The South (7 page)

Rogent wanted to know what was going on. He seemed flustered. Michael Graves shrugged his shoulders as though he couldn’t understand. He turned to Katherine. “The painting, Miguel told me to tell you, is called
The Death of Franco
and it shows Franco dead in a coffin. There’s a huge rat eating at him and bits of him are being eaten by worms. It’s a great bloody painting. It’s terrific.”

“But he can’t do that,” she said.

“Why can’t he? Of course he can.”

“He’ll be arrested.”

“Who’ll arrest him?”

“The police.”

“I’ll arrest him if he doesn’t finish it,” Michael said. “He’s a genius, your husband.”

“This is Spain, there will be problems,” she said.

“Let there be problems, it’s about time there were problems,” he replied.

*   *   *

When Miguel was too tired to keep working, Michael Graves sat like a lean greyhound guarding the painting. His green eyes fixed on anyone who came into the studio as though he would bite them if they came close. He sat on the chair the wrong way around, his arms resting on the wooden back. When Miguel came back they talked for a while. Michael Graves irritated Katherine; she had no idea how he and Miguel managed to communicate: Miguel spoke no English and Michael’s Spanish was rudimentary. They were still talking when Ramon Rogent came back into the studio accompanied
by Jordi Gil. Gil immediately shouted something down at Miguel. It sounded like an order; it was in Catalan. Miguel walked up towards him, Katherine noticed that his fists were clenched. He began to shout. Rogent said nothing. He was pale.

Miguel came so close to him that Gil had to move back a few steps. He pointed his finger at him and poked him in the chest. They both shouted in Catalan. Gil kept pointing to the painting at the top of the room. Katherine went over to Rosa and asked her what they were saying.

“Mr. Gil say that he not include this painting in the exhibition. Miguel say that this painting must be included,” she said.

Michael Graves came over to Rosa. “How do you say ‘coward’?” he asked.

“Cobarde,”
she said.

“
Cobarde,
sounds logical,” he said. He went over to Gil.

“Cobarde,”
he said.

“Cobarde,”
he repeated. He hunched down so that he stood as small as Gil and put his face up against his.

“Cobarde,”
he said again.

Gil’s face was red; he looked as if he were going to burst. He spoke quietly to Rogent and then went to the door. Eventually, Miguel and Rogent joined Gil and the three of them went out into the street.

Michael Graves took up his position as guard of the painting again, and Rosa sat in front of him with a pencil and sketch pad and began to draw him guarding the painting. She told them that Rogent was worried that one of the students would go to the police and inform on Miguel. She said it was impossible to tell which side people were on, even Catalan people. Michael Graves said he was going to the police if the painting wasn’t in the exhibition. Rosa used different
pencils in the sketch to get different effects. Michael Graves seemed pleased about being sketched and sat as motionless as he could, guarding the painting of Franco. “You’ll have to stop behaving like a child,” Katherine said to him.

When Katherine went out to look for them they were not in the gallery nor in any of the cafés along the street. She went into the bar in the Plaza del Pino to have a beer and a sandwich and she found the three of them sitting there. Gil was writing out a list of names. At intervals one of them would call out a name and they would all laugh—sometimes this name would be added to the list, other times not.

Miguel explained to her that he had reached a compromise with Gil. He had agreed not to include the painting in the exhibition if Gil agreed to pay for a separate party the night before the opening at which the painting would be on show. They were preparing a list of those who were to be invited and it was important that no one on the list was a fascist, or a spy, Miguel said.

*   *   *

Most of those invited, however, did not turn up. When Gil made a speech, the small audience laughed at the constant interjections by Michael Graves. The painting was unveiled, bottles of champagne were opened and Katherine felt that people were disappointed by the painting, that it did not seem shocking to the few students and artists there.

Jordi Gil filled everyone’s glass with champagne. Katherine went over and examined the painting. The face was not right; she would not have recognised the man as Franco, that was the first failure. The sense, however, of something rotting was, she felt, good. The rat was frightening; the tail lingered over the face as the teeth nibbled at the shoulder. Rogent saw her looking at it and came over. He asked her if she liked it. When she said no, she did not, he agreed with her.

