Us (42 page)

These portraits were extraordinary enough, but dominating the whole room was a painting the like of which I'd never seen before, of a small girl, perhaps four or five years old, encased in a stiff satin dress as wide as a table at the hips, very strange on a child.
Las Meninas
, it was called, which means
The Maids of Honour
, and sure enough the princess was surrounded by courtiers, a nun, a finely dressed female dwarf and a small boy, or perhaps he was another dwarf, prodding a dog with his foot. To the left, a painter with a comically Spanish moustache – a likeness, I supposed, of Velázquez himself – stood in front of a huge canvas, facing out as if he was painting not the little girl but the viewer, specifically me, Douglas Timothy Petersen, the illusion so convincing that I wanted to crane around the canvas to see what he'd made of my nose. A mirror on the back wall showed two other figures, the girl's parents I guessed, Mariana and Philip IV, the large-chinned gentleman on the wall to my left. Despite being distant and blurred, it seemed that they were the true subject of the artist's portrait, but nevertheless the artist, the little girl, the female dwarf all seemed to stare out of the painting at me with such level intensity that I began to feel rather self-conscious, and confused, too, as to how a painting could have so many subjects: the little princess, the ladies in waiting, the artist, the royal couple, and me. It was as disorientating as the moment when you step between two mirrors and see infinite versions of yourself stretching into, well, infinity. Clearly there was ‘a lot going on' in this painting too, and I'd return with Albie soon.

I returned to the central atrium, ducking in and out of rooms, glimpsing wonderful things. I would have returned to the front steps and waited there, had I not seen a sign for something called the Black Paintings, which sounded intriguing in a rather Hammer-horror kind of way.

The canvases in question were in a gloomy room in the basement of the gallery, as if they were some dark family secret, and one glimpse at them revealed why. They weren't even canvases, but murals painted directly on to the walls of a house by Goya and clearly the work of a deeply disturbed man. In one, a grinning woman raised a knife ready to hack off someone's head, in another a circle of grotesque women sat around Satan, manifested in the form of a monstrous goat. Up to their knees in some filthy bog, two men stood smashing at each other's bloodied heads with cudgels. A drowning dog's sad-eyed head peeked out of quicksand. Even the innocent scenarios – women laughing, two old men eating soup – seemed crammed with fear and spite, but the worst was still to come. In some sort of cave a mad giant tore at the flesh of a corpse with his teeth. The picture was called
Saturn Devouring His Son
, though this god was nothing like the handsome figures I'd seen in France and Italy. He seemed deranged, his body old, sagging and grey, with a look of such terrible self-loathing in his horrible black eyes …

I heard a ringing in my ears, felt a tightening in my chest and a sensation of such dread and anxiety that I was forced to hurry from the room, wishing that I had never seen the painting, that it had remained on the walls of some remote, derelict house. I am not a superstitious man, but there was something of the occult about the pictures. With only ten minutes to go before my rendezvous, I felt I needed some sort of antidote and I hurried back upstairs, along the gallery's main corridor, looking left and right for a calm spot in which to rest and gather my thoughts. On my right was the Velázquez room and I thought that I might sit for a moment in front of the small girl in
Las Meninas
, to clear my head.

But the gallery had become a great deal busier since I'd first arrived, and the picture was now concealed behind a party of tourists. Nevertheless I sat and attempted to regain my composure, pressing my fingers against my eyes so that it took me a moment to sense a presence, look up and see my son standing right in front of me, saying those words that every father longs to hear.

‘Jesus Christ, Dad, why can't you just leave me alone?'

‘Hello, Albie. It's me!'

‘I can see that, Dad.'

‘I've been looking for you everywhere. It's good to see you. I—'

‘Where's Kat?'

‘Kat's not coming, Albie.'

‘She's not coming? She sent me a text.'

‘Yes, I was there.'

‘Why isn't she coming?'

‘Well, Albie, to be honest, she was never coming.'

‘I don't understand. She tricked me?'

