The mystery of the enlightened forces

For a member of the Spanish nobility, Alfredo Pérez Corbacho Chaves María de los Remedios Cipriano is a surprisingly modest man. So modest is he that he occupies a home not far from the Barcelona sea front with no more than eight bedrooms and five reception rooms. His modesty is such that he has remained unwilling to burden anyone with having to crowd into such incommodious accommodation with him and, accordingly, lives by himself; save for a small team of servants who attend to his quotidian requirements. These requirements are modestly few: if his meals are cooked, his rooms cleaned, his clothes laundered and his transportation seen to, he is happy. A simple man is Señor Cipriano. A man of regular habits who seldom deviates from a set order of doing things each day.

Take for example Monday this week. Cipriano sat down to luncheon in his modest dining room at 13:00 as usual. To start, he had a whole sea bass, salad and rice. This was washed down by a Santiago Ruiz 2010. Next, he had a T-bone steak with cabbage, mushrooms and new potatoes. This he chose to wash down with a good Rioja. Finally, he finished his modest luncheon with a tart of dried fruit and nuts accompanied by a little jug of the delicious sweet dessert wine, moscatel.

In keeping with habit, when he had finished his luncheon, Cipriano stepped into the siesta room, conveniently located adjacent to his dining room and gently laid himself on a chaisse longue. Above the chaisse longue was a copy of Francisco Goya’s famous etching,The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters.




Cipriano was often asked why he chose to have a picture depicting ghastly images in the room in which he lay down each day for his siesta. His response was invariably the same: “My siesta is an opportunity for my body to unburden itself while my mind labours feverishly. Goya inspires me – the creatures you see in the etching are evil characters of the night which represent mindless stupidity. The enlightened forces I am able to command pay heed to my mind’s unparallelled ability to produce profound effects. I cannot allow my reason to go to sleep if I am to perform the services which I carry out through magic and the dramatic arts for the betterment of mankind.

As soon as Cipriano’s great head hit the chaise longue, he was fast asleep and snoring. It was while he was thus engaged that a much agitated servant crept into his siesta room and, withconsiderable trepidation, gently shook Cipriano awake.

 “Curses befall you!” bellowed Cipriano. “May women shun you! May your manhood shrivel and drop like a dead twig! May you never know the taste of food or the flavour of wine, you heartless, evil scoundrel!”

The servant fell to his knees sweating and quivering.“I swear to God that the last thing I wanted to do was wake you up, my lord,” pleaded the servant,“but Señor Alonso is on the telephone and he swears he will do himself harm if he is not allowed to speak to you.”

 Cipriano raised his upper body and swung his legs to the floor. He extracted a large handkerchief and ran it over his huge face.

 “In that case, present the speaking device to me.”

 The servant returned bearing an old fashioned gold-plated telephone on a silver salver.

“My inestimable friend,” Cipriano said soothingly down the receiver, “I am enchanted and thrilled that you should take time out of your crowded day not only to spare a thought for little old me but also to telephone to enquire after my wellbeing.”

 Alonso’s words came out in a torrent of fury. He was so angry, you could almost hear the steam coming out of his ears. “Alfredo, things are not working. They are getting worse. Did you see what happened in Canada? I was humiliated by that chico poco de Inglés (little English boy) again!”

 “Fernando, Fernando, my dear friend. Please permit yourself to calm down. A tranquil breast is a happy breast. You have no reason to doubt me.”

 “But you said I had nothing to worry about” screamed Alonso. “Your words were ‘leave it to me’, weren’t they?”

“So they were, my most admirable young friend, so they were,” Cipriano replied gently. “But you must never try and understand the means by which the enlightened forces will work. Hell and damnation follow those who dare to do this. I hasten to add that I have come to terms with my ultímate fate and my soul is untormented. But, as I assured you in Fonda Gaig, I assure you now: leave everything to me.”

