have always loved the way light seemed to make it come alive. The bright sunshine spilled in from the large dining-room window and somehow got under the surface and breathed life into my favourite painting. The flat background of vibrant, tropical yellow shimmered in the warmth of the invading rays and the stick-like figures might have moved such was the intensity of the colours. The red and black curves floated from the edge of the canvas, and lost as I was in the imaginary swirling shapes, I could only smile at the creative mind behind this wonderful piece. The master of so many similarly brilliant works was none other than the Joan Miro, the man known for his rich imagery and captivating playfulness. An original, certainly.

*

‘It’s wonderful David, really wonderful’, said Laura excitedly. She was standing a few feet from the colourful canvas and gazing with studied interest at Miro’s handiwork. She took a sip of wine and pursed her lips as her eyes slowly moved across the painting. Her head moved from side to side taking in the scene and a slight grin broke from the edge of her mouth. I couldn’t help but enjoy watching the bewitching influence this painting cast on those who stood before it. It seemed always to seduce them such was its subtle power. As I looked on it was as if Laura was having a conversation, something I understood very well, for I, too, had been in a similar trance in its presence. It was not the first time that somebody had been so impressed, but the fact that Laura was an art teacher was doubly pleasing. She turned to me and smiled widely, shaking her head in that knowing fashion. ‘Wonderful.’

‘Thanks’, I replied and looked over at the flowing gold with the shimmering figures.

‘Pity it’s not an original’, she said, a little cackle following. ‘Where did you get it anyway, David?’ she added.

‘Well that’s a long story’, I said ‘and one that I’ll tell you again when I’ve more time.’ I headed for the kitchen. ‘But right now I have to put food on the barbeque for all those folks in the garden, so you’ll have to excuse me. OK?’

Laura nodded but her gaze returned to the paining that was now bathed in the shifting rays of the afternoon sun as they danced between the gently swaying leaves of the palm tree on the patio.

A few weeks later Laura phoned and asked if she could come over. Her voice held a note of excitement.

‘Sure’, I said ‘you must have known that I’ve just opened a bottle of wine.’

She laughed. ‘Brilliant, we’ll be there in ten minutes. Bye.’ She put the phone down immediately and I was left wondering. We, I thought, who is this other person. But then that was Laura’s style, always meeting people and introducing them like long lost friends. All good fun, really. And anyway, I knew she wanted to see the painting again, and she wouldn’t be disappointed especially as it lay highlighted by the gold disc of the evening sun.

‘Salut Joan’, I joked and raised my glass to the Spanish painter before stepping out onto the patio.

When Laura arrived she was accompanied by a man who she introduced as Pablo Morientes and who was giving a summer course in her art school. He was from Barcelona and had a lifelong interest in the work of his fellow Catalan. His hair was jet black and he had a bushy moustache above a mouth that suggested he was a happy sort. A firm and friendly handshake was reflected in his intelligent, blue eyes. ‘Hola’, he said shaking my hand.

‘Hola, Como estas?’ I answered.

He grinned. ‘You speak Spanish?

‘A little’, I offered. ‘But only if you speak slowly.’

‘Bueno. But I prefer to speak English; practise OK.’

‘Of course’, I said and showed both of them into the dining room and went to get more glasses.

I could hear them talking as I rinsed and dried two glasses and wondered just what Pablo might have to say my Miro. The little painting that measured no more than 20"X18" was the centre of attention just as it was the day I came upon it four, or was it five, years ago. I was holidaying in Majorca with the explicit intention on improving my Spanish and staying in my sister’s villa in Port D’Andratx, on the west of the island. I had a great time playing golf, eating the tastiest seafood imaginable and had a truly great day when I visited Frederic Chopin’s winter hideaway in Valdemossa and bought postcards as a reminder of my visit. The view from the mountains of a forest of lush, green trees leading to the vast, blue expanse of the Bay of Palma was breathtaking and no doubt helped the composer in his recovery from a bout of sickness. I also visited a number of galleries, of which, thankfully, Palma has plenty. The Museum of Contemporary Spanish Art, in the centre of town, has a great collection of works by a Pablo Picasso, Juan Gris, Salvador Dali and many other lesser-known artists. It also houses a few by my favourite painter Joan Miro, and I was delighted to see these works in a Spanish environment. Seeing them here, in their own place, seemed to give them an added reality, and all I could do was smile at their brilliance. It was a special treat.

