Chapter 1
LUSITANIAN LOVESTRUCK BLUES
Tiago had enjoyed a couple of drinks.
He started upstairs with caution, but by the third flight he was listing to port. He gripped the handrail and grinned, sober enough to know he shouldn’t be here, unable to turn round and go home. On the dark landing he got his breath back, peered down the corridor, and saw the heavy oak door to Raphael’s office. It was slightly open, a thin shard of light slashing the carpet red, spelling danger.
But Tiago wasn’t frightened of anything right then. He swanned over to an old mirror to inspect his dark reflection, hoping the mottled glass would reveal the characterful face of the intriguing, brilliant young man he knew himself to be; deadly, incisive, the thrusting young turk of the trading floor, the undisputed infante of commodity derivatives, a merciless, cool and resolute pioneer, a new da Gama.
A baby seal stared back at him, big-eyed, cute, wavy-haired.
“Oh fuck. Please club me.”
He licked his fingers, raked the hair back, looked at himself sideways on; better. He straightened his collar, shot his cuffs and tried three new looks; purpose, depth, decisiveness. After a while he nodded. Slightly flushed maybe, but good, sharp but understated, just the right amount of effort; perfect, in fact.
He stood back and nodded at his reflection; finally what he wanted to see, finally reality. It wasn’t always this easy. Tiago’s standards were exacting, so ditching fact for fantasy – once a necessary survival tactic – had become an addiction. The raw data sometimes happy-slapped him at three in the morning. Someone, possibly him, was orphaned at four, squandered his adolescence in religiosity, got his heart broken and his faith shattered at twenty-one when a first lover dumped him for Jesus, and spent two weird years in grubby clinches with faceless businessmen too cowardly to charge hotel porn to expenses. True, his losses had been trumped by academic, sporting and musical achievements, a stellar CV and a stack of fat (but untouched) annual bonuses – but success had only fed a habit for basking in personal glory while maintaining a deep inner conviction that all the shit things in his life were happening to somebody else, egging him on to censor his memories and daydream, shape-shifting to handle the world like the playmates of his childhood would. Such as a stark-liveried salamandra do fogos when guile was needed; Cyanopica cyanus, an azure-winged magpie for a quick getaway; or a hatching Anax Imperator, the Emperor Dragonfly, when only total transformation would do.
Tonight, however, the reflection was good. Tonight would be glorious, as long as his luck held. Still looking in the mirror, he took a gold coin from his pocket, flipped it, snatched it on the fall, and slapped it onto the back of his hand.
“Heads and we go in.”
He lifted his hand and looked.
“Good.”
He kissed the coin, put it back, and went over to the forbidding door. After a short pause he crossed himself, pushed it open and edged through the gap.
The office was shadowy. An old green, glass lamp shed fey beams that picked out a red velvet sofa, gilt frames around Raphael’s favourite artworks, small bronzes, mirrored panels, and a brass clock on the mantelpiece. The darkness was a message – I’m working right now, this is my moody lair, my sulky den, no time wasters – but Tiago had seen it by day. It was one of the most unimproved rooms in Paris, aggressively analogue and outdated.
Raphael was sitting at his desk in the far corner, his forehead on his left hand, a fountain pen in his right. It was all very artfully composed; a glass of champagne on the desk, bubbles catching the lamplight and surging up like whirling diatoms; a cigar smouldering in a brass ashtray; and music playing quietly, taking the edge off solitude; a lascivious lute solo.
Tiago breathed deeply, taking in this thinner air, slowing himself, matching the pace of his quarry. He stalked around the door and closed it behind him.
“Good evening.”
“Hold on.” Raphael raised his left hand; a saint. “I’m so sorry. One second please.” He underlined something and put the pen down. “Right. I’m all yours.”
He looked up with an icy smile, and thawed. “Well fuck me. It’s O Senor Tiago.”
“For it is he.” Good start. Tiago leaned against the door. “Working late, Monsieur Davide?”
“Apparently. I thought you were one of those fuckheads from the party.” Raphael leaned back in his chair. “It’s been a long time young man.”
