Masterpiece

by Janet Pywell

  Had it not been for Javier painting her portrait our paths would never have crossed. My destiny would never be entwined with hers. Her mind is clearly focused on a hidden agenda and my fear for Javier rises. I wish he wasn’t so handsome or strong. Years of training in the gym have given him broad shoulders and a tiny waist and by the way her eyes travel over him I see she appreciates his efforts. When she smiles it is as if she is using a taut and magnetic invisible thread to reel him, emotionally and mentally toward her.

  Is this what she did on stage? Is this why she was so captivating and popular? Is this what they call stage presence?

  ‘Thank you for coming to visit me in Dresden, I do hope the journey was not too tedious for you? I am so excited by your visit. I have been looking forward to it.’ She purrs and moves purposely, arching her back like a cat stretching in the sun. I expect her to yawn but she simply pulls her shawl around her shoulders and tilts her head as if each movement has been carefully staged and rehearsed.

  I imagine her practicing scales, singing and filled with self-discipline and pride. All the years of devotion and dedication, all the hours of training and the time when she may have felt ill or too tired. I think of her constantly striving for perfection. The anger and frustration she experienced as the chrysalis emerged and a diva was born, secure in her talent and assured of her place on the world stage.

  Has she ever struggled through self-doubt and insecurity?

  ‘I love your portfolio, Javier. You are so talented. Tell me about yourself.’

  Javier blinks rapidly and speaks quickly, telling her of his desire and delight to be chosen to paint her portrait but my attention strays.

  The living room is ultra-modern with oak floors and ivory white rugs. Three white leather sofas are arranged in a U-shape around a burning log fire. A baby white grand piano is in the far corner beside a massive floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks a large balcony and a terraced garden filled with fruit trees. The view of the orchard, decorated with bulbous festive lights gives way to a view of illuminated spires of Dresden’s city centre on the horizon.

  There is no evidence of Christmas only one week away, apart from a hand-carved rotating float with angels that turn, propelled by the heat of burning red candles like an invisible wind. The wooden angels bring peace and joy, and the warmth of the fire and the alcohol I consumed on the flight make my eyelids droop and the room fades into haziness.

  Javier’s melodic voice seeps into my soul. My eyelids are heavy and the angel with the wooden wings hums. I grunt at a sharp dig in my chest and sit up quickly snorting myself awake.

  Josephine stares at me with a bewildered and incredulous look on her face. She arches her eyebrow and pulls back the sleeve of her cotton shirt and checks her watch. ‘You must both be exhausted. We will have an early dinner.’

  Andreas arrives with a chilled ice bucket and four fluted glasses.

  ‘Do you prefer tea?’ she asks looking at me.

  ‘No, thank you.’ I blink conscious of her scrutiny. She is probably wondering what the divine and gorgeous Javier could possibly see in me. If only she knew.

  ‘How lovely – prosecco.’ Javier smoothes his palms on his jeans as if he might contaminate the glass with his touch.

  ‘I much prefer it to champagne,’ Josephine says. ‘Especially to celebrate.’

  He leans forward eagerly like an energised and nervous puppy. I want to pull on his arm and make him lean back nearer to me. He is far too keen and enthusiastic. What is so great about this woman that brings Javier to an excited wreck?

  ‘We must have a toast,’ she says and we raise our glass with hers. ‘To friendship and success – to our future.’

  ‘Our future,’ Javier agrees.

  I sip and swallow a burp.

  ‘I think we’re going to have a lot in common, Javier. I’m looking forward to sitting for you. I shall have to ask you to be kind in your work and be gentle on your observations.’ She raises her glass in a mock toast to him. ‘Could I persuade you to air brush me?’

  ‘It won’t be necessary, Josephine. Believe me. You have an incredibly interesting face.’

  Andreas sits beside her like a silent young fawn, folding his longs legs to one side, his head tilted as if listening for danger.

