Gringo

Gringo: Steven Copes was born in 1953, the son of the owner of a small grocery store, and brought up in the Kentish port of Dover. From his early teens he spent most weekends drawing or painting. When the weather permitted he would cycle inland, often in the company of friends, to sketch in pencil, charcoal, with pastels or paint in watercolour from life. His subjects were the churches, village pubs, oast houses and other rural scenes that typified the ‘Garden of England’ the county he loved. Steven had a natural facility for working in all mediums and a selection of his work adorned the homes of family and friends as well as the walls of several saloon bars, tearooms, and vicarage hallways.

Steven never worked with a sale in mind, but the occasional curious pub landlord or vicar would come out to watch the blonde youth at work, shirt sleeves rolled up, sat on a folding stool in relaxed concentration, with a sketch pad clamped by oversized bulldog clips to a board spread across his lap or perched on a delicate folding easel. They would look on in admiration as he crafted an image of their hostelry, church or village green. They would usually express surprise when they saw the quality of the youthful artists pictures and would always want to buy.

Steven used some of his earnings to finance daytrips with his bicycle on the ferry to France. Again he would paint or draw, his images resonating with the character and atmosphere of the captured scene. Steven was no mere technician or producer of pretty decorative pictures. His work revealed the sensibility of a natural artist. An artist preoccupied with the creation of images that captured the essence of the recorded scene. His hedgerows would almost rustle in the summer breeze. The interior of a Boulogne café or lounge bar in a Kentish village would seem almost alive, with dust motes appearing to dance in the warmth of the shafts of sunlight streaming through a window. The suns rays appeared to draw the mingled aromas of coffee, cooked food, cigarette-smoke and alcohol, out of

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the worn wooden furniture and porous plaster walls even though these features were rendered in two dimensions in paint or pencil. You could almost hear echoes of ancient conversations when looking at Steven’s works.

For Steven the progression from school to Art College was a forgone conclusion, and he was accepted into the Royal College of Art in 1970. His likeable easy going nature, unruly mop of blonde hair, blue eyes and ready smile made him popular with fellow students. However, he had to struggle to be taken seriously in relation to his work. While most of his colleagues postured or struggled blindly with an abstraction they barely if at all understood, Steven continued to produce figurative pictures using acrylic paints. His paintings were becoming physically much larger in scale and his subject matter became the life around him. He sketched and painted scenes full of people as they crowded the streets or parks, partied, queued for the cinema or to board a plane. Steven was an instinctive artist, his subjects and technique informed by human empathy and intuition. Increasingly he went to college only for occasional lectures, to keep up with his wide circle of friends and to make arrangements to attend political meetings organised by various left wing groups. Most of his work was done in a small run down factory unit in East London rented as a studio, but also used, without the landlord's consent, as Steven's home. He was already attracting the attention of some influential gallery owners who spoke of him respectfully as the Hackney Hockney, and he was in advanced discussions about participating in a group exhibition at the Lisson gallery that might be the launch pad for a successful career.

Although single minded when it came to his work, Steven was entirely open to experience, like an empty vessel waiting to be filled. He welcomed everything he encountered as being part of the voyage of discovery, the celebratory adventure of life. Steven appreciated the work of the cubists, the impressionists and even

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the abstract expressionism of Willem de Kooning and Jackson Pollock. The Pop Art movement as represented by Claus Oldenburg, Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol appealed to him as the iconisation of popular culture through pastiche. The late 60's American minimalist painters and sculptors, the makers of immaculate forms for forms sake left him unmoved, although to be fair, he had only seen their work in two dimensional colour reproductions in the Art magazines.

That is why he was excited to learn about an exhibition of American Minimalism at the Hayward Gallery, part of the recently built concrete arts bunker on the South Bank of the Thames. He would get the chance to see some of the works that perplexed him, and would perhaps as a result understand them and the efforts of his fellow students to mimic them, a little better. One afternoon he took his student card, boarded a bus to Piccadilly Circus and then continued on foot across the Hungerford Bridge and past The Royal Festival Hall.

It was while stepping back to get an improved perspective on a great oval canvas, reminiscent of a rainbow, by Frank Stella that Steven collided with someone passing behind him. 'Oh, I am sorry' he said, turning to apologise. The girl whose instep he had almost crushed gasped and winced with pain. She rested her hand on his shoulder as she raised her injured foot, massaging it awkwardly with her other hand. 'I'm such an awkward bloody idiot' he continued, self-consciously aware of the physical contact between himself and this stunningly beautiful stranger. 'It is alright…. just a little soreness. It will soon pass'. She had a foreign accent. Spanish? Italian? Steven wasn't sure. With her hand still tentatively touching his arm, she stooped and tested her weight on the injured foot. 'I really cannot apologise enough.' Steven looked at her entranced as he spoke. She had straight black hair with a centre parting. It was cut square, in a severe line, level with the tip of her chin. Her face was oval reminding him of a female portrait sketched by

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Piet Mondrian. Her skin had the mellow tan of someone who has constantly lived in a climate filled with sunshine. The wild green eyes that now scrutinised him were charged with anger. 'You are a stupid boy!' she declared, pouting petulantly, and leaving him crestfallen. She immediately broke into a broad smile, giving her face an expression of such loveliness that Steven caught his breath. 'You will have to buy me coffee as a penance for your clumsiness. Come on. Don't look so upset, I'm not going to die'. Steven followed her without thinking. It was as if he had been mesmerised, as though she had cast and trapped him in some magic spell.

