LA MAISON DU DÉLICE
PAUL HAWORTH
FREERLAND
We fly over a line of trawlers. They are anchored bow to stern to form a floating barrier - a nautical border wall.
’Tis a very different Patric Farmer entering Freerish airspace. Attired in white Cifonelli dinner jacket and black velvet trousers. You know who this guy reminds me of? The Old Patric Farmer. But this is a new model. Revived, refreshed, rebooted
Patric IV: Farmer’s Harvest.
Same goes for Sami. Resplendent in pink suit and Panama hat, a toothy smile fixed to his face. His whitened teeth dazzle before the North Pacific sun.
Our mood is matched by the pilot: a hyper man who communicates over the intercom in whoops, wows and woahs. He seems as thrilled by the sights as we are.
The weather is bright and we’re all smiles on our way to a happy ending.
A week in the spa at the Miami Four Seasons had brought me back from the brink. I installed myself there for some cryotherapy, saunas, massages, mud baths, charcoal shots. Essentially picking up where I’d left off in Positano, and, over the course of a week, I was resurrected.
It was in the spa, an IV drip of vitamins feeding into my arm, that I found the strength to make that call...
“Jan?”
“I don’t know why I’m even answering.”
“Let me explain.”
“No! Not this time! This time I explain. I don’t need you. I don’t like you. I don’t want you in my life, I don’t want you in Dougie’s life. Whatever it was, this happy-families experiment, it’s over, you hear? Finished. Seriously. We’re better off without you. It’s better to have no dad than a crap dad. And let there be no doubt, you are a crap dad. You never figured it out, Patric, that it’s not just you anymore. That you’re not the kid in this relationship and when you act up there are consequences—”
I switched to video call so she could see my wounded features.
“Oh my God, what happened?”
“Car accident.”
“Why did no one tell me?”
“I’ve been in a coma.”
This was a lie. A terrible lie. I felt just awful for telling it, but found comfort in it being the final time I would ever lie to Jan. Because that was it - I was done. Yes, I had missed Dougie’s birthday. Yes, I had jeopardised their having a roof over their head. But it wasn’t over. I wasn’t finished yet. I just had to tie things up with Jenna, and then we - Jan, Dougie and I - could get on with the business of starting over...
What a magnificent notion that is - starting over - how many times does life allow it?
Starting over…
A day after my talk with Jan, I was in a hot tub on my balcony, drinking an extravagant cocktail when the call came: “I did it! Yes I did! I did it!” said Sami. “It never leaves, Patric. I’ve still got it. It were as if I was still a dealer, at the top of my game, this is my calling!”
“Merci, mon frère. Merci.”
“Jenna suggests we attend a cérémonie de signature.”
“Both of us?”
“Naturally, Patric, I am still a van man. This is an awesome undertaking for Montandon-Ramseyer, we can arrange some of the logistics in espace de viande.”
Starting over...
The helicopter hovers over a sea so blue, intense and unreal. Imagine Dougie, splashing in those waters, while mummy and daddy nuzzle in a hammock.
That’s right - I see a future - I need to stop worrying - stop dwelling on the past - and celebrate where my life is heading.
It crosses my mind that I might never return to London. I might never see a grey sky again, or experience the damp of a British winter chill me to the bone. An assortment of vessels course through the waters. Small boats busy themselves around big boats. Big boats ferry between liners. I count at least eight other helicopters darting about the sky.
We pass a rig that holds a vertiginous stack of portacabins. Washing hangs from some of windows and men lean out of other windows, smoking. On the roof, men sunbathe and play football.
A neighbouring rig is a factory of some sort. It has two chimneys: one pumps out black smoke, the other shoots flaming streaks high into the air. Our thrill-seeking pilot rides straight through the flame.
“Jiminy Cricket!” he squeals.
The sky’s radiant blues are obscured by smoke. It’s grim. Grimness is not something I associate with Freerland, but I have to remind myself it is a construction site. No less than a construction site on water. No way is it going to be pretty.
A lumpy brown morass protrudes from the sea. The way it lifts roundly out of the water, one could imagine it as the body of a giant sea monster.
