Memory of Bones (44 page)

‘Christ!’ Ben said softly.

He had been poisoned for a long time, poisoned with lead, the doses of which were increased steadily
.

Lead poisoning was common in painters when lead was in the pigments they used – like Flake White, which Goya must have ingested steadily over the years. But suddenly he appeared to have taken in large amounts. When I first obtained the skull I had many tests undertaken. The results were inconclusive because of the age and condition of the skull, but it was agreed that the holes suggested the
very real possibility of lead poisoning.

Look at the three holes – these are typical of a longterm ingestion of lead
.

Look at the symptoms – sleep disorders, seizures, raised blood pressure, hallucinations, impotence and hearing problems
.

Goya was deaf. Sleep disorders were a trouble to him. And hallucinations would explain much of his work. But the fact that the skull has holes in it points to a sudden and drastic intake of the toxin. Not the gradual assimilation which a painter of Goya’s time might ingest, but a comprehensive attempt at poisoning
.

Of course lead has a half-life of only 20–30 years, so there is no scientific proof which remains in the bone of the skull for scientists to measure. And permission would have to be sought from the Spanish authorities for further tests to be carried out on Goya’s body. But the symptoms from which he suffered indicate
that Goya had been slowly and summarily poisoned
.

The greatest painter Spain had ever produced was being murdered. And he knew it
.

‘Jesus!’ Ben whispered, glancing over at the sleeping Abi.

She was breathing evenly, her hands resting on the blanket which covered her.

Ben thought about what he had just read.
Francisco Goya had been poisoned
. Someone had set out to kill one of the most famous artists who had ever lived. He could imagine the furore Leon’s theory would cause when it was published, the consternation which would follow the final, diabolical solution of the Black Paintings.

Breathing in deeply, Ben turned back to his brother’s writings.

But then we have to ask, who poisoned Goya? And why?

Goya was a patriot who loved his country, but he was also reckless. I believe that this great artist exiled himself at the Quinta del Sordo when the degenerate Ferdinand VII return to the throne. The King who hated Liberals – of which Goya was one. The King who suspected that Goya had colluded with the French when Napoleon was in power. The King who had tortured and exiled Goya’s friends and peers. Ferdinand –
who suspected Goya of funding the Liberals in their attempt to form an alternative Government
. Ferdinand, the King who lost the throne, and then
regained it. And with it, absolute and revengeful power
.

Knowing he was under threat, Goya had been in terror of his life
.

He wrote his fear in words:

For being a liberal, it’s better to die
.

He was no longer young, no longer strong, and he was at the mercy of a tyrant bent on revenge
.

Ferdinand VII knew that he could not go directly after Goya. The painter was too famous to kill outright. So the artist was killed drip by drip, poisoned steadily. I imagine that the court, with the help of the Inquisition, set Leocardia to kill the old man. They probably pressurised her into the act, using her child as leverage. She had no choice – murder her lover or sacrifice her daughter. So she set about her task, appearing to look after Goya while she was, in fact, slowly poisoning him. Leocardia was his killer-in-waiting
.

Look back at the picture of The Fates – the Daughters of the Night. I believe that Leocardia was the goddess who was hired to cut Goya’s tie to the world. To sever his lifeline
.

If you doubt this theory, more evidence is in Goya’s will. After all her years of apparent devotion, Leocardia was left nothing. That would suggest that Goya suspected her, and I believe he did. I also believe that for a time he was too ill and too old to fight for his survival. And
so, in an act of creative genius, the dying Goya left the evidence on the walls of the Quinta del Sordo
.

He could not write down the names of his persecutors, or their methods – such evidence would have been destroyed immediately. But under the cloak of madness, Goya
could
leave a trail of oblique images to tell his story
.

Look to the paintings – The Witchy Brew, the last work. The feeding of the poison, the figure of death on the left. Goya spells it out for us. It cries out from the wall. It is there for anyone to see. This was no madman, driven by hallucinations and misogyny. This was a man who was dying, knowing that he was being killed. This is not the work of insanity. This was the only way open for Goya to record what was being done to him
.

Perhaps he thought he would never leave the Quinta del Sordo and used its walls to depict the images of his tormenters, the poison in the glass, the murderess leaning on his tomb. With the face of Leocardia. How inspired – as his body was slowly poisoned – to leave the truth among the camouflage of insanity! To hide reality among complete and anarchic madness
.

Yes, the Black Paintings are dark. They were painted out of darkness, under the threat of death. No works in history were created out of such terror
.

I know people will doubt this theory. Of course. I know they will insist that Goya was ill or mad. That there is not – nor was there ever – any cohesive meaning to these images. But I ask you to do him the honour
of thinking again.
If there is any doubt I beg you to look at the figure of Saturn
, the largest and most famous picture in the series of the Black Paintings. The most urgent, most disturbing and most direct. In fact, the very painting which faced anyone entering the Quinta del Sordo. The painting which Goya used to depict his own murder. Saturn
.

For the word SATURNISM means lead poisoning
…

‘Dear God!’ Ben said, staring at the picture then turning back to his brother’s words.

Despite everything Goya was a resilient man, mentally and physically. He realised what was happening, and although frail, fought to live. The Quinta del Sordo was not to become his tomb. Rallying what strength remained, Goya applied to visit France for the good of his health
.

He wrote:

Six years ago my health broke down completely
.

