Faking Game: Mikky dos Santos Thrillers, #4

1

Chapter 1

Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.

Michelangelo

I take Eduardo’s hand as we weave our way through the crowds toward the red-carpeted steps of the Arte Moderno Museo Barcelona.

Suspended over our heads, twelve metres high, by invisible taut wires, Umberto Palladino’s latest masterpiece, Los Globos – three balloon-shaped sculptures over four meters in diameter – sway deliberately and precariously on the mid-summer breeze.

‘My goodness,’ Eduardo whispers in awe. ‘How could someone think of this?’

‘Isn’t it magnificent?’ I reply. ‘And, it’s all made of paper.’

At the cordoned-off area, uniformed staff smile professionally, while vigilant security guards with dark glasses eye up the guests, matching them with the list in their hands.

Eduardo pulls our invitations from the inside pocket of his jacket while I gaze in awe at the glass, titanium, and limestone curved exterior of the museum. We’re only five minutes from Las Ramblas, one of Barcelona’s most famous and busiest streets. The iconic song, ‘Barcelona’, sung by Freddie Mercury and operatic soprano Montserrat Caballé, blares out from gigantic speakers, creating a festive atmosphere, and a light show illuminates the sky in multicoloured bursts of magic.

I recognise a Spanish Premier League footballer, a German supermodel, and a few American actors looking groomed and gorgeous behind designer sunglasses. Standing in the shade, Glorietta Bareldo and Josephine Lavelle, two of the world’s most famous sopranos, are holding court to a multitude of fans. Their partners, Bruno and Simon, stand to one side, deep in conversation.

A ripple of excitement flutters through me, and I squeeze Eduardo’s fingers. I’m always delighted to see my birth mother. When Josephine catches sight of us, she smiles and separates herself from the group, and I’m drawn into her embrace, inhaling her familiar exotic perfume.

‘Hello, my darling.’

‘Hi, Josephine,’ I whisper.

Glorietta turns to me. ‘You look radiant, Mikky. Pregnancy suits you.’

‘I’m over three months, and there’s barely a bump,’ I complain, stroking my stomach.

Simon’s eyes crinkle in greeting. He shakes Eduardo’s hand and kisses me. ‘You look very beautiful, Mikky.’

‘Perhaps you’ll have twins,’ Bruno suggests, winking.

‘No, the scan’s been done and there’s only one,’ Eduardo says with confidence, and I’m conscious of his arm around my waist. I lean against his shoulder, aware of the love that surrounds me, and I know that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.

This is my family.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here, Mikky. We’re so looking forward to Glorietta’s birthday party tomorrow – all of us together again at last.’ Josephine links her arm with mine. ‘Have you seen the sculpture? Isn’t it amazing?’

‘Stunning, but what does it all mean?’ Eduardo replies, and Josephine turns away, distracted by another conversation.

I nudge him. ‘You’re a philistine, my angel.’ Then I explain, ‘Each of the three globes – the balloons – represent our world, planet Earth.’

‘They’re massive.’ His voice is filled with admiration.

‘The first globe’ – I point – ‘is made from all types of paper since printing began. It represents the creation of mankind and the recorded word. It’s also indicative of how communication influenced two global wars. If you look carefully, there are burnt images – war scenes and distressed faces – scorched onto the globe …’

Eduardo pushes blond hair from his eyes. ‘How do you scorch images onto paper? The faces are so lifelike and harrowing.’

‘The tragedy of war is reflected in their eyes,’ I agree. ‘Umberto used newspapers from archives and presumably it took years to source them. There’s a lot of controversy about him using them for a project like this.’

‘You mean burning pictures onto them?’

‘The scorched war scenes show the destruction and devastation, but it’s a contradiction in terms. Critics argue that Umberto has also caused destruction, and they’re dismayed he used old and valuable newspapers for a project like this. That’s why it’s so political and controversial.’

I squeeze Eduardo’s hand and point to the second globe, pleased he is as affected by its dramatic impact as I was the first time I saw it, a few days ago.

