“Yeah. Two of them. Christ on the Mound of Olives and the Last Communion of St Joseph of Calasantz.” He smiles a little. “You’re familiar with his work?”
He feels like there are cosmic nails being dragged across the chalkboard of his mind. Neal’s voice is slightly faint. “Typically they do, yes. Was… was the sale private? Or did people write about it?”
He’s mentally floundering, and after a moment the nerd knowledge spills out in a rush. “That painting is iconic. A precursor to his Black Paintings, a series of fourteen pieces painted directly onto the walls of a home he bought outside of Madrid, called La Quinta del Sordo, during the final years of his life. The Black Paintings themselves were done on the plaster of his home and were severely damaged in the attempt to transfer them to canvas, so the brushwork and dark backgrounds of Christ on the Mount of Olives were some of the cues used in their attempted restoration. It was nearly contemporary and anticipated a lot of the techniques he applied. That painting… without it we might have lost any trace of Goya's final days. His last works.”
Another flabbergasted moment. “How much did it cost?”
“Uhhh somewhere around three and a half million, I think? It wasn’t one of his most expensive ones,” he clarifies. “I wish I could invite you to see it, though. You know a lot about it.”
“Suerte de Varas went for around 7.4 million in ‘92,” Neal says, voice still faint. “It’s true that it’s not his best known, but I can’t believe you got it for anything less than 5.”
He needs to sit. So he does, this time at the room’s tiny desk. “I… Goya is one of the Old Masters. One of the few Romantic painters to get the designation.”
His thoughts keep bouncing and the next question comes out startled and almost unintentional. “How wealthy is your family?”
Malcolm said “three million” the way some people would say “ten bucks.”
“My mother’s a Milton,” Malcolm tells him. Neal is from New York. He pays attention to money. He knows what that means. “He really painted murals all over his house? That’s one way to get lead poisoning; no wonder he went crazy.”
Neal knows who the Miltons are. Holy fuck, does he know who they are. The fact that he does gives him a little squeeze of hope that maybe they’re from the same place. Malcolm doesn’t pay attention to the art scene, Neal has no interest in serial killers—it’s very possible they never came across mention of each other, and even if they had, would either of them taken real notice?
He’s recovering himself a little now, at least, even though the name drop means a seismic reorientation of how he categorizes Malcolm in his head. “The broken spirit and vocal political ideology making him a target of people in power probably didn’t help. That and the fact that his eyesight was failing.”
“You know… paintings are a lot more interesting when you talk about them. Maybe when you get tired of being Robin Hood you could teach art history or work in a gallery or something,” Malcolm notes.
Good save. That’s why you don’t know much about your own paintings: you needed a handsomer teacher.
He puts his hand over the phone again. “Shut up! Shut up!”
He puts the phone back to his ear, adding shakily, but trying to sound upbeat “You could even have a television show.”
"Nobody's here," he says quickly. Neal can't see the helpless expression on his face but there's probably a bit of it in his voice. "Nobody... I just..."
Well, that was nice while it lasted, wasn't it? Don't feel bad, son. He had to find out sooner or later. What's the old saying? You can't hide crazy or a cough?
He covers the phone with his hand. "You can't hide love or a cough. Stop! Why are you trying to ruin this?" he asks desperately.
Because you don't NEED it. It's a distraction. A complication. A frivolous side show...
"I do need it!"
He puts the phone back to his ear, the shake in his voice going completely unmasked this time.
Malcolm takes a breath. A deep one. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like Gabrielle showed him when he was eleven.
"There's nobody here. I just. Hear things sometimes," he admits glumly. "...See things sometimes," he concedes. "Sorry. For not..." He swallows. "I understand if this isn't what you signed up for."
"I'm... I'm not sure what I am ever qualifies as 'all right'. I'm." He's not sure he wants to tell Neal what he hears. If all is not yet lost, he's pretty sure it will be if he knows that. "The voice thinks I'm not really... um. The kind of person you'll be interested in if you get to know me better."
"You're not going to ruin this." There's no doubt in his tone. "Malcolm, think about what we've been through since we met. The things we've seen, or thought we saw."
The latter is very deliberately added.
"'Trial by fire' might be an ironic choice of words at the moment, but I'm pretty sure we've survived it."
