Quintin Jardine - A Coffin For Two

‘Of course I could not contain my curiosity for ever. My father used to spend long hours in his study, or so I was told. I wondered more and more what he did there. I had my toys, and eventually my crayons, pens, brushes and paints, for my talent began to emerge at an early age, but what did he have? Did he draw and paint too?

‘I wanted to know, yet I had always been told that it was not polite to ask questions. So one day, just before my seventh birthday, I went up to his study, when I had been told by my mother that he was there, I opened the door just a fraction and I looked inside. The room was empty. I closed the door and turned to go. My father was standing on the stair to the attic, looking at me, very sadly. I got such a fright I almost pissed my pants.’ As Davidoff grinned at the memory, I realised that my mouth was hanging open. I snapped it shut.

‘I thought that he might beat me,’ he went on, ‘though he never had before. Instead, he took my hand and he led me up to the attic. At the top of the stair there was a big, heavy door. He unlocked it, and opened it, for me to see inside.

‘Everything in the room was soft. The walls, the back of the door, even the floor coverings. They were all padded so that my brother could not damage himself. There was no bed as such, only a big cushion against one wall. There were toys on the floor, stuffed animals, all shapeless and battered.’ He paused. ‘I remember an elephant. It had no ears, because he had torn them off.

‘Yet also there was the giraffe. It was stuffed like all the rest, but it was undamaged. My father told me that it was the one thing that he did not destroy, the only thing in his life, up to that point, for which he had shown any affection.’

Davidoff’s face twisted with the sudden pain of his memories. ‘Salvador was sat strapped into a harness, attached to a big padded chair,’ he said. ‘He was nine years old when first I saw him, yet he wore a diaper. There was a commode in the corner of the room, but when he was tied in his chair, as he usually was when my mother or father were not with him, he wore that diaper.

‘You must understand, Oz, that they loved him as much as they loved me. All those years were an ordeal for them. They spent hours alone with him, feeding him, bathing him, touching him, although he was like a wild beast and would not respond to them. When I saw him first he was dressed in fresh white clothes, unusual only in that they had no buttons. My mother made them herself, as she made some of mine.

‘I stared and stared at him from the doorway. Then I looked up at my father, and saw that he was weeping. That made me afraid. The boy in the chair stared at me. I asked my father, “Who is he?” He told me, “This is your poor brother. He is possessed.”’

As he paused, I saw that his eye was glistened with tears, as, I realised too, were mine. ‘I slipped free of his hand and I ran into the room, up to the boy in the chair. My father tried to stop me; he was afraid for me. But Salvador just looked at me, and he smiled. I said “Hello, brother.” He made a strange baby sound. He was nine years old, yet he had not learned to speak properly. I unfastened the straps of his harness. I hugged him, and he hugged me. Behind me, I heard our father say, “It is a miracle.”

‘If Salvador was possessed, as I believe, maybe I drove some of the demons from him. I know that my father truly believed that. Certainly, from that day on, he was never violent again; at least never when I was about. When my parents were convinced that it was safe, he was brought down from the attic. He slept with me in my room. He watched me in the playroom. He copied me and he learned from me. There were no doctors for Salvador, only me. He learned to speak by listening to me. He learned to read and write by copying what I had done at school.

‘Yet still he was a secret from the world. My parents were afraid for him, afraid to let people see him because of how they would react. I was forbidden to speak of him, and I withdrew from all my childhood friends. My poor mad brother became my life; we grew up together in our own little world.

‘When Salvador was twelve, and I was ten, my father made a decision about our future. He bought a villa in Port Lligat, a tiny place near Cadaques. Salvador, my mother and I moved there, where no one knew our family, and where we could live a more normal life. There was a garden in which Salvador and I played, and a big room at the top of the house in which I was able to paint, and where my brother would draw. A tutor was hired, a nurse for us, and a maid for my mother. Father would visit at weekends, and for holidays. My parents’ ordeal was over, and for the first time in our lives, we were a happy family, if not a normal one.’

Davidoff stopped again, and took a deep draught of his wine, then put the glass down again, out of camera shot. ‘We stayed in the villa for seven years, in our contented isolation, until it was time to contemplate life as adults. Salvador had come a long way since first I met him in the attic. He had learned proper behaviour, and he could look after himself physically like anyone else. To a stranger he would have looked normal.

‘But behind his eyes — ’ he reached up and tapped his head ‘- in here, he was still as crazy as a bedbug. Also, emotionally, he was completely reliant on me. I was only seventeen, but one thing was clear to me. I was, and I would always be, my brother’s keeper.’

He paused. ‘My talent as an artist was developing, until finally I told my father that I wanted to study painting at college. He found a place in Madrid, with a good reputation but where the only entry requirement was money. Of course, Salvador had to go also. He had developed a limited talent for pen and ink drawing, and so he was enroled too.

‘At that point, our shared name became a problem. I suppose I could have become Felipe, or Jacinto, but I hated them both. However I had just read a book in which the principal character, a young man like me, was called Davidoff. I persuaded my father to enrol me simply as Senor Davidoff, Salvador’s cousin. That is who I have been from that day on.’ He smiled again at the camera and gave a brief nod. I couldn’t help it; as he resumed his story, I nodded back.

‘College was a problem, for several reasons. First, having lived in virtual seclusion for most of my life, I found myself overwhelmed by the mass of humanity amongst whom I had thrust myself. I was shy, and reserved. My brother, on the other hand, in my company … and meeting outsiders for the first time, behaved as bizarrely as always. His flamboyance made him a celebrity. It was very difficult to control him at times. I never let him out of my sight, although by now he was not afraid to be without me. You will find references to that period in the book. You will also, if you look carefully, see a young Davidoff beside Salvador in a class photo which is reproduced there.

‘Our studies were a drama also. Because we had to be in the same classes, Salvador had to take painting with me. The trouble was, while he could draw well enough, he could not paint worth a damn. His work was awful. Mine on the other hand, was technically far and away the best in the college. However, my subjects and my compositions were as shy and reserved as I was. There was no soul to them.

‘That landed us in trouble. Once, my tutor said to me, in front of the class, “Senor Davidoff, you have a great talent: for painting biscuit tins. You should stick to that.” Salvador roared and threw his paints at the man. He was almost expelled, but our father’s fees were more important than the tutor’s suiting.’

Davidoff laughed and shook his head. ‘We left eventually, but for another reason. As my brother came to realise, if not to understand, his sexuality, he developed a fondness for girls, for very young girls. He touched no one, you understand, but he used to stare at them in the street, sometimes to the annoyance of their parents. It came to a head when he made some filthy, obscene drawings, and sold them for publication in a magazine for people who liked to indulge in that way. Someone gave the Principal a copy … or maybe he was a paedophile himself … and that was the end.