Painting in the Shadows

by Katherine Kovacic

  John clears the table while I boil the kettle – tea for me and forty percent proof coffee for him – then he grabs the block of chocolate and we make our way down the now shadowy hall to my cosy lounge room.

  ‘Which switch again?’ John hovers his free hand over the three light switches on the panel near the door.

  ‘Second and third. Leave the overhead off.’

  There are two clicks and the room becomes a contrast of warm light and soft shadows. The standard lamp is on behind my wingback chair, and on the walls, three paintings are now illuminated by their own spots. I put the mugs on two of the coasters that adorn the surface of my Schulim Krimper blackbean coffee table and plop inelegantly onto a corner of the couch. Hogarth moseys into the room and eyes off the upholstered expanse to my right, but I wave him toward his dog bed in the corner.

  ‘Have I seen any of these?’ John is checking out my current hang. Often when I pick up paintings cheaply, I keep them for a while until I find the right buyer or until most of the market forgets it’s something they’ve seen before. In the past I’ve also held onto things just because I like them, but that’s a luxury I can’t afford right now.

  ‘You haven’t seen that one.’

  John is in front of the fireplace where the wall above the mantel is currently dominated by a large and beautiful painting of a woman. She’s dressed in a way that most people would consider Spanish, but I know to be Portuguese: white blouse with full sleeves under an embroidered black shawl, and a full red skirt that falls to mid-calf, exposing a delicate yet no doubt shocking turn of ankle. She half-sits on the balcony rail, back propped against a fluted column, eyes turned toward the right of frame but clearly deep in reverie. Behind her, full sun bathes a rich green landscape. For its time – 1879 or thereabouts – it is at once traditional, in its subject matter, and daringly modern with her bared leg and the brilliant use of strong light. Until recently, I’ve had a portrait of another lovely young woman in that spot, but she’s moved to my study where I can see her more often.

  ‘Artur Loureiro, but looks quite early.’ John has his nose almost touching the canvas, but then takes a large backward step and tips his head from side to side as he considers the artist’s work.

  ‘Before he came to Australia, definitely, but maybe he’d already moved to Paris, so I figure between 1879 and ’84. Came from a private collection, and all the vendor knew was that it had been around since he was a child and he thought his grandparents had bought it when they honeymooned in Europe in the 1920s.’

  ‘She’s gorgeous. And I love the way he’s done the contrast between the shady balcony and that strong Iberian light behind her.’

  I shrug. ‘I like her too, but there’s not much of a market for Loureiro right now. I wouldn’t get anywhere near what she’s worth.’

  John starts to move along the wall toward the next spotlit painting, a charming Sydney scene by Antonio Dattilo Rubbo.

  ‘Are you trying to avoid talking?’

  He turns to look at me and I point to the other end of the couch. John sighs and crosses the room, breaking off a row of chocolate as he sits down, and lining up the remainder of the block halfway between us on the coffee table. I reach over and snap off a row for myself.

  ‘Shall we get our personal crap out of the way first and then get back to the Whiteley thing?’

  John crams a few squares of chocolate into his mouth, then points at his bulging cheeks. ‘Ooo urst.’

  ‘Mature move. Okay, I think I’m going to take the job.’ I meet John’s wide-eyed gaze, but I can’t sustain it, and I have to stare at the chocolate in my hand instead.

  ‘But Alex –’

  I hold up a palm, fingers splayed. ‘Dream job, amazing opportunity, all those paintings mine to play with every day, proud parent, career prospects …’

  The hand drops back to my lap, joining its fellow and the slowly warming chocolate. John is silent. Abruptly I lift my head up and meet his eyes again.

  ‘Financial security.’ It comes out almost as a whisper and suddenly I find myself blinking hard.

  John tilts his head and frowns. ‘But you’re doing really well.’

  I shake my head and swallow hard against the emotion pressing in my chest.

  ‘I’ve seen the sort of things you handle, the obscure finds, the coups you’ve made turning over paintings for thousands more than you pay.’