“A year.”
“No.”
“Yes, a whole year.” Tiago walked forward on air. “I’m sorry. You’re still working.”
Raphael stood. “No I’m not. Not now.” He walked over, pulled up a metre away and offered his hand. “It’s good to see you Tiago.”
“It’s good to see you too.” Tiago took the hand and looked down, bemused by the phantom object in Raphael’s grasp. It was someone else’s hand, not his. His hand was being kissed, on the back, the palm, the inside wrist, and someone was saying Enchanté. Well, maybe not that.
What someone actually said was: “You look very well Tiago. This dark grey suits you.”
“Tom Ford.”
“Perfect on you.”
Tiago stared at his mystic paw, took his time. An answer would mean being let go.
“Thanks.”
Raphael let go. “You went back to Lisbon in the summer, didn’t you? Someone told me.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Lisboa, I suppose I should say. Where the Lisboans live.”
“Lisboetas.” Tiago put his hands behind his back. “Uh-huh.”
“So when did you get back?”
“Monday.”
“Really? I’m honoured.”
“You are, rather.”
“How was it?”
“Where?”
“Lisbon.”
“Hot.”
“Hot.” A nod. “Good to be home again?”
A shrug. “Paris is my home now.”
“I’d better welcome you home then.” Raphael put his hands on Tiago’s shoulders. “Welcome back to the City of Light, O Senor Tiago.”
The two air kisses weren’t quite what Tiago had in mind. He drew back and looked up, giving it both barrels, a killer beam of wide-eyed cuteness.
Raphael took a deep breath. “That welcome won’t really answer, will it?”
Another shrug. “We Lusitanians are more expressive.”
“I’ll try again then, shall I?”
“Do.”
The embrace was gentle, and formal, and of unimpeachable propriety; at least, it was until Tiago closed his eyes. Six years ago he had come to Paris, and two days later he had met Raphael, and that night he had gone back to his shiny new apartment, sat amid a small cardboard city of boxes and the smell of new paint, and written the acrostic in his Filofax.
He started upstairs with caution, but by the third flight he was listing to port. He gripped the handrail and grinned, sober enough to know he shouldn’t be here, unable to turn round and go home. On the dark landing he got his breath back, peered down the corridor, and saw the heavy oak door to Raphael’s office. It was slightly open, a thin shard of light slashing the carpet red, spelling danger.
But Tiago wasn’t frightened of anything right then. He swanned over to an old mirror to inspect his dark reflection, hoping the mottled glass would reveal the characterful face of the intriguing, brilliant young man he knew himself to be; deadly, incisive, the thrusting young turk of the trading floor, the undisputed infante of commodity derivatives, a merciless, cool and resolute pioneer, a new da Gama.
A baby seal stared back at him, big-eyed, cute, wavy-haired.
“Oh fuck. Please club me.”
He licked his fingers, raked the hair back, looked at himself sideways on; better. He straightened his collar, shot his cuffs and tried three new looks; purpose, depth, decisiveness. After a while he nodded. Slightly flushed maybe, but good, sharp but understated, just the right amount of effort; perfect, in fact.
He stood back and nodded at his reflection; finally what he wanted to see, finally reality. It wasn’t always this easy. Tiago’s standards were exacting, so ditching fact for fantasy – once a necessary survival tactic – had become an addiction. The raw data sometimes happy-slapped him at three in the morning. Someone, possibly him, was orphaned at four, squandered his adolescence in religiosity, got his heart broken and his faith shattered at twenty-one when a first lover dumped him for Jesus, and spent two weird years in grubby clinches with faceless businessmen too cowardly to charge hotel porn to expenses. True, his losses had been trumped by academic, sporting and musical achievements, a stellar CV and a stack of fat (but untouched) annual bonuses – but success had only fed a habit for basking in personal glory while maintaining a deep inner conviction that all the shit things in his life were happening to somebody else, egging him on to censor his memories and daydream, shape-shifting to handle the world like the playmates of his childhood would. Such as a stark-liveried salamandra do fogos when guile was needed; Cyanopica cyanus, an azure-winged magpie for a quick getaway; or a hatching Anax Imperator, the Emperor Dragonfly, when only total transformation would do.