“I have to trust you, Alfredo, but Ferrari are going to give me a heart attack. If the team was able to think on its feet like it used to, I wouldn’t be in the shape I’m in. I lost the Montreal Grand Prix because the team chose a stupid strategy and decided to stick to it no matter what – even when los hijos de puta en inglés (the English bastards) had changed theirs midway through the race!”

 Cipriano remained silent for a moment. At length he spoke. “I will make you a further assurance, my young friend. I will be present at each race until the end of the season.”

Alonso, his voice audibly more relaxed, whispered “thank you” and rang off.

Meanwhile, across the Atlantic in a suite on the top floor of an expensive hotel in downtown Montreal, a furious row was raging.





“I fly my ass all around the world to be there for you. I cry when your team lets you down – I really suffer internally when things go wrong for you. I have to cover my eyes in shades all the time so people can’t see how much I cry. And what thanks do I get? What’s the first thing you want to do when you finally win a race? You want to hug your fucking team-mates! I literally had to grab hold of your head and kiss your helmet for you to notice that I was there waiting for you to win! Did you even notice how sexy I looked? Why should I fucking bother, huh? Why the fuck should I?”

Lewis Hamilton was sitting on a sofa with his head in his hands. He looked like a man who had spent twelve rounds in a boxing ring with Mike Tyson. “If we’ve been over this once, we’ve been over it a hundred times, Nicole,” he sighed. “For the last time, I belong to the McLaren team. Every part of the team is important. We win as a team and lose as a team. That has nothing to do with my feelings for you. You..”

“Hogwash, Lewis!” interrupted Nicole. “You ain’t running that shit past me no more! I have had it up to my ass with it. Do you wanna fuck your team-mates? Do they give you a blow-job? I ain’t putting…”

Not waiting to hear the end of the tirade, Lewis quietly stood up and left the room.

Gitau
13 June 2012

The Weeping Woman

On a balmy Wednesday morning in Monte Carlo last week, Lewis Hamilton rose out of bed and, from force of habit acquired in his youth, walked across the hall to see if any post had been delivered. Such was his importance that few, if any, items of correspondence got past his minders at the XIX Management Company which managed his professional affairs and it was not without considerable surprise that he found lying on the doormat a handwritten envelope with a London postmark. “Interesting,” he thought as he opened it and slipped out the letter it contained. It was from his childhood friend, Richard “Dimples” Dewhurst.

Dear Lewis


I hope you are well and enjoying the glorious weather in Monte Carlo. London is anything but glorious this Spring!


First, an apology. I had to sweet-talk your lovely mum into giving me your address, so please forgive me. You may not have heard this but my dad has been very ill and in and out of hospital for a little while now. He turns sixty next week and I thought it might cheer him up if I held a little party for him at Tate Britain where I work these days (I’m one of the curators there). He was always very fond of you when we were neighbours in Stevenage and I know he would be very pleased if you were there. It will also be a good opportunity for you to have a private viewing of the Picasso & Modern British Art exhibition (assuming, of course, that you are interested in such things!).


If you can make it – even if it is only for an hour or so – I will be really chuffed.


Your old mate


Dimples Dewhurst

Hamilton pondered over the letter as he made his way to the kitchen for some coffee. Dimples Dewhurst had been a close friend when they were younger. Their paths had diverged when Hamilton developed an interest in go-karting, at which Dewhurst was inept, and their friendship had waned as a result. Nevertheless, Richard’s father, Rev Michael Dewhurst, felt very proud of Hamilton’s karting achievements and often turned up on Sunday afternoons to offer Hamilton moral support. Getting to London for a private party in the thick of Grand Prix preparations, testing and sponsorship marketing was tricky, but in the circumstances it seemed like the decent thing to do. He decided to attend the party.

Upon arriving in Pimlico, even before ascending the steps into Tate Britain, Hamilton was, predictably, mobbed by a gaggle of young women screaming “I love you Lewis!” and offering parts of their body for Hamilton to sign or, better still, fondle. Inside the gallery the situation was not entirely dissimilar and it was with considerable relief that he found himself enveloped by the open arms of Richard Dewhurst and led away to the section of the gallery where the party was being held.