"A little," Neal admits. "But not nearly as much as the things here freak me out. I'd rather have you, with or without hallucinations, than not have you at all. ...Let's do it, when the blizzard passes. Go to New York. It's not Christmas any more, maybe, but the city hasn't gone anywhere."
"Go to New York? Together?" He smiles again, but this one doesn't falter. He looks into the corner of the room. There's nobody there. "I'd like that. If my apartment is there, I can show you my paintings."
Neal blinks in surprise at that. "You think it might be? I did some digging when I first got here to see if anyone I knew was in the city and turned up nothing."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
“Wait, we’re those statements connected? You have Goyas?”
no subject
no subject
“I’m sorry, did you just say you own Christ on the Mount of Olives? Was it authenticated? Did they use a spectrograph?”
no subject
Yes, you’re looking brilliant right now; he’s going to be very impressed. Tell him how highly you regard kindergarten finger painters next.
Malcolm squeezes his eyes shut.
“I just liked how it was going to look on my living room wall; I wasn’t making an investment or anything.”
Martin laughs. Even better! You’re on FIRE. Really, son. Good job.
Malcolm winces.
no subject
He’s mentally floundering, and after a moment the nerd knowledge spills out in a rush. “That painting is iconic. A precursor to his Black Paintings, a series of fourteen pieces painted directly onto the walls of a home he bought outside of Madrid, called La Quinta del Sordo, during the final years of his life. The Black Paintings themselves were done on the plaster of his home and were severely damaged in the attempt to transfer them to canvas, so the brushwork and dark backgrounds of Christ on the Mount of Olives were some of the cues used in their attempted restoration. It was nearly contemporary and anticipated a lot of the techniques he applied. That painting… without it we might have lost any trace of Goya's final days. His last works.”
Another flabbergasted moment. “How much did it cost?”
no subject
no subject
He needs to sit. So he does, this time at the room’s tiny desk. “I… Goya is one of the Old Masters. One of the few Romantic painters to get the designation.”
His thoughts keep bouncing and the next question comes out startled and almost unintentional. “How wealthy is your family?”
Malcolm said “three million” the way some people would say “ten bucks.”
no subject
no subject
He’s recovering himself a little now, at least, even though the name drop means a seismic reorientation of how he categorizes Malcolm in his head. “The broken spirit and vocal political ideology making him a target of people in power probably didn’t help. That and the fact that his eyesight was failing.”
no subject
Good save. That’s why you don’t know much about your own paintings: you needed a handsomer teacher.
He puts his hand over the phone again. “Shut up! Shut up!”
He puts the phone back to his ear, adding shakily, but trying to sound upbeat “You could even have a television show.”
no subject
But there’s something more concerning to address. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Is someone there?”
no subject
Well, that was nice while it lasted, wasn't it? Don't feel bad, son. He had to find out sooner or later. What's the old saying? You can't hide crazy or a cough?
He covers the phone with his hand. "You can't hide love or a cough. Stop! Why are you trying to ruin this?" he asks desperately.
Because you don't NEED it. It's a distraction. A complication. A frivolous side show...
"I do need it!"
He puts the phone back to his ear, the shake in his voice going completely unmasked this time.
"I. I might have to call you back."
no subject
no subject
"There's nobody here. I just. Hear things sometimes," he admits glumly. "...See things sometimes," he concedes. "Sorry. For not..." He swallows. "I understand if this isn't what you signed up for."
no subject
“Because of this place? Or before, too?”
no subject
no subject
He's been quiet for too long.
"Okay." It's a little shaky, but he pitches his voice soft, reassuring. "All right. Are you all right? What are you hearing?"
no subject
no subject
no subject
"But you're not... sick," he points out. "I don't want to ruin this," he says quietly.
no subject
The latter is very deliberately added.
"'Trial by fire' might be an ironic choice of words at the moment, but I'm pretty sure we've survived it."
no subject
"You're not freaked out?" he finally asks.
no subject
"A little," Neal admits. "But not nearly as much as the things here freak me out. I'd rather have you, with or without hallucinations, than not have you at all. ...Let's do it, when the blizzard passes. Go to New York. It's not Christmas any more, maybe, but the city hasn't gone anywhere."
no subject
no subject
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)