She told him she enjoyed the classes and laughed when he said she was his best student. He told her she should try and be serious about it and work hard. They both glanced over at Michael Graves who had his arms around Jordi Gil and was singing a song. Katherine asked Rogent what he thought of Michael Graves’s drawings.

“His drawings are marvellous,” he said. Rogent looked over at him as he sang. “But he’s more interested in life than in painting.” Katherine noticed Miguel watching her from the other side of the room; she smiled at him and he winked back.

*   *   *

Enough paintings sold at the real opening the following night for Jordi Gil to be satisfied, for the row to be forgotten. Katherine stood with Michael Graves as the crowd began to thin out. Miguel came over and told them that Gil had given him more money and he had booked a long table in Barceloneta.

The night was warm. They drove in a taxi down to the statue of Columbus from where they could see the ships in the port and then turned left towards the station and then down by the warehouses to Barceloneta. Miguel ordered the taxi to stop before they arrived at the restaurant and they went into a bar on the corner of one of the narrow streets.

Miguel and Michael Graves ordered
absenta
as an aperitif; Katherine had a beer. This was the second night in a row spent drinking and Katherine did not think she could drink much longer. She had hardly touched her beer by the time Michael Graves ordered another round of drinks. She told Michael Graves to stop drinking so fast. Miguel told her to stop talking in English, since he could not understand. Katherine told him in Spanish what she had said and he told her it was her fault, she was drinking too slowly.

In the restaurant the others were waiting. They ordered
a paella and white wine. Michael Graves said he wanted red wine; Miguel agreed, said he wanted red wine as well. After the meal they had several brandies each and stayed on at the table when the others left, moving from the restaurant back to the bar they had visited earlier. Katherine was, by now, enjoying the drink but Miguel and Michael Graves had gone too far in drunkenness for her to catch up. By midnight the bar was closing up and they had to leave.

They walked up through Barceloneta to the city, watching out for any bars open along the way. She heard Miguel telling Michael Graves a story about his time in prison; she found it impossible to follow the story. Michael Graves nodded but she doubted he understood. At Via Layetana they found a bar open.

She lost count of the bars they went into. At three in the morning they were close to the Ramblas and Michael Graves said that he hadn’t felt so sober in years, he needed more drink. Miguel tried to speak in English and Michael Graves taught him how to say “I need more drink.” The night was still warm as they walked up the Ramblas towards Plaza Cataluña; the street was being washed down with hoses. A taxi went by. Miguel whistled. When it stopped some distance from them, they ran towards it. Miguel spoke to the driver; he didn’t seem to know where he wanted to go and the driver seemed unsure, but after a while the taxi moved off towards Plaza Cataluña and towards the university. Katherine asked Miguel where they were going.

“Le pedí que nos llere a un bar o a cualquier lugar que no sea bordelo ni tampaco muy caro,”
he said, and she explained to Michael Graves that the taxi driver was taking them to a bar that was neither a brothel nor very expensive. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad we’re going to a brothel.”

“No,” she told him. “We’re not going to a brothel.”

“Yes, I know. I’m listening. I understood Miguel when he was talking.”

The taxi stopped in a deserted street at the entrance to an underground garage. The taxi driver told Miguel there was a bar in the garage. The taxi drove away and left them there in the dark street staring at the dark empty building. They walked into the garage but there was no sign of a bar, only a small door to the left, possibly a side entrance to the main building. Miguel went to try the handle and then moved back startled, as the door opened and two people came out and went by, towards the street. He put his head through the door, and found a bar, just as the taxi driver had promised. He beckoned the others to follow him.

As soon as they sat down they were handed a menu; the place was half full; loud music was playing. Katherine looked around but could find no other entrance except the one they had just come in. It occurred to Katherine that most of the women looked like prostitutes. Michael Graves proposed they order sandwiches and cold beer. The beer would wake them up, he said. And when the beer was finished he planned to have brandy and coffee.