 “It’s lovely to see you, Dimples. You look great!” said Hamilton. “Gosh! It’s been a while. How many years exactly?”

“Seven”

 “Christ! That long, eh? Time really flies!”

 “I am glad you could make it, Lewis. Come and say hello to Dad – he will be thrilled to see you.”

The Reverend Michael Dewhurst, frail and shambling, was overwrought at the sight of Hamilton. He could not help but weep as he gingerly embraced the young racing driver. “God bless you, Lewis,” he said, “you were always a good lad.

When they had got over the niceties of re-acquaintance, Richard Dewhurst took Hamilton by the arm and led him round the exhibition.

“Have you ever heard of Dora Maar?” he asked.

“No, never. I don’t belong in the art world, dude. Have you heard of Alberto Ascari?”

Dewhurst grinned. Hamilton was more irritable than he remembered, but he let it pass.

“Allow me to broaden your mind a little,” he said, walking to a famous painting by Pablo Picasso called The Weeping Woman. He stopped and began pointing out aspects of the painting to Hamilton.




“This is ostensibly a painting about the atrocities of war. It is a wonderful example of Cubism and belongs to the Tate's own collection. Look carefully at it. A woman weeps in bitter anguish because of the horror of human suffering she has been forced to witness after a bombing campaign during the Spanish Civil War.The skin on her face has been grotesquely peeled away partially to reveal the skull beneath. It is a message to mankind that war has terrible human consequences and ought carefully to be considered before embarking upon. Convincing?"

Dewhurst paused for a moment for effect.

"In reality The Weeping Woman is Picasso figuratively venting his frustration at Dora Maar’s insecurity and her irrational and incessant weeping," he went on. "Whenever it seemed likely that Picasso would leave Dora, she would self-mutilate by cutting her fingers and then cry so pitiably that he would find himself wracked by guilt and unable to leave her. He felt wretched about it but couldn’t bear to be considered cruel and unfeeling. This went on for nearly nine years until a beautiful young art student called Francoise Gilot breezed into his life. She was forty years younger than Picasso, but he still fell head over heels for her so completely that leaving Dora Maar ceased to be a problem. Francoise was a far more stable influence on Picasso than Dora and they ended up setting up home together and having two children.”


“Interesting story,” said Hamilton. “He wasn’t looking to flatter her, was he? She looks hideous!

Dewhurst chuckled breezily. A salutary lesson for all men, my friend, but a man as good looking and  renowned as you needs to be extra careful to look out for the Dora Maars of this world! Oh, by the way, I saw a lovely interview on Sky with your girlfriend, Nicole, just before the Monaco Grand Prix. She looked the part, mate – side cleavage, matching hat and suit, big smile. You’ve done well there! She's everything as gorgeous as Francoise Gilot! I have a print of a charcoal drawing of her by Picasso in my room and it is a thing to behold.”



Francoise Gilot -charcoal drawing by Picasso


Hamilton did not dignify the remarks with any comment.

Later on that evening, as he sat in his jet flying over the French Riviera, Hamilton’s mind went slowly over what his friend Dewhurst had said.Nothing in his demeanour would have revealed how he felt, but as Dewhurst spoke, he had felt his chest tighten and his temples throb. He couldn’t bring himself to disclose to anyone that the Nicole Scherzinger situation he was in was, uncannily, a resounding echo of the Picasso/Maar situation.

“You couldn’t put a cigarette paper between the two women for the love of God,” he thought. “As I live and breathe, Nicole Scherzinger is Dora Maar reincarnated."

The pilot’s voice came through on the plane’s speakers. “It’s past midnight, Lewis, but guess what? Your lovely girlfriend, Nicole, has sailed up from Monte Carlo and is in the Nice airport terminal waiting for you. Isn't that nice?”

Hamilton lowered his head into his hands.

Gitau
7 June 2012