The Flanders Panel

Menchu’s high heels – the shoes were handmade, extremely expensive, but the heels were just half an inch higher than strictly necessary – left painful marks in the beige carpet. In her gallery, amongst all the indirect lighting, pale colours and large open spaces, there was a predominance of what Cesar used to call “barbarian art”. The dominant note was provided by acrylics and gouaches combined with collages, reliefs made from bits of sacking and rusty monkey wrenches or plastic tubing and steering wheels painted sky blue. Occasionally, relegated to some far corner, you would find a more conventional portrait or landscape, like an awkward guest, embarrassing but necessary to justify the supposedly catholic tastes of a snobbish hostess. Nevertheless, Menchu made money from the gallery; even Cesar had (reluctantly) to recognise that, at the same time nostalgically recalling the days when every boardroom would have contained at least one highly respectable painting, suitably mellowed by age, set off by a heavy gilt wood frame, not the post-industrial nightmares so in keeping with the spirit – plastic money, plastic furniture, plastic art – of the new generations who now occupied those same offices, decor courtesy of the trendiest and most expensive interior designers.

As it happened, Menchu and Julia were at that moment contemplating a strange amalgam of reds and greens that answered to the portentous title Feelings. It had sprung only weeks before from the palette of Sergio, Cesar’s latest romantic folly, whom Cesar had recommended, although he had at least had the decency to keep his eyes modestly averted when he mentioned the matter.

“I’ll sell it somehow,” said Menchu, with a resigned sigh, after they’d both looked at it for a while. “In fact, incredible though it may seem, everything gets sold in the end.”

“Cesar’s very grateful,” said Julia. “And so am I.”

Menchu wrinkled her nose reprovingly.

“That’s what bothers me. That you justify your friend the antiquarian’s silly games. It’s time the old queen started acting his age.”

Julia brandished a threatening fist in front of her friend’s nose.

“You leave him alone. You know that, as far as I’m concerned, Cesar’s sacred.”

“Don’t I just. For as long as I’ve known you, it’s always been Cesar this and Cesar that.” She looked irritably at Sergio’s painting. “You ought to take your case to a psychoanalyst; he’d blow a fuse. I can just see you lying down together on the couch, giving him that old Freudian sob story. ”You see, doctor, I never wanted to screw my father, I just wanted to dance the waltz with Cesar. He’s gay, by the way, but he absolutely adores me.“ A real can of worms, darling.”

Julia looked at her friend without a trace of amusement on her face.

“That’s utter rubbish. You know perfectly well the kind of relationship we have.”

“Do I indeed?”

“Oh, go to hell. You know very well…” She stopped and snorted, irritated with herself. “This is absurd. Every time you talk about Cesar, I end up trying to justify myself.”

“Because, darling, there is something murky about your relationship. Remember, even when you were with Alvaro…”

“Now don’t start in on Alvaro. You’ve got Max to worry about.”

“At least Max gives me what I need… By the way, how’s that chess player you’re keeping so quiet about? I’m dying to get a look at him.”

“Munoz?” Julia couldn’t help smiling. “You’d be very disappointed. He’s not your type. Or mine, for that matter.” She thought for a moment, since it had never occurred to her to consider how she would describe him. “He looks like an office worker in some old black-and-white film.”

“But he solved the Van Huys problem for you.” Menchu fluttered her eyelashes in mock admiration, in homage to the chess player. “He must have some talent.”

“He can be brilliant, in his own way. But not always. One moment he seems very sure of himself, reasoning things out like a machine, the next he just switches off, right before your eyes. You find yourself noticing the frayed shirt collar, how ordinary he looks, and you think I bet he’s one of those men whose socks smell.”

“Is he married?”

Julia shrugged. She was looking out at the street, beyond the window display consisting of a couple of pictures and some painted ceramics.

“I don’t know. He’s not much given to confidences.” She considered what she’d just said and discovered that she hadn’t even thought about it before. Munoz had interested her less as a human being and more as a way of solving the problem. Only the day before, shortly before finding the card, when they were about to say good-bye, only then had she caught a glimpse of his life. “I imagine he’s married. Or was… He seems damaged in the way that only we women can damage men.”

“And what does Cesar think of him?”