incomprehensible, available but forbidden. It must tantalize like the truth, just as you think you can put your finger on it, it slips away.’ These were not entirely her words, some belonged to C.B. and I think others have been sewn in by me. She finishes with the words: ‘I want your drawing to be part of this collection.’ This was a planned assault. I knew I had to give in. To withhold any more risked boring my assailants. I nod. I acquiesce. She grips my arm at the bicep. We look enthralled at the space on the wall. ‘Charles will talk to you about the details. I want you to know that you have made me very happy.’
The rest of the evening passed in a crystal blur, as seen at speed through a torrent of Venetian glassware. This had much to do with the savagery of the alcohol in the drinks. As I left for the night, B.H. had long since departed, C.B. took me to one side and told me that I had made Mrs Hutton very generous. ‘She rewards genius. I have been instructed not to negotiate but to simply give you this.’ It was a cheque for $1,000. He promised to drop by in the morning and pick up the piece. I am now worth one-tenth of a Van Cleef & Arpels gold mantel clock.
23rd December 1946, Tangier
Still no word from Pilar, I am desperate. I try to advance the work. I try to put into paint what I saw that afternoon, but it does not translate. Where it was so simple it has become complicated. I need P. to come back and remind me of what I saw that day. I have given up on society. I am bored by its gentility. I was much in demand after my triumph with B.H. but now the hungry beast has moved on. I am relieved but still swamped.
7th March 1947, Tangier
I have stopped work. I sit in front of the seven remaining drawings of P. with not an idea in my head. I have even worked under the influence of majoun. After one session I came back to reality feeling I had done something great only to find I had painted seven black canvases. I hang them in a whitewashed room and stand amongst them in a state of total desolation.
25th June 1947, Tangier
I am repelled by my own rapacity. My inability to create has induced a need for endless change. I tour the brothels and hunt out new young men and tire of them instantly. I smoke powerful hashish and spend whole days fluttering like a flag in the enervating cherqi that knocks incessantly at the doors. My arms are weak, my penis flaccid. I spend whole nights in the Bar La Mar Chica surrounded by drunks, reprobates, idiots and whores. I have given up on majoun, under its influence I only revisit the old horrors — blood- covered walls, ramps of dead bodies, mud and blood, flesh and white bone churn in my head.
1st July 1947, Tangier
After ending up drunk on R.’s doorstep he has sent me back to work on the boats.
1st January 1948, Tangier
A new year. It has to be better than the last. I still cannot face the blank canvas. These are my first writings since July. I am in better shape physically. I am no longer fat but I am unable to rid myself of this sense of desolation. I have tried to find P. I even went to Granada only to find that her home has been sold and that the family had moved to Madrid, but nobody knew where.
I have nothing to report. The wind-whipped chabolas on the edge of town contain nothing of the misery in my privileged body. I laid out the seven drawings of P. in the hope of feeling a new surge of possibility. I accomplished the reverse.
I have been allowed up, I have been granted the enormous privilege of putting my eye to the crack and have seen the real nature of things and I have brought it down and shown the same to ordinary mortals. But P. was a part of it, she was my muse and I have lost her. I will not paint or draw again. I am destined for the trough where everybody bends their heads — eat, work, sleep.
25th March 1948, Tangier
I have seen her. In the market off the Petit Soco. I have seen her. Across a thousand heads. I have seen her. Was it her?
1st April 1948, Tangier
Am I so desperate that I will pin my hopes on phantoms? I go to every doctor in town to see if she is in their employ. Nothing. R. wants to send me out on the boats again rather than have me crash to earth like a sunstroked bird.
3rd April 1948, Tangier
I leave the house and there she is in the street, pacing this way and that. At the sight of her I have to hold on to the door, my legs have gone. I ask her in. She says nothing and crosses the threshold in front of me. Her smell fills my chest and I know that I have been saved. The houseboy makes us tea. She won’t sit even when it arrives. She strokes the houseboy’s head. He slips out as if touched by an angel.
I don’t know where to start. It is as if I’m in front of the canvas and my hand goes to this corner, that quarter, the middle and makes no mark. I have done this for hours and when finally I decide where I am going to touch the white, white canvas, I make no mark. There is no paint on the brush. This is how I am now. I force myself to speak.
Me: I came looking for you in Granada … when I didn’t hear from you.
Silence.
Me: They told me that your aunt had died, that your mother was sick and that you had all gone to Madrid.
P.: That was true.
Me: They had no address for you. No way of contacting you.
P.: That was not true.
Silence.
Me: Why was that not true?
