‘Did …’ He chose his next words carefully. ‘Did Fell know about them? The clearances?’
‘How should I know?’ Antonio was clearly keen to move on. ‘These rich arseholes, who can say what they know and what they don’t. But it was done in his name.’
Jésus found it hard to say precisely what he was feeling. Certainly many of the greatest artworks had bloody histories, but to be so close to it … there was an undeniable frisson, and not a pleasant one.
‘I need you to find him, the man who painted it. I need to talk with him,’ Jésus could hear the desperation in his own voice, but he ignored it.
‘That’s not going to be possible, I’m afraid,’ Antonio said quietly. ‘He’s dead. About a year back, according to the owner’s son.’
Jésus didn’t want to ask the next question but pushed on regardless.
‘How did he die?’
‘House fire. Accidental, but the workers’ houses weren’t exactly built to standard. He burned to death.’
The silence that followed was palpable, as Jésus’ skin prickled at the memory of a dream.
Knock.
It was dark. Almost pitch black.
Knock knock.
Had he been asleep? No, he’d been … He was just …
Knock knock knock.
Jésus leapt up with a violent start, sending his desk chair tipping back onto the soft carpet of the study. He fumbled in the corner for the standing lamp, finding the switch and casting the room in warm illumination. This couldn’t be right; it had just been morning. It was still morning, it must be. He had finished his phone call, made a pot of tea, and just started an email. But the sky outside was dark and the windows of the buildings below could be seen dimly lit through the thin mist of rain. The teapot was stone cold, and the email still sat blank. He checked his watch. Just past 10 p.m.
He stepped away from the painting. Get a hold of yourself. The piece was beautiful, yes, captivating, of course. And it had clearly been dripping into his dreams these past few nights, but this was nonsense. He adjusted his tie, a more casual Balthus knot today, and walked firmly and purposefully to the study door, past the thing that had apparently held him enraptured for almost thirteen hours. As soon as he was out something snapped inside him and he slammed the door shut, his breathing suddenly heavy. He was very aware of how hungry he was, how intensely dry his throat had become.
Jésus retrieved a glass, filled it with water and drank it down so quickly his stomach almost revolted. He refilled it, sipping more slowly, and sat down heavily in the nearest armchair, mind racing.
What was wrong with him? He had been fascinated before by the painting, certainly. It was only natural. He had lost hours staring into it, standing so close he could almost touch it. But it had never caught his mind like this, not from the other side of the room, and never for this long. It felt like it had somehow claimed the whole room for itself, to the point where he barely remembered the other pieces he kept there. What does it want?
He caught himself immediately. This was absurd. He had plenty of clients who talked to him of their superstitions, of their strange beliefs and conceptions of art and its origins. He nodded, of course, but privately he despised such nonsense. His obsession was simply that, a trick of his own personality. His eye for art was simply too strong, and he was having difficulty overcoming it.
Even now, as he thought of the painting, he could not help dwelling on its lines, its colour, how he desperately searched for that face hidden within it, though the image was proving more elusive, not less, as he had continued to observe it. Had it always been weeping?
The thing was dangerous, that much he knew, even if it was only his own obsession that made it so. Perhaps it would be better to destroy it. But it was also the single most beautiful thing Jésus had ever owned, perhaps that anyone had ever owned. He would simply do his work in the living room or bedroom and, when he had the time, he could go in and disappear into its twisting forms. The study had always been an unnecessary display, anyway. The room belonged to the picture now. It may have taken the study, but there it would remain. Contained.
He shook his head again at the ridiculous thought. He’d just had a strange day, and it had left him unsettled. Not to mention he was absolutely famished. He dragged himself to his feet and called down to the front desk for a taxi. It was late, but his name got him a last-minute dinner reservation quickly enough. His legs were weak and he found himself leaning on his cane for support, at one point worried it would buckle. Still, he made it down to the reception, trying his best to think of the meal ahead of him, and not what was behind him.
When he returned from dinner, it was late. Jésus had taken his time over coffee, only leaving when the maître d’ had gently informed him they were soon to close. He was dragging his heels as he approached the entrance, leaning heavily on his cane. He didn’t know what scared him more: that he truly believed the painting did something to him, or that there was a part of him that wanted to see it again, to lose himself in its lines. His lip curled in distain at his own thought. Jésus Candido, scared of a painting! The very idea was comical, absurd! But that didn’t make it any less true. He was afraid of what it was doing to him, afraid of the dreams, afraid of the woman who lurked within it. He tried his best to stand straight and walked through the glass doors of Banyan Court.
Briefly, he toyed with the idea of talking to the concierge, seeing if he could get the man to accompany him back to his apartment to remove the painting, take it somewhere he could have it collected for storage. But it was the lazy one Jésus didn’t like, and he seemed to currently be busy arguing with an angry young man in a blue baseball cap. Jésus did his best to ignore them, skirting around the edges of what seemed to be quite the shouting match, and ducked into the elevator.
It was only as it started its ascent that Jésus realised he was not the only one inside. He was quite sure he’d never seen the person standing next to him before, though they seemed real enough. It was a man, younger than Jésus by maybe a decade, and he wore what had clearly once been a well-tailored business suit. His hair was unwashed, and the suit was torn at the knees and elbows, with dark stains mottling its tasteful pinstripes. His fingernails were filthy, as if he had been clawing through the mud, and a dank, musty smell rolled off him, unsettling Jésus’ already delicate stomach. Was this man from the other side of the building? This wasn’t his place, how had the concierge let him through? But no, his suit spoke of money, despite its appalling condition. The man caught him staring and gave a tired smile.
‘So how are you finding it?’ he asked.
Jésus cocked his head in confusion.
‘Living here,’ the stranger continued. ‘Is it everything you hoped it would be?’
‘Yes,’ Jésus replied, willing the conversation to be over. ‘It is.’
The man leaned in close and it took all Jésus’ composure not to visibly recoil at the smell. The stranger’s tone was conspiratorial.
‘Have you ever seen anything … weird? Since moving in?’
‘No,’ Jésus replied.
The door opened on the fifth floor and the man in the stained suit left, his expression downcast. Jésus breathed out. How could such a man live in a place like this? Clearly some sort of tragedy had befallen him, and Jésus was not without compassion for such a situation, but to let oneself be seen like that … His gaze drifted to the mirrored wall of the elevator. The figure before him was clearly exhausted, using a cane not meant to bear the weight. His tie was loose, and a drop of coffee could clearly be seen on the front of his white shirt, a casualty of his shaking hands. Who was he, this man in the mirror? He had avoided his friends these last few days but were they to see him now they would mock him, he knew that for certain. Jésus Candido reduced to a broken, haunted man, terrified of his own possessions and a few bad dreams.