  I find a voice that doesn’t quite feel like mine. ‘Not often, and the market is softening. I’m barely scraping by at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, but when the auction season really gets underway …’

  ‘Maybe. But what about next year, and the year after that? I thought I could do it like this, on my own, but sometimes it’s just. So. Hard.’ I take a deep shuddering breath. ‘And if I knock this back, well, what’s worse? Shovelling fries at Macca’s or answering phones at Lane and Co. or one of the other auction houses?’

  ‘Alex –’

  ‘I mean, you’re right. They’ll probably treat me like shit, but, despite appearances to the contrary …’ I wave a TV hostess hand up and down in front of my face, ‘I’m a hell of a lot tougher now than I was then, and I can bitch slap with the best of them. Barbara Cottrell’s handed me the chance to basically do my life over again, John.’ I can hear the cajoling edge in my voice, but I’m not sure which one of us I’m really trying to convince.

  John leans across and squeezes my knee. ‘Bitch slap? Hell, people from that auction still whisper with awe about your leaping left hook.’

  I laugh, although it comes out a bit like a sob. ‘That bastard Damian Savage had it coming.’

  ‘I can’t pretend I’m not worried, Alex. I know you’re tough, but I also saw what a mess you were after last time. If you want this, you know I’ve got your back, and if you can’t slap someone, I’m sure I can kick them in the shins.’

  ‘Still not prepared to risk the artist’s hands, huh?’

  ‘It’s where the magic happens.’ John turns his hands palm up, then palm down, pretending to admire them. ‘I also have to ask. Working at MIMA, I mean, you’re not worried about the Whiteley thing? All workplaces have pressure and an office villain, but this is shaping up to be more than just stealing someone else’s lunch from the fridge.’

  I rub both hands over my face and groan. ‘It may be nothing.’

  John raises one eyebrow at me.

  ‘Okay, but if we figure it out, someone will get the sack and that will be that. And hey!’ I lean across and slap his shoulder playfully. ‘If it turns out to be someone really popular with all the staff, I’ll let you claim full credit for uncovering the forgery or whatever it is and no one need know that Alex Clayton waltzed in and made fools of them all. Again.’

  ‘Deal. And now that you’ve mentioned fools …’

  I grin. ‘Rather appropriate, isn’t it? They laughed at me, they called me mad …’ I put on a melodramatic voice.

  ‘But I’ll show them …’ John picks up in the same tone.

  ‘Fools! I’ll destroy them all!’ We both yell, and follow it up with our best versions of maniacal laughter.

  ‘You’re a brave woman, Alex Clayton.’

  I smile. ‘Speaking of brave, shall we talk about your relationship?’

  ‘Nothing to say.’ John shakes his head slowly and em­phatically.

  ‘Really? ’Cause from where I’m sitting …’

  ‘There’s nothing to say because we’ve already said it. It’s a difficult relationship and I’m not happy. But my choices are as follows. A. Suck it up because Sue needs me, or B. Get over my fear that something will happen to her if I walk out and, well, just go. And then feel like an arsehole for abandoning her. It’s not actually a choice at all, is it?’

  ‘That’s always been the problem though. We get to this point and then … Okay, I’m just going to say this. Deep down,
are you really worried about her health and emotional state, or is it something else? Are you just afraid of being alone?’

  John takes a big swig of his coffee and starts spluttering.

  ‘Too liberal with the whiskey?’

  ‘Perfect.’ John sounds like he’s choking and his face is turning red, but he pinches his thumb and index finger together in an ‘o’.

  I wait while he recovers. ‘So?’

  ‘Maybe there’s a bit of that.’

  ‘You’ve been part of a couple for such a long time.’

  ‘Sometimes I still see glimpses of the girl I married, and I think, if I just did this or that, I could fix it.’

  ‘You’ve been trying to fix it. I’ve watched you tie yourself in knots trying to make her happy, and nothing does. Not for long anyway. You deserve better, John.’

  ‘But she’s not well. What if her condition gets worse?’ He stares into his coffee mug.

  ‘And what if it doesn’t? In fact, let’s consider the very real possibility that there is no condition. She’s been the same for years and only ever seems to have a turn when you don’t do what she wants.’ My voice rises in spite of myself.