Tonight, however, the reflection was good. Tonight would be glorious, as long as his luck held. Still looking in the mirror, he took a gold coin from his pocket, flipped it, snatched it on the fall, and slapped it onto the back of his hand.
“Heads and we go in.”
He lifted his hand and looked.
“Good.”
He kissed the coin, put it back, and went over to the forbidding door. After a short pause he crossed himself, pushed it open and edged through the gap.
The office was shadowy. An old green, glass lamp shed fey beams that picked out a red velvet sofa, gilt frames around Raphael’s favourite artworks, small bronzes, mirrored panels, and a brass clock on the mantelpiece. The darkness was a message – I’m working right now, this is my moody lair, my sulky den, no time wasters – but Tiago had seen it by day. It was one of the most unimproved rooms in Paris, aggressively analogue and outdated.
Raphael was sitting at his desk in the far corner, his forehead on his left hand, a fountain pen in his right. It was all very artfully composed; a glass of champagne on the desk, bubbles catching the lamplight and surging up like whirling diatoms; a cigar smouldering in a brass ashtray; and music playing quietly, taking the edge off solitude; a lascivious lute solo.
Tiago breathed deeply, taking in this thinner air, slowing himself, matching the pace of his quarry. He stalked around the door and closed it behind him.
“Good evening.”
“Hold on.” Raphael raised his left hand; a saint. “I’m so sorry. One second please.” He underlined something and put the pen down. “Right. I’m all yours.”
He looked up with an icy smile, and thawed. “Well fuck me. It’s O Senor Tiago.”
“For it is he.” Good start. Tiago leaned against the door. “Working late, Monsieur Davide?”
“Apparently. I thought you were one of those fuckheads from the party.” Raphael leaned back in his chair. “It’s been a long time young man.”
“A year.”
“No.”
“Yes, a whole year.” Tiago walked forward on air. “I’m sorry. You’re still working.”
Raphael stood. “No I’m not. Not now.” He walked over, pulled up a metre away and offered his hand. “It’s good to see you Tiago.”
“It’s good to see you too.” Tiago took the hand and looked down, bemused by the phantom object in Raphael’s grasp. It was someone else’s hand, not his. His hand was being kissed, on the back, the palm, the inside wrist, and someone was saying Enchanté. Well, maybe not that.
What someone actually said was: “You look very well Tiago. This dark grey suits you.”
“Tom Ford.”
“Perfect on you.”
Tiago stared at his mystic paw, took his time. An answer would mean being let go.
“Thanks.”
Raphael let go. “You went back to Lisbon in the summer, didn’t you? Someone told me.” He put his hands in his pockets. “Lisboa, I suppose I should say. Where the Lisboans live.”
“Lisboetas.” Tiago put his hands behind his back. “Uh-huh.”
“So when did you get back?”
“Monday.”
“Really? I’m honoured.”
“You are, rather.”
“How was it?”
“Where?”
“Lisbon.”
“Hot.”
“Hot.” A nod. “Good to be home again?”
A shrug. “Paris is my home now.”
“I’d better welcome you home then.” Raphael put his hands on Tiago’s shoulders. “Welcome back to the City of Light, O Senor Tiago.”
The two air kisses weren’t quite what Tiago had in mind. He drew back and looked up, giving it both barrels, a killer beam of wide-eyed cuteness.
Raphael took a deep breath. “That welcome won’t really answer, will it?”
Another shrug. “We Lusitanians are more expressive.”
“I’ll try again then, shall I?”
“Do.”
The embrace was gentle, and formal, and of unimpeachable propriety; at least, it was until Tiago closed his eyes. Six years ago he had come to Paris, and two days later he had met Raphael, and that night he had gone back to his shiny new apartment, sat amid a small cardboard city of boxes and the smell of new paint, and written the acrostic in his Filofax.
And then he had studied the business card, and added more.