At the gallery café the girl found a table while Steven went to the counter and bought two coffees and two slices of cheesecake. When Steven sat down he apologised again for her injury, and they introduced themselves. Her name was Gina Perez. She was a citizen of Venezuela. A student of Philosophy just finished her studies in Paris. She was on holiday with her mother who seemed to want to buy the entire contents of all the expensive clothes shops in London's West End before they both returned to Venezuela. Steven told her about his own life and painterly ambitions. While he spoke he scrutinised her form, drawing her in his minds eye. He wanted to capture this vision in his memory to later commit the image to canvas. She was simply but carefully dressed in a loose fitting white cotton shirt and Levi jeans, her feet poorly protected from his recent attentions by brown suede moccasins. The hint of wealth lay in the gold chain around her neck from which hung a diamond crucifix, and the thick gold band on the third finger of her right hand in which was set a cluster of emeralds. Their conversation was natural and familiar, as though they were not strangers at all.

Steven was enchanted by her perfection. She was intelligent, well educated and

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her physical sensuality provoked something more than lust. Steven thought that for the first time he might be in love. They talked for a while and then left the gallery to emerge together into the late afternoon sunshine. Steven had not finished viewing the exhibition, but he did not care. He sensed there was a tenuous thread, an invisible and delicate link between them that could easily be broken forever. 'I have to find a taxi to take me back to my hotel' she told him. Oh, where exactly are you going?' 'The Ritz in Piccadilly.' 'That's an amazing coincidence. I'm heading to Kensington. That's where I go to college. Perhaps we could share?' They strolled to the north side of Waterloo Bridge, constantly talking as they walked, and found a taxi. In the cab Gina searched in her shoulder bag until she found a pen and notebook. She wrote down her home address and added her telephone number. She tore out the page and passed it to Steven. 'We only have one more day in London and then fly home by way of New York.' 'Wow. I'd absolutely love to go to New York. I know this is crazy. We've only just met, but if it were possible…. I know it's not, but I'd really like to visit the galleries, the studios there and meet people like Andy Warhol, but I'd want to do it with you. If you weren't there, it just wouldn't be the same.' He felt he'd said too much. He was gabbling. He'd lost control of his mouth and mind. What he'd said could be interpreted as an absurd declaration of love from an infatuated fool. He was sure a woman like this had had more than enough and did not need the attention of fools. He felt his face redden with the heat of embarrassment, and was shocked at the sensation of her cool hands on his cheeks as she gently clasped his head and kissed him on the mouth. 'You are such a sweet, kind and wonderful boy. It's a terrible shame we can't have more time together, but now you have my address. You must write to me, and I'll write back I promise. One day, who knows we might…. well we can try to meet up again.' 'I don't think your boyfriend would like that very much.'

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'Steven, in Paris, at the Sorbonne I knew lots of boys and they were friends. I have friends in Venezuela too. I am attached to none. You are different. You are very special. I can't explain why.' They kissed again, more passionately. The taxi drew up outside The Ritz. 'Can't you meet me tomorrow?' he asked. 'I'd love you to be able to come to my studio. I' want you to see my work.' 'I have to shop tomorrow. My mother would not be happy for me to go off with an Englishman she has never even met herself. We have to pack and prepare ourselves for the journey.' 'Can't you get away for even half an hour. I could meet you in the bar of the hotel tomorrow evening?' 'I will try. Say eight o'clock. Please though, do not ring my room if I don't appear. Just wait in the bar. If I cannot come I'll try to send a message.' Gina got out of the taxi. Steven looked back through the rear window as she stood and waved while the cab pulled away and eased its way into the traffic. 'You can drop me in Haymarket thanks driver' said Steven as the taxi swung into Piccadilly Circus and circled around the statue of Eros. A few moments later he paid the driver and walked back towards Leicester Square. He was oblivious to the crowds of people moving around him as he struggled to comprehend the whirlwind from which he had just emerged. His thoughts were in turmoil. No woman had ever affected him as this one had done. Steven was in a state of complete bewilderment as he headed home to his studio.

The following day could not pass quickly enough. Steven busied himself with domestic chores, cleaning the studio, visiting the launderette and buying a Polaroid camera. At seven o'clock, dressed in his only suit, a navy blue woollen one, inappropriately heavy for a summer evening, and a plain white cotton shirt, he was in the French House in Dean Street, sipping his second Calvados. Twenty minutes later, camera in hand, he hurried from the pub and walked to The Ritz. In

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the hotel bar he ordered a pint and waited nervously as the minutes crept reluctantly around the clock. It was five past eight. Gina had not appeared and he was sure would not be doing so. Still he waited. At twenty past he finished his drink and stood up to leave. Then he saw her in the lobby with a tall, dark man who was perhaps in his early fifties and wearing a well-kept moustache. He was dressed in a chalk stripe business suit. Steven was dismayed to see her with this companion. She looked stunning in a gold satin blouse and slightly flared black trousers. Gina had not mentioned she had her father, an uncle or other family member apart from her mother travelling with her. Surely this man was not her lover? Gina seemed to panic momentarily as she caught sight of Steven. She appeared to signal with her eyes that he should not come near, that he should move away. Without knowing how he'd got there Steven found himself sitting in an armchair, transfixed, as he watched the man speak animatedly, laugh and then hold Gina to him before kissing her on both cheeks and striding away. He paused, turned and waved before going through the doors and out onto the street.

