Free Memory of Bones by Alex Connor Page A

some magnificent works, including a Velasquez and several paintings by Guido Reni. But Bartolomé’s real passion was for Goya. The Ortegas already owned two small works, but he was always ready to acquire more. Judicious in his financial affairs and kindly in his affections, Bartolomé was, however, obsessed by the Spanish painter. In fact it was the only area of his life which had the ability to unsettle him.
    Relentlessly he hunted the internet, his personal sources and auctions around the globe for more works. Over the years he had also spent prodigious amounts of money trying to solve the riddle of the Black Paintings. A queue of experts had come and gone, offering up explanations, none of which were definitive and many derivative. Bartolomé had lost count of the times he had been given Goya’s insanity, illness or fear of death as an explanation.Even hints of a sadomasochistic relationship with his mistress, Leocardia.
    None of the theories rang true, and Bartolomé, with unlimited funds, became personally infatuated with the solving of the Black Paintings. At first he had been willing to hire people and ask celebrated art historians for their opinions, but as his interest festered into obsession, Bartolomé realised that he
had
to win. It was only right that a Spaniard should discover the truth, only correct that the wealthy and powerful Ortega family should make this cultural triumph. And, in the process, finally overshadow the thuggish reputation of their past.
    So why had his brother deliberately kept the news of Goya’s skull quiet?
    Because Gabino had no interest in Goya, in paintings, in heritage. His life was spent fucking and hustling, as he grubbed his way around Spanish society. As boorish and ruthless as their grandfather … Pushing back his chair, Bartolomé stood up. He moved like a dancer, light-footed, erect, a man who could feel the earth under his feet and was sure of his place on it. A man who had carried the Ortega name with pride, holding it aloft, demanding respect – not like Gabino, swaggering like a stevedore with his heritage tucked carelessly under one arm.
    Surprised, Bartolomé could feel himself shaking and turned as the door opened and Celina walked in.
    ‘Darling,’ she said, moving over to him and kissing him lightly. She smelt of earth and Bartolomé glanced down at her hands.
    ‘You’ve been gardening.’
    She nodded, her youthful face tipped up to look at him, her eyes green and intelligent, her hair a shade lighter from the sun.
    ‘You should come out – it’s cooler now. It will do you good.’ She reached up and touched his forehead. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
    ‘Fine.’
    She wasn’t convinced. Knew him too well. ‘Bad news?’
    ‘No,’ he lied. ‘I’m just tired.’
    The lie was difficult for him, because he trusted his wife and normally confided in her. Unlike other Ortega consorts, past and present, Celina was not excluded, partitioned off in some harem, her purpose erotic or maternal. She was her husband’s equal. Her family was French and liberal. Certainly not wealthy, but Celina had attracted Bartolomé for exactly those reasons. He wanted no organised Spanish match, no mating of business interests. He wanted love and sanctuary. In Celina he found it. And something more – a prodigious intelligence.
    Their chosen exile in Switzerland suited them both, as neither was particularly social and both treasured their privacy. For all his appeal, Bartolomé was not a sensuous man and his sexual appetite was meagre. He watched his brother’s seductions with puzzlement, having never felt such lustiness himself. In truth Bartolomé had welcomed his early marriage and removal from the Spanish social scene and had been fortunate in choosing a wife whose erotic appetites were also minimal.Theirs was a marriage of understanding and mutual trust.
    But despite that Bartolomé wasn’t going to tell his wife about Gabino. Too humiliated to confide, he reassured