BOOK FOUR
… I have painted these pictures to occupy my imagination, which is tormented by all the ills that afflict me …
GOYA ON THE BLACK PAINTINGS
Quinta del Sordo, Spain, 1822
Her shadow fell across the whitewashed wall of the house as she carried the washing indoors. The heat had been so intense that the clothes were still hot under her fingers as she folded them. Leocardia had no interest in local gossip. She had no reason to explain why her marriage had failed, or why she had chosen to live with Francisco Goya.
She leaned against the door jamb, full-hipped against the hard stone. The old man’s deafness was no impediment to her. He did not hear her frequent outbursts, her temper hot as dry sand. He remained painting while she cleaned the house; he remained painting while she cooked, eating everything she gave him gratefully. And he remained painting while she bathed and then stood, half-naked, in the doorway, letting the night air dry her.
The bawdy libertine, the late Duchess of Alba’s lover, the painter kings had bowed to, was now a willing captive in the enclosed world of the Quinta del Sordo … Languorously, Leocardia moved upstairs, the heat rising with her. The old man was painting afresco in their bedroom, another of the garble of murals with which he was mapping the interior. She moved towards him, knowing he would sense her coming, and rested her chin on his shoulder, looking at the painted figures of the Ministration: one grimacing man in the foreground, one to the left, and a woman laughing behind. Not as disturbing as some of the images, Leocardia thought, then realised that the foremost figure was masturbating.
Amused, she stretched her arms above her head, then walked over to the window and relit a batch of candles. Sometimes, when she had the patience, she talked to Goya slowly so that he could read her lips; chastised him for working too long, in too poor a light. He would listen and shrug, grabbing at her backside in a memory of earlier desires.
And, as always, Goya’s demon figures flickered in the lamplight, Leocardia’s own image in the room below them. Her image, huge as an icon, leaning on a mound of earth.
‘What’s under the ground?’ she had asked.
Again a shrug, a word scored impatiently into the wet paint underneath.
‘Me.’
Leocardia was no stranger to superstition. To her, dark forces were as much a part of life as sunlight. But in the few years since they had moved to the Quinta del Sordo she had seen Goya’s original paintings of the dancing figures obliterated under the Pilgrimage of St Isidore, the meadow turned to a rocky outcrop, as barren as the madmen who walked there.
Still watching him, Leocardia thought of Dr Arrieta. He believed Goya was suffering from a breakdown and that his last illnesshad taken a mental toll. He was afraid, Arrieta said sadly, that the old man might never recover … Leocardia’s eyes fixed on the painter, unblinking, her expression unfathomable. Knowing he was watching her, Goya turned and tilted his head to one side, regarding her.
Many times he had thought of sending Leocardia away, but he knew he would not. He would let her stay. He needed her. He was afraid of her. He was afraid without her. The summer would capsize itself and the autumn would slip out of her greenery, but she would stay.
Outside, Goya could sense a late wind picking up. It swung through the trees, taking the steamy heat from the river and creeping into the Quinta del Sordo unseen. Behind him stood a massive painted image of despair: a solitary dog in a desolate landscape, only its head showing as the quicksand dragged it under to something no one could see.
For an instant Goya stared at the image and the dog’s head turned. It barked once, the sound unheard, its eyes full of terror and the fear of coming death.
45
Richmond
Walking up the driveway to a secluded eighteenth-century house outside London, Ben ducked under some overgrown hydrangea bushes as he reached the front door. Wisteria, grown reckless, knotted about the windows and the porch, and a rose – long in the tooth – raked its thorny teeth against the brickwork.
Finding the bell, Ben rang it several times before footsteps approached the door, a young woman opening it and smiling.
‘Can I help you?’
‘I’ve come to see Mrs Asturias. My name’s Ben Golding. She’s expecting me.’
Elizabeth Asturias was sitting in the breakfast room, nursing a copy of the Telegraph and a cup of tea. As Ben walked in, she took off her reading glasses and jerked her head towards the dining chair next to her.
‘Nice obituary for Francis in the Telegraph,’ she said, tapping the paper with her index finger. ‘Bastards didn’t have the same kind words for him in life.’
The comment, delivered in razor-sharp English, came as a shock. Over the years Francis had mentioned his wife in passing, but always with dry humour, suggesting that the classy Elizabeth had had little time for him and less affection. But the ageing woman Ben was now looking at had the telltale puffy eyes of grieving and an unexpectedly short temper.
‘I told him to retire – would have liked him home.’ She stopped, shouting at the young cleaner. ‘Careful! I can hear you clattering those dishes about. They chip, you know.’ She glanced back at Ben. ‘He liked you.’
‘I liked him.’
‘Hmm,’ she said simply, tossing the paper to one side. It landed on the floor like a shot bird. ‘They killed my poor lad. Francis … Of all people. It’s so … unnecessary.’ Her eyes filled and she wiped them briskly with the back of her hand. ‘Killed him. Who would do that? Why would anyone do that?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Oh, don’t lie to me!’ she snapped fiercely. ‘I was married to him. I knew what was going on. Francis used to tell me everything. Of course I pretended that it bored me, but he knew I loved the gossip.’ She sighed, staring at her fingernails and wincing as the cleaner made another noise. ‘Go for the post, dear!’ she snapped. ‘Oh, and get some bread from the shop while you’re at it.’
They waited for the young woman to leave, Elizabeth watching her pass the window and go down the drive before turning back to Ben.
‘Now we can talk properly. Francis told me about that bloody skull of yours. Or should I say, your brother’s?’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘He’s dead too, isn’t he?’
Her directness caught Ben off guard. ‘Yes, he is.’
‘Killed, I believe?’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Francis did! Don’t be bloody coy,’ she said shortly. ‘I’ve told you, he told me everything. He said you were insisting that your brother was murdered.’
Ben paused, surprised by how much she knew.
‘I came to pay my respects—’
‘Bullshit! You came for something else,’ she said perceptively. ‘I know you were in Madrid and couldn’t make the funeral, but you sent me a letter and a wreath – you had no need to come and pay your respects in person. Unless you wanted to ask me something.’
‘You’re smart.’
‘I know,’ she said bluntly. ‘Retired university lecturer in Classics. I was a psychotherapist too. Francis won’t have told you that; he hates – hated – shrinks.’ She glanced over to the window and the view of the drive. ‘I’m sorry I never met your brother – he sounded interesting.’
‘He was.’
‘Why do we always lose the good ones, hey?’ she queried, tapping the teapot with the arm of her glasses. ‘You want a cup?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t blame you. The cleaner makes bloody awful tea.’