Gina collected her key from Reception before turning to meet Steven's questioning gaze. She walked over to him, a hint of defensiveness or impatience playing across her features. He rose to meet her, glancing at his watch as if to emphasise her lateness. 'I didn't think you were coming. I was just about to leave. I very nearly missed you. Another couple of minutes and I would have been gone.' 'You have my home number.' She replied. 'In Venezuela!' he exclaimed. 'That is where I live from now on…. at least for a while.' Steven was uncertain for a moment. The events of the previous day, the magic between them seemed to have faltered. 'Would you rather I left?' he asked. 'Of course not.' she replied. 'You don't seem all that pleased to see me and I noticed you were with a friend?'

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' He was my father's friend. He is a family friend. I was just nervous about meeting you again. When I saw you I wondered if things would feel the same?' 'And do they?' 'I think so, yes.' She placed a hand on his arm. 'I cannot properly ask you up to my room, and my mother will be back soon. Roberto, the man I was with, he is a diplomat here and he insisted on taking us to dinner. Once he learned we were in London he insisted on meeting with us. He was a very good friend of my father's.' 'Was?' 'I lost my father two years ago in a riding accident.' 'That's terrible.' 'We shan't speak about it. Let's go outside for a walk. I can't stay for long. I excused myself from dinner. I told them I wasn't feeling very well, that I had a headache. Roberto insisted on escorting me back to the hotel. When I saw you I was terrified you would come over and expose my deception. I'll have a real headache explaining things to my mother if she finds me with you.' Gina laughed as she moved closer, linked her arm in his and drew him out into the street.

They turned left along Piccadilly and walked towards Hyde Park Corner as dusk descended and the streetlights began alternately to glow and shimmer into life. They embraced and kissed with a doubled intensity, as their meeting was also their parting. These were moments to cherish and they were oblivious to the glances of curious passers by. Theirs was a brief fusion of destinies to be exploded apart, perhaps unthinkably forever. They spoke of their uncomprehending love for one another, of their fantasies for a future together. Neither of them had ever felt drawn towards anyone with such intensity before. They used Steven's Polaroid to take photographs of each other, persuading a woman walking her poodle to take two shots of them embracing. With the almost Instant photos safely developed the couple then hurried back to the hotel. They parted at the door following another embrace and tender kiss. 'I'll write to you in

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a few days,' promised Steven. 'Don't forget,' she urged him. 'We have to plan our reunion. Let's hope we can make it very soon.' Gina had small tears clinging to her eyelids. 'I really have to go.' Clutching photographs of herself and Steven, one of him alone and a couple of the interior of his studio taken earlier in the day she turned and pushed through the door into the hotel lobby. Steven walked off into the night, feeling cut off, cast adrift like an empty skiff abandoned on an endless shifting sea.

The next morning Steven was woken by his alarm clock. It was set to go off as Gina's plane was scheduled to lift away from the tarmac at Heathrow, and perhaps in a few moments pass overhead. He strained his ears to listen for the distant rumble of jet engines but heard nothing. He leapt out of bed. He had an urgent project to start and the sooner he began the sooner he could execute his plan. He dressed quickly. He cleared brushes and rinsed dried paint splashes from the sink before washing in cold water Black coffee and toast were prepared for breakfast. Steven then quickly constructed a stretcher that would give him a painting surface that was two feet square. Most of the canvases he was currently producing were four times that size, but there were logistical considerations here. He was going to work rapidly to produce a portrait of Gina and he was going to send it to her. He had a terrible fear that if he did nothing to prevent their encounter from fading into memory, the incredible magic, the magnetic force that seemed to bind them might be weakened or even lost. He was not going to let that happen.

Steven stretched and primed his small canvas and then worked rapidly using one of the Polaroid photos of Gina for reference. He was trying to capture her luminous beauty, the intangible, invisible field of attraction that for him at least, surrounded her. For almost two weeks he struggled intermittently with the portrait while making arrangements for and overseeing the hanging of a couple of

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his pictures in a group show at the prestigious Cork Street Gallery. It should have been, it was an extremely exciting time, but the interest being shown in his work was overshadowed by his preoccupation with the Gina portrait, and his fixation with the woman herself. He was working on it when he got a phone call from the gallery. It was Nigel Reams the owner. 'I've got absolutely amazing news for you Steven.' Nigel was flamboyant and generous in his use of language, perhaps to compensate for his traditional, business suit, sense of dress and well-earned reputation for being financially careful or even mean. 'The show has had very good reviews as I know you've heard, not least from yours truly, but I am surprised at the enthusiasm generated by your work. That's not to say it doesn't deserve it, au contraire, but for a new artist, still a student, an unknown to attract such interest is very unusual. Both your pictures have sold already. The price was too bloody low. Mia Culpa there old boy. I'd like to meet and talk about giving you your own exhibition, let's say sometime early in the New Year.' The word that stuck in Steven's mind was 'sold' the pictures had sold. 'That's fantastic news Nigel. How much money have I got?' was Steven’s response. Nigel was surprised. 'I didn't realise you saw your work in such commercial terms, Steven. But you are now better off to the tune of fifteen hundred pounds.' 'I don't normally think of painting as commodity. It's just that a bit of cash would fit in very well with my plans just now.' 'Glad to hear it,' came Reams reply. Steven was glad to hear it too. His plans were forming as he spoke. As new to him as to the man he was speaking to. Rather than send the portrait to Gina, he now decided he would deliver it himself. He would stop off in New York, take in the Guggenheim museum and then continue down to Venezuela. He glanced across at the portrait. It was almost finished. He would go out and buy a tube with a shoulder strap in which to carry the rolled canvas. 'When can I collect my money?' he asked Nigel.

