Over the next two days, Jésus found himself falling behind on much of his work, with the hours seeming to simply disappear from his day. He found himself standing before that painting more and more, studying every line, following the shapes and colours, trying to find what exactly it was that drew him to it. As much as he pretended indifference to the comments of his peers, their casual disregard for his taste in this had needled him. What was it that drew him? Never before had a piece perplexed him like this.
As he sat at his desk, on the other side of the large study, he found himself gazing gently at the bright lines, hunting for the scowling face hidden within them. He contemplated it playfully while making calls, updating his listings and going through the piles of documentation that went along with his mostly legitimate dealings. It was a welcome presence, even if on occasion it was distracting enough that he had to bodily turn away from it to fully concentrate on his work.
But now he was done for the day, and the rest of the afternoon was to be spent on the balcony, enjoying the dusty heat of a city summer and reading a book on the history of English bone china that Desmond had recommended. He stood, stretched, and headed towards the living room, passing in front of the painting. Mind relaxed and eyes wandering, he noticed a stark line of crimson curling through it, a detail he had somehow never spotted before, and paused to appreciate it.
Knock knock.
Sighing, he turned away and headed to the front door. There was nobody there. Again. He leaned out and looked down the corridor.
‘If this continues,’ he shouted. ‘I shall call the police!’
He wouldn’t, probably, but children were stupid. He turned and slammed the door shut, eyes falling on his clock. How had it got so late? His mouth was dry, and his eyes ached as though they’d been focusing far too long. Perhaps tomorrow he’d buy some eye drops. It wouldn’t do to be looking too tired.
Jésus selected a bottle of water from the fridge and took his time drinking it, his gaze drifting over to the Alfred Stevens hung on his kitchen wall. It was a small painting of a woman in a wide-brimmed hat staring serenely over a garden. But his mind was still on his new masterpiece. Masterpiece? No, it was an intriguing piece that currently fascinated him. Soon enough he’d have fathomed its depths and it would be replaced by something new. Even so, there was an odd sense of relief in no longer looking at it. And another part of him that was desperate to see it again.
He studied the Stevens and was struck by how dull it was. There was nothing to it at all. No life, no lustre, no spark. He could feel the knowledge prickling at his mind that if he just returned to his office, he could appreciate a work with seemingly infinite depth. Instead, he kept drinking his water. He’d have to replace the Stevens.
The client drained the last dregs of single malt from his glass.
‘Excellent. Shall we get everything signed?’
‘Of course.’ Jésus was looking forward to tying things up, if only because he couldn’t actually remember the name of the man sitting across from him. Another newly rich banker with no taste who had commissioned him to find an utterly forgettable piece of abstract impressionism.
‘Perfect.’ His guest grinned, getting to his feet.
Jésus stood as well to lead him through to the study. That was its point, of course, to provide the right ambiance for signing contracts and passing money, smoothing nervous clients through the process. But something caused his step to falter as he approached the door. An odd shudder ran through him, like he was afraid of something. What , though? The painting? That was it. Some part of him didn’t want to share it with this no one client.
‘Mr Candido?’
This man might become captivated by it like he was and contrive an attempt to acquire it for himself.
‘It’s not for sale,’ Jésus muttered.
‘I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that,’ his guest said lightly, his face placid and pointless.
No, this man would have no appreciation for it. But would that be worse? Indifference? This tasteless oaf marking it as nothing special at all, when Jésus had let such a thing have power over him.
Or, perhaps he simply wished to save this man from the dreams that still lingered through his nights …
‘It’s such a nice afternoon,’ Jésus said steadily. ‘We will sign on the balcony.’
He did not know exactly where these thoughts had come from, but whatever the precise dimensions of his unease, it seemed the study would be held in a quarantine, of a sort, a private place where time would simply disappear.
‘But where did he get it?’
‘I can’t tell you where he got it, that’s what I’m trying to explain,’ Antonio retorted in his infuriating mock-English voice.
Jésus tried to keep his temper level. His brother-in-law liked to make fun of how his accent had changed in the years he had lived in London, and at one point had insisted on trying to talk to him entirely in English, a language Antonio barely spoke, to ‘make Jésus feel at home’. They’d managed to put an end to that particular joke, but he still insisted on flavouring his Portuguese with that stupid British twang. At least he’d stopped telling Jésus to give his love to the Queen.
‘There must have been something.’ Jésus was exhausted, his patience tissue paper thin.
‘The guy didn’t exactly keep much paperwork.’ He could almost hear Antonio shrugging over the phone. ‘And what there was the family didn’t want to hand over.’
‘That doesn’t make sense. He ran a huge company, how could he not have better records?’
There was a pause.
‘I mean, you live downstairs from Tobias Fell, maybe ask him?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
There was an odd note in his voice, a slight waver that told Jésus he was holding something back.
‘Antonio, I need to know. It’s important.’
‘Look, maybe you’ve been away too long. His records were destroyed .’
The penny dropped. A cattle farmer destroying their records like that probably meant one thing – illegal land grabbing. Burned villages. Murders. There was a silence before Antonio spoke again.
‘I didn’t say anything about this, OK?’
‘But that doesn’t make sense. This painting, it’s not like any indigenous art I’ve ever seen.’
‘I don’t know, then. Not for certain, at least. I know some of the pieces at auction were taken from the people they, uh, displaced.’ The conversation had clearly taken a turn Antonio was not comfortable with. ‘I think maybe his wife said some of the paintings were done by one of his workers. That could be it.’
‘When you say “workers”, what do you mean?’ Jésus asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer. ‘Farmhand? Administrator? CFO? What?’
‘ … No. None of those.’
Ah. A grileiro , then. Likely one of the unofficial private mercenaries the corporations sent in to clear the land they wanted to farm or log or strip-mine. No oversight, no rules, just people willing to take guns into the jungle and drive indigenous people off their land by any means necessary. Not usually the sort to retire into a career of painting masterpieces.