But it was while strolling through the narrow streets near the Plaza Major that I met my Miro. I had been browsing the colourful and noisy streets, taking in the local artists and the musicians when I, for no particular reason, at least none that I can clearly remember, stepped into a small shop and saw the painting. It was lying on the floor against a wall in the back of the shop and covered in a layer of blue dust. I knelt down and drew my finger across the top of the frame and all at once loved the bright colours. I moved back a little to get a better view and knew that a certain wall in my house could do with something like that hanging on it.

‘You like, senor? asked a voice from on high.

I was taken aback and stood up immediately.

The owner of the voice was a large, middle-aged woman wearing plenty of gold bracelets and rings. Her dark hair was held up by a gold clasp which set her native style. She was also very attractive and her brown eyes seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.

‘Yes’, I heard myself say ‘it’s…..it’s wonderful’

She nodded like the practiced trader that she was. ‘For you it’s only €200.’ She smiled and took a step back, giving me space to view the painting, but more importantly, room to consider her offer.

I made a few faces. ‘It’s nice, but €200 is a lot of money senorita.’

Neither of us said anything for what seemed like the longest time before she broke the silence. ‘OK, give me €150 and it’s yours.’ She smiled like a seductive siren.

I grinned and pulled more faces before I took out my wallet. I opened it and took out €120. ‘That’s all I have’, I offered, showing the empty leather folder. I shrugged…and waited.

She rubbed the notes deliciously and eyed me closely. And then smiled. ‘Because I like you’, she said and nodded agreement. My heart skipped a few beats as I followed her to the counter where she put the dusty painting into a large plastic bag and said ‘Adios’ before giving a new customer her full attention.

I walked to the Plaza Major and had a few cold beers and wondered at the whole situation. What was it called? Doing one thing and suddenly finding yourself involved in something else. After a while, maybe it was the second beer that did it, I remembered. Serendipity, that was it. What a great name for spending an aimless afternoon before buying a lovely painting, which only a few hours earlier I had no thought of doing. Chance is a fine thing, isn’t that what they say?

Laura and Pablo were standing in front of the painting when I entered the dining room and poured the wine. ‘Rioja’, I said and we clinked glasses.

‘Gracias’, said Pablo nodding his head just a little.

‘You like’, I asked.

He took a sip and nodded approval. I then nodded to the painting and I could Laura’s eyes widen.

Pablo took another sip. He swirled the wine about enjoying the taste and waiting for the perfect moment to say something.

I took a sip and waited. What for I had no idea, but just that element of unknowing was spice enough. And good enough reason to sip more wine.

Pablo put his glass down. He put his hands together and then drew one of them across his mouth. Preparing.

I sipped some more.

‘It’s wonderful, David. Really wonderful.’ He paused. ‘Can you tell me where you bought it?’ He added quickly and smiling ‘If that is not too, how you say, nosy?

Two sets of interested eyes never moved from me as I told them the story of my find in Palma.

Both shook their heads when I finished and I could see that Pablo was now even more interested. ‘Do you know much about Miro’s work?’ a slight serious tone to his question.

I wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Well I have read some stuff about him and that he was involved with the Surrealists, and that he lived in Paris for a number of years.’ I paused and put my glass down. ‘He worked in ceramics and eventually moved to Majorca where he died on Christmas Day 1983.’

‘Bueno’, said Pablo. ‘He had like other great artists many different phases in his career, one of which was the painting of his Constellations series. These are similar in style to your painting and there are only 23 of them recorded.’ He paused again. For effect, or just to make sure that the next words came out correctly. I couldn’t be sure, but I felt the silence grow in the room.

Laura took a sip and licked her lips in anticipation.

‘There has always been a rumour that Miro did another painting in the series, No 24, but it has always been just that…..….a rumour.’ He turned to look at the painting that still held the golden rays. ‘But now I’m not sure.’

Laura raised an excited eyebrow. ‘What do you mean Pablo?’

‘Having studied Miro’s work for over twenty years now, I think’, he looked at both of us seriously ‘that this may be his missing work. This may indeed be Constellation No 24.’

I felt a shiver crawl up my spine and shake my heart. My mouth was dry and I looked wide-eyed at Pablo who was now beginning to grin. Mischievous or what, I thought, and stepped closer to the painting as my heart pounded like a drum.

‘You’re joking’ was all that I could offer.