'You are a hungry artist. Any time you like.'

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'I'll call in tomorrow then. I've got to do some shopping in town. You see. I'm heading off to the States and Venezuela next week.' 'Wow. Sounds great. Will you be over there long?' asked Nigel. Steven thought about the question. He hoped, yes he genuinely hoped he was taking one of those life-changing leaps into the unknown one so often read or heard about, and that he and Gina would cement their love, their passion and somehow be together somewhere for a very long time. He had no definite plans. No right to expectations. 'Well. Initially at least I'm going for a few days.'

'Hey, I hope you're not negotiating with any galleries over there without telling me. We need to talk. You've got a great future, but you need a genuine mentor and advocate. Those guys over there will rip you up and splatter you all over your own canvas if they think they can make a buck out of it. I'm going to clear my diary for tomorrow morning. Could you come in say for about 10.30? It'll give me a chance to get to the bank and get your cash, unless you want a cheque of course?' 'No cash will be great. See you then, bye.'

For the next few days Steven was borne along on a helter-skelter of excitement. He signed a representation agreement with Reams at the gallery, made the arrangements for his journey, carefully detached the canvas of Gina from its stretcher, rolled it into the small 'bazooka' tube as he called it, which was then carried with him on his first ever flight. New York was a blur of impressions that assaulted all his senses. The American accents he initially felt were being adopted for his benefit as if by actors in his own personal movie. The crowds. The dizzying obelisks of Manhattan. The ceaseless flow of traffic. Yellow cabs. The background sounds of car horns and sirens that seemed to provide a soundtrack for millions of teeming lives. The frenetic energy of the place simultaneously excited and frightened him.

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Steven was astounded by the Guggenheim Museum. It had the appearance of an Art Deco ocean liner that had somehow beached itself on Fifth Avenue. The works inside were a revelation to him. Seen hanging in real life, the visual music of the Kandinsky's, the linear adventures of Paul Klee and the raw, visceral energy of Willem De Kooning were awe inspiring to Steven.

After a couple of days in New York he took a flight to Miami, from where, after a three-hour wait stuck in the terminal with no time to see the town, he transferred onto a plane for Caracas. Everything had happened so quickly, with new sights and experiences to distract him, Steven had given little consideration to the main purpose of his trip. It was only when he was in the air, high over the Caribbean Sea that his thoughts turned exclusively to Gina. He took the creased piece of paper on which she had written her address and phone number from his passport wallet. It was absurd. He'd had this information for six weeks and had never even thought to call her. While he didn't doubt Gina, he'd travelled a long way on the presumption she would be at home when he got there. As the plane descended towards Caracas Steven felt his confidence ebbing away. For the first time the imagined reunion of thrilled surprise, of laughter, hugs and semi-formal kisses, seemed to be less than certain. For all he knew Gina could be back in London. He might have even crossed paths with her in New York. She had said she was coming home for a while. He had just taken that to mean a matter of months or even years. It was certainly too late to think about going back now. In the Arrivals Hall he was tempted to phone and explain he had arrived in Caracas, or even to pretend he was still in New York and mention nonchalantly he could call down to visit for a few days if it suited. He could then find a hotel to hide in for forty-eight hours before going to her home, wherever it was. No. He would stick to his original plan. He was understandably nervous at the prospect of meeting her on her own ground.

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With his holdall collected from the carousel and customs cleared, Steven went in search of a taxi rank. The address he had meant nothing to him, he could not pretend he was a Spanish speaker or that he was familiar with Caracas or Venezuela. He was stunned by what he'd seen of the city as the aircraft made its final approach. Dominated by the great green mountain El Avila, with it's tall office and apartment blocks like stalagmites pointing at the vault of the sky, Caracas was impressive but unable to challenge the grandeur of it's natural setting. Steven got into a cab and showed the driver the address. The man immediately sat up smartly in his seat and became almost deferential. Conversation was impossible as, apart from a scattering of words, neither spoke the others language. Steven became nervous as they passed along a walled highway beside a section of the city that was obviously steeped in poverty. Surely Gina did not live here? Was this stranger going to bring him into some slum area, rob him of his few possessions and the little money he had, and then abandon him there? Was he going to deliver him to some gang master? Steven had certainly heard stories about tourists being kidnapped and robbed. The cab driver made a couple of remarks in Spanish, grinning enthusiastically. Steven shrugged and shook his head. 'Sorry I don't understand.' He produced the address again and gestured to the driver. 'Is this where we are going? Are you sure you know where this place is? We've been driving for quite a long time.' He pointed to his watch. In Steven's imagination the other man's smile was more a sinister leer behind his thick black moustache. 'Is O.K. Mr American. Soon be there. You guys always in a rush.' Steven didn't bother to try and correct the man on his nationality. They had moved out of the built up area, and the highway now curved it's way up into the hills. Large houses nestled into folds in the land, many enclosed behind gated walls, all surrounded by lush vegetation. The driver turned left onto a slip road off the highway. To their right the vista was dominated by yellow sand filled bunkers, and the immaculate greens and undulating fairways of a golf course adorned with