Miguel began to talk about what to do with the painting of Franco which he had returned to Rogent’s studio. He had promised not to leave it there. Michael Graves proposed that they post it to Franco. Or maybe to his wife. “What is his wife’s name?” he asked Miguel, but Miguel was preoccupied trying to attract the waiter’s attention. Michael Graves noticed the people in the booth behind, who looked like two businessmen and their girlfriends, and asked:
“La esposa de Franco, cómo se llama?”
They immediately seemed hostile, Katherine realised. She held Michael’s wrist and told him to stop.

*   *   *

The vague light of the dawn was filling the sky around the port. The Ramblas was deserted. It was five o’clock in the morning. In half an hour the bars in the market would open, but in the meantime there was nowhere for them to go except back to Rogent’s studio, there to decide whether to go home or continue drinking. Miguel was still talking about his portrait of Franco and how he wanted to present it to the Modern Art Museum. Michael Graves wanted to take it down immediately and leave it at the gates of the museum.

Katherine was tired but her head was racing after all the double coffees they had ordered in the garage. When Miguel began to wrap the painting in the studio she assumed at first that he was taking it to his flat. Michael Graves asked Miguel whether he was really going to leave it at the gates of the Modern Art Museum. Miguel said no, he was going to leave it in Plaza San Jaime—there it would have more impact—the police building was on one side and the municipal building on the other. He continued wrapping the painting.

“Pero siempre hay policía por ahí,”
Michael Graves said. Katherine agreed. Miguel said he wanted to lean the painting against the main door of the police building. There wouldn’t be any police at five in the morning.

*   *   *

They had passed the entrance to the cathedral cloisters when they saw the two policemen coming towards them. Miguel was carrying the painting, Katherine and Michael Graves were walking on either side of him. None of them stopped or even hesitated; they walked straight towards the policemen. Miguel tried to whisper that these were not Guardia Civiles, they were just a local militia, and there was no problem. Katherine thought that there was a problem. The policemen appeared to have agreed somehow to stop them and asked questions.
“Dónde van?”
one asked. Both of the police
were middle-aged.
“A coger un taxi,”
Miguel answered.
“Qué es eso?”
one policeman said pointing to the painting, wrapped in brown paper. Miguel replied that it was a painting, that he was a painter and these were two friends from Ireland. The policemen looked at Katherine and at Michael Graves.

All they had to do was ask to see the painting. Even if the figure did not look like Franco, it was obviously military. Katherine suddenly felt cold, as though she wasn’t wearing enough clothes. The policemen stood in front of them and looked at them, watched their eyes. The cathedral bell rang half past five. The policemen did not move. Katherine thought about Plaza San Felipe Neri just a few yards away, how peaceful it was, how enclosed.

One of the policemen kept on looking at her. She tried to think of the words of a song, or a poem, something to concentrate on. The other policeman put his foot down on Miguel’s toe and pressed down hard. Miguel did not move.

“Tu eres catalan, verdad?”
he asked.

“Si,”
Miguel replied. The policeman continued to press on Miguel’s foot. His companion continued to stare at Katherine.

They shall grow not old as we that are left grow old

Age shall not weary them nor the years condemn

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We shall remember them.

She said the words to herself over and over to keep her mind from what was happening. They could hear the pigeons up in the stone walls of the cathedral and the distant sound of a car, but nothing else. The policeman drew back his foot and stared at Miguel, daring him to move. Then, suddenly, without any apparent consultation, both policemen walked
on. Katherine was afraid to look behind, to make sure they had gone. No one spoke. The three of them walked quietly on up the street to the plaza. Miguel was pale. Katherine said she wanted to go home. Miguel said that they should turn down towards Via Layetana.

When they reached the square, they saw that the two huge doors of the police building were closed and there was no guard outside. Katherine knew Miguel well enough to realise that he was tempted for a moment to cross the square and leave the painting there, but he didn’t. They turned left instead to Via Layetana and went back towards the studio.