16

Solemn-faced, Edwin Garrigaw (alias Violet) strides around his domains. Late in the afternoon he received a phone call of transcendental importance, and now he is trying to stay calm by contemplating all the beauty around him. There is only a short time to go before the National Gallery closes, and there are no more visitors in the rooms, which are never crowded anyway at this time of year. Without a public, the building’s heating system is insufficient, and it is cold in the spacious rooms. The elderly curator’s firm footsteps echo from the lofty vaulted ceilings. The phone call ended with a strict instruction: have everything ready for when the moment comes. There was no need to specify what moment that was: Edwin Garrigaw has been desiring and fearing it for many years. Finally it seems to have arrived or to be on the verge of arriving, and he is convinced he will not have long to wait. At his age, though, any change means upheaval. Absorbed in these thoughts, he has allowed his steps to take him to the galleries of Spanish painting, of which he is the undisputed master: nobody within this venerable institution questions that. Outside the gallery walls, things are different, of course. Young whippersnappers who think they have reinvented the wheel, and take him to task for everything. Nothing serious in the grand scheme of things: storms in the tiny teacup of British academe. The elderly curator is not worried on that score: however old he may be, neither his job nor his prestige is at stake.

He comes to a halt in front of one particular painting. The label reads: Portrait of Philip IV in Brown and Silver, commonly known as “Silver Philip.” The portrait depicts a young man, with noble but unattractive features, the face framed by long golden curls. His eyes have the wary, anxious look of someone who is trying to demonstrate majesty when all he feels is fear. Destiny has placed a heavy burden on weak, inexpert shoulders. Philip IV is wearing a brown doublet and breeches richly embroidered with silver: hence the painting’s name and sobriquet. One gloved hand rests boldly on the pommel of a sword; in the other he holds a folded piece of paper on which the name of the artist appears: Diego de Silva Velázquez. The painter had arrived in Madrid in 1622, in the wake of his fellow countryman the Count-Duke of Olivares, a year after Philip IV had ascended the throne. Velázquez was twenty-four, six years older than the King, and had already demonstrated great skill as an artist, although as yet with provincial overtones. As soon as he saw the works of this aspiring court painter, Philip IV, inept regarding affairs of state but not with regard to art, realized he was in the presence of genius and, paying no heed to the experts’ opposition, resolved to trust his and his family’s image to this lazy, audacious young man who was so insultingly modern. In so doing, he ensured his triumphal entry into history. Possibly the two men’s relationship was limited by the etiquette of the Spanish court. But in the complex world of palace intrigue, the King’s support for his favorite painter never wavered. They both shared decades of loneliness, when fate seemed against them. The gods had granted Philip IV all imaginable power, yet he was interested only in art. Velázquez was born with a gift, as one of the greatest painters of all time, yet all he wished for was a little power. In the end, both of them fulfilled their desires. At his death, Philip IV left a ruined country, a decaying empire and a sick heir destined to liquidate the Hapsburg dynasty, but he bequeathed to Spain the most extraordinary art gallery in the world. Velázquez subordinated his art to his desire to get ahead at court, his ambitions sustained through talent alone. He painted little and with bad grace, only to obey and please the King, his sole aim being to win social advancement. Toward the end of his life, he was rewarded with his coat of arms.

In the same room and on the same wall, only a few meters from this magnificent painting, there is another portrait of Philip IV, also by Velázquez. This one was painted thirty years later. The first measures almost two meters by a little over one, and is a full-length portrait; the second measures scarcely half a meter wide and shows only the King’s head on a black background, with his doublet barely sketched in. Naturally, the features are the same in both paintings, but in the later portrait the flesh is pale and dull, the cheeks and jaw are slack, and there are bags under a pair of sad, lackluster eyes.

Velázquez, who only painted when encouraged by others and had not the slightest appetite for work, seldom did self-portraits. As a young man, he perhaps appears as a skeptical witness to the fleeting surrender of Breda; later, in the final stages of his career, he depicts himself in Las Meninas. In this work the Order of Santiago confirming him as a gentleman is displayed on his chest, but the image is also that of a weary man who has achieved his dream following a lifetime of struggle and disappointments, and who wonders if it was all worth it.