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clumps of tall palms. It was obviously there to cater for serious players with serious money. Another left turn brought them to the black wrought iron gates of a substantial house. It was built in what Steven took to be a classic Spanish style. Red tiled roof, lemon yellow walls and window frames and doors all painted in a blinding, perfect white. The driver got out of the car and spoke into an intercom beside the gate. He seemed to become animated and annoyed, gesturing aggressively at the gates as he got back into the car. Steven was seriously intimidated by the wealth suggested by his surroundings. He was tempted to ask the driver to turn around and head back to the airport. Perhaps none of this had been a good idea. 'We must wait' said the driver. 'Someone come.' As he spoke a man appeared, walking purposefully down the sloping drive towards them. He was slim, perhaps mid-forties with a languid aristocratic air. His pomaded grey hair was swept back neatly from his brow. His tanned face was a study in aloof austerity. He wore a white cotton shirt contrasted with a dark tie and black slacks, with turn-ups resting on highly polished black loafers. The man gestured at the car and the driver got out and spoke with him. He in turn beckoned for Steven to join them.

The man addressed Steven in Spanish. 'I'm sorry,' said Steven, 'but do you speak any English?' 'Naturally.' The man replied. 'How can we help you?' 'I was looking for the house of Gina Perez,' Steven produced the piece of paper with Gina's handwritten address on it. 'She gave me this address, but I think perhaps I've come to the wrong place? I've just flown in from London, well via New York and Miami.' The other man took the paper and glanced at it before handing it back. 'You have come to the right place, but what exactly is your business here?' 'Well, I'd rather talk to Gina about that. Are you her stepfather?' The man smiled lazily. 'No. I am Vincente. I take care of things for the household.' He spoke once

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more in Spanish with the driver who grunted something in reply, then turned to Steven. 'He says you owe him 40 US dollars for the fare. Are we expecting you Mr…?' 'My name is Steven Copes, and not exactly, no.' He took out his wallet and began counting the bills to pay the driver.' It's supposed to be a surprise.' 'Oh, I'm sure it will be that, Mr Copes. You had better come inside. Signora Perez and her daughter are over at the Country Club playing tennis. They should be back shortly.' Steven paid the driver and collected his baggage from the car. Vincente unlocked a small side gate and opened it sufficiently for Steven to pass through as the taxi turned and drove away. Vincente relocked the gate and said 'You'd better follow me, Mr Copes.' He made no offer to help carry Steven's luggage, but simply turned and strode the thirty metres to the front steps and colonnaded porch of the house without once looking back. Steven followed reluctantly, more like a man being led to his execution than an infatuated suitor about to be reunited with his love.

The hallway of the Perez home took up a larger floor area than the whole of an average house. The walls were the colour of buttermilk, with several gold-framed paintings hanging along both sides. There were a number of white doors set in the walls and a substantial wooden staircase led up to a wrought iron balcony, which overlooked the hallway from three sides. Two large yellow sofas faced each other across the floor of terracotta tiles. Exotic ferns arched in delicate profusion from highly polished brass tubs at the end of each sofa. The refreshingly cool space was dominated by a massive chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Steven was trying to absorb the details of the opulence in which he found himself when Vincente spoke to him. 'You will wait here until the Signora returns.' The man then walked away and turned left into a corridor behind the staircase. Steven stood and listened as the sound of Vincente's footsteps faded to silence. He was tempted to examine the pictures on the walls, but did not want to be

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caught doing so. He settled for a seat on a sofa, rummaged in his bag, took out the battered paperback copy of Robert Tressell's 'The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists' that had been his companion on his journey, and began to read. He was soon absorbed in the story and barely noticed the sound of approaching footsteps until they were almost upon him. He looked up to be confronted by the vision of Gina, dressed to play tennis, accompanied by Vincente and her older sister coming towards him. 'This Signora Elena is Mr Steven Copes, the gentleman I told you about on the telephone.' said Vincente addressing the woman who Steven now realised had to be Gina's mother rather than her elder sister.

Steven stood, and felt his face flush with embarrassment. It was obvious that Gina was not particularly pleased to see him. Was it because her mother was present? Could it be she was still shocked by the surprise of his turning up unannounced, or horror of horrors, that she had simply expected she would never see him again? 'Look. I'm really sorry about this. I don't know what I was thinking of. I happened to be in New York. Well, that's not quite true. I was in New York but had already decided to visit. Not just you, but Venezuela. You made the place sound so interesting. I painted your portrait. You know, from the Polaroids I took.' Steven was floundering for words as he watched Gina's features lock into a frozen grimace that parodied the indulgent smile she was attempting to display. Steven unscrewed the cap of his 'bazooka', then carefully extracted and unfurled the canvas inside. Elena Perez took control of the situation with grace and dignity. 'Vincente. Could you please arrange to have some cold drinks, and I think some chilled fresh fruit salad served in the garden. We'll follow through there in a moment.' 'Of course Signora.' The dismissed Vincente gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and walked away. Elena turned to Steven, offered her hand and gave him a generous smile. 'I am Elena, Gina's mother. She forgot to tell me about you, or

