My God,’ she said breathlessly. ‘When will you know if you’re right?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have to keep on with it. I think there’s an order to them. Goya didn’t give the titles to the paintings – those were picked later by Yriarte, Imbert or Brugada. So, if you take away the titles, you see the pictures from a totally different angle.’ He looked away, uncertain. ‘But I’m not sure. Not yet.’

  A shiver passed between them, a frisson of unease, before Gina spoke again.

  ‘Why don’t we have a seance?’

  ‘What?’

  She smiled, shrugging. ‘Why not? I know someone who’s a medium.’ Leon flinched. ‘It’s OK, nothing bad will happen. I’ve known Frederick for years. He’s not weird, he’s just gifted. I believe in these kinds of things. Anyway, what harm could it do? He might even help you with your work.’

  Baffled, Leon stared at her. ‘Help me?’

  ‘Frederick knows a lot of different kinds of people. He’s got a lot of contacts … Some are interested in satanism now. Right now.’

  Transfixed, Leon listened. He was suddenly back to being a young boy, held captivated by one of Detita’s stories. Outside he could hear a summer wind blow up, and wondered for an instant if it was blowing across the old site of the Quinta del Sordo. Maybe something was still there, he thought, manic with excitement. Maybe something that could be conjured up. His breathing rate increased, his skin clammy. It was almost within his reach – the respect he had craved for so long. He would be world famous; he would translate Goya’s dying works, tell posterity what the Black Paintings really meant.
<
br />   ‘Darling,’ Gina whispered softly, ‘if you got the skull back we could use that in a ritual. Call Goya up.’

  Leon smiled, as though it was absurd. But part of him believed it. Longed to believe it. ‘Call him up? Christ, Gina, you’re joking.’

  ‘What if I wasn’t?’ she replied. ‘If we could contact him, Goya might help you. Guide your work.’ She stroked the back of his head tenderly. ‘For centuries people have tried to contact the dead. Many believe they’ve succeeded. I’ve been to seances and visited mediums. When my father died I spent a lot of time trying to contact him.’

  Leon’s eyes were fixed on her. ‘Did you succeed?’

  She nodded again, smiling. ‘Yes.’

  A soft hot wind blew in from the window, sighing around them.

  ‘How did you know it was your father?’

  ‘The medium told me things only he would have known. I was in contact with my dead father.’

  Unnerved, Leon shuddered. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘You have to get the skull back,’ Gina went on hurriedly. ‘This means so much to you, Leon. You have a chance to make your mark now. A chance to solve a problem no one has ever come close to. You would be the most famous art historian in the world. Think about it – why did the skull come to you? Maybe you have to use it to contact the painter. If anyone else hears about it, they’ll want the skull—’

  He thought of Gabino Ortega and panicked. ‘I know, I know!’

  ‘They’ll try and steal it from you. They’ll put it in a museum or some collection out of sight. They might even try to use it in a ritual—’

  He turned to her. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Goya was interested in the occult. Present-day believers would long to get hold of his skull, just to see if they could prove a connection.’

  ‘Detita said something like that once …’ His mind shifted backwards, the old woman’s voice echoing in his ears. ‘In Black Magic people use skulls to resurrect the dead, to bring the Devil from underground. Goya’s head was stolen …’ Leon turned back to Gina, his voice hushed. ‘Detita said that witches made Goya ill, that they made him deaf. They stole his hearing.’

  ‘D’you think it’s true?’

  ‘I don’t know … Goya was dangerously ill. He nearly died in the Quinta del Sordo. No one knows what the sickness was.’ Leon felt queasy, as if he had already gone too far and should back off now, while there was still time. But he knew he wasn’t going to. ‘Some said Goya lost his mind in that house.’

  ‘You think he was mad?’

  ‘No, I think he was desperate. He wanted to leave a testimony behind. But no one can prove it—’

  ‘You might be able to. You know about psychometry? That a medium only has to hold an object that the person owned to contact them? Well, think about it, Leon – if they had Goya’s skull how powerful would that be?’ She stroked his forehead, urging him gently. ‘Please, darling, don’t let it fall into the wrong hands.’

  He was confused, his thoughts jumbling. ‘I don’t know about all of this—’

  ‘But I know something about the occult,’ Gina went on, soothing him. ‘Enough to fear it. Enough to know that I have to protect you. I love you, Leon – let me help you. We have to make sure that you keep the skull. That you keep it safe. It’s common knowledge that Aleister Crowley wanted to find Goya’s skull years ago. And Crowley was known as the wickedest man in England. You don’t want someone like Crowley to get hold of the skull, do you?’

  She was swaying his judgement, and before he knew it Leon was hypnotised by her, her body pressed against his, her voice low, enticing. Suddenly he wanted Gina to be involved. Wanted to be close to her, safe with her.

  ‘Get the skull back, Leon.’

  ‘But—’

  Leon was just about to admit that the skull was in London when the phone rang beside them. In that instant the spell was shattered and Gina climbed off his knee and walked away into the shadowy back of the house.

  When he picked up the phone, the line was dead.