Edwin Garrigaw is asking himself the same question. Perhaps the moment has arrived, but when he looks in the mirror (something he does every day, with obsessive frequency) he no longer sees the face of the young man who had the dream and began his patient vigil. Back then he had smooth, pink skin, his eyes were bright, his hair thick and wild, his features somewhere between childish and feminine. An emeritus professor sent him anonymous sonnets in Latin and small bouquets of violets, in honor of his nickname. Cambridge was the backdrop to his academic triumphs and amorous adventures that were only made adventurous by repeated betrayals. He wasted his youth in games of this sort; his mature years were lost in professional struggles. Now he too has sagging cheeks and wrinkled skin; his hair is going gray at the temples, and is receding dramatically but inexorably in a way no treatment can forestall. Of late he has repeatedly asked himself whether he should not try to find a stable partner to avoid a lonely old age with only mercenary palliatives, but this is nothing more than a rhetorical question. Although it is plain he will soon have to give up his post in favor of a younger man, the idea does not upset him: his work is no longer an end in itself. At most, he may add a few additional, probably pompous observations to his scant bibliography, which will immediately be challenged, if not ridiculed, by the rising generation. Not that this is of much concern to him either: previously he was afraid of being discredited; now he is terrified of becoming decrepit. In any case, he has no wish to become embroiled in a bitter, lengthy battle if it is not over something exceptional, and he doubts whether anything truly exceptional or even merely curious will come his way at this stage. The beauty he has dedicated his life to has betrayed him by not aging alongside him. After three hundred years, “Silver Philip” is still as youthful as when he first saw it, and will go on being so when he is no longer there. What will he leave behind of his passage through these grand, empty rooms? If at least his labors were to receive some form of recognition, perhaps a title: but ‘Sir Edwin’ did not exactly chime with his ideas. Possibly, ‘Sir Violet’ . . .

The bell rings to signal that the gallery is about to close. The elderly curator returns to his office. He asks the secretaries if anyone has telephoned while he was out. On being told no one has, he puts on his coat, picks up his umbrella, briefcase and bowler hat, says goodbye and leaves with that slightly mincing gait of his. He knows the way, and so is not hampered by the gloomy corridors or the dimly lit staircase. As he steps outside, he finds the city shrouded in fog. This does not surprise or bother him either. On his way to the Underground, he thinks he sees someone he knows, and pauses. The fog prevents him from identifying him properly, but also means the other person does not recognize him either. Garrigaw makes a detour: the last thing in the world he wants is to meet up with that man, whom he detests. He soon loses sight of him, and gets back on the right path, lost in thought. He is certain the man was heading for the gallery, doubtless to go and see him. Fortunately he has left earlier than usual, so the meeting cannot take place. Garrigaw is pleased at this, but it means he cannot know what on earth Pedro Teacher might want, and why he has come to see him today of all days, just when he has received the call.

At the same time, but far from there, his former student, colleague and adversary in many disputes is lying on the Castellana pavement, knocked flat by a punch and staring up at the sinister barrel of a gun. The situation is so absurd he feels indignant rather than frightened.

“I’m English!” he cries in a high-pitched lament.

Before his attackers can react to this information, a command halfway between peremptory and amused rings out.

“Let him go. He’s no danger.”

The attackers freeze, then respectfully withdraw as the man Anthony has been following comes over and offers him a firm hand to help him back up. Under the streetlight he recognizes the athletic figure, noble bearing, virile looks and frank smile. He gets up and flaps at the slivers of ice and mud stuck to the folds of his coat. As he does so, he realizes he is visibly trembling.

“I demand an explanation,” he mutters, to disguise his sense of weakness and to recover at least a fraction of his lost dignity.

“And you shall have one,” his adversary replies, a note of irony in his voice. He stares at him, and adds in a friendlier tone: “I don’t know if you remember me. We met a couple of days ago in the house of our mutual friend—”

“Yes, of course, I don’t have problems with my memory,” the Englishman interrupts him. “The Marquis of Estella.”

“José Antonio to my friends. Unfortunately, to my enemies as well. And that is the reason for this regrettable incident. I’ve been attacked several times, and so am obliged to have an escort. I beg you to forgive my hasty companions. They were simply being overzealous. The sad truth is that the present situation does not leave room for courtesy. We’ve suffered many casualties, and the violence is on the upsurge again. Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. And I accept your apology. Now, if you don’t mind . . .”

“No, I won’t hear of it.” José Antonio silences him in a rush of friendliness. “I have to make amends, and can think of nothing better than to invite you to supper. I’ve seen you eat and know you won’t turn your nose up at good food. This way we can get to know each other better. I’m aware that we have shared interests.”

“I’d be delighted,” replies Anthony, partly because he thinks it unwise to contradict people who carry weapons and are quick to use them, and also because he is intrigued by what that last sentence might mean.

“In that case, there’s nothing more to discuss,” says José Antonio. “But first I must drop in at our headquarters to see what news there is and to give some instructions. It’s not far, and it is still early. If you don’t mind accompanying me, you will have the chance to meet some worthwhile people and to see a little of how our party functions—if we are still allowed to call it a party, that is. Come on, Whitelands my friend, my car is just around the corner.”