‘I think not’, said Pablo slipping into his professional painter’s mode. ‘I have looked at the brushwork and the canvas, and on such a small inspection, I think that it might be Miro’s missing masterpiece.’ He let that sink in.

I felt my jaw drop at the thought of having an original Miro hanging on the wall in my house. I took a big sip of wine and looked at Laura who was equally dumbfounded. More serendipity, I thought, and went to get another bottle of wine.

Later, we sat out on the patio discussing the merits of the painting and Pablo grew more convinced as the evening wore on. He wanted to take some photographs of it and discuss ‘the matter’ with some of his colleagues in Spain and asked if that was alright with me. I couldn’t, and didn’t object and chatted with Laura while Pablo took a number of Polaroids of the painting.

‘It’s so exciting, David’, chirped Laura the excitement in her voice now loud and obvious. ‘What will you do?’

‘You mean if it’s real?’ I replied thoughtfully, trying to dampen the excitement that I knew was looking for air.

‘Of course’, said Laura.

I put my glass down and looked the garden hedge to the setting sun that dominated the blue sky. I shook my head a few times. ‘I don’t know, I have no idea.’ I turned to Laura. ‘But it could be fun!’

Laura smiled her largest smile and both of us laughed out loud. There really was nothing else to do.

When the wine was finished Laura and Pablo left and I was on my own with the thought, however fanciful it seemed, that only a few feet away Miro’s Constellation No 24 was looking down on me. Wow, I thought, and closed my eyes as the warm breeze rustled the leaves on the palm tree.

It must have been about two months later that I took a phone call from Pablo in Barcelona. He said that he had shown the Polaroids to his colleagues and they were intrigued with ‘his find.’ It may indeed be the Missing Miro but that they needed to see it, ‘in the flesh’ as it were, to pronounce judgement. ‘Can you bring it to Barcelona’, he asked.

I have to say that I was stunned. ‘Sure’, I answered. ‘I can’t get there until the end of next month, about six weeks’; I added ‘would that be okay?’

‘Fine, that would be fine’, said Pablo ‘as it will give us more time to check things out at this end.’

‘Right then, I’ll be in touch before I travel. Okay?’

‘Adios, David.’

‘Adios, and what is Barcelona like now?’ I asked a definite edge of excitement in my voice.

‘Fantastico’, he said his voice rising a little, before laughing loudly in anticipation.

*

Pablo and one of his colleagues, Antonio Diaz, met me at the airport and we drove to the Miro Institute. If there was something useful to be found out about my painting then we were certainly in the right place, and of that there was no doubt. It oozed refinement and everywhere works by the great man were hanging. It was indeed an Aladdin’s cave to Miro and one he would surely have been proud of.

I was introduced to the Director, Fernando Gonzalez, a tall man in an immaculately tailored black suit and who had the unmistakable bearing of a leader. His inquisitive, bright eyes never left mine as he shook my hand warmly and showed me a chair near his desk. He asked me tell him ‘the story’ and, over a cup of coffee, I did just that. He nodded and seemed intrigued when I finished.

He opened his palms to heaven and said excitedly ‘That is amazing. Absolutely amazing.’ Pablo and Antonio were grinning at the unlikely tale and I felt my face redden with embarrassment. I mean, here I was in the Miro Institute, telling these experts how I discovered a painting, whose ‘existence’ they had considered only to be a rumour, and now it may just become a reality. It was a surprise alright, and the silence in the room fuelled the edgy anticipation.

‘Shall we go down and see Manuel?’ said Fernando rising from his chair. Pablo opened the door and grinned and we walked down a picture-laden corridor to the conservation department. This is an immense facility with state of the art equipment for the repair and preservation of works of art. The hum of activity hung in the air just like the noise from the atmosphere controlling machines. The words high and tech came to mind.

I handed over the well-wrapped package and there was a tension on everybody’s face as the Chief Conservator, Luis Rivera, cut the painting free. There was an audible intake of breath and looks were exchanged as the painting was placed on a long glass desk that was lit from below. The Director bent down to get a closer look as did Antonio and the Chief Conservator. Pablo turned to me and winked.

‘How long are you staying in Barcelona? asked the Director as the others followed his words.

‘My ticket is for a week’, I answered.

‘Excellent’, he replied and heads nodded agreement. ‘We would like to carry out some tests, you understand, so as to establish the authenticity.’ He shrugged his shoulders slightly ‘Or not, as the case may be.’

I nodded.