It was a perfect fit, an omen, a fluffy, mewling wolf cub dropped in his lap. His questionable past was forgiven, Jesus still loved him, Paris was a new start, and Raphael, this son of David, would be the mystical agent of his rebirth. And later that night, when the Raphael incubus came – masterful and winged like an angel, stirring him in sticky dreams – it had felt like fate. Yet despite such splendid augury, Destiny had taken her sweet time, and for six years, on dull days in front of the screens, on planes, in his white bed at home, or in far-flung beige hotel rooms, Tiago had lost himself in daydreams and fantasies. Raphael’s love was coming, for sure; as profound as the faith of stained-glass martyrs, and as mighty as the passion of mad poets, immense and epic. When The Love of Raphael for Tiago came it would be deeper than the ocean, and more glorious than the sun, and stronger than death, a fitting compensation for all the setbacks of his young life. Every day he had to wait was merely foreplay, a test of his constancy.
The odd thing was that for all those six years Raphael had wasted his epic love on Martin Nelson, an overrated English academic who wrote mucky poetry and did a lot of lightweight arts TV, waving his arms around and talking sparky nonsense about Ovid and Catullus. Martin was lithe and mercurial and good-looking. Raphael worshipped him, and together they exuded an aura of contentment which, though modest, was still enough to make you throw up at ten paces. Tiago had faith, but after a party a year ago at which the “Nelson-Davides” (ridiculous) had left him feeling like a scabby mutt outside a locked shop, he’d gone back to Lisbon and settled for twin silver medals of promotion and a best friend’s bed. Leaving Paris had been a good move. Staying away would have been smart too. But Tiago was clever, not smart. And so here he was, mortifying his flesh in the impeccably reserved embrace of the man he adored.
He breathed in the scent of Raphael’s hair, glad to be here despite it all, brushing away imaginary fibres on Raphael’s shoulders, staking a modest claim. “This is a beautiful suit. Did you have it made?”
“Yes. London.” Raphael released him rather too easily and stood back, hands in his pockets. “Have you by any chance been drinking this evening, Tiago?”
“You know, I might have had a couple.”
“You might have had a couple.”
Tiago pointed at the ashtray. “Have you been smoking Raphael?”
“Possibly. The odd cigar.”
“As well as or instead of?”
“Both.”
Tiago shook his head. The room lurched a bit; it would probably be best not to do that again. “Weak man.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again.”
“Weak man, a man of straw.”
“I will this time.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Tiago took out a pen and wrote on his hand.
“What are you doing?” Raphael took Tiago’s wrist and then dropped it. ‘Exit all Phillip Morris positions’. What a cheeky little fucker you are.” He went back to the desk, took a draw on the cigar. “I remember when you were such a nice, unspoilt young man.”
“I’ve been corrupted by North Europeans.” True enough, in dreams at least. Tiago went over to the mantelpiece, touched the cold brass case of the clock. “I like your nice new clock.”
“Nice?” Raphael shook his head. “And do you like the drawing above it?”
“Your Apollo?” Tiago had seen it many times before; the handsome head, the young man insolent with all the power of youth, an expression of unmistakable purpose, depth and decisiveness. Easy for a fucking god to pull off, but not so easy for a mortal who’d drunk too much on an empty stomach. “I love it. You know I do.”
“No. To his right.”
It was new, a sketch of a young girl, looking to one side, half turned away. It had been lightly executed, dashed off in a few simple stokes, suggesting rather than revealing her.
“Yes, I do. She’s coming to terms with things.” He frowned at Raphael. “She’s a bit Caravarra. A bit Cavaraggio. I mean Caravaggio.”
Raphael came over and stood beside him. “Do you think so? I’d be very surprised. There’s no record, no provenance. And she’s not in any of the finished works.”
“She looks calm.” Tiago looked back at the picture. He’d read a lot of books about Caravaggio. He knew he was right, and Raphael was wrong. But this was not the time to have an argument about an artist whose name he couldn’t pronounce, so instead he frowned in what he hoped was a clever way. “Tranquil.”