  ‘But what if it’s real? What if I leave and she does get ill? Besides, I think she still loves me, in her own way.’

  I can’t help it and I snort. ‘What, like a black widow spider loves her partner?’

  John looks up at me, eyes wide.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry John. That was harsh.’ I put my head down. ‘It’s just … you’re my best friend and I care for you and …’ I raise my head and look at him. ‘I can see how Sue uses her health as a way to control you. I know you want her to be happy, but you deserve that too. Just tell me, if, say, you got hit by a bus or got some horrible illness and needed someone to care for you for the next fifty years, where would Sue be?’

  In the silence, Hogarth lets out a small sigh as he shifts position.

  ‘If I can be brave enough to walk back into the MIMA viper’s nest, you can walk out of the one you’re in. We can sort of sponsor each other, like rehab. Or like I’ve heard rehab works.’

  ‘Maybe I could –’

  ‘Nuh-uh. There’s no maybe. You can’t keep doing it to yourself. I know you’re worried about Sue, but you just can’t.’

  John is silent.

  I snap my fingers. ‘Ooh wait! You’re literally the tortured artist! Well, look how that turned out for van Gogh.’

  ‘But the mood thing actually worked for him then. The stuff van Gogh painted while he was at the Saint-Paul asylum would have to rate as some of his top works.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I say. ‘That’s your validation? “Yes, Alex. Living with Sue is pushing me to a mental breakdown but hey, look at my painting?” Just so we’re clear, my comment about the tormented artist was meant to be ironic.’ John opens his mouth to speak but I get in first. ‘And yes, while those were amazing, incredible paintings, it doesn’t exactly suggest he was in a happy place does it? I mean, I sure as shit don’t want Portrait of a Patient in Saint-Paul Hospital hanging on my wall. That is one seriously disturbed painting.’

  I grab the chocolate and snap off another square, then offer it to John. ‘If it’s tormenting you need, I’m your girl. I can’t guarantee the full extent of soul-destroying mind-fuck that is your marriage, but in the name of our friendship I’m prepared to give it a red-hot go.’

  ‘Now that’s what real friends are for.’ John finally smiles.

  There is still a vestigial twilight glowing through the small rectangular panes of the bay window, and the lingering heat has the cicadas singing so loudly I can feel the reverberation deep in my bones. Inside, we are cocooned in relative cool, and the paintings seem to glow even brighter.

  ‘Look, I’m here for you no matter what. If you make the break you can stay here or borrow a cup of sugar or whatever you need.’ I hesitate. ‘And, if, for some reason I can’t fathom, you decide, again, to stick it out, I will still be here to listen and commiserate.’

  John abruptly pushes himself up off the couch, causing Hogarth to raise his head in query, and strides across to the third painting. It’s a mid-sized Rupert Bunny oil of a ruined French farmhouse in a lovely hand-carved frame. Bent pencil pines in the painting’s background testify to a harsh wind but in the foreground, serried ranks of stubby boughs show that someone sees the possibilities of the land, and a vineyard is emerging. John stands in front of it fastidiously tweaking the frame first one way, then the other.

  ‘It was a bit crooked.’

  ‘Sure. That wall seems to catch the vibration when the front door slams. Thanks for fixing it.’

  He steps back, looks at it, steps forward and makes another adjustment, then grunts with satisfaction. ‘Nice painting.’

  ‘Of the French works I like his smaller paintings best, but yeah, it’s a good one. I think I have a Sydney buyer for it.’

  John turns back to face me. ‘Next item on the agenda?’

  ‘Well let’s see. My failed career. Check. Your failed mar­riage. Check. So we come to our final item which I have cautiously recorded as “Art fraud and possible murder at MIMA: action plan”.’

  ‘Do we need a plan?’

  ‘He asks the most meticulous person he knows.’

  ‘I would have said pedantic.’

  ‘Don’t digress. Yes, we need a plan. Everyone needs a plan. So sit down and let’s look at what we know and figure out what we should do next.’

