I tossed the coin into the air and watched it spin then plop into the water. The boy, waiting, dived down and I held my breath as I watched. The water was deep. Would he catch it before it reached the bottom? Then he emerged with a huge grin, black hair glistening and held up the rupiah in triumph. I needn’t have worried; he did this every day.
I waved as the ferry steamed away towards Bali, leaving him and his companions to swim back to Java. On arrival, after a night’s rest, we moved up country to Ubud.
Wandering around there, I saw a sign reading ‘ANTONIO BLANCO’S VILLA. Visitors welcome.’ Curious, I walked up the drive to the house and pulled a long bell-pull on the wall. A beautiful Balinese girl, aged 8 or 9, opened the door, smiled and led me into a huge room filled with pictures before disappearing. As I wandered round engrossed, a man entered the room from the other end with a Balinese woman who slipped away when she saw me, leaving him to introduce himself. He was Antonio Blanco, a Spanish painter who had lived in Ubud for some years. The lady was his wife, a former Balinese dancer and the little girl his daughter.
I began to feel very frustrated as this was one of the rare occasions I had come out without my camera. There was an easel in the centre of the room with a half-painted picture and I got the impression that he would have been happy to pose with it for a photograph.
He took me over to a settee, where we sat down and began to talk. He asked what I thought of his work and then proceeded to initiate a philosophical discussion on the meaning of life and art. I began to feel more and more as though I had left real life and entered the pages of a novel.
He was quite unconcerned that I had no money for buying. We shook hands as I left and I returned to the world outside and the streaming rain.
First published in VISA issue 58 (December 2004)
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