Memory of Bones (21 page)

‘Yes, I do,’ Celina replied, her tone icy. ‘Because I try and make you see that this is more than just an argument between the two of you. You are more than siblings – you are part of a family, a business, a heritage. Your arguments can’t be petty – your lives are on a grander scale.’ Composed, she leaned against the desk again and folded her arms. ‘You’re right, we have a son. And because of Juan – because
he
will carry on the Ortega name – we can afford to be more lenient with Gabino.’

‘My grandfather would have cut my brother off—’

‘Your grandfather was a killer,’ she replied, without a flicker of emotion. ‘You know it, Madrid knows it, I know it. Where do you think Gabino’s aggression comes from? It’s in his blood. It’s in yours too, Bartolomé. It’s only your responses which differ. You control it, he does not. You fight it, he surrenders to it. You are afraid of it, Gabino revels in it.’

Slowly Bartolomé turned to look at his wife. He was, as ever, impressed by her.

‘It would have been such a small thing to tell me about Goya, but it was such a
massive
thing to hide. It required such spite.’

‘I agree.’

‘And yet you ask me to forgive him?’

‘No, not forgive, accept.’

‘I accept, he rejects.’

Nodding, Celina studied her husband. ‘If you throw Gabino out, if you cut him off from the family, think about what will happen. You think it will be the last you hear of him? Gabino is not your grandmother, Bartolomé. Not some woman without power. He’s got friends and cronies. He could gossip, talk about your business, betray you.’

‘He might be doing that now.’

‘No,’ she said briskly, shaking her head. ‘There would be no profit in it now. No sport either. But if you disinherited him, Gabino would expose every detail of your life and work. You treasure your privacy, Bartolomé; think what it would be like to have your life trawled across the papers. How would you cope with that? Everything about you would be public gossip. Everything about
us
, our son, our home. By the time Gabino had finished we wouldn’t have an inch of earth to ourselves that hadn’t been tainted.’

Bartolomé could picture the life she was describing and paused. He wanted desperately to be rid of the brother he disliked and reviled; had hoped that the affair with
the skull of Goya had presented him with an opportunity to finally cut off the restless scion of the Ortega family. But once again his wife had stayed his hand.

‘Why didn’t he tell me?’

‘About Goya?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why does the tide come in and out?’ Celina asked, walking over to Bartolomé and cupping his face in her hands. This time there was no resistance. ‘I know how hard this is for you. Remember, I know Gabino too … But listen to me, and think about this carefully – you can hate him, mistrust him, even banish him, but you’ll never be rid of him. Instead accept him
and watch him
. Something that is easier to do close by than from a distance.’ Unflinching, she held her husband’s gaze. ‘Gabino was born an Ortega and he will die one.’

Madrid

Sitting in the kitchen of the old house, Ben listened as Gina walked about the rooms upstairs. Noises from the past shuffled around the old table, Ben’s initials driven deep into one corner and beside them, lighter scratches – LG. Staring at the initials, Ben reached out his hand, his fingers covering the marks, Detita’s voice coming back to him.

Can’t you hear it, Ben? Leon can hear it. Leon can hear the dead talk
.

And just as easily he could hear his own reply:

The dead don’t talk. The dead are dead
…

His hand pressed down on the wood, on his brother’s initials, the wind muffled against the window, the creak of the weathervane making little rusty sighs. Hardly breathing, Ben thought of his brother as a boy, saw him turn on the drive and wave. Saw him older, wearing glasses to read, picking at some bread Detita had made. Saw him
crying, trying to speak, but shaking instead because he could hear noises.

The tree told me to do it
…

And then he remembered Leon at the head of the stairs on the day their parents died … Other sounds came back, unwelcomed. The noise of a lost bird cawing from across the river, the smell of the Manzanares in a swampy summer, flies droning against the catch of tide. Throughout how many queasy summers had they lived here? Ben thought, glancing around him. Perhaps he should never have left Spain – should have stayed with his brother, worked in Madrid.

I should have saved him. I should have saved him
…

Turning, he jumped, startled, at the sight of Detita standing in the kitchen door, Tall, her expression impassive, her white nightdress fluttering in the draught from the window.