  As Josephine continues playing a part in her own mini Dresden opera where she is the protagonist, Javier is her young protégée and Andreas is the jealous suitor, my attention wanders and I retreat into my own sphere. It’s my own space that served me well as a child and like a crab in a shell I take refuge behind a tough veneer – my suit of armour until I can rally and come out again with pincers at the ready.

  How does she speak like that?

  Years of voice coaching and breathing must have given a distinct quality to her voice. Her movements are slow and precise. Her words are measured and clipped. She tilts her head, raises an eyebrow or nods at Javier’s awkward replies but it’s the smile that annoys me. It lingers like an unwanted houseguest on her lips. It’s a Cinderella smile, full of wistful promise and the vessel of her gushing praise.

  I want to shout. ‘Stop it, Javier! She’s only human. She’s a nobody.’ I want to take him by the shoulders and shake him, dangle him upside down from the outside balcony that gives us panoramic views of the Dresden skyline but I can’t. Instead I try to regulate my breathing and relax against the soft cushions at my back while my stomach crunches with anxiety.

  Andreas refills amber liquid into our glasses. He is subservient yet there is a confident quality about him. Is it bordering on arrogance? What relationship does Josephine have with him?

  The conversation flutters around me but I won’t meet her gaze. Instead I stare at the roaring log fire. When she asks Andreas to bring Javier’s portfolio, he clears a space between ripe green olives, stuffed red peppers and mixed nuts on the coffee table and opens it out for us all to see.

  ‘This piece in particular is my favourite. I love the way you have captured the sensuality in her eyes.’ She taps the page with a ruby red fingernail, pointing to a sketch of the Madonna. Mary, mother of Jesus sits with eyes downcast. Her lashes are extraordinarily long and a small smile plays on her lips in a knowing and secretive manner. Her gown, painted in Vermeer’s ultramarine blue, hangs loosely emphasising pert and rounded breasts. Her fingers are extended against her pale neck in mock protest. It’s a provocative piece of work and the detail is so intimate I can almost feel the softness of the Virgin’s flesh.

  ‘It is one of Javier’s finer pieces and one of my favourite drawings,’ I say.

  When I look up Josephine is staring at me. It’s a frank appraisal and her scrutiny causes me to sit back but she quickly averts her gaze. She looks at Javier and studies him with the same fascination as she does me but when he glances up, she smiles back at him with wistful uncertainty.

  We drink the first bottle quickly and Andreas returns from the kitchen with another. I yawn loudly remembering to cover my mouth and I sit up straight wishing my eyes hadn’t filled with tired watery tears.

  ‘I hope you’re hungry? Andreas is a wonderful cook. I have put on so much weight since I’ve been here.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ Javier protests.

  She is like a delicate and fragile skeleton. Is she looking for compliments?

  The conversation returns to art and to exhibitions and then the theatre and audiences and finally to art galleries. She is articulate and well informed. She is interested in our opinions and the prosecco loosens my tongue and gives me confidence.

  ‘Vermeer’s, Girl Reading a Letter by an Open Window, is exhibited here in the Dresden National Gallery. I would like to see it – if I can?’ I say.

  ‘You like Vermeer?’

  ‘Perhaps when you are busy with Javier, I can go there?’ I don’t say that it is the only way Javier could persuade me to come with him to Dresden.

  ‘Do you paint?’

  ‘I like Caravaggio,’ I reply.

  ‘Caravagg
io?’ She raises an eyebrow and I nod disconcerted by her stare but this time I refuse to look away.

  I imagine her with my old tutor Raffa with his fiery and passionate arguments and her patient and calm persistence. Had they been happy?

  ‘A friend of mine also liked Caravaggio–’ Josephine appears distracted and she is lost for words.

  ‘Raffaelle Peverelli?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes?’ She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘I studied with him one summer.’ I sit forward, square my shoulders and clasp my hands together.

  ‘You are an artist?’

  ‘Javier and I studied together but now I prefer the medium of the camera.’

  I wait for her to say something but she simply stares at me. I cannot fathom her expression but to my dismay it is one I would like to capture on camera. It is interesting yet elusive. Her eyes are sad and there is a registering of – what – sadness or pain?

