The Portrait (21 page)

But there were others as well, pictures of both of them entwined, stretched out together, passionate and unrestrained, intimate and pornographic, doing things that even now make me shudder. Shocking pictures, with faces distorted by depravity, bodies twisted out of shape in their striving for each other. And she had used the light, not hidden herself away in darkness. By God, she had used it as no one had ever tried before. Each picture was suffused with brilliant dazzling colours, the flesh tones green and purple and red, the sun shining off sensuous limbs that splayed out in ways no life model could ever emulate. The complex bundle of angles and curves on their bodies. Celebrating even as they abused the majesty of the human form, God’s image, and reduced it to the obscene and the grotesque. The sun shining through the windows even gave them haloes as they mauled each other, as though their depravity was the stuff of saints. The eyes, too, I remember, staring out so calmly, shining brightly as they gazed out of the frames, daring me to disapprove, amused at my shock. No gallery could ever put such things on its walls. No man could ever have painted them. I never imagined a woman would ever dare.

Even now those pictures haunt me; I dream of them, they come to me unbidden as I lie in bed at night; I try to put them out of my mind but even now, after four years, I cannot. I’ve tried everything—long walks, sleeping draughts of every sort prepared by the pharmacists of Quiberon, prayer, confession. Nothing works. These were not subtle paintings; not Manet’s
Olympia,
where all is left to the imagination, the pose so careful and decorous, the viewer drawn into the picture so that the obscenity is in your mind and the painter can plead innocence. There was no coyness about these. Anyone who looked at them was an intruder who had no right to be there. I remember one most of all; Jacky was on her knees in front of Evelyn who was naked on the sofa. There was no joy on her face: this was not a portrait of the lover touched by the divine. This was devilish and violent, her face twisted, her body tense, an exultant scream coming from her mouth. What could that have to do with love or tenderness? This could not be that frail, dainty woman I knew? But like your moment with the shattered glass, I knew this was the truth. This was what she truly was, degraded and foul.

Those pictures made me tremble; I thought it was the shock of seeing Evelyn hanging there, but it wasn’t. It was knowing her for the first time, and being revolted by the way she let loose what was within her and revelled in it. To do such things, think such thoughts and paint it as love. Not to see it for what it was, what it must be, but to turn it into art such as no-one has attempted before.

It was the scream of her landlady, coming up the stairs to bring her a pint of milk, stopping behind me as she saw inside the room, dropping the bottle on the floor so it smashed and the milk ran into the room, that brought me back to reality. Or rather knocked me out of it entirely, for I scarcely remember a single thing after that. Not of what happened, in any case. I suppose someone called the police, the doctors, somebody must have cut her down, taken her off to the morgue. Presumably some member of her family arrived, at some stage. I must have given statements to the police, talked to her father. I do not remember any of it. All I know is that eventually I was on a cross-channel ferry, feeling I could breathe again for the first time in weeks. Between opening the door to her room and hearing the hooter of the ferry leaving the harbour, there was nothing at all except the memory of those pictures.

As the days and weeks passed I became ever more angry at her for daring to have a life unseen and unsuspected until you destroyed the only two things she truly valued and brought it all into the light. You cast down a terrible, perverted animal; even the wildest of bohemian London would have recoiled at those images, been overwhelmed and revolted by their passion and power. The work that was truly close to her heart, which came from what she was, could never be shown in public to anyone. Should I have been grateful to you, William? You exposed Evelyn for what she truly was, made me see the error of my ways in even being friends with her. Should I not thank you, old friend, for rendering yet another service to me?

But you destroyed much of me, as well. You took away my belief that I could see people in their faces and know them. You took away someone I loved and replaced her with something monstrous and twisted. The Evelyn I knew I can now scarcely recall; all there is left is that picture leaning against the wall, and the corpse which swung there, hating me as she died. Had your ruthlessness not intervened, nothing would have changed; I would never have known. Life could have gone on, and I would have my wife and house in Holland Park, my students and my riches.

For much of my exile I have hated her, but of late that has become weaker; even that terrible picture can no longer excite my disgust in the way it once did. I wish you had seen it; she
was
a good painter, you know, something extraordinary, and this was proof that would have convinced even you. She had taught herself to experience the extremes of passion and had learnt how to turn it all into painting. No-one I know has ever come close. Can I hate forever someone who managed such a thing? Who succeeded when I always turned away and flinched, compromised and sought the good opinion of people like yourself instead? Who was prepared to risk all and lose everything? Of course I hate her for where it all came from. I have abused her and scorned her memory for being what she was. I have tried to learn how to wish her soul happiness, and to mean it. But I cannot; not even the church can accomplish such miracles, it seems. My forgiveness lies only in the memory of her achievement, awful though it was.

I will cast her out entirely, now; she must not find any further place in my thoughts. I will find another way of calming my nights, so I no longer see those images when I close my eyes. I will forget them, and then they will have gone forever. I will replace them with the image of another friend, more twisted than she was. I have painted your soul in this picture, William, as much as I can; you may look at it now. Come; I will turn it round so you can see it without having to move; I think that wine I gave you is responsible for making it so difficult for you to stand. The strong flavour you so dislike hides many things. Don’t worry; it will do no more than make you a little groggy. I know this; my sleepless nights have made me experiment with many a potion, and I know the effects of them all. This particular one merely induces a certain lassitude and weakness, but does not bring any sort of oblivion.

