Seagulls in My Soup (32 page)

He was reclining in a deck chair, with a small, wrought-iron, white-painted table at his side, a huge “Cinzano” sunshade over it. On the table were laid out the contents of the tray which the sergeant of the guard had brought from the town hall next door.

Elmyr swept a gold-ringed hand in front of him. “Ah, Mister . . .”

“Alf,” said Alf. “An' this is Tristan.”

“Ah, yes, Mister Alf. Please do make yourself at home.” Elmyr gazed from behind his dark glasses at me for a moment. “Yes, we've met before, of course. You were with the beautiful Miss Saint John, were you not, Mister Tristan?”

“That's it,” said I, as the blond American placed two folding chairs for us. “And her brother, the bishop.”

“Charming people,” observed Elmyr. “Champagne? Ice?”

“We brought you some San Miguel and some corned beef,” Alf said, his chubby face reddening as he gazed at the luscious repast on the table.

“Oh, you dear man!” Elmyr seemed to shudder. “Thank you so much, but actually I never drink beer. I have more than enough for my small needs, and for Roger, here . . .” He flapped his hand in the direction of the tall blond, who was now sitting on a little blanket on the concrete floor, to one side and slightly behind the
señor
artist.

Roger flickered a grin at us as Elmyr passed him a soup bowl and a spoon. Elmyr inspected the spoon before he passed it to the lad. “We must take care with the cleaning of our cutlery in these places, gentlemen,” he said gravely.

He removed his glasses. His toad's eyes were more mournful now than when I had first seen them two years and more before. There was now, despite his sporty rig and outer gaiety, an air of sadness about him. He looked like he'd been to a funeral.

“'Ow long have you been in 'ere?” asked Alf. “I only 'eard about it yesterday, 'ow they'd collar . . . imprisoned you.”

“Oh, I do not consider myself
imprisoned
at all, Alf,” said Elmyr. “
Interned,
that is what I consider I am.” He handed Alf and me a glass each of champagne. “May I invite you to join me for a bite? Roger will fetch some plates, will you not, Roger dear?”

The lanky American rose languidly. “Sure thing.”

“You 'aven't got enough for yourself, there, Elmyr,” said Alf. “I'll tell you what—Tris and I will yaffle the corned dog and we can share the beer with the other blokes back there.” Alf pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the lounging hippies astern of us.

“Yes, that's good, as long as you tell them it's from you,” said Elmyr. He saw me watching Roger as he headed for the plates. “Roger's from California, are you not, Roger?” he called.

“Uh, huh,” the Californian grunted over his shoulder.

“A student, are you not, Roger?”

“Yeah. Marine biology,” came Roger's voice from the shade of Elmyr's cell.

My eyes could now penetrate the shade to see that Elmyr's cell was tastefully furnished with a large double bed and monogrammed sheets—pink, with a great black “EDB” on them. Around the cell was much of the furniture I had seen in Elmyr's villa. As I gazed, classical music came from the cell.

“I persuaded our friends here,” said Elmyr, looking fondly at the first guard, now shaven, who leaned down from the window overhead, “to bring me my stereo. And of course they did bring all my record collection, and they did let me have all my pottery and some of my pictures . . .” His face clouded momentarily. “. . . the ones that swine Legros would let them take. Awful man. He did ruin the art market, you know . . . But of course you do not, eh?”

“Well, we 'eard 'e'd been sellin' sort of phony paintings 'ere and there,” murmured Alf, all ears.

Elmyr put down his champagne glass and waved his Cartier-bound wrist. “Oh, I do not wish to talk about that now, Alf. I am, after all, here for a holiday from business . . . and art!” He spooned a little caviar on a minute piece of toasted bread. “Let's talk about London, eh? I know everybody there, especially to do with the arts, and I did dine with the Aga Khan and Sir Anthony Blunt, you know. He collects for your beautiful queen . . . And my first patroness was your Lady Malcolm Campbell. Beautiful lady! Of course none of this would have happened if she had not mistook one of my drawings for a Pic . . .” Elmyr suddenly stopped, and in a louder voice said, “More champagne, gentlemen?”

It was the only time in my life that I've walked out of a prison half-crocked.

“Funny bloke,” said Alf as we tramped back down the hill. “Gotta 'and it to 'im, though—'e's got 'is head screwed on. No fault of 'is 'e's in there. 'is mate Legros got clever and sold some phony pictures to this Yank in Texas. 'E was giving a party, and this art-dealer from London was invited. 'Course the Yank shows the dealer 'is collection, and one of the paintings—the dealer 'ad the exact same one in 'is gallery back in the Smoke. That blew the gaff. They reckon there's about sixty million dollars involved. This toff, 'e's a Lord, but 'e's a reporter for the
Daily Courier
—'e told me that Elmyr didn't really copy many pictures. What 'e did was sort of copy the style of all these famous painters, see? All except for a couple. Now they got Elmyr's phonies all over the place, and they can't tell which are the genuine ones and which are Elmyr's, and the thing is, they never will be able to . . .”

I turned to Alf. “You coming to the airport with me? I'm off to London this evening. Haven't got any more money left. Got to find a job.”

“I can't, Tristan. There's this Swedish judy over at Santa Eulalia. This local bloke's ditched her . . . 'e owns a hotel . . . But 'ere, mate . . .” Alf slipped a couple of hundred pesetas into my hand. “That's for the boat-ride the other week. Gave me a yarn to spin to every bit of stuff I come across.”

“Thanks, Alf. I'll remember that. Pay you back someday.”

I did, too, less than half a year later, when I passed through Ibiza in the yawl
Barbara,
on the way from Connecticut to the Dead Sea and South America (as I described in
The Incredible Voyage
).

I much later learned that the value of Elmyr's paintings, which had been passed off as the works of modern masters, was, at 1981 rates, more than $100 million dollars, and that many of them are still displayed in art galleries and collections the world over.

I left Ibiza, after I'd bought Willie the German and George Llewellyn a drink at the airport, with the exact equivalent of one dollar, ten cents.

Elmyr committed suicide in Switzerland several years later.

In memory of my two lost boats,
Two Brothers
and
Banjo

My life closed twice before its close;

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive,

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.

“Parting”

—Emily Dickinson

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

Copyright © 1991 by Tristan Jones

ISBN 978-1-4976-3079-6

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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