“Volcanooooooo!” hoots the pilot.
Something about its surface - brown, plantless, pockmarked - is profoundly evocative. What is it about this island that madeleines me so? It takes me back, way back, to childhood.
Erected on the volcanic matter is a flag: the stars and stripes in black and white. It looks simultaneously cool and malevolent. Like a sexy, goth Jasper Johns.
Our pilot buzzes a row of helicopters parked on the island. Next to the helicopters is a nest of jagged scrap metal. A man on a quad-bike races around, sending dirt spraying. In the water beside him is his spirit twin: a man on a water-ski bounding in circles.
There is so much activity, but to what purpose? Chongqing was hectic with construction, but there I could perceive the logic and its endgame. This is reminiscent of a playground without supervision.
Sami’s grin stays fixed. Lest we forget, this guy lives in Switzerland - where EVERYTHING runs perfectly - so all the dirt and danger must appear terribly exotic.
A dark shadow.
The helicopter shakes.
A plane swoops above us.
Our pilot yee-haws, Sami cackles, I hold my breath.
I watch the plane sink and land on an aircraft carrier.
Someone shoots a flare.
There are rainbow slicks of oil on the surface of the sea.
Then an omen: a blimp.
The lugubrious air whale, hangs in the sky. What is it even there for? Probably vital work, such as measuring the climate, observing weather, mapping the tides, but I turn away from its sinister oval form.
Next I see a black mass - like a mushroom cloud - heavy and opaque, sitting on the surface of the ocean.
We head straight for it.
“Bap-bo-be-ba-da-boop…”
The pilot scats.
“...do-dee-doo-dop...”
I close my eyes as we impact the mass.
“...boo-boo-boopy-do...”
I open my eyes. It could be nighttime. There is no visibility through the windows but for occasional flashes of...lightning? - “...bom-ba-doobop...” - crackling bursts of red and white - I grimace, hands bunched tightly in fists - “...dooby-do-bobapop...” - my stomach twists - any second I’m expecting a collision - for us to be vaporised in a fireball - “...dappa-boo-bap-doo…” - but finally...the clouds dissipate…and...behold!
The Giant Hamster Ball.
When you see a groundbreaking building - one that bears no connection to any you have seen before - it is hard to process. You can’t read the image. This may be because of the size, shape, materials. Or it could be location - the building exists incongruous to the surroundings. Or it could be that a design you’ve known only in digital renderings in no way disappoints, shrinks or lacks lustre when experienced in real life. It’s just something so much bigger that it is literally beyond comprehension. I perceive all of this when I set eyes, for the first time, on the National Gallery of Freerland.
This isn’t a building, it’s a jewel.
The surroundings are filthy - the sea is black, smoke streaks the sky, fires burn, sparks fly - but none of this can take away from the spectacle.
Picture the tallest skyscraper - a glass tower - and it matches that for height. But this is a globe, and therefore as wide as it is tall. There are no surrounding buildings to offer comparable scale, but, buoyed by a symphony of boats and cranes, one can fathom that this is a world in itself, one that could contain all the Tates, the Met, the Louvre and, dare I say, the Hermitage, combined. It is that big.
Its surface is a lattice of triangular windows. The windows are small and this gives it an organic quality - something infinite and thriving - like bacteria under a microscope.
Can a building be fecund?
The windows reflect the surroundings in such a way that the building meshes with the smoke and the sea. The sun that powers through the smoke, strobes through propellers and is reflected off the glass to mesmerising effect.
Sami’s voice over the intercom: “Truly a thing of beauty.”
In this state of awe, absolute and terrifying, I undergo a revelation. I am struck by how compromised, prosaic, how earthbound existence has become. Our lives are narrow and circumscribed, tentative and judicial.
But not here! Here - born of smoke and fire - is a world looking to the future not with terror but promise - the promise of technology, ambition, solutions, and hope. And if this is it - The End for humankind, or just the apex of human achievement before we hand over the baton to AI - then it is a glorious tomb, worthy of Notre Dame, Petra, and the Taj Mahal. A finale that slaps down the gauntlet: Beat that, robot overlords! The pilot lingers, dipping the nose of the helicopter to allow us a closer look. It’s not finished - nowhere near - gaps pockmark the surface, and it is shrouded in swathes of scaffolding. But it’s at that tantalising moment, like just when a jigsaw puzzle reveals its image, the long-sought end in sight.
