Masquerade (9 page)

Her eyes lightened from dark blue to grey.
‘La puntualidad es la cortesia de los reyes
, punctuality is the politeness of kings,’ she said coolly, noting that his own courtesy had not extended to removing his sunglasses, at least to greet her.

‘Quite.’ He signalled her to take a seat and sank back into his own. ‘Can I offer you a drink before lunch, maybe some crisp white wine from our vineyards?’ he suggested. ‘It’s very refreshing on a hot day like this.’

The way the day was turning out she had better stay away from alcohol; despite this suave invitation she did not need anything else to add to her confusion. Luz shook her head. ‘No, thank you, I won’t have anything for the moment.’ She took her place opposite him with the sun on her back.

‘A glass of fino or a stiff whisky, maybe? That is what the English drink,
no es así
, is that not so?’ he asked, his face completely straight, although she knew he was making fun of her.

‘Not at lunchtime they don’t,
señor
.’ She coloured slightly at her own directness and tried to smile. Would he think her rude? ‘Thank you, I’m fine, really.’

‘There is no pleasing you,
señorita
,’ he continued, apparently ignoring her comment. He was obviously enjoying this little game of testing his will against hers. ‘A glass of iced water then,’ he ended, with the most disarming smile.

The curve of his mouth was very distracting and she could not help but smile back at him. ‘Yes, all right, I’d love a glass of water, thank you.’

‘Ah, third time lucky! You drive a hard bargain,
señorita
,’ he laughed and signalled to a waiter discreetly hovering in the background.
‘Un vaso de agua para la joven por favour.’
The ice was broken.

A moment passed while Luz surveyed the man sitting opposite, still not quite over her shock. Tall, lean and dark, glossy brown hair neatly pulled back into a ponytail and a perfect profile that would make Rudolph Valentino jealous. It disturbed her that she could not stop staring at his sensual lips, which were the only clue to his expression. This man was dangerously attractive. She wished he would take off those dark glasses so that she could see his eyes; besides, they unnerved her. Logic told her that Andrés and Leandro could not be one and the same person. Anyhow, there was something much more sophisticated about Andrés de Calderón, a quiet confidence as opposed to the pent-up energy that emanated from the gypsy.

‘I saw you at the theatre yesterday,’ he volunteered, breaking into her thoughts. ‘I recognized you from your photograph, even though it’s a poor ref lection of the reality. You are a very beautiful young lady.’

So he
was
the stranger she had glimpsed observing her through his opera glasses. Her eyes flicked down again and watched him run a finger pensively across his bottom lip. To her great annoyance Luz felt a pink blush rise to her cheeks.
And it’s true, you really are a most shocking womanizer.

‘Thank you, you are very kind,
señor
.’ She wondered when this pantomime of small talk would end. He was dragging on the suspense and she was increasingly more edgy by the second. It was clear he was flirting with her and she was at loss to know how to react. In different circumstances she would have had no problem in dealing with him – she had never found it difficult to respond to male attention or give men short shrift if she felt like it, but given the present situation and her need to be courteous …

A waiter brought in the first course: medallions of steaming lobster served with an olive oil, garlic, caper and parsley sauce. They waited as he poured a glass of chilled white wine for Andrés and filled Luz’s glass with icy water.

‘I’m very impressed by your credentials,’ Andrés said, again the first to talk. Appearing not to look at her, he breathed
in the aroma of the wine before sipping it. ‘You obviously know your job. The work you presented this morning was outstanding and far superior to that of the other candidates. We’ve been inundated with applications, as you can guess, but luckily for you, none of them suitable.’ His tone was mild and businesslike. It was a good opening and Luz felt cheered. Realizing suddenly how hungry she was, she started to tuck into the delicious appetizer.

‘I’ve always been interested in art,’ she ventured, ‘especially Spanish contemporary art and Surrealism. I’ve read extensively about your uncle and I’m fascinated by his work, always have been.’ She paused to take a sip of her water. ‘We own a house outside Puerto de Santa María and one in Cádiz,’ – but he probably knew that already – ‘so this is an ideal opportunity for me, given most of de Salazar’s work is around the Costa de Luz. It would be very easy and practical for me to carry out the work.’