‘No, she didn't
trick
you—'

‘What, you tricked me?'

‘Not tricked, she helped, Kat helped. Me find you.'

‘But I didn't want you to find me.'

‘No, I realise that. But your mother was worried and I wanted to—'

‘If I'd wanted you to find me, I'd have told you where I was.'

‘Nevertheless, we've been worried about you, your mother and I—'

‘But the text message, I thought … I thought that Kat was pregnant!'

‘Yes, you might have got that impression …'

‘I thought I was going to be a dad!'

‘Yes, that was sort of implied. Sorry about that.'

‘Do you know what that feels like?'

‘I do, as a matter of fact.'

‘I'm seventeen! I've been going nuts!'

‘Yes, I can see how that might have come as a bit of a shock.'

‘Was that your idea?'

‘No!'

‘Whose fucking idea was it, then, Dad?'

‘Hey, Albie, that's enough!' People were staring now, the museum guard poised to approach. ‘Maybe we should go somewhere else …'

It seemed Albie had already thought of this because he was loping off at quite some speed, head down against the tide of tourists who were suddenly flooding the atrium. I did my best to follow, throwing out ‘
scusi
's and ‘
por favor
's until we were outside, the light unnaturally bright now, the heat quite shocking as we tumbled down the steps and headed for the tree-lined avenue that skirts the museum.

‘It would really be a lot easier to explain if we could sit down.'

‘What's to explain? I wanted to be alone to think and you wouldn't allow it.'

‘We were worried!'

‘You were worried because you don't trust me. You've never trusted me—'

‘We simply wanted to know where you were and that you were safe, that's not unusual. Would you prefer we didn't care?'

‘You always say that, Dad! Right after you've been screaming and shouting at me and jabbing your finger, it's always because we care! “We care!” you say while you're pressing the pillow down on my face!'

‘There's no need to be melodramatic, Albie! When have I ever …? Albie …' He was pretty nimble on his feet, and I was having difficulty speaking now. ‘Please, can we … this would be a whole lot easier if we could …' I stopped, hands on my knees, hoping that he would not disappear. I glanced up, and he was there, kicking at the path with his heel.

‘I wanted … to apologise … for what I said in Amsterdam …'

‘What
did
you say in Amsterdam, Dad?' he asked, and I realised my son had no intention of making it easy for me.

‘I'm sure you can remember, Albie.'

‘But just to make sure …'

Perspiration was dripping from my forehead onto the footpath. I saw the drops hit the ground, counted them, one, two, three. ‘I said I was … embarrassed by you. And I wanted to say that I'm not. I think your behaviour was over the top, I think there was no need to start a fight, but I didn't express myself very well and I wanted to apologise. In person. For that. And for other times when I may have overreacted. I've been under a lot of strain recently … at work and, well, at home too and … Anyway. No excuses. I'm sorry.' I straightened up. ‘Do you accept my apology?'

‘No.'

‘I see. May I ask why?'

‘Because I don't think you should apologise for what you really think.'

‘What do I really think, Albie?'

‘That I am an embarrassment.'

‘How can you say that, Albie? I care about you very, very much. I'm sorry if that's not always been clear, but surely you can see—'

‘Everything you do, Dad, everything you say to me, there's this … contempt, this constant stream of dislike and irritation—'

‘Is there? I don't think there is—'

‘Belittling me and criticising me—'

‘Oh, Albie, that's not true. You're my boy, my dear boy—'

‘Christ, it's like I'm not even your favourite child!'

‘What do you mean, Albie?'

He inhaled sharply through his nose, his features bunching up, the face he used to make as a small boy when trying not to cry. ‘I've seen the photos you've got stashed away. I've seen you and Mum look at them longingly.'

‘They're not stashed away, Albie. We've shown them to you.'

‘And don't you think that's weird?'

‘Not at all! Not in the least. We've always been honest about your sister. She isn't some secret – that would be awful. We loved Jane when she was born, and then we loved you too, just as much.'