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perhaps wanted to keep you a secret eh?' Steven had laid the canvas on the floor. 'Even I can see you are a remarkable talent. Your use of colour is really quite exciting and original. It certainly conveys a sense of mystery and great sensual energy. You have painted a woman with magnetic appeal. I see my daughter has a side I was unaware of. It is an excellent piece of work.' 'I'm pleased with it' said Steven. 'But not with our miserable welcome, I am sure.' Elena replied. She murmured something in Spanish to Gina. 'Steven, I really must apologise,' said Gina. 'This was so unexpected, and I'm hot and tired after our match,' She embraced him lightly and offered her cheek to be kissed. Steven brushed her face with his lips. Gina turned to her mother. 'Steven and I met when we were in London, while I was visiting the Hayward Gallery. We met up again briefly for coffee and talked about his work as a painter.' She turned to Steven. 'He showed me some photos of his studio and some of his pictures.' She faced her mother. 'I invited him to visit, but didn't realise it might be so soon.' She turned back to Steven. 'It really is nice to see you again, and the painting is wonderful. I am really flattered. It is too generous.' Elena again intervened. 'It will be a pleasure to have you as our guest. I'll have Vincente arrange to have your room prepared while we have something light to eat and drink.' They waited while Steven rolled the canvas and put it back in it's tube, then all three walked to a pair of doors at the back of the house, and on through into the garden.

For more than a week Steven enjoyed the home and hospitality of Elena Perez. He had a large and comfortable bedroom at the back of the house with its own balcony overlooking the pool and immaculately maintained gardens. The weather was wonderful, with brilliant sunshine every day. Gina seemed to have a busy social timetable, and invited him along to horse riding, to play tennis and to meet her friends. Steven was soon aware that Gina had at least three serious suitors in

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her coterie of twenty or so male and female friends, all of whom were members of Caracas's wealthy elite. The men saw him as a foreign threat to their own romantic ambitions, and Steven got the impression they wanted to humiliate him in front of Gina. Although they were always polite and courteous, it was obvious these men in particular did not welcome his presence in their group. They called him Gringo, with mock affection, while making remarks in Spanish about his poor horsemanship, his limitations as a tennis player and his lack of wealth, provoking laughter at his expense. Gina avoided being alone in his company, and it became clear the great romance, the passionate love story he carried in his mind had been nothing more than fantasy. Steven felt bitter and disappointed at himself. He barely had enough money to get back to England, and so decided it was time to leave.

He made the decision the morning after a late night spent in the bar at the Country Club with Gina's gang. Steven woke with an agonising pounding headache, he felt nauseous and the very process of thinking seemed to cause him sharp stabs of pain. As he got up, showered and drank copious amounts of water to try and flush the poisonous alcohol out of his system, he had flashbacks of the previous evening. They had met at the Club, and Steven had been careful. Determined not to drink very much. Yet here he was, trembling and unsteady, suffering from the worst hangover, the only serious hangover he had ever had. Thinking back now he could see the faces of Hector Simoni and Benito Correa, laughing and whispering together. Performing like the arrogant peacocks they were, in their efforts to impress Gina. She shared their jokes and didn't bother to translate for Steven. The realisation came in a flash. The bastards had spiked his drinks. He recalled another fragment of the night. Correa, in his flawless American accented English saying ' Hey, Gringo. I thought you gringos were good drinkers, able to hold your liquor. You're looking pretty drunk to me. Why don't you get up and show us your hairy arse?' Steven could remember standing and

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swaying unsteadily. He dreaded the unfurling recollection. Surely not! He couldn't have dropped his trousers and exposed himself in the bar of one of the most luxurious establishments in the whole of Latin America? He would be banned forever and his behaviour would even be reported in the press. Another sliver of memory came to him. He had stood, leaning against the table for support, causing drinks to spill as he bent across towards Simoni. 'You're a smug, arrogant little shit Hector. Every breath you take is a criminal waste of fresh air. If Gina decides to marry you, it will only be for your dirty money, but I can't believe she could be shallow enough to accept you.' Simoni had leapt to his feet, fists clenched at his sides and his face pale with repressed fury. Someone else had taken Steven's arm and he had been led veering drunkenly, away.

Steven showered, dressed and made his way down into the hall. He intended to find Gina and give her the good news he would not be around to embarrass her much longer. He was going to catch the first available flight to the USA, as stage one of his return journey home. He came across Elena, supervising Vincente, who was making fine adjustments to the positioning of Steven's portrait of Gina, now set in its own gold frame, on the wall. 'Hello, Steven.' She greeted him. There was no mention of the previous night. She had to know about it. Gina would have told her. 'Your painting looks very impressive, no?' She smiled knowingly. 'I'm glad we bumped into each other like this. I'd like the chance to have a little talk.' Vincente excused himself, nodded at Steven and walked away. 'Bloody hell,' thought Steven ' she was going to throw him out, before he had the chance to say he was leaving anyway.' Elena led him into her private lounge, which was entered only in her company and by invitation. It was a large room, with walls painted the pale green colour of the flesh of unripe avocadoes, and French windows overlooking the patio and the gardens at the front of the house. She sat down on a large pink sofa and patted the seat beside her. Steven obediently placed himself where she wanted. She laid a hand on his arm. ' You poor boy,'