Andrés speared some lobster with his fork. ‘I see you spent most of your childhood in England. Are you planning to stay in Spain for good?’ His face was impassive.

‘I have lots of friends from boarding school and my great-aunt is in England, but my parents are here and this is where my heart lies,’ she explained.

He nodded as if satisfied with her answer. ‘Did you find it difficult growing up away from home?’

Luz glanced up at him in surprise at this sudden intimate question. ‘I would have preferred to stay in Spain, I think, but I learned to be independent there and think for myself.’

‘You think that an English boarding school education is the reason for that?’

‘Yes, in a way.’ She took a sip of water and looked at him, suddenly a little bolder. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you yourself said that my written work today was far superior to that of the other applicants and I can’t take all the credit for that.’

Andrés cocked his head to one side, studying her. ‘You can’t?’

‘I might not be sitting here if I hadn’t lived and studied abroad. Boarding school taught me to be self-sufficient and rely on myself and not others. That gave me the drive to be as good as I could be at everything I do.’

Now one side of his mouth lifted with amusement. ‘I’m sure you are good at everything you do, Doña Luz.’ His gaze stayed on her as he sipped his wine, making her flush once more. ‘Perhaps there is a connection, as you say. You were the only candidate educated abroad, I believe.’

‘As I said, though, Spain is where I belong,’ Luz went on, keen to reassure him that she was committed. ‘That’s why I wanted to find challenging work in this part of the country. I love it so much.’

‘This biography will certainly be a challenge. No one has ever written anything of much quality about Eduardo’s work.’

‘Then I shall be the first,’ she answered, without thinking, taking another mouthful of the delicious, creamy shellfish.

‘Are you always this straightforward, Doña Luz? I like that.’ His broad smile flashed at her and Luz coloured again slightly, though relieved that she seemed to be making a good impression.

‘What I meant, I suppose, is that I’ve always had high expectations of myself.’

He was still smiling as he took a sip of his wine. ‘And in all things?’

Her brow furrowed. ‘Of course. How can one live without expectations and standards in life?’

He raised his eyebrows at her artless response and then chuckled. ‘That sounds like your English boarding school speaking.’

Realizing how earnest she must have sounded, Luz smiled sheepishly at his obvious amusement. ‘Yes, maybe it is.’ He was perceptive as well as ridiculously handsome.

They talked and ate, and Luz found herself laughing in spite of her nerves. She was starting to feel more confident now, even beginning to enjoy Andrés’ playful banter.

A waiter cleared the first course as another brought in the second: poussin filled with a Provençal stuffing, made distinctive by the
addition of spicy local sausage, he told her. Andrés de Calderón was obviously a gourmet.

Now that she was at ease, she sensed the more rigorous part of the interview was about to start.

Andrés refilled Luz’s glass with water. ‘Eduardo’s Surrealist influences are well known but how would you say they informed his architecture?’ His polite, professional tone had returned.

‘Yes, people often cite Magritte, Dalí, Ernst and Miró as influences for his paintings, but his extraordinary, strident colours are often reminiscent of Fauvism. And there’s no doubt that he admired the old masters too, especially Velázquez and Caravaggio for their dramatic realism. You can see how it shaped the more representational aspects of his style.’ Luz felt him watching her intently as she spoke and realized that she was gazing at his mouth again. Already she was moving off the point.

‘And his architecture?’ he asked, a faint smile playing around his lips as if he knew what she was thinking.

Annoyed with herself, she pulled her distracted attention back to the question. ‘Some say, and I agree, that his architecture as well as his paintings owe the greatest debt to Escher and his use of impossible constructions, all those odd perspectives and the exploration of infinity in his black-and-white woodcuts.’

‘For example?’

‘For example, the interlocking stairs in many of the elaborate castles and towers that Eduardo painted and his doorways placed in bizarre, illogical places. For Eduardo, Escher was a genius.’ Luz began to relax into her subject. ‘And just look at his museum in Cádiz. It’s an obvious homage to both Escher and the Surrealists. There’s no doubt that the Surrealist painters he was exposed to in Paris when he was an art student also inspired him to create buildings like that, as well as his landscaped gardens – they’re fantastical, too.’

