Deliver Us From Evil

40

REGGIE’S AND SHAW’S journey to see the Goya exhibit consisted of a winding ride over mountains and a series of stomach-churning switchbacks. The topography had changed completely as they ventured southwest. The area was dominated by calcium and limestone quarries. It reminded Shaw of the white cliffs of Dover in England.

“This really is quite extraordinary,” said Reggie after they’d arrived at the exhibit and she peered around the rock walls. They were on the outskirts of Les Baux-de-Provence at the top of the Alpilles mountain range in an old stone quarry that had a bird’s-eye view of the Val d’Enfer, or Valley of Hell. It was an unusual place for an art experience.

Every wall that she and Shaw could see was lighted up and the masterpieces of Spaniard Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes stared back at them in pixeled glory. There were typical portraits of Spanish royalty, but also the nude and clothed Majas that had created a public uproar when they were unveiled and were subsequently confiscated during the Spanish Inquisition for being obscene.

The works of the late Spaniard were also displayed on the floors. It was a little unnerving to be walking on acknowledged masterpieces, but after a few minutes one simply became entranced with the spectacle. Thematic music filtered across the darkened space, but there was no accompanying narrative audio. Prose was displayed along the walls, giving information about Goya’s career. The images constantly changed as Shaw and Reggie walked along. One moment they were awash in brilliant colors, other times the hues darkened, casting a sobering feel over them. A few attendants in uniform were present, not to direct the patrons but only to admonish anyone attempting to touch the walls.

When Reggie and Shaw arrived at the section of the caves depicting Goya’s later, far darker work, she fell silent. Shaw glanced over the brochure they’d been given at the entrance. However, it was bare-bones and did not tell what any of the paintings were.

“Pretty grim,” he said to Reggie as a sad tune filled their ears.

“That’s The Third of May 1808,” she said, gesturing to the painting depicting French soldiers firing on defenseless Spaniards. “It commemorates Spanish resistance to Napoleon’s invasion of their country.”

“Were you an art history major?”

She shook her head. “No, just interested in it.”

Reggie stared at the man in the white shirt in the portrait, his arms raised in either surrender or, more likely, defiance. His eyes captured the full horror of his situation. He and everyone around him were about to die. “When I told Waller that Goya was hardly an uplifting artist he said something strange.”

“What was that?”

“Though he agreed the paintings were bleak, he said they were also powerful insights into the human soul. And he said something that really gave me a chill.” She hesitated, as though she simply wanted to drop this thread of conversation.

“What did he say, Janie?” Shaw prompted.

“He said that the potential for evil lurks in everyone.” She turned to Shaw. “I told him I didn’t believe that. Do you?”

When Shaw didn’t answer right away, she said, “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She looked over at the painting again. “This piece actually inspired later works by Manet and Picasso. People slaughtering other people. What an inspiration.” Reggie wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. The temperature had dropped thirty degrees as soon as they passed through the entrance to the quarry and stepped inside the Cathédrale d’Images, as it was known.

The next section of the exhibition was from when an older Goya had become deaf and ill, reportedly suffering from a disease that was destroying his mind. The so-called Black Paintings were nightmarish in scope. A set of aquatint prints titled The Disasters of War were equally horrifying. After that came the piece titled Saturn Devouring His Son. It showed a monstrous, disfigured creature eating a headless, bloodied torso.

“I wonder if they give out free Valium when you exit this place,” said Shaw, only half-jokingly.

“It’s important to see this, Bill,” said Reggie.

“Why’s that?”

“If we don’t we’ll just keep repeating the same mistakes over and over. War, violent death, misery, all man-made and preventable.”

“Well, we seem to keep making the same mistakes anyway.”

“Were you ever in the military?” she asked suddenly.

“No.” With a completely straight face he added, “The closest I ever came to battle was being in paintball fights in college.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yep, lucky me.”

The last painting was Courtyard with Lunatics. As Reggie explained it, the piece portrayed the unfortunate inmates in a sixteenth-century asylum. She stood stock-still staring at the images. When Shaw glanced over at her, he saw a tear rolling down her cheek.

“Hey, Janie, maybe we should get back to daylight and have that nice lunch in Saint-Rémy.”

She didn’t appear to have heard him. When he touched her on the shoulder, though, she jumped and turned to him. Her eyes were reddened and moist.

Choosing his words carefully he said, “Do you know someone-I mean not in a place like that, of course-but someone who had some… issues?”

She didn’t answer him, but turned and walked back through the space. After a moment he hurried after her. She stopped in front of the first painting on exhibit, The Nude Maja. The naked brunette was lounging on a chaise, her hands clasped behind her head.

“I have to say, that’s more my taste in paintings,” said Shaw. “At least over the flesh-eating monster back there.”

“It’s amazing how they’re able to display these images on the walls.” Reggie’s eyes had dried and her voice had returned to normal.

“Well, they probably just use basic projection equipment, maybe even like a computer PowerPoint thing.”

“So, pretty easy to do, actually?”

“I guess so, but I’m no expert.” He smiled. “Why? You planning your own exhibition?”

She gave him a whimsical look. “You never know.” She slipped her arm through his. “How about that lunch?”

On the way out they passed an old fortress that was carved out of the mountain. Reggie pointed up to it. “The King’s Fortress. Built right out of the stone and placed perfectly for maximum defensive measures.”

“Okay, were you ever in the military?” said Shaw.

“I just read a lot. And that French immersion class included a historical overview of Provence. The fort overlooked the King’s Valley down there. The provincial crowns ruled their fiefdoms from up here.”

“It’s always rulers up top and everybody else down below. Separation is the key. Only thing that prevents anarchy, or democracy, depending if you’re a ruler or the ruled.”

“That was actually very philosophical, Bill.”

“I have my moments.”

They ate outside at a small café in Saint-Rémy. After that they toured the Popes’ Palace in Avignon, getting caught in a sudden shower as they headed back to the car, which was parked in an adjacent underground garage. They ran laughing and soaked across the stone courtyard to the garage, Shaw using his jacket as an umbrella to cover them both.

“I guess that’s why I like big guys,” said Reggie, looking up at the large jacket over her.

By the time they returned to Gordes their hair and clothes had mostly dried. As they pulled up to Shaw’s hotel Reggie’s cell phone buzzed, indicating a text message had just arrived. She slipped it from her pocket and glanced at the screen, then put it away without commenting.

“Let me guess, Evan Waller wants to know where you’ve been all day?” said Shaw.

“Getting a bit jealous, are we?”

“No, I’m not the possessive type. But I don’t think I can say the same for him.”

“But like I said, you don’t even know him.”

“I’ve known lots of guys like him. And haven’t we had this discussion?”

“Yes. But it’s nice to know you care.”

Shaw put a hand on her arm. “Seriously, Janie. Tread lightly with the guy. I’ve just got some weird vibes about him.”

“I’ll be careful. Would you like to get together for dinner later?”

“Not sick of me yet?” he said with a grin.

“Not yet, no,” she said impishly.

“Okay, up in town or somewhere else?”

“How about I cook for you?”

He looked mildly surprised. “At your place? Sure. But only if you let me bring the wine.”

“Deal. Say about eight?”

Shaw walked up to his room, unlocked his door, and froze.

The man sitting in the chair beside his desk stared back at him.