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she began. 'I have watched you squirming for the past few days and I really am sorry that your obvious affection for my daughter is not reciprocated, at least not to the same degree. I've spoken to her about it. Well, more than that actually. I've told her I am very unhappy at the way in which she gave you the wrong impression.' Stephen shifted uncomfortably. 'Listen, it's O.K. if you want me to go' 'Nonsense.' she retorted. ' Nobody is talking about making you go. You must understand that Gina has a great imagination. She is a romantic fantasist. When she met you she fell in love with the idea of falling in love with you. It was safe and as she thought, could have no consequences. What could be more wonderful for a young woman than to be in love with a handsome artist thousands of miles away, dreaming of what could never be, while gazing up at the stars in the velvet sky. Steven, my daughter has been horribly spoiled all her life, and particularly since her fathers death. You personified a fairy tale. When you arrived Gina was at first horrified because she was being confronted by the presence of a true romantic. In you she saw a man with the courage to allow his heart and passions to truly rule his mind. She had to face certain facts about herself. It wasn't easy for her, and she does admire you and respects you as a friend.' 'Well, that's some consolation, I suppose.' said Steven ironically. 'I know it isn't.' Elena insisted. ' I'd rather you didn't mention our talk to Gina. I just want you to understand.' She patted his arm, drawing his attention to the diamond and emerald rings that decorated her fingers. 'I have a little proposition to make. You are very obviously a fine painter, and well, I think you deserve some reward for taking the trouble to come here. We also enjoy your company of course. I would like to invite you to stay for a while. I also want to commission a painting of this house, a vista of the Country Club, as you know we own the land on which the Club stands, and a portrait of my late husband. I have some good photographs but they lack animation. They lack life.' 'I don't have a difficulty with painting from a photo, but as I've never met your

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husband the portrait might turn out to be a bit flat. It might disappoint you?' 'I take it you accept then. Don't worry. We can talk about Ernesto. I'm sure my reminiscences will help you bring him back to life. I can watch and tell you stories while you paint him. We'll have to organise a space for your studio, and of course discuss your terms. Gina tells me you recently sold a painting for more than two thousand dollars. I am prepared to pay a fair collectors commercial price.' Elena stood. The audience was over. Steven left the room in a state of confusion. He needed coffee and vitamin C in large quantities, and to think over the offer that had just been made.

Gina found him in the kitchen sipping a large glass of fresh orange juice. 'How are you feeling this morning Steven?' she asked. 'You were very drunk last night'. 'Well, that was thanks to your friends. They spiked my drinks. Did you know they were doing it?' 'Of course not! I would have stopped them. I told them off about it. We want to make it up to you. Hector has suggested a trip to the beach this afternoon. I told him we'd love to go.' 'Without even asking me?' Steven was annoyed. 'Oh, come on. You can make him even more jealous of you, of us. Get your revenge. We can have a swim. It will help to clear your head and I'll make us a picnic. Say yes, please. For me.' Steven nodded his agreement, feeling like an obedient puppy, as he accepted the reward of a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Within an hour Hector was at the house, announcing his arrival with three long blasts on the horn of his brand new blood red Pontiac Trans Am. Benito and a girl Steven had not previously met were already in the car. All were dressed in crisp white T-shirts and Levi jeans. The passenger seat beside the driver had been left for Steven, while Gina squeezed herself and her picnic basket into the back beside Benito, and the dyed blonde who introduced herself as Carla. They drove

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out onto the highway. Hector put on his sunglasses and began to show off his new toy, accelerating rapidly into bends and braking hard to let the back of the car slide and the tyres squeal. Steven began to feel sick and giddy. He was about to ask Hector to stop driving like a lunatic, when he did so of his own accord. 'You could never beat this baby,' he bragged in English for Steven's benefit 'even the cops couldn't catch me if I didn't want to let them.' Steven was aware Hector kept glancing in his rear view mirror. He looked back to see a white van had closed up behind them. The vehicle swung out and overtook them, then swerved in front of them and stopped, blocking the road. 'What the fuck is going on?' shouted Benito. 'Quick. Reverse. Turn this fucking thing around.' Two men, dressed completely in black and wearing grinning, sinister looking facemasks leapt from the back of the van. Both carried handguns. The women screamed in terror. Hector sat frozen in his seat. The men wrenched open the car doors, shouting in a mixture of Spanish and English. 'Come on hurry. Out! Out! Into the truck, quickly, now!' On legs of jelly, Steven obeyed. He was pushed and slapped, at one point feeling the cold hard metal of the guns barrel jabbed into the side of his face. He was vaguely aware of the others, pleading for mercy, and begging not to be harmed.

Two other men, in identical grinning masks, waited in the back of the van. They shouted instructions in Spanish and then for Steven's benefit. 'You, put your hands behind your back. Everybody stay silent, or I'll shoot you.' Steven felt his hands being bound tightly with heavy-duty tape, a bag or sack was thrown over his head from behind, and everything descended into blackness and pure terror. As the van drove away, he heard a few remarks in Spanish and whimpering from his fellow captives in the background. His heart was pounding so violently he felt it would burst his eardrums. His head was burning. He could feel the sweat running down his face and neck, and it was almost impossible to breathe. He became aware of the hot wetness seeping down his thigh, and felt absurdly embarrassed to think his captors would see he had pissed himself with fear. After