We ascend to the top of the ball, where there is a black circle. It could be a sinkhole. We descend inside it. It is almost completely dark. The helicopter eventually touches down.
“Woot!” goes the pilot.
I unbuckle and disembark. Entirely disoriented, I am lightheaded and wobbly. The air is heavy. It is eerily quiet. A metal hull surrounds us. Far above, there is a window of light from where we entered. The scale makes me feel miniscule. It is redolent of being stood within a Richard Serra sculpture.
The helicopter roars away. I duck from the blowback and see guards emerge from the darkness. They hold assault rifles. More irenically, here comes Ray.
“Greetings, Sami,” he says and shakes Sami’s hand. “Mr Farmer,” he gives me a nod. “I trust you both had a pleasant journey.”
“Incredible!” says Sami.
“Please, follow me.”
Ray seems to be on his best behaviour. It would be nice to hear him calling us ‘druids’ and catch up on the Michelle Rodriguez news, but, I get it, this is a solemn and auspicious occasion.
He takes us inside a service lift.
“Wow,” says Sami, “just wow.” He’s still grinning and shakes his head in amazement. The guards follow us into the lift. Their uniforms are all-black, and they wear helmet-masks. On their shoulders are patches: the black-and-white stars and stripes. One guard drags the lift doors shut and then turns a lever. The lift jerks as it begins its descent.
Through gaps in the shutters I glimpse out. Floor after floor pass by. They are lit by construction lamps that lend a desolate effect to the rooms. This isn’t finished. I must remember that. It is just a skeleton, waiting for me to select finishes and install the very pieces we are here today to transfer into the possession of Freerland.
The lift jerks to a halt. The guard tugs open the door onto a bright and far-reaching space.
Keyword: celestial. It glows. No gloom, no builders’ spotlights, no dust. This is not Under Construction: it is a gallery. The floor - grey, polished - perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing.
I gaze, awestruck. How does this miracle of engineering even stand? There aren’t any walls or pillars. There is only the lift shaft at the centre of a room that goes on and on - the windows are so far off that it has the illusion of infinity.
I am mesmerised. I almost neglect the sculpture in the room. A Peter Voulkos. Strange choice. One might expect, say, a Rodin or Canova, even a grandiloquent Hirst or Koons. But Voulkos?
The sculpture (almost certainly from Sullivan’s collection) is built in a totemic form - imagine a scarecrow body with a teapot head wearing an anvil for a hat - from unvarnished clay. The surface is scratched, prodded. A very human creation, it contrasts magnificently with the room’s blank faultlessness.
“Gentlemen, welcome,” says Jenna Freer.
She stands clapping, between the Voulkos and a round table where sit Renée Previti, Sun Fuzhi and Sullivan Leitch.
Sami beelines to Jenna and kisses her cheeks.
“Miss Freer, je suis...speechless!”
On the table are three giant ledgers - leatherbound with leaves of vellum - one in front of each collector.
Leitch gives me death stares. One would expect his fury to wear itself out but, no, he still looks as if he wants to go at it.
Sun lounges in his chair, wearing a pleased expression.
Renée, who seemed frail in Positano, appears nothing less than resplendent. Wrapped in a snow-white woolen dress, shrouded in diamonds, a white hat perched on her head at an angle indubitably jaunty, and an extra-large pair of black shades, she looks timeless and terrifying.
“Okay! Can Ray get anything for anyone?”
“Straight to business,” answers Renée.
“Love it!” says Jenna. “First of all, allow me to express my gratitude for your contributions to something I am hesitant to describe as historic, as what we are gathered to achieve looks solely to the future. One could say that we have an appointment not with history but destiny.”
She perches on the table.