  ‘What made you want to paint?’ I think the question is for me but Josephine Lavelle turns to Javier.

  She compliments him on each sketch and painting, turning the pages of his portfolio, marvelling over each tiny detail as if she is playing to an audience, stroking his ego and as he basks in pleasure, it’s as if Josephine is gauging my reaction to her over-effusive compliments. Javier is not perfect and a niggling feeling of annoyance grows in me.

  Twenty minutes later Andreas calls us for dinner and when Josephine rises to her feet, she clutches her chest and her face grimaces in pain. She leans on Javier for support and walks with caution and her gait is slow. She clearly revels in being surrounded by men and she behaves like a glorious old-fashioned diva used to having people at her beck and call.

  The dining room is illuminated with soft lamps, red candles and an assortment of white and red Christmas poinsettias. Framed pictures along the wall are prints of original paintings. I recognise two of them: Gerhard Richter’s Cathedral Square in Milan and Anselm Kiefer’s To the Unknown Painter.

  At the table the men are placed between us like referees and when Josephine’s eyes meet mine but I’m not quick enough to disguise my exasperation and a flash of surprise crosses her face.

  Two nights I remind myself.

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I say, unfolding my red napkin and diverting attention to the wooden cherubic ornaments on the table.

  ‘They’re hand–made here in Dresden. You can pick some up at the Christmas markets. Perhaps tomorrow there will be time – no? Andreas?’

  He nods but doesn’t look up. He places a large tray of roasted pork, crunchy vegetables and mashed potatoes threaded with chives in the middle of the table. We praise his culinary skills and I wonder if his talents or duties for Josephine go beyond the kitchen.

  He has yet to smile.

  He serves red wine in large goblets with a gold rim. I need a drink – anything to get me through the next few hours but I wait for her toast.

  ‘It is from Saxony – as is the lovely Andreas.’ She raises her glass. ‘You have probably wondered about our relationship…but Andreas is my protégée. He is my inspiration for opera and he keeps my passion alive.’

  It is my turn to raise my eyebrow. I smile sweetly and begin to serve myself.

  Andreas addresses us in perfect English. ‘Ms Lavelle has been kind enough to support my career. She is my mentor and she is instructing and coaching me. She has taken me under her wing and is giving me the benefit of her experience–’

  ‘Andreas is extremely talented. He has already performed in Berlin and Hamburg,’ Josephine interjects.

  ‘Only since we are working together – I have been fortunate enough to be considered for such important roles.’ He appears relieved to explain his position. There is even a hint of a smile on his lips.

  ‘Very few tenors can sing up to two Fs above middle C. Andreas has this talent. He is simply a dream student.’ She smiles indulgently at him and he flushes under her gaze.

  Javier raises his glass to Andreas. ‘That’s a true gift and to find such a wonderful tutor must be a blessing for you.’

  He holds Andreas’ gaze just a fraction too long and I wonder if Josephine notices the burning competition between them.

  ‘Music is an art. It’s in here.’ Javier clutches his fist and holds it to his heart. ‘It’s my passion and my soul.’

  Josephine helps herself to a meagre portion. ‘I am the same, Javier. Music was my life and singing was my passion. But I too, feel it in my heart. Many people go through their lives without recognising or developing their talents and I was fortunate to do both although it wasn’t without sacrifice or sadness.’ She holds her hand delicately to her chest in a classical acting pose. She locks her gaze with Andreas and they all appear to be joined by an invisible bond except for me.

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat then take a mouthful of pork and as I chew I wash it down with a large gulp of wine. It is tender, tasty and delicious.

  Throughout the meal I watch her intimate display toward the two men carefully balancing her attention like the Scales of Justice. Her behaviour doesn’t seem entirely natural. It is as if she is playing a part, a role in the theatre and I don’t know why she can’t just be herself.