‘Very well then, Pablo will keep you informed.’ He again looked my painting. ‘And thank you very much for bringing it here. It is very good of you.’ He leaned over and shook my hand. Everybody was smiling. It looked as though the experts had come across the Holy Grail and couldn’t wait to get on with their examination. I hoped they were right, sort of. Well I had bought the painting because I liked it, of course, and that’s all. I never saw anything like this happening, and anyway, what could I now do. Was I to spoil the party and take my painting home? Or was I to let fate take her peculiar course and see what happened? That word serendipity floated back into my mind and all I could do was think of Miro and wonder what he might say. Bueno, maybe. That was something none of us would ever know and maybe, just maybe, somewhere up in his favourite blue-coloured sky the great man was sitting at his celestial easel with a wry smile on his face. Bueno, indeed!

Over the next few days I took in the sights of Barcelona and came to understand why the city played such a vital role in the lifes of Miro, Picasso and Salvador Dali. The atmosphere of the streets seemed to mix easily with the smells of tapas from the restaurants and, stirred by the warm, gentle breeze from The Mediterranean, made a concoction that excited the imagination of anyone open to its ticklish persuasion. Its creative nudge was undeniable and Pablo agreed with my observation over dinner one evening with his family, where I was a rather embarrassed guest of honour. It was most enjoyable, though Pablo was non-committal about events at the institute, but by the same token said nothing to discourage me. ‘When are you going home, David’, he asked later.

‘Saturday’, I replied, knowing that half of my allotted time was already used up.

We drank some more of his fine wine and chatted about life in Barcelona and his work at the institute. It was interesting and told with a passion for painting that was heart warming. He had loved painting since he was a child and had won a few competitions in school and college. He sold some of his work but not enough to allow him to give up his teaching role at the university where he lectured on art history, specialising in the life and work of Spanish artists. It was through this that he had developed his love for Joan Miro and had also published numerous articles on his favourite subject. It was easy to see why he was so taken by the painting when he had first seen it, and why he had asked me to bring it here. His love affair with the works of Miro was obvious, but the possibility of discovering Constellation No 24 was simply incredible. At first they had not believed him at the institute until he produced the Polaroids and told his side of the story. The other experts were so taken with his enthusiasm that they eventually overcame their initial scepticism and suggested that I should be invited to Barcelona – with the painting of course. So that was where we were, I thought, as I looked out over the bay at the brilliantly coloured sky with traces of red and orange slowly fusing into nothingness. Now where had I seen that before, I asked myself, and tipped my glass towards the heavens.

*

I was swimming in the hotel’s pool when I saw a waiter come over and beckon me. He left a message, written on the hotel’s stationery, on my lounger before going back into the shade. I towelled off and read the note. ‘Collect you at 1 o’clock. Pablo.’ I read it a second time and sat down with my mind racing about the possibilities that might lie ahead. If was difficult to relax such were the questions being posed by one side of my brain, only to be shot down by the other. It was turmoil but one that I could only feel happy about. If nothing else happened I had enjoyed the week and made a new friend in Pablo. And, come what may, I was going home with my Miro safe, where an empty wall awaited.

Pablo and Antonio were on time and we drove through the busy traffic as the warm breeze made the palm trees sway to an ancient rhythm. Everywhere there was light and sparkle and Gaudi’s stunning Sagrada Familia stretched to the sky. I opened my window and enjoyed the rush of wind and the slightly bitter smell that came form the sea. It was a classic Mediterranean mixture and I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply the invigorating vapours.

When we reached the institute we made our way to the Chief Conservator’s office where he and the Director waited. I noted the large room was almost empty of furniture but had quite a few paintings hanging from its tall white walls. And in the middle of the room, resting on an old, well-used stand and demanding attention, was my Miro.

The Director stepped forward and shook my hand, his eyes betraying nothing more than a friendly greeting. ‘I hope that you are enjoying our city’, he asked, stretching his arms out extravagantly. I thought that I saw a little grin sneak out of the corner of his friendly mouth.

‘Yes’, I replied ‘it’s been great. Pablo has been great and the weather has, well, you know, been wonderful.’ I paused and took a look at the faces which all seemed to be falling into a more relaxed mode. Expectant.