‘Ben?’

He blinked and the image had gone. Instead it was Gina watching him.

‘My God,’ she said, walking over. ‘Are you all right?’

He nodded abruptly, but he could feel the heat coming from her and when she sat down at the table next to him he could see the outline of her breasts against the thin fabric.

Fanning herself with her hand, she shrugged. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

‘Thinking of Leon?’

‘Can’t stop thinking about him. I miss him so much,’
she said simply, pushing her hair back from her face with an impatient gesture.

As she reached up, her breasts pressed against her nightdress. Ben glanced away. He felt hazy, oddly light-headed. Not because he wanted her, but because he was uncomfortable. Surely this woman – Leon’s woman – wasn’t flirting with him? His gaze moved to the wall over the old grate, where a mirror suspended from a brass hook reflected the back door. Sometimes – when he had been a boy – he had crept out at night, running to the bridge. And there he’d stood and clapped his hands, as Detita had taught him.

…
When you need me, come at midnight to the Bridge of the Manzanares, clap your hands three times and you will see black horses appear
…

And he had clapped his hands, but had seen no horses. Except once. Only once did he see the black horses and, panicked, he had run back to the farmhouse. Run in at the back door which he could see reflected now in the mirror, and stood in the kitchen, waiting for the thudding of the hooves to pass … I never told you I saw them. Ben thought blindly. I should have told you, Leon.

His gaze moved upwards into the knotting of pipes above his head, almost as though, illogically, he believed he would see his brother there.

‘You don’t have to leave straight away, do you?’ Gina said softly. ‘This is your home … I’d like you to stay. I’d like the company.’

‘I have to sort out Leon’s things …’

‘We can do that tomorrow. I can help.’

Ben wasn’t listening. ‘… I was brought up here …’

‘I know.’

‘… with Leon.’ He paused, looking around, painfully lost. ‘I should have visited him more often – you were right.’

‘You came when you could.’

‘I should have come more often. He must have been lonely.’

If she took the words as an insult, she didn’t show it. ‘He was a lonely man, but you couldn’t have done anything about that, Ben. I couldn’t. No one could.’

‘He had no one.’

‘He had me.’

He turned to her. ‘Sometimes.’

She blinked. Once.

‘Why are you still here, Gina? You were scared before, asking me if you were in danger.’ He was baffled, and showed it. ‘Why would you
want
to stay here?’

‘I wouldn’t – unless you wanted me to.’

His confusion was so absolute he couldn’t answer and the silence yawned between them.

Then suddenly the mood broke, Gina drawing back, and shifting tactics. ‘I asked you before,
did
Leon tell you about the baby?’

‘No.’

She shrugged in reply, turning away so that he had to fight to hear her.

‘I miscarried, Ben. I lost your brother’s baby.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Leon was too. It mattered to him so much. He wanted that baby …’ She looked at him desperately. ‘I keep wondering if the miscarriage didn’t play on his mind. He was already overworked, under terrible stress – then that happened.’

‘You think it unbalanced him?’

‘I think it made him worse,’ she said quietly. ‘I think having a child would have helped him. Stabilised him.’

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Maybe,’ Ben conceded. ‘We’ll never know now.’

Her eyes filled and she looked away quickly. ‘I suppose you want me to leave? It’s your home, after all.’

‘Leon’s dead, Gina. There’s no reason for you to stay.’

‘Isn’t there?’ she asked. ‘I could cook for you – while you’re here, anyway. You
are
going to stay in Spain for a while, aren’t you?’

He shook his head.

‘No, not long—’

‘But—’

‘I’ve told you. I just want to sort out Leon’s things and then go back to London. I think you should go home too, Gina. Go back to your family.’ He turned to her and held her gaze. ‘It would be better – and safer – for all of us.’

Without answering she walked off, the door closing softly behind her. He couldn’t tell if she was angry or upset, but he waited until he heard her move back into the bedroom she had shared with Leon. For nearly twenty minutes he sat in the semi-dark, wondering if she would
come downstairs again. Finally, believing she was asleep, he moved into Leon’s study.