‘The second one is made of newspapers that represent fake news in our current society – the world in which we live now. It questions us, forcing us to face the truth. How can we trust what is said, what is read, and what is meant? What is real, and what is fake? This globe is made from news reports and stories in all languages from around the world. The pages are all taken from fake news that creates fear, chaos, and uncertainty.’

‘Are things really that bad?’ he asks.

I shrug. ‘It represents our daily struggle to understand and decipher the complicated truth from all the information that bombards us on a regular basis through social media. You see there, the images burnt on the second globe are psychological portraits of despair. See the faces? Confusion, agony, fear, and pain.’

One of the images scorched onto the paper is similar to Edvard Munch’s The Scream.It’s a masterpiece that is familiar to me because I have an exact replica tattooed in vibrant colours on my forearm.

I wait for Eduardo to digest this information before continuing with my explanation of the third globe.

‘And the last one,’ I add, ‘represents the planet of the future. It’s made of foreign banknotes from around the world, and shows how mankind has valued money, power, and greed over humility and kindness.’

‘It looks out of shape, and it’s much larger than the other two,’ Eduardo says frowning.

‘It’s engorged. It’s a world that has stuffed itself on money, power, avarice, lies, and greed, and it’s about to explode.’

‘So, is that genuine money, glued and rolled up?’

‘Yes.’

‘It must have cost a fortune – is it legal?’

‘He’s done it,’ I say with a shrug. ‘More controversy. More attention.’

Eduardo stares at me. ‘Is this supposed to be controversial or artistic?’

‘That’s the beauty of art. It’s how we interpret it. In this sculpture, Umberto Palladino wants to demonstrate that man has effectively learned nothing from history. We’ve ceased to help others and, in doing nothing kind or loving, we have allowed our vices to take over, and we effectively destroy ourselves.’

‘That’s depressing.’

‘I guess so,’ I say with a smile.

‘And it’s all made of paper? How did he make them?’

‘It’s a technique that he’s learned over time and I think it’s part of their charm or illusion – not to know how he does it.’

‘It’s very clever,’ says Eduardo. ‘It looks like they’ve just evolved in the air without any effort, like spacecrafts. They’re massively impressive.’

‘I’m sure there’s a YouTube video or podcast on how to create things like this on a smaller scale, but to craft something on this level is incredible,’ I agree.

‘You wouldn’t want one of them to fall on you. They must weigh a ton.’

‘Or more.’

‘Do Josephine and Glorietta like this guy’s work?’

‘Umberto Palladino is probably one of the most well-known sculptors in the world, up there with Jeff Koons, Antony Gormley, Kiki Smith, and Rachael Whiteread.’

Eduardo looks blankly at me, and I nudge him and laugh. ‘Try to pretend you know who they are.’

Over the next half an hour, we’re introduced to the various people invited to the official launch of Los Globos. There are curators, artists, agents, local business people, and dignitaries. The atmosphere is exciting and fun, and when Glorietta slips her arm around a short man with a bulbous nose, thick lips, and a deeply wrinkled forehead, I’m curious, and I realise I’d like to take his photograph.

‘Umberto Palladino is the creator of Los Globos,’ Glorietta announces proudly.

I’m surprised the sculptor’s hand is as soft as a child’s. He leaves a wet kiss on my cheeks, and I discreetly wipe away his spittle.

He shakes Eduardo’s hand, and it gives me time to study his profile; bulging eyes, sagging jaw, and hairy ears. He wears a yellow bandana at his neck, and although he’s clean-shaven, an open shirt reveals thick grey chest hair. His crumpled, baggy jeans drag on the floor next to overworn leather sandals, his toes are gnarled, and his nails are dirty and chipped. He doesn’t seem to bear any resemblance to the groomed man in the article from El Pais last weekend, and I wonder at the use of airbrushing under the dramatic headline:

Umberto Palladino – A Genius of Our Time?