“Tranquil. Good word. Well, don’t fall in love with her. She’s off tomorrow. To Canada, North Ontario. There’s a town there. Anyway, she’s going to a hospice for kids. They wrote to me, asked me if I could help. I thought she would be ideal. Beauty is important in places like that.” He put his head on one side. “And I had that old frame knocking around.”
Tiago was appalled. There was generosity, and there was folly. “You’re just giving her to them?”
“No material value. No provenance.”
“But she might be a.” Tiago took a deep breath. “A Caravaggio?”
Raphael shook his head. “Oh, I rather think I might be the better judge of that, don’t you?”
Tiago looked away. Being bested was one thing; being patronised was another.
“Right. Well, I’m amazed. I never knew there was a moral dimension to dealing in Fine Art.” Big F, big A.
“There’s a moral dimension to every job, even in whatever the fuck it is that you do.”
“Right, yes, in raping the planet. Of course that’s all down to me isn’t it? Where do you think your fucking gold leaf comes from? Your fucking cigar?” Tiago snorted, angry with Raphael, angrier with himself, but too proud to cool down yet.
“Hey, come on.” Raphael put his hand on Tiago’s arm. “I wasn’t criticising you.”
“You were. But it’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. He moved Raphael’s hand away, turned away. “Some commodities companies are more responsible than others, but I don’t have the luxury of choosing my fucking clients like you do. I don’t get to set the moral compass. In fact I don’t think there is one. My job is to make as much fucking money as possible. And fortunately I am fucking superb at that and my colleagues fear and respect me.” He looked at the girl in the picture and recoiled. It felt as if he’d been swearing in church.
There was a long silence, and then Raphael’s voice, in velvet. “So what are these fearful and craven colleagues like?”
Tiago breathed. An idol was an idol after all. “Actually, these colleagues are mostly dogheads.”
“Mostly?”
Tiago wrinkled up his nose, stage-whispered. “Some of them are fuckheads.” Possibly all of them. “They call me TJ.” To his face anyway; worse stuff behind his back, no doubt.
“Got a lot of friends at work?”
“Not one.”
“Bothered about that?”
“What do you think?” Tiago rubbed his chin. “I serve Mammon. I am his creature.”
Raphael nodded. “Ah yes, Mammon, the great pagan deity of our times, and his soul-eating cult of corporate morality. It’s very depressing. How on earth can you stand it?”
“They give me lots of money.”
Raphael frowned. “You’ve got enough fucking money Tiago. Join the angels.”
“Angels.” Tiago shook his head. “I was going to be a priest, to join a mission in São Paulo, or Macau, or Goa.” He stroked the clock case, amazed that he sometimes forgot this.
“Ah yes. I remember you telling me that once. I was rather intrigued.”
Tiago nodded. Intriguing was good. Intriguing was ideal. “I suppose it is quite unusual.” He looked at Apollo, wondered who the model was, what he’d been thinking while Raphael drew him.
“So what happened?”
Tiago turned. Raphael was looking into his eyes. It was too much so he looked back at Apollo. It was one of Raphael’s ex-lovers maybe; there were probably loads of them, and they were no doubt all gorgeous. It was time to be a man of the world. “Oh, well, I met someone. I mean, I found someone.”
“Not Jesus, clearly.”
“No. Not Jesus. Rogerio. Though he did look a bit like Jesus, especially in the mornings.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “No, I mean, after a while I began to fear that my faith was superficial, just the surface of ecstasy, I guess. Like when you’re surfing, and a wave takes you, and it’s only then that you know what the sea is.” Tiago shook his head like a wet dog. No; not sex. He didn’t want to make it about sex. “No. I just realised that I needed someone, a lover, a partner, a husband, and that I wanted to be a father, so being a priest was really rather a shit idea, wasn’t it?” Better, but hardly brilliant; some hunter he was turning out to be. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Fuck it.”
But it was okay. Raphael was looking at the drawings. “Actually I think you express yourself very well. About the first person, the first time, how it makes everything different.” He nodded. “You think people will look at you and notice you’ve changed. It happens to everyone.” He touched Tiago’s arm. “But you interrupted my lecture. About the angels.”