Now, what do you think? You can look at yourself as you are. Do you see the coldness I have put in around your eyes? The cruelty of the mouth, the calculation of the chin? I hope you notice that the background is entirely dark, for there has never been anyone in the world but yourself. The shadows I am particularly proud of, there is no dominant light source, you see; rather it seems as though the light comes from within you. You illuminate the canvas, because you are the source of all certainty and truth. Set it up beside the older one and you will see the point I’m making, I hope. All the cleverness, the intelligence, is still there, the cultivation and the appreciation of beauty. But you have wasted your gifts, used them wrongly, lost the right to possess them.

Do you know, I’m proud of this? It really is a very good likeness of you. Deceptively easy on the eye, at first glance; only if you look closely do you begin to see its subtleties. I’ve come a long way in the past few years, I think. I am beginning to paint what I want to paint, rather than an approximation of it.

It’s not finished, of course. You can see that, certainly. You miss nothing where painting is concerned. It’s unbalanced. The first is a portrait of a man whole in mind and body; the second shows the corruption of the soul, but as you have noted, I have been a little flattering over your appearance. I’ve made you a touch younger-looking, less weakened than you are. A deliberate trick on my part; I am not falling back on old habits. The parallel corruption of the body will come in the last part of the triptych, which I will begin soon. It will never be seen while I am alive, of course; never could be, any more than Evelyn’s could be shown. But she taught me that is no reason for not painting something; perhaps the most truthful pictures must be hidden.

I don’t know, and I don’t really care. All I know is that I am looking forward to the challenge of the next part of this project. It will not escape me this time; it will be no rapid sketch for a newspaper, no missed opportunity or failure. I will work on you until I have you down, have no fear of that. I told you, I think, how I could not get that boy, because I did not know him in life. He was abstracted, just a pattern of shapes and colours. I will rectify that. I will heighten those greens without fear; make the eyes confront the viewer more directly. The way the sea erodes the flesh and exposes the bone structure I will depict with love. It will be an extraordinary work, something that will stick in the memory and replace those images that dance in my head when I try to sleep. A work that will last for all time. Worth the effort, I think. Even you would approve, critic though you are. I can see it in my mind so clearly.

I hope you understand all this; it is at your bidding, really. You are the one who suggested I go back to England, after all, and this is the only way I can think of which will allow me to return with an easy conscience. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life watching your success and knowing that at your heart you are a cruel, pitiless man, who can destroy others without a second thought. Surely you realise that? Such a person deserves no admiration or happiness. I could not accept a good review from you, nor yet a bad one. I could not belong to any club, show in any exhibition, be associated with any gallery, which had contact with you, and you have contacts with them all. I could not tolerate your sin and your success. I toned in your skin with green and brown in my portrait, shadowed your face to show that I understood the darkness of your mind.

This one on the easel here can go to the Royal Academy exhibition; it will make a fine last tribute to an old friend and will probably rekindle my career very handsomely. They won’t realise the flattery they see is more than mere obsequiousness, and will pay to have the same in their own portrait; I will happily oblige them. Then I’ll present this one to your widow; I was the last person to see you alive, your oldest friend; it will be a kind gesture to assuage her grief. She will be grateful and—who knows?—maybe more than gratitude will result. I would make her a better husband than you did, old friend.

THE STORM is reaching its peak. We must hurry; sometimes they blow out so quickly you are almost deafened by the sudden silence as the wind drops from gale force to nothing in a matter of seconds. You must experience its power first hand, otherwise you will never understand what I have been talking about. It will make the days you have spent sitting listening to me worthwhile. You must try, even though you are so feeble now; I will support you and ensure you get there. Do not worry. I will guide you to the best vantage point, so you can see what violence really is.

We will take the path by the cliffs, I think. It is beautiful on a night like this, with the wind blowing and the ground still wet and slippery from the rain. All alone, for no islanders will be out on a night like this. You will feel that surge of danger I have mentioned, and know what it is to be afraid. It is more exhilarating than you can imagine, for it is foolhardy to venture near the edge. Many a man has slipped along there, and there is always the risk of falling into the sea. No-one could save anyone who does, no matter how quickly they run to the village and raise the alarm. Not even a strong swimmer could survive the undercurrents and avoid being dashed to pieces on the rocks, to be washed up, torn and broken, when the sea is finished with him.

Come with me now. I will not take no for an answer.

With thanks to Felicity Bryan, Julie Grau, Lyndal Roper, Nick Stargardt, and more than ever, Ruth Harris.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Iain Pears was born in 1955. Educated at Wadham College, Oxford, he has worked as a journalist, an art historian, and a television consultant in England, France, Italy, and the United States. He is the author of seven highly praised detective novels, a book of art history, and countless articles on artistic, financial, and historical subjects, as well as the international bestseller
An Instance of the Fingerpost.
He lives in Oxford, England.