by John Barry Maher
When I entered the café there was only one open table for two in the middle. For a few moments I sat alone. He tapped me on the shoulder just as my coffee arrived. “Do you mind?” he said in a light Spanish accent opening his palm to the vacant seat, grey hair swept back from a lined but handsome face. His suit was well cut, but what drew my attention was his impeccably waxed and curled moustache. I had the feeling I had seen him somewhere before.
My second trip to Madrid and I was glad to have a few hours off to explore on my own. I had the taxi drop me in the Centro district and then wandered the narrow streets, with no particular destination, just taking in the city.
“You’re going again?” Chloe’s voice in memory. I know she didn’t mean it like that, but the jealousy seeped in. Jet lag, meetings, email’s, reports, lunches, late night conference calls to Toronto and New York – my reality. Culture, art, history, adventure – her imaginings. “Next time, I promise, if this deal looks like it’s going somewhere. We’ll go together.”
She gave me a short “Hmm.” She had heard this before.
“American?” the stranger across from me raised his eyebrows.
“No,” I replied “Canadian.”
“Ahh,” he said, “Please forgive me.”
I laughed, understanding that he was taking back the accusation.
A waiter appeared and nodded, silently taking the man’s order. A few people around us glanced at him. This was his local, his territory.
We fell into an easy conversation. He had been to Toronto once. New York many times. I told him about my business, and he told me about his boyhood home in northern Spain. I wanted to go there.
“I haven’t had much time to explore here. My wife wanted to come, but with the business commitments…” I trailed off.
He nodded sympathetically as his coffee arrived, something short and dark and strong. He took a relaxed sip. I had the sense that he had no trouble sleeping at night.
“You must see the Prado at least,” he said, “There is a special show, an exhibition, a Spanish painter.” He was talking about the art museum. We were in Chloe’s domain now and I felt a twinge of guilt.
“I have a favourite painting,” he said lowering his voice so that I had to lean in to hear him. “When you see this picture, you must look at the lower left-hand corner. The artist has left a secret there.”
And with the buzz of the café vibrating around us, he described the painting and told me its secret, and something that should never be done. I didn’t believe him. It was a ridiculous thing. Maybe he had spotted an easy mark for his eccentric Spanish humour. Anyone sporting a waxed handlebar moustache must surely have an eccentric sense of humor to go with it. Where had I seen him?
“And how do you know this?” I asked, trying to be polite and hide my scepticism.
He leaned back. “In Madrid, one knows things,” he said, without a hint of irony. Then he looked at his watch and stood with purpose. He put out his hand. “Sam” he said, an unusual name for a Spaniard I thought as I felt his firm grip.
“Ian.” I replied.
“Unfortunately, Ian, I must leave. It has been a pleasure talking with you,” and nodding towards the door he added, “The Prado. Walk against the traffic and then through the trees. It’s not far.”
He was right, it wasn’t far. Entering under the towering pillars I was confronted with a large backlit poster. At the top was a photograph of a man with a waxed handlebar moustache. He was much younger than the man in the café, but the similarity was uncanny. Beneath the picture was a title ‘Salvador Dali: a Retrospective’
Salvador Dali. The man in the café, his name wasn’t Sam, I had misheard it, it was Sal – Salvador. I had just met Salvador Dali. For a moment, my mind froze taking in the enormity of what had happened. Small wonder the people at the other tables were stealing glances at him. But this was Europe. In Toronto he would have been mobbed. Chloe would never believe it.
Then I read the description below the exhibition title.
‘This exhibition brings together one of the largest collections of Salvador Dali’s works, marking the fifth anniversary of his death in 1989.’ 89 – that was five years ago. I looked at the photograph again. I had made a foolish leap. But why did this man in the cafe – this Dali faker – tell me about the painting, about the thing that must never be done. The thought came to me once more that I had been set up. Were the people at the other tables laughing? Local character takes in another unsuspecting tourist. I became angry, mostly at myself. Chloe would have laughed – but she would have appreciated the joke. I could hear her voice. ‘Business is your thing, Ian, art is mine.’ The whole episode was ridiculous, yet the image of the painting and my own curiosity formed an irresistible vortex. Dammit, I was here now, I might as well see the thing.
People stood in groups in a high-ceilinged room, where the walls were covered with Dali’s work. CCTV cameras perched above, modern gargoyles guarding against malevolence. I stood, gazing at the painting. It was just as Sam, or Sal, or whatever his name was, had described it. A large canvas depicting three magnificent swans on a still lake, but instead of swans reflected in the water below, there were three elephants. My heart beat a little faster. I searched the lower left-hand corner for the secret, and there it was, right where the Dali-man said it would be. Where the water from the lake looked as if it should flow out into a flaccid drain, there was a nodule of dark paint, about the size of a fingernail, sticking up above the surface. I searched the rest of the painting but found nothing like it.
Another man stood beside me. Without thinking I asked, “Does that look weird to you?” pointing to the spot. He looked at me and then at my extended finger. “Sorry” he said, raising his shoulders slightly “No English.” He looked back at the painting for a moment before moving away. He probably thought I was just another rude North American, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the imperfection. Like the Dali-man in the café it was taunting me, inviting me, pulling me in, begging me to do what must never be done. In an instant my thumb and forefinger were pinching the nodule and with a small pop it came away in my hand. There were no sirens, no alarms, I felt the rough texture of the dried pea in my closed palm and looked around. What had I done? The heat rushed to my cheeks. Instinctively, I checked left and right. I was still alone in front of the painting. Others in the gallery showed no sign they had seen anything. I thought I saw movement in the painting. Surely it was my guilty mind playing tricks on me. The water was draining from the lake. The swans were sinking, and the elephants were disappearing slowly in a diagonal direction, sucked towards the small hole I had just created. I wanted to run but my legs were riveted to the floor. Those close to me noticed the movement. Whispers turned to exclamations of horror. A small crowd formed around me. There were shouts from behind. People were pushing in front to get a better look. A security guard yelled in Spanish trying to clear a path. I pushed my way backwards. Over the heads of the crowd, at the top of the picture, the paint began to stretch and bleed until bare canvass showed. Keeping my head down, I walked away.
In the street I hailed a cab, my mind whirling with questions and disbelief. Why had the Dali-man told me to do this? Who was he? I thought of the gargoyle cameras in the gallery. I still had the fragment of paint clenched in my fist. As I opened the taxi door, I flung it into the gutter.
How could I tell Chloe she would never be able to go to Madrid?
John Barry Maher is a retired geologist and an emerging writer living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. He is currently querying his debut novel ‘SPECK’ and his short story ‘Treasure’ is due for publication in the winter 2026 edition of The New Quarterly. He is a member of the Alexandra Writers’ Society and the Writers’ Guild of Alberta.
Swans Reflecting Elephants, 1937 by Salvador Dali