“Right, yes.” Tiago was a pretty good negotiator; he knew that when you didn’t want to talk, you should just ask questions. “So, what would you do if you were me?”
Raphael folded his arms. “What, if I were bright, talented and driven, with loads of money and no moral purpose?”
“And working with dogheads, yes.”
“Ah, I forgot them. I don’t know. But I’d find something.” The voice was low, confiding. “Anything, I suppose, that meant I was leaving the world a better place. That’s why we’re here, to make this world better, even if it’s just with one little picture. But you’re more glamorous than me. You could be Brave Sir Tiago.” He dubbed Tiago with an air sword. “Is that you, soldier?”
Tiago bobbed. “Sir, yes sir. That’s me.”
“So what’s your quest? Think of something big.”
Easy. “I will fight for more beauty in the world, and more love, and more justice.”
“Excellent.” Raphael nodded smartly. “And you’ve already gone into battle.”
“How?”
“You’re a musician.”
“You’ve never heard me play.”
“I have. I heard you after the party at the Spanish Embassy. You played Albeniz, an arrangement of Jerez, I think. It was really very good.” It had been the Portuguese Embassy, and it was an observation, a school report, grudgingly complimentary; and Raphael was moving on. “And I can’t imagine it’s hard for you to find love.”
“No, you’re right. I’ve found love. I’m in love.”
Raphael picked up the clock and put it down again. “Ah yes, with Rogerio, who looks like Jesus in the mornings. So it’s only justice where we need to think it through.” He looked again at the girl. “Justice. Where are you going next?”
“Cusco in May actually, for a meeting. A investors’ conference, on copper and iron ore.”
Raphael laughed. “Fuck. I would have thought there was endless scope there.” He rubbed his chin. “But I suppose you don’t get much time to plan your charitable works before you check out of the Hilton Suites Cusco and get your bullet proof Merc to the airport?”
“Not really, no.” Tiago looked away. Actually it was the Marriott and a Lexus. And he did have a plan, a good one, something he’d been working on for years. But Raphael didn’t deserve to know about The Church of Christ Economist right now; he would probably only take the piss, and have to be put right, and it really was too soon for another row.
Tiago wrinkled up his nose, sniffed the air, and asked himself the question any normal person would at a time like this. What would a salamander do in this situation?
The odd thing was that for all those six years Raphael had wasted his epic love on Martin Nelson, an overrated English academic who wrote mucky poetry and did a lot of lightweight arts TV, waving his arms around and talking sparky nonsense about Ovid and Catullus. Martin was lithe and mercurial and good-looking. Raphael worshipped him, and together they exuded an aura of contentment which, though modest, was still enough to make you throw up at ten paces. Tiago had faith, but after a party a year ago at which the “Nelson-Davides” (ridiculous) had left him feeling like a scabby mutt outside a locked shop, he’d gone back to Lisbon and settled for twin silver medals of promotion and a best friend’s bed. Leaving Paris had been a good move. Staying away would have been smart too. But Tiago was clever, not smart. And so here he was, mortifying his flesh in the impeccably reserved embrace of the man he adored.
He breathed in the scent of Raphael’s hair, glad to be here despite it all, brushing away imaginary fibres on Raphael’s shoulders, staking a modest claim. “This is a beautiful suit. Did you have it made?”
“Yes. London.” Raphael released him rather too easily and stood back, hands in his pockets. “Have you by any chance been drinking this evening, Tiago?”
“You know, I might have had a couple.”
“You might have had a couple.”
Tiago pointed at the ashtray. “Have you been smoking Raphael?”
“Possibly. The odd cigar.”
“As well as or instead of?”
“Both.”
Tiago shook his head. The room lurched a bit; it would probably be best not to do that again. “Weak man.”
“I’m trying to quit.”
“Again?”
“Yes, again.”
“Weak man, a man of straw.”
“I will this time.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Tiago took out a pen and wrote on his hand.
