‘You see, Oz, it was always my intention that in the end, I would have her to myself. What’s wrong with that, I ask you? Everything else of my life, I gave to my brother: even my identity.’
All of a sudden, the shock and enormity of it all caught up with me. I hit the ‘Pause’ button. Davidoff’s face froze, his eye staring at me, his mouth turned up in a smile. I shook my head, thinking back over everything he had told me, taking it all in, realising how perfectly the pieces of the puzzle fitted together. I looked around the room again, and my eye was caught by a bottle on the floor, not far from where I sat. It was red wine, a 1979 Rioja, I saw from the label, and it was half full. A glass stood beside it; clean, waiting for me. I walked across and poured myself some of Davidoff’s fine vintage, then, taking the bottle with me, returned to my seat and set the video to play once more.
‘There was a fire once,’ Davidoff went on, ‘while I was in Port Lligat with Salvador. I left the work of repair to the Foundation. Had I known they were going to open the castle to visitors, I would have forbidden it, but I did not find out their intention until too late. Still, I have come and gone by night for years, before and since the tourists. Occasionally I have lived at Port Lligat, and at Shirley’s of course, but mostly here. No one knows of this apartment, and the secret entrance, not even the people in the Foundation. Gala never knew, nor Salvador; only me.
‘I saw the years that were left to me as a kind of retirement. I painted a little, and found that even without Salvador’s vision, I was still some sort of a genius. Some of my work is hanging on the walls of this room, to be with me for ever, as a sort of memorial. Though I say so myself, it is all quite brilliant.
‘But my masterpiece, beyond a doubt, was the Toreador of the Apocalypse. You have seen it, my boy. You know what I mean. It is my tribute to my crazy brother, to our Gala, and to the unsurpassable artistic force which the three of us became. She is in it, the ghostly figure. So is he, in the skeleton of the giraffe, the only thing he loved in his early possessed years. And so am I. It is brilliant, and the crowning jewel within it, is the tear on the face of the toreador, on my face. It is glistening and as you look at it, you can feel its softness on your cheek.
‘Nobody, Oz, nobody but Davidoff can paint the softness of a tear.’ His slim chest puffed out with pride as he said it. I raised my glass and drank a toast to the truth of what he had said.
‘I signed it Dali, of course, although the vision was all mine. For now, at the end, I realise that in my own way I am just as crazy as my brother.’
I shook my head at that. ‘Not you, pal,’ I whispered. ‘Sanest man I ever met.’
Davidoff shifted in his chair, the one in which I now sat, making himself more comfortable, more relaxed. ‘As I said, I treated my years down here as a kind of retirement. I had money, my secret home, and my little car. I hung around Pubol, La Bisbal, Girona. I walked a lot, and I swam in the sea. I was Davidoff, gentleman of means, man of mystery, who kept himself to himself.
‘Then some things happened. First and best of all, in 1990 I met Clive Gash, in the bar in Pubol. I liked him at once. He was no artist, just an ordinary man who happened to have made himself a billion pesetas or so. When he invited me to his home, it was the first time in my life, would you believe, that I had ever been invited anywhere in my own right, not as my brother’s appendage.
‘I loved it there in L’Escala, with Clive and Shirley. I told them nothing about myself, and they never asked. We just got on. Clive said that their summerhouse was mine whenever I wanted it, and I took him at his word.
‘Shirley was devastated when he died, but she insisted that I should still come to L’Escala, to her little house in the garden. I decorated it for her, you know.‘He laughed.’Before, it had plain white walls; now they are covered with murals that are absolutely priceless, yet she hasn’t a fucking clue what they are!’
His laughter subsided. ‘Last year something else happened. A young man named Ronnie Starr came to Pubol. I met him in the bar, where I had met Clive, and I spoke to him. He was different, this young fellow, and he had talent, great talent as an artist. He could paint the sunlight, you see. Very few Northerners can do that, but Ronnie could. A great painter: not a genius, but still great.
‘He had something else too; a huge knowledge of the work of Dali. He would talk to me about him for hours. He knew that two sons named Salvador had been born to my mother. And he told me something very interesting. He had a theory that some of the early work in the catalogues was wrongly attributed. He showed me illustrations of some early works, which he said were quite different in style and quality from what came after.
‘Ronnie didn’t realise what he was saying, of course, but he was right. When Salvador and I were back in Port Lligat after college, he sold some of his own work, through another gallery in Cadaques. Real crap it was. I put a stop to it as soon as I found out, but years later, it found its way into the listed works.
‘My young friend from Wales had actually stumbled upon our secret. I couldn’t tell him that, of course, but I felt I had to reward him. More than that, he was a disciple, a true apostle of Dali, and I felt that he deserved recognition. So I gave him my masterpiece. I gave it to him, because in the end I could not bear the thought of it being buried in the dark for ever.
‘You understand that Oz, don’t you. You’ve seen it after all.’ I nodded, as if he could see me. ‘I told him that it was a Dali, but that it could never be authenticated, or shown as such. I gave him it to keep for ever, and to show to his friends as his proudest possession, on condition that he never sold it, or told anyone how he had come by it.
‘He agreed to all that, and he took it. In exchange, he gave me one of his paintings, of Port Lligat. It is very fine. You will find it hanging in this room.’ He waved a hand, vaguely, over his shoulder.
‘Then,’ said Davidoff, ‘soon after, I did the thing which cost him his life. I introduced him to Adrian Ford, Shirley’s no-good, greedy, jealous, envious, grasping, murderous bastard of a brother. He befriended Ronnie, and Ronnie must have shown him the picture, of which he was so proud. You know the rest, and you have just seen how it finished.
‘I almost died when you showed me the copy in your apartment, Oz, and told me how you had come by it. I guessed at once what had happened. Tonight you know that I made amends. That is why I had to bring you here, and to make you the only man who knows all about Davidoff.
‘I place this story in your hands, my boy. I make you the keeper of the truth, of the legend of Dali. For it is time for me to die now. But one thing. I want to stay here for ever, beside Gala, and I don’t want my tomb to be disturbed. I trust you with this, because I see the honour in you, like I saw it in my poor friend Ronnie.
‘Some things you can do for me. First, finish the wine, for it’s the best you’ll drink this year. Share a last bottle with a friend.
‘Second, take the pictures on the easels and put them where they’re meant to be. They are what I’ve been doing since I shot that bastard Adrian.
‘Third, put the lid on my coffin, and say a prayer for my soul, if you have one in you. I carved the box myself. Yes, my friend, Davidoff was a sculptor too.
‘Fourth, switch out the light and seal my tomb on your way out. The mechanism which slides the slab is another work of genius. I designed it myself, and burned the plan, after I had it installed by a non-Spanish speaking engineer from America. He died in a car crash ten years ago … nothing to do with me, honest!
‘It only works when you insert a steel bolt into a slot in the stone. It’s in there now. The slab will slide back into place at a touch. When it’s perfectly positioned, you’ll be able to withdraw the shaft and it’ll be locked for ever. Next time you cross a river, toss my key away.