Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Christian Ocando’s appearance didn’t quite match Rafael’s expectations.
Before this moment, Rafael had been imagining someone in a dark suit with sleek graying hair and a fancy watch, tall and fit and stern.
Rafael supposed he’d really been imagining his father.
Christian was clearly wealthy, but his wealth was understated.
Though they’d communicated via email and phone call, this was their first official meeting, and Christian’s clothing was casual but crisp and clean in a way that alluded to affluence.
He wore beige slacks rolled at the ankles and a blue collared shirt, and his hair was a mess of curls on his head.
He had a round belly and a big laugh, and he welcomed Rafael into his beautiful minimalist home with a pat on the back.
“Rafael,” Christian said warmly, “so happy you could make it. We’ll go to the gallery, but a lot of the pieces are in storage.”
The man spoke impeccable Spanish, but Rafael detected an accent. Something he couldn’t place.
“How did you end up with so many Picassos?” Rafael asked.
“I’ve always been a collector. A collector of many artists, really. Gris, Matisse, Blanchard, Braque, Dali, Gilot. Picasso is of monumental cultural significance, of course, but also…I don’t know. Something about his particular aesthetic appeals to me.”
Rafael patted himself on the back for recognizing a few of the names Christian listed, but he also couldn’t help thinking of his conversation with Grace a few nights before, about the impossibility of separating art and artist and her qualms about complete admiration of the man without regard to who he was as a person.
He’d never given any of it much consideration, but he was interested in listening to what she had to say, even if she thought he was nothing but a dilettante.
Christian offered a big smile and opened the door to the gallery.
The space was small but miraculous, home to the kind of pieces one would imagine in the Prado or the Louvre, not a person’s home.
Thirty or so paintings lined the walls and sculptures in the middle of the long aisle.
Everything was well lit and well placed, and while Rafael couldn’t have named the artist for a single painting, they all seemed to fit in the room together.
Christian walked alongside him, offering anecdotes about the acquisition of each of the pieces, though he clearly expected that Rafael had some basic knowledge, like the era or style of each work.
He didn’t though. Rafael would have loved to claim some kind of expertise in this world and its history, but he’d never taken much of an interest in it before, and he was at a loss.
He nodded and smiled, trying to appear as if all of this wasn’t going right over his head when he had no clue what Christian was talking about.
This had to go well, after all. Christian was a big client, not only one of his earliest, but the wealthiest as well.
This was Rafael’s chance to prove that leaving his job in finance, refusing to work for his father, putting everything at risk to start his company, it was all worth it.
“This is one of my favorites,” Christian said as they stopped before an abstract portrait of a man.
It was a cubist piece, maybe? Rafael thought that seemed correct, but he still didn’t dare to say it aloud.
What a mediocre assessment it would be even if he was correct.
He was knowledgeable enough to understand that the painting was indeed something of consequence.
The way the artist used shape and color, the man’s face was distorted but it still shone with personality.
He was holding something, but Rafael couldn’t tell what it was.
The painting almost seemed to move somehow, like it was rippling from within.
He stared and stared until he finally realized that Christian was waiting for him to speak.
“I’m speechless,” Rafael said finally, since that really was the truth, regardless of the reason.
Christian’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “Ah, I’m not surprised,” he said.
“This is one of the great works of the movement.” He moved forward and waved a hand to present the next piece.
Rafael was fairly certain the previous one hadn’t been a Picasso, but perhaps he was safe to assume the next one was?
He kept his mouth shut all the same and pursed his lips when it crossed his mind that Grace would have known everything about this work.
She could have probably talked about it for hours on end.
He had a feeling he’d only barely scratched the surface of her thoughts on the exhibition, but, even so, she would have been astounded by this place. He was certain of it.
“Here we are,” Christian announced. “Picasso was only twenty-four when he painted this one. It was his Rose Period, of course.”
Rafael was astounded again. How the work of one man could be so vastly different was beyond him.
He never would have guessed the painting was a Picasso as it didn’t match any of the kinds of images he had in his head.
It was quite realistic actually, depicting a boy in front of a flowered background, and again, he was holding something that Rafael couldn’t identify.
Rafael couldn’t stop looking at the boy’s one visible ear, which seemed out of proportion despite the painting’s realism.
The boy’s eyes were dark, and he looked somber.
But that ear…why was that ear so haunting?
He was increasingly aware that his cursory research before this meeting had not been enough.
“I paid too much for it, if I’m honest,” Christian said with a laugh. “But I suppose there are worse vices!”
Rafael nodded absently.
“Now, of course, I have a great many ideas, but I’ve been told you have a knack for designing an enriching space. I’m hoping we can do that for the exhibit and really curate the paintings in a way that will do them justice.”
Rafael tried not to startle. He wasn’t one for modesty.
He did have a knack for designing enticing spaces.
Every event he’d worked on thus far had been a product of his vision, of the way people would move through the room, where they would sit, how every piece of furniture and every flower would add to the whole experience.
He knew how to make everything just right.
But when it came to curating artwork, well, Rafael would have no idea what in the hell he was doing.
“Perhaps we might bring on a team as well for curation and any restoration that’s needed,” he suggested.
Christian let out a hardy laugh. “Restoration, sure. Some of them need new frames, but I don’t need a stuffy curator telling me what to do with my paintings,” Christian said. “You and I will handle it.”
Rafael didn’t know where Christian’s misplaced confidence in him was coming from, but he was positive he would have absolutely no idea what to do with the collection.
And while Christian certainly seemed to know what he was talking about, Rafael couldn’t help the itch in the back of his mind that told him they needed someone who knew a bit more about all of this. Someone to provide the context.
Not that he would admit it, of course. He returned Christian’s smile. “It’s going to be spectacular,” he confirmed, but his eyes wandered back to the boy in the painting before them. He still couldn’t stop staring at that damned ear.
The next day, Christian and Rafael embarked on a journey through Granada to find the perfect location for the elite underground exhibit. Rafael had researched a long list of possible locations and set up viewings, but Christian eliminated several of them before they even began.
When they arrived at the first spot and started down the stairs into the door of the venue, Rafael looked over at his wealthy companion and put on a charming smile.
“You know, just because you’re thinking of this as an ‘underground’ museum doesn’t mean that it literally needs to be located underground.
” Rafael had received an email from Christian that morning, and every street-level location had been crossed off the list.
Christian barked out a laugh. “You would get along with my wife,” he said.
“She thinks I’m a silly old man, but I want it to feel hidden and secret.
Like a speakeasy through a hidden passage.
Then, boom, some of the most spectacular art you’ve ever seen by some of the most famous painters in a place you would never expect. ”
“Ah,” was the only response Rafael could muster as they walked into the building, and he was distracted by the disaster before them.
The problem with an underground venue was that underground was often a dirty former dive-bar that had been abandoned years ago, and was now just full of slabs of wood, old buckets, and loose drywall.
It looked far worse than the pictures Rafael had seen, and he wondered just how many years ago those photos had been taken.
It was like they were meeting an online date whose profile picture was from when they were in secondary school.
“I didn’t expect this,” Rafael said, embarrassed that he’d even brought Christian here to begin with. It was a complete waste of time.
“It certainly could use some work.” Christian spun in a circle and shook his head. The place looked like a dungeon.
“Maybe I should check out some of these places first to make sure they’re up to our standards,” Rafael said. “Then you can look at those that might be a fit for you.”
Christian waved a hand. “This is half the fun. I’m not afraid of getting a little dirty.”