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a short time the van stopped and they were bundled out. Steven felt strong hands guiding him forward across the ground. They entered some kind of building, and he was forced into a chair. He heard voices in discussion, but everything said was in Spanish. For a few seconds his thoughts went to the plight of the others, particularly Gina. The sweat on his face now intermingled with tears. He felt a kick to his shin, and a hard slap across his face. 'Hey you. Gringo. They say you don't have money. What can we get for you eh? We can sell these rich pigs back to their families but you are useless to us. Not even worth feeding. Shall we kill this one? Dump him in the road. Let them know we are serious in our demands? Come on Gringo, what do you think? What would you do in our shoes eh?' Steven wept uncontrollably. 'Please don't kill me.' It was an absurd request. He knew he had no destiny, no hope of influencing the coming moments, and sensed a momentary blast of unspeakable agony would precede his tumbling into an empty void. A shot rang out. Steven recoiled in terror, tipping over the chair as he fell to the ground. He heard the sound of laughter. A group of people convulsed with laughter as he was lifted roughly to his feet and pushed back into the chair. Hands fumbled at the hood. It was dragged from his head. Hector, Benito, Gina and others, familiar from the Country Club were standing around and laughing at him. It had all been a big joke staged at his expense. There had been no kidnapping. Nobody was going to die. 'Hey Gringo,' said Hector. 'You look like you've seen a ghost.' Steven's shock, rage and humiliation left him speechless as the tape was carefully cut from his wrists. 'Hey, come on Gringo. It was just a joke. Nobody meant any harm,' said Benito. 'Don't be such a miserable loser,' another challenged him. Steven was not paying attention. He refused to speak. Gina was angry. 'Stop trying to make everyone feel bad, Steven. We were just having a bit of fun. We're even planning to pretend to kidnap mother for goodness sake. It's just a little trick. There's no harm done.' Steven maintained his silence as they drove back home. The others soon understood there was no

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point in talking to him, and left him alone. He spent the night in his room, indifferent to the irritation of hunger and incapable of concentrating his mind on anything other than his determination to get out of the house and as soon as possible after that, Venezuela.

The next morning he was packing his things when he was interrupted by a gentle knock on his door. 'Come in,' he said, and Elena entered. 'I see you've decided to leave us,' she remarked with some surprise. 'I thought you'd agreed to my little proposition yesterday?' 'Sorry, things have changed,' Steven murmured. 'Did something happen? When you were out yesterday?' 'No, nothing,' he replied unconvincingly. 'I just feel it's time to be on my way. I really do appreciate your generosity, but exciting things are happening for me in England. I mustn't neglect that.' 'You are so British Steven. You can't hide your emotions and tell only as much of the truth as you have to in order to avoid telling a lie. There is more to the situation than you're telling me,' she admonished him with a smile. 'I'll tell you what we'll do. I have to go to my ranch today. We have some new horses to look at. You can keep me company. That's a small price to pay for my generosity over the past few days. It will give you a chance to see my other home, and I can try to persuade you to tell me the full story of what happened yesterday. I can see you have been very upset by whatever it was. You were hiding away here in your room for the whole of the evening, and Gina would only say she thought you were ill. My daughter is not a very good liar.' Steven agreed, out of politeness, to accompany Elena to her ranch. It was going to be a very long day.

On the journey they travelled on the same highway on which the kidnapping had been staged, and passed the abandoned house where Steven had been briefly held. He shuddered involuntarily as they passed it, and Elena noticed his

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discomfort right away. 'Something horrible happened to you yesterday, Steven. If my daughter was involved I will make sure she pays. Tell me, please. Tell me what it was.' Steven insisted there was nothing to tell. 'You might think I'm keeping something back from you. You might be right, but it really doesn't matter. Not any more. Please don't ask me again. I'd rather not say.' They continued in silence for a while then Steven enquired ' aren’t you worried about driving around on your own Elena? I've heard stories about people being robbed in their cars, even kidnapped for ransom. It happens quite often.' 'I'm not on my own. I'm with you. I have you as my bodyguard.' She smiled reassuringly at him. 'But you do drive alone a lot of the time.' 'I also have my other secret bodyguard. Nobody knows about him except me and you.' Elena leant across and opened the glove compartment. She then reached in and drew out a sleek black Beretta pistol. 'You see. Anyone tries to stop me on the road and I'll blow out their brains.' She laughed as she dropped the gun in her lap. Steven knew she was serious and would not hesitate to use it. Throughout the day he was tempted to tell her about his mock kidnapping, but he held back. It was over and he was going home.

Elena and Gina drove him to the airport the next morning, and took turns to hug him and kiss him goodbye at the departure gate he thought about saying something about his ordeal but decided against. It was recalling Gina's words that stopped him ' We're even planning to pretend to kidnap mother….' as they promised the prospect of sweet revenge.

Steven’s flight climbed into the sky above Caracas. He closed his eyes and thought of how events might unfold. Elena would be driving along the highway. The van would sweep across to block her path. Hector, Benito or some other grinning masked idiot would jump out, wrench open her car door and have no

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time register surprise as he was shot in the face. As he fell she would get out of the car and keep shooting him as he lay on the ground. The others might run away or try to explain it was a terrible mistake, only a joke, a bit of fun. Gina might pull off her mask so her mother would know there was no danger and perhaps the sight of her daughter would stop Elena shooting at Gina’s other friends.

Elena would be remorseful and explain to the police she had no way of knowing the attempted abduction was just a game. Her attackers had been wearing masks and these were dangerous times. She had had to react quickly to protect herself. The police would show understanding; Elena would be released without charge, and at least one of those bastards would be going to his grave. Steven called the flight attendant and with the last of his Bolivar’s bought a bottle of champagne.

END.

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