For the previous month Ben had undertaken numerous press and television interviews, talking about Leon Golding’s sensational theory about the Black Paintings. The book had caught the popular imagination and Goya had become a hero again, a would-be murder victim who had cheated his fate. And the dead author had become a celebrity.
Luckily for Leon he had a brother to speak for him, something Ben did willingly. He praised Leon’s intellect, his skill, his perception. He remembered him with pride and refused to answer when asked questions about his death. And every critic who had ever belittled Leon Golding’s work, or sneered at his eccentricities, felt themselves dimmed by the brilliance of his renown. In death, Leon triumphed. He was no longer uneasy, threatened or afraid. His words had no tremor or uncertainty about them. What he left behind was greater than the struggle of his life. And what the world would remember was that Leon Golding had scored an indelible mark on the history of art.
It was no more than he deserved.
Tired after a press conference at the Prado, Ben walked to his car. The heat of Spain was building. It was hot in the days and at night the air was liquid with moisture. The kind of heat which made a person sweat and leave their windows yawning wide. Arriving at the cemetery, Ben hoped that the massive iron gates would be open and was pleased to see that they were pinned back, almost as though they expected him, even so late at night. Slowly he drove down the main driveway and then parked, taking the box off the passenger seat and moving through the rows of graves. He knew where he was going and without effort he found the headstone.
Staring down at it, Ben could see the name Detita written in script, her dates obliterated by the night shadow of an overhanging tree. He thought she would resent being cheated of the sun. Memory, clear as a noon bell, came back to him – of her words, her beliefs. The way she educated the two Jewish brothers in daytime and, at night, taught them about the dark. But not alone. With her accomplice – the ghost of a long-dead man who had once lived near their land. Their neighbour on Spanish soil. The spirit who still haunted them all.
Goya painted murder because he knew all about it. He was obsessed by struggle and the power of evil …
Leaving Detita’s grave, Ben walked between the headstones till he arrived at the recent burial ground of his brother. The earth had not completely levelled out, the rounded mound catching the moonlight. Gently he rested his hand on the headstone, feeling for an instant the warmth of his brother’s flesh as an owl, high in some night tree, hooted sullenly, the moon riding the corner of a passing cloud.
‘I love you,’ Ben said simply, reaching for the spade he had brought with him.
Under the moonlight he dug, under the moonlight and silence. Deep down into the earth Ben scratched until he reached Leon’s coffin. Then he picked up the small square box which held Goya’s skull. Gently he placed it on top of his dead brother’s coffin, then scrambled out of the grave and began to refill it, the soil echoing as it hit the coffin. Slowly Ben watched the box which contained Francisco Goya’s skull disappear under the press of dry earth. Within minutes, there was no trace of the coffin or the skull. And finally, when all the earth was replaced, he stood back and stared at the grave.
He could not have returned the skull to Goya’s body. Not without political and bureaucratic wrangling. Not without the risk of its being stolen again. So instead, after much deliberation, he had buried it with the man who was its rightful guardian. It seemed a fitting tribute to his dead brother.
‘Rest in peace, Leon,’ he said finally. ‘Rest in peace.’
As he walked away, a hoarse wind blew some loose soil over the ground and within seconds there was nothing to indicate that the grave had ever been touched.
Heading for the airport, Ben was surprised to find himself taking a detour, turning off on to another road, one which he knew well. The night was very warm, full of insects, traffic and noise, and over the dark water of the Manzanares River steam sprites lingered among reeds and crept under the arc of the bridge. In the distance the lights of Madrid flickered lazily, the sky deepening into purple at the edge of the horizon.
Driving slowly, Ben came back to the worn farmhouse where he had spent so much of his childhood. The place was deserted, silent, a grinning moon riding over the rooftop, the weathervane dancing eerily in a manic breeze. Getting out of the car, Ben moved into the garden, then turned and glanced up at the window of the bedroom he had once shared with his brother. Memories came to him as he walked around the house, the windows looking out at him blankly, all life gone. But as Ben got back into his car he felt some premonition and, startled, looked up in time to see a shape crossing the upper window – the shape of a young man watching him. It moved towards the glass and looked out, resting its hands on the sill.
Calling out for his brother, Ben left the car and ran back to the house – but the ghost had gone. Leon Golding had walked back into the rooms he had loved, back to the library he had studied in, back to the empty corridors and silent walls.
When he drove away Ben kept his eyes fixed on the road. And never looked back.
POSTSCRIPT
Sixteen years after Leon Golding died there was an incident at the cemetery outside Madrid. Vandals had defaced monuments and broken headstones. When Ben was called over to visit Leon’s desecrated grave he found the stone smashed and a pentangle scratched into the tablet. Incensed, he asked that his brother’s body be removed. He would see to its reburial himself, in an unknown place.
When the earth was removed from over the grave Leon’s coffin was found in perfect order – but the box which had been placed on top had disappeared.
The tomb of Francisco Goya, in San Antoine da Florida, Madrid, contains two corpses: those of his mistress, Leocadia, and himself.
Originally Goya was buried in France, but when his body was moved back to Spain in 1899 – seventy years after his death – the head was missing.
Rumour has it that the skull was stolen by a Bordeaux phrenologist, who had wanted to study the skull of a genius. Rumour also intimates that Goya not only painted – but could have been involved – with Satanism.
As an old man he created the Black Paintings, the enigma of which has never been fully explained. Until, perhaps, now.
The head of Francisco Goya has never been found.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
GOYA – Robert Hughes – (Vintage)
GOYA – Enriqueta Harris – (Phaidon)
THE BLACK PAINTINGS OF GOYA – Juan Jose Junquera – (Scala)
Healthcave.com
Soylent Communications
Spanish Tourist Board
Prado Museum
Dundee University – Reconstructive Department
Copies of the Black Paintings by the author, Alex Connor.
Official works are in the Prado Museum and Art Gallery, Madrid.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Research has been extensive and I would like to thank everyone for their support. The curators of The Prado, Madrid, and The Louvre, Paris, have given generous assistance. Dr G. Altman has advised on facial/maxillary surgery, and Dr C. Wilkinson on facial reconstruction.
Thanks to you all.
Also Available