Umberto appears nervous and unsettled, and he is quickly whisked away to be introduced to another group of people; business people in suits, probably investors or bankers, or someone else far more impressive than Eduardo and I.

‘He’s a wonderful man,’ Glorietta says, smiling at a young-looking, attractive blonde woman with a group of well-dressed teenagers. ‘And he’s a loving husband and father to four wonderful boys.’

I touch my bump.

We’ll be a proper family. My child will have roots. It will be our family. Will she have Eduardo’s blond hair or will she be dark like me?

After fleeing from New York a few months ago, after my disastrous art exhibition, I’d had time to think. I’d also realised I was having a baby. I hadn’t planned on getting pregnant, but I was overjoyed, and I’d rushed back to Eduardo in Mallorca. Since then, we haven’t been apart. Now, as we walk to our secluded positions for the official opening, under the sculptures of Los Globos – hailed as the most successful piece of artwork created by the master of all sculptors Umberto Palladino – the only thing on my mind is the growing baby inside my womb.

Josephine whispers in my ear, ‘Isn’t Umberto a genius? You’d never think it to look at him, would you? Bruno has commissioned a sculpture of Umberto’s for Glorietta’s birthday present. The Bull – it’s absolutely amazing.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Only briefly, Bruno will reveal it tomorrow at her birthday party. It’s amazing, Mikky. You’ll never believe it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s made of sheet music,’ she whispers, and then falls silent as the city’s mayor is introduced to the crowd. He takes the stand and taps the microphone, and there’s spontaneous applause.

I’m happy in my silent thoughts, gazing at the vapour trails overhead in the cloudless blue sky, counting the remaining months of my pregnancy. My daughter is due at the end of October. I know she’s a girl. I haven’t had it confirmed by doctors, but I just know in my heart. When I lay my hands on my stomach, I know I’m touching my baby daughter.

I glance at Josephine, and we share a small smile. This is my chance to start again. This is our family, my daughter – and no one is being given away this time.

The mayor of the city is speaking. His dull voice is flat and boring, and it drones at a monotone level. I suppress a yawn and stretch my neck, easing the aching pains creeping into my skull, tilting my neck from side to side. I’m tired, and I could do with sitting down. I’ve been awake most of the night with indigestion. I stand on one foot and lean against Eduardo for support, and he smiles at my growing impatience.

‘Stop fidgeting,’ he whispers.

The dull noise seems to grow louder and more monotone, reminiscent of an annoyingly loud wasp. The speech is droning on, and I glance up, squinting behind my sunglasses, turning my head and scanning the sky. I recognise that sound.

Eduardo smiles indulgently at me. He doesn’t seem to have heard anything, but I’ve heard it many times. I’ve used drones to track thieves and murderers, but also more pleasurably, I’ve used them to film Eduardo kitesurfing and skiing.

‘Do you hear that?’ I whisper.

He follows my gaze and a few other people standing near us also begin to look up at the sky.

‘They must be filming the event,’ I say.

The drone appears to be one of the more professional ones, frequently used for the inspection of wind turbines, roads, bridges, and forestry or agriculture. These unmanned aerial devices are now also used to deliver mail by Amazon and to film terrorists in war zones. I imagine the view the controller will see from the drone’s camera; a crowd of over two hundred people and three massive paper globes.

I search the crowds to spot the ground-based controller, but they could be kilometres away – these drones have an incredible range.

Josephine shades her eyes dramatically under her floppy summer hat. At her side, Gloria smiles irritably. She’s hanging on every word the mayor is saying about Umberto’s work, but the drone’s insistent aria grows louder.

Umberto pulls the bandana from his neck and dabs the perspiration at his temples while faces begin to turn upward, looking for the source of the high whine. This drone has a camera, but there’s also a small package clipped to its underbelly, and instead of circling overhead, the drone appears to be heading right for the sculpture, and at a tremendous speed.

Someone screams, a man shouts, a security guard runs.