  ‘Can we call it a strategy? It sounds more impressive.’

  I give John the finger, which he promptly returns. Then he comes back and drops onto the couch, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.

  ‘It appears that my evening schedule is suddenly wide open. Let’s do this.’

  Over the next couple of hours, John and I tackle the MIMA situation from every angle. I tell him about the footprint in the paint and sketch out the tread pattern for John’s benefit, but there’s no way to check the soles of everyone’s shoes.

  ‘We could ask each person if they’d stepped in dog poop and watch while they check their feet,’ John says.

  ‘Hardly discreet.’

  I’ve been making notes throughout our discussion and I add the sketch to the growing pile. We need to get the facts straight if we’re going to present the whole Whiteley-slash-Meredith thing to the police, but there are still way too many question marks scattered across my pages.

  At about nine p.m., we stop for a break. John shuffles to the kitchen to make us another cup of tea and I take Hogarth out the front so he can do his business. I don’t bother with the porch light, preferring the velvety darkness and the relative anonymity it confers. The garden is rich with the scent of night blossoms – predominantly gardenia and jasmine – and the thick humus tang of the soil itself, damp from the timed sprinkler. Hogarth sets out to patrol the perimeter, tail curled up in a quivering arc and nose pointed toward the treetops, where the occasional crash and rustle telegraphs the movements of numerous possums. At one point he rears up on his hind legs and hangs there a moment, head six feet in the air but still below possum height. He contents himself with a warning bark, just one, before abandoning the hunt and disappearing into the shadows. Moments later he’s back, sporting an air of contentment. We turn and head inside.

  ‘Come out to the kitchen,’ John calls. ‘We can strategise better around a table.’

  I grab the notes from the couch and then follow Hogarth down the hall. John is set up with a pot of tea on the table and cheese on toast under the grill.

  ‘Just the smell of that is making my arteries harden. Haven’t you had enough to eat?’

  ‘I need brain food. Or possibly comfort food. Okay, maybe just food.’

  I pull out a chair and sit at the table. It’s 1950s Laminex, lemon yellow with a wide white stripe down the middle and tr
immed with chrome. The six matching chairs also have white stripes in their upholstered backs. I picked it up in mint condition from a garage sale for fifty bucks.

  ‘I hope you’ve made enough for the wolfhound,’ I say, as I pour out two cups of tea.

  John turns to look at Hogarth, who has positioned himself in front of the grill. Should anything accidentally fall to the floor, the three-second rule will be null and void.

  I scan through the list of points I’ve made while John hovers anxiously next to Hogarth with all the concern of someone waiting to whip a soufflé from the oven.

  ‘When do you think we’ll know exactly how Meredith died?’ I tap my pen on the page.

  ‘Should be this week, from what everyone was saying in the conservation department. At least, they’re planning for a funeral on Friday – after the exhibition opening of course – so I guess that means someone knows something.’

  ‘Still, we’re fairly sure it was some sort of poisoning, but the question really is whether Meredith did it herself or if she was killed by someone else.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s really a question. Meredith was not the type. Too driven and focused.’

  I shake my head. ‘Doesn’t mean she didn’t hit a brick wall. It happens.’ I put an asterisk, then for good measure add a question mark next to Meredith’s name.

  John pulls the grill tray out and tries to transfer the four slices of melted cheese on sourdough onto a plate.

  ‘Shit! Hot, hot, fingers, hot!’ Three pieces make it but the fourth, flicked from his burning fingers, skids across the plate and onto the floor. Hogarth makes a sideways lunge, pulls back as his lips encounter hot cheese, then positions himself with a paw either side of the prize so he can poke it with his nose and make little snaps until it’s safe to consume.

  ‘You guys always manage to raise the tone.’ I shake my head, but inside I feel a little swell in my heart as I look at my two favourite men making dags of themselves. As usual.

  ‘There’s something else we haven’t discussed.’ John goes to dump his plate on the table but just in time remembers to grab a placemat. He scooches the chair in as he sits, and then grabs his first piece of cheese on toast. ‘Who do we actually think might be the forger and, therefore, the killer?’