“What are you doing?” Raphael took Tiago’s wrist and then dropped it. ‘Exit all Phillip Morris positions’. What a cheeky little fucker you are.” He went back to the desk, took a draw on the cigar. “I remember when you were such a nice, unspoilt young man.”
“I’ve been corrupted by North Europeans.” True enough, in dreams at least. Tiago went over to the mantelpiece, touched the cold brass case of the clock. “I like your nice new clock.”
“Nice?” Raphael shook his head. “And do you like the drawing above it?”
“Your Apollo?” Tiago had seen it many times before; the handsome head, the young man insolent with all the power of youth, an expression of unmistakable purpose, depth and decisiveness. Easy for a fucking god to pull off, but not so easy for a mortal who’d drunk too much on an empty stomach. “I love it. You know I do.”
“No. To his right.”
It was new, a sketch of a young girl, looking to one side, half turned away. It had been lightly executed, dashed off in a few simple stokes, suggesting rather than revealing her.
“Yes, I do. She’s coming to terms with things.” He frowned at Raphael. “She’s a bit Caravarra. A bit Cavaraggio. I mean Caravaggio.”
Raphael came over and stood beside him. “Do you think so? I’d be very surprised. There’s no record, no provenance. And she’s not in any of the finished works.”
“She looks calm.” Tiago looked back at the picture. He’d read a lot of books about Caravaggio. He knew he was right, and Raphael was wrong. But this was not the time to have an argument about an artist whose name he couldn’t pronounce, so instead he frowned in what he hoped was a clever way. “Tranquil.”
“Tranquil. Good word. Well, don’t fall in love with her. She’s off tomorrow. To Canada, North Ontario. There’s a town there. Anyway, she’s going to a hospice for kids. They wrote to me, asked me if I could help. I thought she would be ideal. Beauty is important in places like that.” He put his head on one side. “And I had that old frame knocking around.”
Tiago was appalled. There was generosity, and there was folly. “You’re just giving her to them?”
“No material value. No provenance.”
“But she might be a.” Tiago took a deep breath. “A Caravaggio?”
Raphael shook his head. “Oh, I rather think I might be the better judge of that, don’t you?”
Tiago looked away. Being bested was one thing; being patronised was another.
“Right. Well, I’m amazed. I never knew there was a moral dimension to dealing in Fine Art.” Big F, big A.
“There’s a moral dimension to every job, even in whatever the fuck it is that you do.”
“Right, yes, in raping the planet. Of course that’s all down to me isn’t it? Where do you think your fucking gold leaf comes from? Your fucking cigar?” Tiago snorted, angry with Raphael, angrier with himself, but too proud to cool down yet.
“Hey, come on.” Raphael put his hand on Tiago’s arm. “I wasn’t criticising you.”
“You were. But it’s fine.” It wasn’t fine. He moved Raphael’s hand away, turned away. “Some commodities companies are more responsible than others, but I don’t have the luxury of choosing my fucking clients like you do. I don’t get to set the moral compass. In fact I don’t think there is one. My job is to make as much fucking money as possible. And fortunately I am fucking superb at that and my colleagues fear and respect me.” He looked at the girl in the picture and recoiled. It felt as if he’d been swearing in church.
There was a long silence, and then Raphael’s voice, in velvet. “So what are these fearful and craven colleagues like?”
Tiago breathed. An idol was an idol after all. “Actually, these colleagues are mostly dogheads.”
“Mostly?”
Tiago wrinkled up his nose, stage-whispered. “Some of them are fuckheads.” Possibly all of them. “They call me TJ.” To his face anyway; worse stuff behind his back, no doubt.
“Got a lot of friends at work?”
“Not one.”
“Bothered about that?”
“What do you think?” Tiago rubbed his chin. “I serve Mammon. I am his creature.”
Raphael nodded. “Ah yes, Mammon, the great pagan deity of our times, and his soul-eating cult of corporate morality. It’s very depressing. How on earth can you stand it?”
“They give me lots of money.”