‘Oh my God!’ I grip Eduardo’s arm. ‘It’s going to hit the—’

The explosion is deafening.

The paper worlds above us explode. Shattering, igniting instantly, flames burst into the sky – a multitude of bright oranges, reds, and blues. The flaming exhibits hang precariously, swinging, suspended by the invisible wire over the crowd, who collectively seem to suddenly realise that this isn’t part of the planned opening performance.

A cloud of black smoke descends, and I duck as the sparks rip and ricochet around us. The fumes are toxic, and in the confusion, I lose Eduardo’s hand. I cough and choke, and covering my face and streaming eyes, I run. I’m trampled on and pushed aside by people panicking; running blindly, I can’t identify anyone. Bodies are falling, hands are pushing, and people are surging in all directions. I stumble down the steps, falling to my knees. A burning ball crashes to the ground and rolls along the flaming red carpet, coming toward me, expelling notes, foreign currencies that float free, burning in the air. The heat and toxic smoke are overpowering. I jump to one side as it crashes down the steps and comes to a halt at the barrier, smouldering and burning brightly.

I run to a safe distance, where the air is pure, and catch my breath. Eduardo finds me and pulls me to him. ‘I couldn’t see you.’

At my feet, Umberto collapses onto the pavement, choking tears and coughing.

The second globe sways and then smashes to the floor, bouncing down the steps and onto the pavement, crashing into the cement fountain. The screaming crowd disperses, scattering in all directions; running and covering their heads with their hands, sheltering from the flying debris.

The remaining ball dangles and swings from the invisible wires. Fanned by the fierce flames and poisonous gases, the newspapers catch fire easily. The globe sways and smoulders, and the anguished faces on the sculpture, now seem to have long flickering fiery tongues. The stench of burning newspaper and noxious fumes is overwhelming, and bits of newspaper float on the breeze toward us like flaming arrows.

I’m shaking, but Eduardo pulls me closer, and I’m wrapped in his arms unable to speak, gazing at the raging fires.

‘Are you alright?’ he whispers.

I nod, watching the medley of tumbling burning paper in dreaded fascination, and I’m shocked as a reporter shoves a microphone in Umberto’s face. A photographer snaps images of the scene, but a security guard appears beside the mayor and pushes them roughly away.

Beside us, Josephine holds onto Simon’s arm, and Bruno stands protectively at Glorietta’s side.

Originally here to report on the exhibition, TV and newspaper reporters are now taking advantage to film the shocking drama and broadcast the event live to the world.

Around us, a handful of uniformed police are speaking on radios, clearing the area, and in the distance, the wail of sirens fills the air, coming louder, closer with screeching urgency. The audience that was only a few minutes ago so majestic and self-contained, are now distressed and hurrying away.

Security guards arrange transport and many people leave; the glamorous and the celebrities are the first to escape. Umberto’s wife and children climb into a waiting car, but I can’t take my eyes from Umberto’s face and the silent tears cascading down his cheeks.

Selfishly, I wish I had my camera. I’d like to capture his look of terror, disbelief, and disappointment.

The stench is overpowering, and I assume it’s the glue that flares and flashes, blue and white streaks that give off the nauseating aroma. I cover my nose with a tissue, detached with curious interest, watching the burnt newspaper falling to the floor and the debris settling on the pavement.

‘Terrorists?’ the mayor shouts into his phone, and with a uniformed guard, he hurries toward an unmarked police car. ‘ISIS?’

‘Anyone hurt?’ asks a Guardia Civil officer.

We sit in the shade a safe distance from the fire engines, watching scores of people surge out of the museum in a state of urgency and fear. It seems heartless to walk away as many have done, and I regard the scene with morbid fascination, focusing on faces and expressions of despair and worry.

Simon says, ‘I thought the drone was part of the display.’

‘I thought it was taking pictures,’ adds Eduardo.