“There is a phrase I used to hear - ‘this house is not a home’ - and I never really understood what it meant...until now. The construction in which we are gathered today has helped me finally grasp what separates house from home. A national gallery is not the building, no matter how magnificent that building may be. A national gallery is the resident art. That is the reason I had this monumental statue by Peter Vouskos installed today. The appearance of this figure marks the moment house becomes home.” (An eye roll from Sullivan.) “We are not in the business of charity. Today’s signing is a transaction. But Renée, Sun, Sullivan, as a mark of appreciation, I wish to recognise you with honorary seats on the board of trustees.”
Sun offers a smile. Sullivan and Renée do nothing to disguise bored-irritated expressions. I know what they’re thinking: show me the money.
But Jenna isn’t done: “No one really owns art.” (Another eye roll from Sullivan.) “We are custodians, and the greatest custodian is the institution of the museum. Museums protect. Museums preserve. Museums care. They illuminate meaning so that successive generations may share in the story. That is to say, the story of humanity. A museum needs a great director. Someone skilled to navigate political, philosophical and technical challenges. It is a difficult and profound responsibility not bestowed lightly. Did you know the Dutch concert orchestra of Amsterdam has had only eight chief executive conductors since its foundation in 1888?”
Sami smiles a painted and pained smile I remember well from functions at Sotheby’s, where he would stand to attention while directors introduced corporate sponsors who introduced their cultural liaisons who introduced ambassadors...
“I am sick of CEO culture where so-called leaders show no integrity or stamina. I want a director willing to commit their life to this institution. The National Gallery of Freerland demands nothing less than total loyalty.” Jenna steps behind the three collectors. “Contained in these ledgers are the lists of your entire catalogue. In combining these collections, three lifetimes’ labours are united and there begins another lifetime’s work. Please let me introduce the first director of the National Gallery of the New American Federation of Freerland, Sami Rafiq.”
Twist.
“Guards.”
I am grabbed by the arms.
“Don’t struggle, Patric,” say Sami, “and they won’t hurt you.”
“But I will!” roars Sullivan. He shoots at me and lands an almighty punch to my belly. I crumple, bent over, on the floor. It is cold on my cheek. Marble. Before Sullivan can strike again, he is hauled back by a guard.
“Freerland is anti-violence, Mr Leitch,” says Jenna. She stands over me while I cough. I’m still trying to catch my breath. “However, I do sympathise. Mr Farmer has wronged us all. He has brought crime to Freerland. His, I am sad to say, is the original sin.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I wheeze.
“Don’t, Patric,” says Sami. “I told Jenna everything. There were so many aberrations in the Monsieur Leitch’s inventory, I came to suspect, how to say, foul play? You were making Jenna pay for paintings that I knew were not Mr Leitch’s. I thought perhaps there was some clerical error. But these paintings came to the value of many hundreds of millions of dollars. I had to investigate further as your animosities with Monsieur Leitch are well known—”
“Ratsnake!” he exclaims, still trying to get at me.
“But that you should defraud Miss Freer, an innocent in Artworld...scandaleux, Patric. I had to put aside our friendship and communicate your misdemeanours. Not only to Madame, I felt duty bound to report what I saw to the Magic Circle. They are no friends of mine, as well you know, but I could not stand by and let you establish a museum that would be blackballed by that all-powerful body.”
“And for that, I thank you, Sami. We thank you. You have rescued Freerland from being founded on corruption and fraud.” She shakes her head: “Oh Pat, I am not usually such a bad judge of character. You had the new world at your feet. I will not ask why you did it, that is for the judge to decide.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Guards, take him to the brig.”
I am dragged onto my feet.
“Stop! Jenna, stop! Sun, help me!” Sun fixes his attention to leaf of his ledger.
“Renée!” The nonagenarian stands. Slowly, shakily, she steps to me...and spits. A spray of spittle lands across my face. Sullivan is still edging furiously on his wheelchair to get at me. “Jenna! Stop! Where are you taking me? You can’t do this?”
“Yes, Patric, yes I can. Unfortunately you are the first prisoner to be arrested in Freerland, but I can assure that you will receive a fair trial.”
“Trial? What?”
“In an international court.”
International court is code. For you-know-where.
“Nooooooooooooo!”