Goya was not a Barcelona man, was he?
Early on Wednesday morning in Madrid this week, a shadowy young man in a hooded jersey was wandering surreptitiously up and down Paseo del Prado looking this way and that and anxiously glancing at his watch every 30 or so seconds. If he had sought to give the impression of a nonchalant tourist enjoying a leisurely stroll through the enchanting streets of the Spanish capital, he could hardly have failed more abjectly.
At one minute before 10, the young man positioned himself outside the main entrance to the Museo del Prado and was the first visitor in the grand building when the doors finally swung open on the hour. Once inside, his hunched shoulders relaxed a little and his creased forehead smoothened out. He gave one last furtive look round before slipping off his sunglasses and extracting a notebook from the folds of his jersey. On it, in a hand which was not his own, were some notes:
If in a hurry, at least see the big Velazquez and the Goya Majas.
The young man glanced again at his watch. There was no doubt about it: he was in a hurry. He approached a museum attendant.
“Excuse me please,” he said, “I have only a few minutes but want to make sure I see..” he glanced at his notebook,“..the big Velazquez and the Goya Majas. Is that possible?”
The attendant smiled. “Of course, it is possible. Las Meninas and the Majas are not far away from one another. Every man in search of an alibi in this enormous museum asks me the same question.”
The young man swore under his breath as he made his way to the gallery to which he had been directed. “Arsehole. Who the fuck does he think he is? He hasn't even got the first idea who I am. Fucking twerp. If only he knew.”
When the young man found himself in a gallery dedicated to Francisco Goya, he quickly forgot about his irritation with the impertinent attendant when he read the story beneath the pair of Goya paintings he saw before him which had changed painting history, La Maja Desnuda (The Naked Maja) and La Maja Vestida (The Clothed Maja). Before Goya, artists painted nude girls with their eyes bashfully averted away from those of the viewer or their heads facing the rear wall. Goya’s model has an assertive gaze towards the viewer, which can be deemed as provocative by those less charitable than Goya.
It intrigued the young man to learn that in the 1930s, Spain caused outrage in the puritanical United States of America by issuing postage stamps depicting the innovative La Maja Desnuda. Any letter bearing one of the stamps was denied entry into the USA. The young man shook his head in bemusement. Christ almighty, he thought. If they could only have seen what comes out of America today!
Later that morning the young man caught a flight to Barcelona. In his taxi on the way to his hotel he tried to empty his mind of the sights he had visited during his sojourn in the south of Spain and Madrid. There would be ample time to think about those things later. Now he had important work to do.
As soon as he had stepped into his hotel suite, he saw out of the corner of his right eye a shoe fly past his head and strike the door. This was following by its partner which just clipped his left ear.
“Where the fuck have you been, you chicken shit!”
He held his hands out in alarm. “Nicole, what are you doing…”
A cricket-ball sized glass paperweight struck the door behind him.
“I bust my ass to get a break from all the shit I have to do in the States, get over here to give you a surprise and you ain’t here. I was going to give you two clear days with me before your fucking race but, no, you had to disappear. Where to huh? Where, motherfucker?”
“Nicole, I had no idea…”
Hamilton ducked in time to avoid a pen aimed at his right eye.
“Did you tell anyone where you were going? Do you have any idea how hard I have tried looking for you?”
“If you will just allow me…”
“Do you think that all I want to do is spend my fucking time looking for your sorry little ass? That I haven’t got enough to do. Do you, asshole? Do you, huh?
Hamilton sighed heavily. Talking to Nicole when she was in this excitable state was useless. He turned his head slightly to look out of the window to his right, almost as if he were in search of inspiration. Just as he did so, Nicole swept out of the room into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Hamilton sank heavily into the nearest sofa to him. He knew with faultless certainty that histrionics like those he had just witnessed were the last thing he needed ahead of an important racing weekend. With four points between himself and championship leader and team-mate, Nico Rosberg, he couldn’t afford to allow anything to cause him to lose focus. Mercedes had a speed and reliability advantage over the other teams at the moment, but that would soon disappear as the others rushed to catch up. Bagging pole position on Saturday was critical at a low overtaking circuit like Barcelona and full concentration was essential if pole position was to be converted into victory on Sunday. He did not need to be told that his mind could ill afford the distractions represented by potty-mouthed, missile-lobbing women.
The bathroom door opened and Nicole emerged. Curiously, this time she was smiling cheekily. She walked up to the sofa and sat next to a very perplexed Hamilton. Kissing his ear fondly, she whispered “how was Juliana?”
Hamilton’s body immediately stiffened. He tried opening his mouth to say something but no sound came out of it. Nicole began rubbing his belly. “Did she do this to you?” she said throatily.
Hamilton got up suddenly and walked quickly to the drinks cabinet were he poured himself a large whisky and feverishly drained the glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nicole,” he said without turning round to look at her. She laughed sneeringly.
“I knew you were never going to be brave enough to visit a brothel in Barcelona. You never imagined that I would suspect you of going to Madrid, did you? Well, I paid 3 madams at the classiest whoring joints in Madrid to tell me if they saw you. Everybody knows who you are, Lewis, you idiot. Guess what? One of them phoned me this morning. I know everything you little chicken-shit, everything!”
Hamilton walked slowly to the door and out into La Rambla. As he walked down towards the sea shore, he concentrated his mind on positive thoughts. Barcelona was far too important for distractions. “You have the best car,” he said to himself. “Nobody comes close to matching your speed, not Nico, not Fernando, not Sebastian, nobody. 2014 is your year. You are a colossus, just like the one in the Goya painting. Every other driver will flee from you once they see the majesty of your greatness. You are invincible!