‘Except she never fucked up, did she? She never embarrassed you in public or fucked up at school. She got to be perfect, whereas me, your stupid fucked-up son—'

And here I must admit I laughed. Not maliciously, but at the melodrama of it all, the adolescent self-pity. ‘Albie, come on, you're just feeling sorry for yourself—'

‘Don't laugh at me! Don't! Can't you see, everything you do shows how stupid you think I am!'

‘I don't think you're stupid—'

‘You've told me I am! You've told me! To my face.'

‘Have I?'

‘Yeah, you have, Dad! You have!'

And I suppose I might have told him that, maybe once or twice.

I closed my eyes. I suddenly felt very tired and very sad and very far away from home. The futility of this whole expedition seemed suddenly overwhelming. I had told myself that it was not too late, that there was still time to make amends for the raised voices and bared teeth, the indifference and thoughtless remarks. I had regrets, certainly, about things I'd said, things I'd done, but behind it all there had always been … wasn't it obvious that there had always been …

I sat heavily on a stone bench. An old man on a bench.

‘Are you all right?' asked Albie.

‘I am. I'm fine. I'm just … very, very tired. It's been a very long journey.'

He came to stand in front of me. ‘What are you wearing on your feet?'

I stuck a foot out, turned it from side to side. ‘You like them?'

‘You look ridiculous.'

‘Yes, I'm aware of that. Albie, Egg, will you sit a minute? Just a minute, then you can go.' He looked left, then right, already planning his escape. ‘I won't follow you this time. I swear.'

He sat down.

‘I don't know what I can say to you, Albie. I had hoped the words would just come, but I don't seem to have made a very good job of expressing myself. I hope you know I have regrets, things I shouldn't have said. Or things I should have said but didn't, which is often worse. I hope you have some regrets too. You haven't always made it easy for us, Albie.'

He hunched his shoulders. ‘No. I know.'

‘The state of your room, it's as if you do it deliberately to annoy me.'

‘I do,' he said, and laughed. ‘Still. You can have it back now.'

‘You're still going to college then? In October?'

‘Are you going to talk me out of it?'

‘Of course not. If that's what you want to do with your life—'

‘Well I am.'

‘Good. Good. I'm pleased you're going. I mean not pleased you're leaving home, but pleased—'

‘I get it.'

‘Your mother's terrified of what it will be like without you.'

‘I know.'

‘So much so that she's thinking about leaving too. Leaving me. But you've always been close, so I expect you knew that.'

‘I did.'

‘She told you?'

He shrugged. ‘I sort of guessed.'

‘Do you mind?'

He shrugged again. ‘She doesn't seem very happy.'

‘No, she doesn't, does she? She doesn't. Well, I've been trying to address that. I had hoped that we'd have fun together this summer, our last summer, all of us together. I'd hoped to change her mind. Perhaps I tried too hard. I'll find out soon enough. Anyway. I'm sorry for what I said to you. It's not what I believe. Whatever I might have said, I'm very proud of you, though I might not show it, and I know that you'll do great things in the future. You're my boy, and I'd hate for you to go off into the world without knowing that we will miss you and will want you to be safe and happy and that we love you. Not just your mum, you know how much your mother loves you. But me too. I love you too, Albie. There. I think that's really what I came to say. So now you can go. Do whatever you want, as long as it's safe. I won't follow you any more. I'll just sit here for a while. Sit here and rest.'

Later that afternoon, we went to see
Guernica
. We had both calmed down by then and while still not quite at ease – would we ever be at ease? – we were at least more comfortable in our silence. As we walked around the Museo Reina Sofia, I stole little sideways glances. He was, as far as I could tell, wearing the same clothes that he'd worn in Amsterdam: the stained T-shirt that showed his bony chest, jeans that cried out for a belt, sandals on his blackened feet. His vestigial beard was scraggy and unhygienic, hair lank and unwashed and he seemed very thin. In other words, nothing much had changed, and I was pleased.