The smell of dust and books was overpowering and he was initially tempted to open a window, but resisted. Instead he flicked on the desk lamp and riffled through his dead brother’s papers. There were many volumes on Goya, many reproductions, but finally Ben found what he had been looking for – Leon’s notebooks. Tucking them under his arm, he picked up his brother’s laptop and walked to the door. The house was completely silent. It could have been empty, without any imprint of Gina. Without any imprint of the adult Leon.

Instead the place was full of boys’ murmured voices, Detita’s footsteps making their solemn way down the main stairs … Spooked, Ben glanced up, but the staircase was empty. Without making a sound, he hurried to the bedroom he had been using and packed the few belongings he had brought with him. Pushing Leon’s computer and notebooks in with his clothes, he added the papers he had found at the Hotel Melise and walked out to the car.

Day had yet to dawn, a little morbid light smearing the horizon, water sounds coming, muffled, from the river. The breeze had dropped and the weathervane was silent, but as Ben turned back to the house he caught sight of a figure watching him from an upstairs window. The outline was vague, the only distinct portion of the figure being the hand pressed against the glass, the palm white as the flesh of a lily.

New York

The baby shower had been a success and attended by assorted society mothers and matrons, Bobbie Feldenchrist had introduced her adopted son, Joseph, to New York. As was befitting a woman who had everything she needed, Bobbie and her child were indulged with gifts, each more inventive than the last. Invitations to beach houses and foreign homes were extended to the new family, people remarking in whispers that old man Feldenchrist would never have expected his fortune to be passed on to a black upstart from Africa.

To her face, people complimented Bobbie on her liberal choice. True to his threatening word, Emile Dwappa had delivered the baby that previous Saturday, taking the cash from Bobbie and dropping his voice to remind her of their agreement. He chucked the baby under the chin, declared him a fine child, and then spent several minutes admiring Bobbie’s art collection again. She was too
preoccupied to take offence. Soon he would be gone, she told herself – and she had what she wanted from him. With no real conditions except one – silence. She had merely to stay quiet.

And why, in God’s name, would she do otherwise? What benefit could possibly be had from telling anyone the real circumstances of the child’s adoption? As for Ellen and Marty Armstrong, they weren’t going to break her confidence. They relied too much on the Feldenchrist handouts to betray her.

So Bobbie had let Dwappa look at her paintings and had waited patiently for him to leave.

‘What would be the greatest addition to your collection, Ms Feldenchrist?’ he had asked finally.

‘I don’t know.’

‘An unknown Velasquez?’

‘There
are
no unknown Velasquez works.’

‘What about an unknown Goya?’

Her smile had warmed, almost amused. ‘I doubt it.’

‘That it exists?’ he countered. ‘Or that it would be the greatest addition to your collection?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I was just asking about your collection …’ Dwappa had continued, making for the door and then turning. ‘… in case I hear of anything you might be interested in purchasing.’

She had missed the trap and suddenly found herself teetering on its slimy brink. But Bobbie wasn’t a Feldenchrist for nothing, and she knew that one of the
first rules of combat was to appear uninterested. All she had to do was to get the African out of her home. He had delivered everything she wanted from him, and she desired no more communication. If he persisted, Bobbie reassured herself blithely, she would call on her considerable money and legal power to make sure he backed off.

‘The Feldenchrist Collection is complete. I don’t think we need any more purchases.’

‘Don’t be too sure,’ Dwappa had replied, making for the door.

Through the glass panels Bobbie had seen him press the elevator button and wait for the light to go on above the floor guide overhead. Slowly, she had counted the elevator up, floor by floor, then exhaled when it had finally arrived at the penthouse and Dwappa got in. But at the last moment he had looked up, catching her eye through the glass panel separating them. And then he had pointed his finger straight at her, like a rapier, as the elevator door had closed on him.

That night sleep had been difficult to find.

‘
Bobbie?
’

She jumped as Ellen Armstrong came out of the penthouse elevator and walked towards her. ‘How’s the baby?’