  11

  Gstaad, Switzerland

  Bartolomé Ortega studied his secretary calmly, then glanced away. He resisted an impulse to bite down on his lip, to draw blood, to release a tumour of rage which was threatening to seep out of his skin as sweat, or out of his lungs as one long protracted scream. His extraordinary face, fine-boned and impassive, betrayed nothing of his anger, his hands clasped on the top of his desk, the glass reflecting the top half of his body. Like an elegant island he sat in the vast, minimal surroundings of his office, two windows on his left opened to let in some breeze, the smell of hibiscus innocently irritating.

  Having been ill for the previous week Bartolomé had had little time for business. In fact he had enjoyed his sabbatical and the indulgent attention of his wife, Celina. It had even made him contemplate taking more time off in the future, just to be with her and their son, Juan.

  Bartolomé knew that his grandfather would never have been as patient as he had been. Adolfo would have disposed of any barren consort within a few years. But Bartolomé loved his wife, and even though she failed to bear a child for many years, he never considered divorcing her. Instead he had made discreet enquiries through his lawyer about adoption. Previously Celina had always rejected the idea out of hand, but as she approached forty and the likelihood of becoming a mother had grown slight, she had finally become receptive to it.

  Three months later she became pregnant. Just as their doctor had predicted – take off the pressure and often the couple will conceive. So it had been with them. Once they had turned their attention to adopting a child, Celina had fallen pregnant. And six months later, Juan, the most recent scion of the family, had been born. Darkly handsome, an Ortega in his pram.

  Hands still clasped together, Bartolomé swallowed with effort. Perhaps a reminder of his flu? Or simple rage at what he had just been told? He swallowed again, feeling the same tightening of his throat muscles as he stared at the vast expanse of floor in front of him. He liked the emptiness of his office, the cool, chilling grandeur of possessing a room so large that its brilliant architecture and size required little adornment. With the formidable Ortega collection at his disposal, Bartolomé could have covered the walls with images, but he left them blank. When he worked he liked no distractions, nothing to clutter his mind.

  His mind wasn’t cluttered at that moment; it was processing the information he had received. Goya’s skull had been found. It was in the possession of Leon Golding, the one art historian Bartolomé feared. The one man he believed might solve the riddle of the Black Paintings before he could. But that wasn’t all – Bartolomé unclenched his hands, flexed his fingers, stared at the mute walls – his brother had known. The sly Gabino had known about the skull. Apparently he had even approached Golding about it, and never said a word to his brother. Never told Bartolomé the news about the greatest passion of his life. Never passed on information which would have been priceless.

  Reserved and unemotional, Bartolomé struggled to maintain his calm. As a man of stunning beauty and exquisite taste, in his hands the Ortega collection had secured some magnificent works, including a Velasquez and several paintings by Guido Reni. But Bartolomé’s real passion was for Goya. The Ortegas already owned two small works, but he was always ready to acquire more. Judicious in his financial affairs and kindly in his affections, Bartolomé was, however, obsessed by the Spanish painter. In fact it was the only area of his life which had the ability to unsettle him.

  Relentlessly he hunted the internet, his personal sources and auctions around the globe for more works. Over the years he had also spent prodigious amounts of money trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings. A queue of experts had come and gone, offering up explanations, none of which were definitive and many derivative. Bartolomé had lost count of the times he had been given Goya’s insanity, illness or fear of death as an explanation. Even hints of a sadomasochistic relationship with his mistress, Leocardi
a.

  None of the theories rang true, and Bartolomé, with unlimited funds, became personally infatuated with the solving of the Black Paintings. At first he had been willing to hire people and ask celebrated art historians for their opinions, but as his interest festered into obsession, Bartolomé realised that he had to win. It was only right that a Spaniard should discover the truth, only correct that the wealthy and powerful Ortega family should make this cultural triumph. And, in the process, finally overshadow the thuggish reputation of their past.

  So why had his brother deliberately kept the news of Goya’s skull quiet?

  Because Gabino had no interest in Goya, in paintings, in heritage. His life was spent fucking and hustling, as he grubbed his way around Spanish society. As boorish and ruthless as their grandfather … Pushing back his chair, Bartolomé stood up. He moved like a dancer, light-footed, erect, a man who could feel the earth under his feet and was sure of his place on it. A man who had carried the Ortega name with pride, holding it aloft, demanding respect – not like Gabino, swaggering like a stevedore with his heritage tucked carelessly under one arm.

  Surprised, Bartolomé could feel himself shaking and turned as the door opened and Celina walked in.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, moving over to him and kissing him lightly. She smelt of earth and Bartolomé glanced down at her hands.

  ‘You’ve been gardening.’

  She nodded, her youthful face tipped up to look at him, her eyes green and intelligent, her hair a shade lighter from the sun.

  ‘You should come out – it’s cooler now. It will do you good.’ She reached up and touched his forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Fine.’

  She wasn’t convinced. Knew him too well. ‘Bad news?’

  ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I’m just tired.’

  The lie was difficult for him, because he trusted his wife and normally confided in her. Unlike other Ortega consorts, past and present, Celina was not excluded, partitioned off in some harem, her purpose erotic or maternal. She was her husband’s equal. Her family was French and liberal. Certainly not wealthy, but Celina had attracted Bartolomé for exactly those reasons. He wanted no organised Spanish match, no mating of business interests. He wanted love and sanctuary. In Celina he found it. And something more – a prodigious intelligence.