The Director stood over my Miro and I could see him draw in his breath slowly, puffing out his chest. He was preparing himself, no doubt, and only a tiny mote of dust floating in the sunlight seemed to move. He looked to his colleagues and turned to face me. ‘My dear David, we have studied this beautiful painting very carefully. Very, very carefully’, he stressed ‘and we are of the opinion that it may indeed be Constellation No 24. Our initial examination shows similar techniques and materials used by Joan Miro, and we would like to carry out some more tests to verify its authenticity. Absolutely! An expert, Gabriel Solano, who is considered by many, ourselves included’ as he turned to Pablo, Antonio and Luis ‘to be the pre-eminent scholar on Miro, is arriving from Madrid next week, so we would like him to see it. If that is alright with you?’

The silence in the room was deafening.

The sunlight danced across the floor and flicked against the edge of my Miro. It tickled the surface and a spark seemed to explode and hit me right between the eyes. I felt as if the air had been sucked from me for I could not hear anything at all, not even my beating heart. Was this really happening I heard myself ask, just as a tiny wisp of breath slipped from the side of my dry mouth? Then the sunlight flickered again and I was shaken from my momentary dream. I blinked and looked around at the four anxious faces. ‘Sure, no problem’, I replied ‘no problem at all.’

They all smiled and the Director shook my hand firmly. ‘Gracias, mucho gracias’, he laughed out loud and the others clapped and congratulated me. On my decision and good luck. Potential good luck, I thought, and felt a smile as wide as Miro’s canvas break out on my face. Yesssss!

‘It’s a wonderful day for you’, said Pablo excitedly ‘and for Miro. He would be very happy. He is coming home.’

For the next hour we drank some fine wine and the Director offered me one of his favourite Cuban cigars which he said he kept only for special occasions. He and the others, especially the Chief Conservator, explained their findings and their reasons for thinking that Miro’s missing masterpiece had been found. It was all very professional and I felt that my little purchase in Palma all those years ago was indeed something special. They did too.

I left Barcelona the next day and Pablo kept me informed, by regular emails, of the ongoing work and findings. Finally, after almost two more weeks the Director himself called, and with excitement barely under control, and said that Constellation No 24 had indeed been found.

I was lost for words and could hear only the gentle hum on the line. ‘Thank you’, I managed. ‘What now?’

The Director had clearly been expecting this and his answer was calm and controlled. ‘David, such a painting could be, no’, he corrected himself ‘is worth a lot of money, especially if it goes to auction. You realise it’s such an unexpected and fantastic find!’

‘Yes, I realise that, of course.’

‘Well, the institute naturally would love to add it to its collection and it has many rich patrons who are prepared to pay a lot of money to see that it remains here. You understand?’

‘I understand’, I said as my heart pounded loudly.

‘Why don’t you come over next week, just for a few days, and we can work it all out’, said the Director continuing his plan of action. ‘We’ll send the tickets tomorrow, if that is okay?’

All I could say was ‘Fine. Next week then.’

‘Gracias David, muchos gracias’, said the Director with genuine warmth. ‘You have made a lot of people very happy. And many, many more will also be delighted when they get to see your Miro.’ I grinned broadly.

The next few days passed in a daze while I prepared to travel and wondered at what awaited me. Miro’s painting was certainly going home, and that was wonderful, but what did it mean to me. Was the institute’s patron a really rich man who could happily purchase the painting and make a big difference to my life? These questions and the like caused to me stay awake at night such was the turmoil in my mind. It was an uncomfortable time and I occupied myself in decorating the house and cutting the tall hedge in my back garden. On the day of my flight I locked up the house and grinned at the empty space on the wall where a stray sunbeam lay. ‘Adios’, I said and left.

The weather in Barcelona was hot and humid and Pablo definitely had an extra bounce in his step when we met. He had a broad smile and the edges of his mouth were curling up nicely. He was a happy man, that was for sure, and he talked excitedly all the way through town to the institute. It was infectious and seemed to have gripped the Director when I met him in his office. He introduced me to a Senor Lopez, one of the institute’s patrons, who shook my hand and thanked me profusely for finding the missing Miro. He was probably in his late sixties and his bearing and immaculately cut suit gave him the undeniable air of a wealthy Spanish gentleman – a grandee. And so it was that within a few minutes I signed over my rights to Constellation No 24 for a very significant amount of money.

And one other small thing.

And it’s this small thing, a brilliant copy of my Miro, done by one of the institute’s artists, that now hangs on the wall in my dining room reflecting the golden sunlight and entrancing people whenever they see it. ‘A pity it’s not an original’, they say. And you know something, they’re right!