A warning is shouted by the fire crew, and we all watch as the last globe wrestles free from its restraints and falls to the floor with an explosive thud. There’s a gasp from the remaining crowd, but this time the fire crew deftly extinguishes the flames until the sculpture has been totally destroyed.

I exhale calmly and hold my tummy.

My baby is safe. My family is safe.

‘Should we say something?’ Eduardo nods at Umberto, who remains motionless, surrounded by people who I assume are students and friends from his studio. Perhaps they helped him with this incredible project that now lies in ruins.

‘What can we say?’ I reply.

Simon guides Josephine, Glorietta, and Bruno to the waiting taxi. ‘Come with us?’ he says.

I link my arm through Eduardo’s and shake my head. ‘I need to walk beside the sea. We’ll see you back at the villa later.’

We watch their car navigate its way into the congested traffic, where hooters honk, and sirens fill the streets. It’s as if all the emergency services have been galvanised into action.

‘Was it a terrorist attack?’ whispers Eduardo.

‘I don’t know, but there was a bomb attached to the drone,’ I reply.

‘Is that possible?’

‘ISIS regularly attach bombs to spy drones in Iraq and Syria.’

‘Do you think you should tell the police?’ He nods at the sea of Guardia Civil uniforms spilling from a black van.

I shrug, but I’m casting my eyes everywhere. I know the controller won’t be far away. I imagine they’d want to witness the damage and devastation they’d caused.

‘But why bomb this exhibit?’ I think aloud.

‘Who would want to destroy Umberto’s sculpture?’

‘Good question, Eduardo. Who and why?’

* * *

The following evening, there are fifty important guests for one amazing birthday celebration. I glide along the terrace of Glorietta and Bruno’s villa like a ghost, between clinking glasses, laughter, and whispered conversations. Moonlight glistens on the illuminated vineyard below, where rows of neat vines radiate out like long fingers, spreading from the finca and over the hills, pointing toward the half-moon and the infinite darkness.

I glance down over the balustrade to where couples are dancing beside an illuminated kidney-shaped swimming pool. A fifteen-piece band, singing Nina Simone’s, ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’, drowns out the sound of laughter. I’m happy to stand alone in a quieter part of the terrace with the clicking cicadas, and where sweet jasmine, and dama de noche – lady of the night – fill my senses with a heady scent.

I’m having a baby.

The June breeze fills the Catalan hills, and I think I can smell the salty Mediterranean from twenty kilometres away. Sant Sadurní d’Anoia, in Alt Penedès, is only forty minutes from Barcelona, and home to the well-known Spanish sparkling wine known as Cava.

Glorietta and Bruno’s villa, on a vast and industrious estate, is minutes from the beautiful bodegas of Freixenet and Codorníu. I’ve spent a restful week relaxing here – until yesterday – and the shock of the exhibition and the destruction of Umberto Palladino’s famous sculpture, Los Globos.

The event made headlines around the world. Umberto’s tearful face was splattered across news channels, and he hasn’t appeared tonight at Glorietta’s birthday party. She had thought of cancelling the celebration, but after speaking to him, he had insisted she go ahead with her party. Interestingly, he also told her that no terrorist group had taken responsibility for the attack, and until forensics returned with a more solid conclusion, it might even be regarded as an accident – a stray drone operated probably by an irresponsible teenager.

An accident?

‘Well, if drones can close airports,’ says one guest.

‘Look what happened at Gatwick,’ replies another.

I’m sure a bomb was attached to the drone. If there’s camera footage taken from one of the guests or television crews who were watching the opening of the exhibit, then that might verify my story, but I’ve promised Eduardo I won’t get involved. We’re on holiday, I’m pregnant, and as he pointed out – I have to leave it to the professionals.

I wander along the terrace, happy to be alone with my thoughts as I listen to snatches of conversation. The refurbishment of the property since Bruno invested here has been remarkable. His dream is to make a sparkling wine to rival some of the best in the world, and we have spent most evenings teasing him about the quality of his bodega. Even though I’m not drinking alcohol, I’ve taken a sip, and teasingly declared my preference for a rival wine.