Andrés broke in here, fully locked now into the debate. ‘André Breton, who, as you know, was the father of Surrealism, said:
“The imaginary is what tends to become real.”’ He gave a wry smile. ‘The boundary between illusion and reality is a fictitious one.’

Luz stared at Andrés’ unfeasibly handsome face. Now that he was fired with enthusiasm, it was almost as if Leandro was sitting opposite her. ‘Does that apply to your own life?’ The words had left Luz’s lips before she had a chance to think.

‘I have my uncle’s blood running through my veins so I have a certain way of looking at the world, yes. Life is a masquerade, as Eduardo knew. What is truth from one angle is a lie from another.’ He ate a mouthful of food and seemed to regard her appraisingly. ‘People suppress their inner truths and desires all the time and present an illusion to the world and even to themselves, wouldn’t you say, Doña Luz?’

She glanced down at her plate, feeling like the conversation was suddenly moving in a direction with which she did not feel comfortable. Though it had been tempting to fish for information about Andrés, he was clearly adept at turning the tables. Luz shifted in her chair. Not being able to see the expression in his eyes was intimidating. The thought crossed her mind that he had worn them for just that reason. She sat a little more upright in her chair, determined to return to the subject of Eduardo.

‘Yes, illusion and reality is at the heart of Surrealism and what you say fits with Eduardo, and even more so with Dalí. But then Dalí was such a strong influence in all those years Eduardo lived in France after he finished art school.’

Andrés gave a slight wave of his fork. ‘True, but Eduardo was not fond of Dalí’s grandiose behaviour and the publicity stunts that so often eclipsed his actual work.’

Relieved they were firmly back on track, Luz continued the thread: ‘And, of course, he didn’t share Dalí’s politics either. Having said that, he may have frowned upon Dalí’s support of Franco, but he didn’t return to Spain to fight for the Republican cause.’

‘His war protest was in his art, like Picasso and Miró. Like many of the Surrealists.’ Andrés broke off some bread and
continued to look at her. ‘But I see you’re not about to let Eduardo off lightly.’

‘I don’t think you can write an insightful account of an artist’s life unless you look squarely at those things for which they can be criticized …’ She paused. Would he take exception to that?

‘Indeed,’ Andrés nodded his head, conceding the point. ‘But life is not just black and white, right and wrong. Circumstances often weave a complicated pattern that can obscure the way forward,’ he said softly.

A furrow appeared between his brows and as he said no more, Luz carried on.

‘I’ve always found the darker side of Eduardo’s paintings interesting. His use of magic and fairy tale can either feel uplifting or menacing and despairing.’

‘Yes, some of the images are unsettling, even when beautifully painted. His obsession with death is as potent as his celebration of life. Which works do you prefer, Doña Luz?’

Luz thought for a moment. She knew exactly which painting was her favourite. It was
The Immortality of the Crab
, in which a naked woman sat on a chair on the beach, her face covered with a giant butterfly, the sea calm behind her. Out of her head protruded two long feelers and from her lower belly a huge lotus flower with giant petals bloomed, on which a whole new fantastic, vibrant landscape was rendered in miniature. The flower’s long stem plunged straight into the ground, where thick roots tendrilled outwards to take hold of the earth. The image always spoke to her own desire for something suppressed within her, fighting to get out, and was strangely erotic. This particular painting was not one she wanted to discuss with Andrés.

‘The ones dealing with freedom, release and rebirth –
The Mannequin and the Princess, Song to the Mountain, Gypsy Carnival, Dominion of the Phoenix.
I love the jewel-like colours and sense of magic and movement. The element of surprise and wild imagination is breathtaking.’

‘The element of surprise and mystery was what Eduardo excelled at,’ he observed.

Eduardo wasn’t the only one
, Luz mused. She sensed his nephew was an unpredictable puzzle and it made her uncharacteristically wary. She watched the long, perfectly formed fingers of his hand reach for his glass and for some unknown reason it made her cheeks warm.

‘The symbols of sex, death, hope and love are equally fascinating …’ Luz hesitated, not knowing how to finish her train of thought.

‘Go on, Doña Luz,’ Andrés said smoothly.