My hearing in particular has suffered and I have grown so deaf that without sign language I cannot understand what people are saying
…

The King could not refuse. Goya had outsmarted his persecutors. And so, people believed, it was for the good of Goya’s health that he left the Quinta del Sordo for Bordeaux. Whereas in reality, he had tricked them into granting his escape
.

In France he recovered. Lived a few years more and never returned to the theme of the Black Paintings. Why would he? Goya had left his testimony on the walls of his old home: the history and destruction of Spain, the tyrant Dog of Spain and Saturn, the poison which was meant to kill him
…

No one in the history of art has ever recorded their own murder. In this, as in so much, Francisco Goya was extraordinary: as courageous as the bulls he had painted so often; as resilient as the Spanish people, as hard and formidable as the dry earth of Madrid.
This
is his story, and by this should history judge him
.

Taking in a deep breath, Ben leaned back in his seat, glancing over at Abigail again. She was still sleeping, a little nervous colour in her cheeks, her wound hidden under a clean bandage. Her beauty, all the more toxic for its imperfection, pinched at his heart.

And then, slowly and reluctantly, he turned back to the last entries Leon had made.

In recording Goya’s death I realise that I am recording my own. There could only be one outcome
.

And then a little scrawled after-note.

Ben, See to it that this is read
.

See Goya is vindicated
.

I am done
.

You were the best of brothers
.

Leon

I am done … I am done
…

And then Ben knew. He might have denied it repeatedly, insisted that it wasn’t true, but in the end he had to accept that Leon
had
killed himself. And then he knew what had happened in that hotel bathroom in Madrid. Knew that all the running, all the fear, the struggle to handle his instability had come to a close. Twice before, Leon had tried to flee a life that was too much for him. Twice before, Ben had saved him.

That night, alone and afraid, Leon Golding had tried for the third time. And succeeded.

One year later, Madrid

For the previous month Ben had undertaken numerous press and television interviews, talking about Leon Golding’s sensational theory about the Black Paintings. The book had caught the popular imagination and Goya had become a hero again, a would-be murder victim who had cheated his fate. And the dead author had become a celebrity.

Luckily for Leon he had a brother to speak for him, something Ben did willingly. He praised Leon’s intellect, his skill, his perception. He remembered him with pride and refused to answer when asked questions about his death. And every critic who had ever belittled Leon Golding’s work, or sneered at his eccentricities, felt themselves dimmed by the brilliance of his renown. In death, Leon triumphed. He was no longer uneasy, threatened or afraid. His words had no tremor or uncertainty about them. What he left behind was greater than the struggle of his life. And what the world would remember was
that Leon Golding had scored an indelible mark on the history of art.

It was no more than he deserved.

Tired after a press conference at the Prado, Ben walked to his car. The heat of Spain was building. It was hot in the days and at night the air was liquid with moisture. The kind of heat which made a person sweat and leave their windows yawning wide. Arriving at the cemetery, Ben hoped that the massive iron gates would be open and was pleased to see that they were pinned back, almost as though they expected him, even so late at night. Slowly he drove down the main driveway and then parked, taking the box off the passenger seat and moving through the rows of graves. He knew where he was going and without effort he found the headstone.

Staring down at it, Ben could see the name
Detita
written in script, her dates obliterated by the night shadow of an overhanging tree. He thought she would resent being cheated of the sun. Memory, clear as a noon bell, came back to him – of her words, her beliefs. The way she educated the two Jewish brothers in daytime and, at night, taught them about the dark. But not alone. With her accomplice – the ghost of a long-dead man who had once lived near their land. Their neighbour on Spanish soil. The spirit who still haunted them all.

Goya painted murder because he knew all about it. He was obsessed by struggle and the power of evil
…

Leaving Detita’s grave, Ben walked between the headstones till he arrived at the recent burial ground of his brother. The earth had not completely levelled out, the rounded mound catching the moonlight. Gently he rested his hand on the headstone, feeling for an instant the warmth of his brother’s flesh as an owl, high in some night tree, hooted sullenly, the moon riding the corner of a passing cloud.

‘I love you,’ Ben said simply, reaching for the spade he had brought with him.

Under the moonlight he dug, under the moonlight and silence. Deep down into the earth Ben scratched until he reached Leon’s coffin. Then he picked up the small square box which held Goya’s skull. Gently he placed it on top of his dead brother’s coffin, then scrambled out of the grave and began to refill it, the soil echoing as it hit the coffin. Slowly Ben watched the box which contained Francisco Goya’s skull disappear under the press of dry earth. Within minutes, there was no trace of the coffin or the skull. And finally, when all the earth was replaced, he stood back and stared at the grave.

He could not have returned the skull to Goya’s body. Not without political and bureaucratic wrangling. Not without the risk of its being stolen again. So instead, after much deliberation, he had buried it with the man who was its rightful guardian. It seemed a fitting tribute to his dead brother.

‘Rest in peace, Leon,’ he said finally. ‘Rest in peace.’

As he walked away, a hoarse wind blew some loose soil over the ground and within seconds there was nothing to indicate that the grave had ever been touched.

Heading for the airport, Ben was surprised to find himself taking a detour, turning off on to another road, one which he knew well. The night was very warm, full of insects, traffic and noise, and over the dark water of the Manzanares River steam sprites lingered among reeds and crept under the arc of the bridge. In the distance the lights of Madrid flickered lazily, the sky deepening into purple at the edge of the horizon.