The vast terrace covers three sides of the villa, and entering at the side through bifold doors, I’m inside and standing in the reception, where a group have gathered to admire Bruno’s birthday present to Glorietta. Unveiled earlier in the evening to an appreciative crowd, Umberto’s unique creation, The Bull, is in the centre of a large mahogany table. The proud fighting bull stands on a plinth, forty centimetres high and eighty centimetres long. Nose to tail, it’s a third of the size of a Spanish fighting bull – toro de lidia – a specially selected bull chosen for its stamina, strength, energy, and aggression.

‘The woven paper is specially crafted using sheet music,’ Glorietta explains to the guests around her. ‘The paper has been treated and dyed red and black to give a shiny effect on the bull’s coat.’

‘Is it from the opera Carmen?’ asks Olivia, an attractive woman who was once Glorietta’s personal bodyguard. As she leans forward to study The Bull, her long auburn hair falls over her shoulders. She holds her locks to her cheek and peers closely to read the twisted notes on the bull’s flank, before smiling triumphantly.

‘It’s definitely Carmen.’

‘I love it. I love the fact that it’s in motion – charging with his head down – and you can see the ripped muscles and strength in his neck and shoulders.’

‘It’s so wild and full of fire and passion and energy.’

‘Just like in the opera.’

‘Glorietta’s favourite opera,’ exclaims Jeff.

Olivia’s husband is shaped like a banana. As if he’s embarrassed to be tall, and there’s a restlessness in his watchful gaze that I’ve often seen in men.

‘We saw Glorietta in Carmen in Seville, didn’t we, darling?’ he adds.

‘It’s a fluke.’ Filippa, Glorietta’s cousin, speaks in heavily accented Italian. She wears Gucci’s latest creation. It’s an orange and turquoise evening dress that compliments her brown eyes and olive skin.

‘Not fluke – you mean a fake.’ Her husband, Antonio, must be pushing seventy, thirty years her senior. He flips a white silk scarf over his hunched shoulders that hides a withering Adam’s apple. His protruding neck reminds me of an ageing tortoise. ‘You mean it’s a fake, Filippa. You’re talking nonsense again. It isn’t a fake!’

‘Fluke, fake …’ Filippa slurs, and waves her hand in dismissal. ‘It’s not a real bull,’ she insists, helping herself to more Cava from the waiter’s tray.

Antonio shakes his head in annoyance. ‘Don’t drink any more.’

‘Umberto came and installed it personally,’ Bruno says.

‘Poor Umberto,’ whispers Glorietta. ‘He absolutely wouldn’t come tonight. He said he couldn’t face anyone, not even his friends. He’s devastated.’

‘What a shock,’ adds Dolores, my friend and ex-art teacher, who runs an art gallery in Mallorca. ‘It was all over the press. I saw it on the news.’ She sells replicas of famous paintings. She tells her buyers they are not forgeries – but copies – and explains the subtle difference. Her dark hair is scraped severely into a bun, and she holds an unlit cigarette like a conductor waving a baton.

‘Poor Umberto,’ adds Josephine. ‘It must be a shock.’

‘It’s good publicity for him,’ says Antonio.

‘It’s not the sort of publicity anyone would crave,’ I reply. ‘Not after all that hard work.’

Antonio sticks out his tortoise neck. ‘It will add value to the crap he churns out.’

‘You can’t call it crap!’ Filippa flashes an angry frown at her husband. Her glass tilts and a few drops spill onto the floor, but she doesn’t seem to notice. ‘Umberto is above criticism. He’s untouchable.’

‘As you think you are, too,’ Antonio retorts.

‘It was a frightening experience for everyone.’ Josephine ignores their bickering. Four years ago, she was shot on stage, and the bullet wound effectively ended her comeback in the role of Tosca. ‘It was terrifying. You wouldn’t expect or want that sort of attention – ever –