“A giant. An unbeatable beast. Barcelona is your race. Yours, Lewis, YOURS!”
Gitau
7 May 2014
At one minute before 10, the young man positioned himself outside the main entrance to the Museo del Prado and was the first visitor in the grand building when the doors finally swung open on the hour. Once inside, his hunched shoulders relaxed a little and his creased forehead smoothened out. He gave one last furtive look round before slipping off his sunglasses and extracting a notebook from the folds of his jersey. On it, in a hand which was not his own, were some notes:
If in a hurry, at least see the big Velazquez and the Goya Majas.
The young man glanced again at his watch. There was no doubt about it: he was in a hurry. He approached a museum attendant.
“Excuse me please,” he said, “I have only a few minutes but want to make sure I see..” he glanced at his notebook,“..the big Velazquez and the Goya Majas. Is that possible?”
The attendant smiled. “Of course, it is possible. Las Meninas and the Majas are not far away from one another. Every man in search of an alibi in this enormous museum asks me the same question.”
The young man swore under his breath as he made his way to the gallery to which he had been directed. “Arsehole. Who the fuck does he think he is? He hasn't even got the first idea who I am. Fucking twerp. If only he knew.”
When the young man found himself in a gallery dedicated to Francisco Goya, he quickly forgot about his irritation with the impertinent attendant when he read the story beneath the pair of Goya paintings he saw before him which had changed painting history, La Maja Desnuda (The Naked Maja) and La Maja Vestida (The Clothed Maja). Before Goya, artists painted nude girls with their eyes bashfully averted away from those of the viewer or their heads facing the rear wall. Goya’s model has an assertive gaze towards the viewer, which can be deemed as provocative by those less charitable than Goya.
It intrigued the young man to learn that in the 1930s, Spain caused outrage in the puritanical United States of America by issuing postage stamps depicting the innovative La Maja Desnuda. Any letter bearing one of the stamps was denied entry into the USA. The young man shook his head in bemusement. Christ almighty, he thought. If they could only have seen what comes out of America today!
Later that morning the young man caught a flight to Barcelona. In his taxi on the way to his hotel he tried to empty his mind of the sights he had visited during his sojourn in the south of Spain and Madrid. There would be ample time to think about those things later. Now he had important work to do.
As soon as he had stepped into his hotel suite, he saw out of the corner of his right eye a shoe fly past his head and strike the door. This was following by its partner which just clipped his left ear.
“Where the fuck have you been, you chicken shit!”
He held his hands out in alarm. “Nicole, what are you doing…”
A cricket-ball sized glass paperweight struck the door behind him.
“I bust my ass to get a break from all the shit I have to do in the States, get over here to give you a surprise and you ain’t here. I was going to give you two clear days with me before your fucking race but, no, you had to disappear. Where to huh? Where, motherfucker?”
“Nicole, I had no idea…”
Hamilton ducked in time to avoid a pen aimed at his right eye.
“Did you tell anyone where you were going? Do you have any idea how hard I have tried looking for you?”
“If you will just allow me…”
“Do you think that all I want to do is spend my fucking time looking for your sorry little ass? That I haven’t got enough to do. Do you, asshole? Do you, huh?
Hamilton sighed heavily. Talking to Nicole when she was in this excitable state was useless. He turned his head slightly to look out of the window to his right, almost as if he were in search of inspiration. Just as he did so, Nicole swept out of the room into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.
Hamilton sank heavily into the nearest sofa to him. He knew with faultless certainty that histrionics like those he had just witnessed were the last thing he needed ahead of an important racing weekend. With four points between himself and championship leader and team-mate, Nico Rosberg, he couldn’t afford to allow anything to cause him to lose focus. Mercedes had a speed and reliability advantage over the other teams at the moment, but that would soon disappear as the others rushed to catch up. Bagging pole position on Saturday was critical at a low overtaking circuit like Barcelona and full concentration was essential if pole position was to be converted into victory on Sunday. He did not need to be told that his mind could ill afford the distractions represented by potty-mouthed, missile-lobbing women.
The bathroom door opened and Nicole emerged. Curiously, this time she was smiling cheekily. She walked up to the sofa and sat next to a very perplexed Hamilton. Kissing his ear fondly, she whispered “how was Juliana?”
Hamilton’s body immediately stiffened. He tried opening his mouth to say something but no sound came out of it. Nicole began rubbing his belly. “Did she do this to you?” she said throatily.
Hamilton got up suddenly and walked quickly to the drinks cabinet were he poured himself a large whisky and feverishly drained the glass. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nicole,” he said without turning round to look at her. She laughed sneeringly.
“I knew you were never going to be brave enough to visit a brothel in Barcelona. You never imagined that I would suspect you of going to Madrid, did you? Well, I paid 3 madams at the classiest whoring joints in Madrid to tell me if they saw you. Everybody knows who you are, Lewis, you idiot. Guess what? One of them phoned me this morning. I know everything you little chicken-shit, everything!”
Hamilton walked slowly to the door and out into La Rambla. As he walked down towards the sea shore, he concentrated his mind on positive thoughts. Barcelona was far too important for distractions. “You have the best car,” he said to himself. “Nobody comes close to matching your speed, not Nico, not Fernando, not Sebastian, nobody. 2014 is your year. You are a colossus, just like the one in the Goya painting. Every other driver will flee from you once they see the majesty of your greatness. You are invincible!
“A giant. An unbeatable beast. Barcelona is your race. Yours, Lewis, YOURS!”
Gitau
7 May 2014
posted by Gitau at 8:43 pm
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