Raphael frowned. “You’ve got enough fucking money Tiago. Join the angels.”
“Angels.” Tiago shook his head. “I was going to be a priest, to join a mission in São Paulo, or Macau, or Goa.” He stroked the clock case, amazed that he sometimes forgot this.
“Ah yes. I remember you telling me that once. I was rather intrigued.”
Tiago nodded. Intriguing was good. Intriguing was ideal. “I suppose it is quite unusual.” He looked at Apollo, wondered who the model was, what he’d been thinking while Raphael drew him.
“So what happened?”
Tiago turned. Raphael was looking into his eyes. It was too much so he looked back at Apollo. It was one of Raphael’s ex-lovers maybe; there were probably loads of them, and they were no doubt all gorgeous. It was time to be a man of the world. “Oh, well, I met someone. I mean, I found someone.”
“Not Jesus, clearly.”
“No. Not Jesus. Rogerio. Though he did look a bit like Jesus, especially in the mornings.” Oh, for fuck’s sake. “No, I mean, after a while I began to fear that my faith was superficial, just the surface of ecstasy, I guess. Like when you’re surfing, and a wave takes you, and it’s only then that you know what the sea is.” Tiago shook his head like a wet dog. No; not sex. He didn’t want to make it about sex. “No. I just realised that I needed someone, a lover, a partner, a husband, and that I wanted to be a father, so being a priest was really rather a shit idea, wasn’t it?” Better, but hardly brilliant; some hunter he was turning out to be. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Fuck it.”
But it was okay. Raphael was looking at the drawings. “Actually I think you express yourself very well. About the first person, the first time, how it makes everything different.” He nodded. “You think people will look at you and notice you’ve changed. It happens to everyone.” He touched Tiago’s arm. “But you interrupted my lecture. About the angels.”
“Right, yes.” Tiago was a pretty good negotiator; he knew that when you didn’t want to talk, you should just ask questions. “So, what would you do if you were me?”
Raphael folded his arms. “What, if I were bright, talented and driven, with loads of money and no moral purpose?”
“And working with dogheads, yes.”
“Ah, I forgot them. I don’t know. But I’d find something.” The voice was low, confiding. “Anything, I suppose, that meant I was leaving the world a better place. That’s why we’re here, to make this world better, even if it’s just with one little picture. But you’re more glamorous than me. You could be Brave Sir Tiago.” He dubbed Tiago with an air sword. “Is that you, soldier?”
Tiago bobbed. “Sir, yes sir. That’s me.”
“So what’s your quest? Think of something big.”
Easy. “I will fight for more beauty in the world, and more love, and more justice.”
“Excellent.” Raphael nodded smartly. “And you’ve already gone into battle.”
“How?”
“You’re a musician.”
“You’ve never heard me play.”
“I have. I heard you after the party at the Spanish Embassy. You played Albeniz, an arrangement of Jerez, I think. It was really very good.” It had been the Portuguese Embassy, and it was an observation, a school report, grudgingly complimentary; and Raphael was moving on. “And I can’t imagine it’s hard for you to find love.”
“No, you’re right. I’ve found love. I’m in love.”
Raphael picked up the clock and put it down again. “Ah yes, with Rogerio, who looks like Jesus in the mornings. So it’s only justice where we need to think it through.” He looked again at the girl. “Justice. Where are you going next?”
“Cusco in May actually, for a meeting. A investors’ conference, on copper and iron ore.”
Raphael laughed. “Fuck. I would have thought there was endless scope there.” He rubbed his chin. “But I suppose you don’t get much time to plan your charitable works before you check out of the Hilton Suites Cusco and get your bullet proof Merc to the airport?”
“Not really, no.” Tiago looked away. Actually it was the Marriott and a Lexus. And he did have a plan, a good one, something he’d been working on for years. But Raphael didn’t deserve to know about The Church of Christ Economist right now; he would probably only take the piss, and have to be put right, and it really was too soon for another row.
Tiago wrinkled up his nose, sniffed the air, and asked himself the question any normal person would at a time like this. What would a salamander do in this situation?