  To my annoyance I find her as fascinating and as elusive as a ghostly presence at the table and my head fills with unanswered questions. Who is the real Josephine Lavelle? Where is your family? Why have you settled here in Dresden? Her interesting face becomes familiar to me. I imagine taking her photograph. How I would have her pose and what would I say to relax her and to make her laugh. What would I ask to bring the two different people out from inside her? When caught unaware the real Josephine appears excited and nervous but the other more formal Josephine seems to be acting the role of a diva – why two such different characters?

  Is she excited or afraid? Is it because of the portrait? Is her ego really so big that she is scared Javier won’t paint her in a favourable light?

  Mrs Green is right. This woman is trouble. Josephine watches me but she can’t interact with me. I sip my wine quickly. I want to antagonise her. I want to annoy her. I want to be back in London.

  ‘Tomorrow morning Andreas will take you both on a tour of Dresden then in the afternoon we can have some time together to discuss the portrait.’ She looks at Javier then eventually at me. ‘And, during this time you may visit your Vermeer painting. We have several interesting museums and Andreas will arrange tickets for you. Tomorrow evening there is a special performance of The Nutcracker Suite in the Semperoper, the Dresden Opera House, which I am sure you will enjoy. It is the Philharmonic Orchestra from Berlin and they are delightful. It will be an experience for you both.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Javier grins like a schoolboy and runs the palms of his hands excitedly together. ‘That’s so kind of you.’

  ‘Unfortunately I will not be joining you. I have developed complications in my lungs and as a result I am unable to do certain things. Nor do I have the same stamina I once had. I think that after our meeting tomorrow afternoon I will rest but I shall wait up for you.’

  ‘I am so looking forward to painting your portrait.’ Javier gushes. The wine glass lists in his hand like a tilted sail in the wind.

  Josephine nods her head in acquiescence and a smile of satisfaction crosses her face.

  ‘And I am very pleased that you were the man chosen to paint my portrait. I’m so very pleased that you, and Mikky…’ She nods at me, ‘could join us here in my home. It’s a very special time of year and to share it with such delightful, young companions makes me feel incredibly lucky. It is only through family and friends that I can now find true happiness and I do hope that one day you will come to regard me with special affection.’

  How desperate she must be for company. To befriend us so quickly and to want everlasting friendship, she must want something else – but what? What could we possibly have that she would want?

  One by one, they turn to look at me. I know that my life has changed irrevocably. My heart is
heavy like a solid weight and it drags me down and I am sinking to the bottom of a deep dark well, struggling uselessly for survival under her watchful gaze.

  ‘I hope so too,’ I lie and I raise my glass for a toast with theirs.

  I am stepping out of my jeans when Javier appears unceremoniously in the bedroom we are sharing.

  ‘What are you playing at?’ He hisses at me. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘She doesn’t like me.’

  ‘She doesn’t know you. Besides, you have been behaving like an idiot since you got here. You’ve been rude and hostile and completely unfriendly. Apart from falling asleep on the sofa and drinking too much, you have rebuffed any attempt from her to make you comfortable or be a friend. What’s your problem, Mikky?’

  ‘She’s a….she’s a–’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Man-eater,’ I say repeating Mrs Green’s observation of the once famous opera diva. It’s the only thing I can think of to say.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous – as if I would be interested in a fifty-something-year-old woman.’

  ‘It’s not that–’

  ‘You’re being crazy. She has invited us here so she can get to know me, so that I will paint a better portrait of her. She is trying to make us welcome but you are being awful. What is wrong with you?’

  ‘I don’t trust her.’

  ‘You don’t trust anyone.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘That’s not fair–’

  ‘You can have friends you know. Sometime there is no ulterior motive. Some people are kind and nice. Just give her the opportunity, Mikky. Stop being so hostile.’

  I turn away but he grabs me by the shoulders.

  ‘I know you had a rough time growing up. I know how hard you find it to make friends and to trust people but please give Josephine a chance. She is a kind woman and we are her guests. Please be decent in return.’

  ‘She’s only interested in you. I’m a tagged on appendage, part of the package.’ I push him away but my mood has softened.