by Tamar Hodes
‘The relationship between Breavman and Tamara, where they rent a room in the east end of the city. I need to get the tone of their love right and you coming back from Athens has helped me.’
‘I’m so pleased.’
‘I don’t find writing easy. I am compelled to do it, and in a sense I am the right person to do it because I feel joy and pain intensely and I can see the paradoxes of daily life. If you don’t see life as a contradiction you cannot be a writer, but that doesn’t mean I don’t struggle, because I do.’
When she had left the Athens hospital, Marianne had felt her heart torn in every direction: towards Axel and Patricia, towards Leonard, and towards her baby boy. Now she felt more at ease.
‘We have a picnic planned today on Bisti,’ said Leonard. ‘A welcome home for you.’
‘How lovely. Who’s coming?’
‘Wait and see,’ he said. ‘If I can ever stop kissing you, we will get dressed and meet them.’
They gathered in the centre of Kala Pigadia: Leonard (his guitar strapped to his back), Marianne in a white dress which billowed about her like a cloud, and baby Axel Joachim in his pushchair. As each person joined the circle, swiping the many mosquitos away, the shape grew like a flower spreading its petals wide: Jack, Frieda, Gideon and Esther; Charmian and George and their three children; Chuck and Gordon; Norman Peterson; Czech Magda, her Italian husband Paolo and their son Alexander. Magda had a flame of red hair that rose and crowned her handsome face; she wore large, coloured Mexican beads and chunky, silver bangles on her arms.
They embraced as they arrived, laden with baskets, rolled-up stripy rugs, towels and paniers and then made their way down the hill to the harbour. As they passed The Gardenia Dwarf’s home, she waved to them. As always, dressed in black, she was tending her flowers, pinching away dead leaves with her wrinkly fingers, watering the pots. The blossoms’ white faces shone brazenly in the sunlight and the waxy leaves were equally unabashed.
‘Kalimera,’ the group called as they passed.
The Gardenia Dwarf pointed to the faces of the friends and then to her flowers. She mumbled something in Greek.
‘She is saying that we are the Greek gardenias,’ George explained.
‘But we aren’t Greek and we aren’t flowers.’ Charmian was already arguing with him.
‘Maybe that’s the point,’ Leonard tried to help out. ‘But we think we are.’
As well as The Gardenia Dwarf, they had names for other people: Vassilis, the crippled sponge diver whose only two teeth were yellow, was nicknamed Fangs; the two island policemen, Costas and Constantinos, one fat, one thin, were referred to as Laurel and Hardy.
They named places too: the road they walked down now was Donkey Shit Lane and the crossroads, the Four Corners.
They had to take turns in Mikalis’ boat as there were too many of them for one trip, but young Spyros helped them on and off, taking the hands of the women, lifting the babies into the boat, then patiently passing picnic hampers aboard. Mikalis took them along the northern side of Hydra to Bisti, from where they could see the island of Spetses, lying low.
On the beach, they laid out their rugs and towels and shared their picnics: feta, warm bread from Demi’s, salami, hummus, olives, tomatoes, beer and retsina for the adults, apple juice for the children. Magda and Marianne were still breastfeeding their boys, although trying to wean them off, so they found some shelter in the cove and chatted.
‘Any news from Axel?’
‘He writes me long, painful letters. They’ve gone to America and he will stay with Patricia while she recovers. He can write there. His novel is overdue. Maybe she can help him where I could not. He seems devoted to her.’
‘But you are happy with Leonard?’
‘So happy that I am afraid. I love him more than anyone I have known and that scares me. When we expose ourselves to love, do we also not expose ourselves to potential pain?’
‘Yes, between pain and pleasure is a very thin line.’
‘Are you happy on Hydra, Magda?’
The woman tossed her red hair back over her shoulders. ‘Well, I have an exciting new project.’
‘You always have wonderful new ventures!’
‘I am buying the old boathouse in the quay and I will make it into a club or wine bar for us all to meet in, and the locals, too. We can’t spend all our evenings at Douskos’!’
‘That’s amazing.’
‘Yes, it’s great, and I have bought the two old boats to put on the roof so that we will always remember the building’s origin.’
The women laughed.
‘You,’ said Marianne, as she moved Axel Joachim carefully from one breast to the other. ‘Your energy: I love it. I wish I could work out who I was and what I am meant to be.’
‘You will,’ said Magda, cradling her now sleeping child, ‘you will.’
Back with the others, the women laid their babies in the shade and covered them with towels. Leonard was playing his guitar and Magda sang with him, Russian Jewish songs with sad words: Babushka about her grandmother, and others about the trees casting their dark outlines against the forsaken sky.
The older children played on the beach, building sandcastles, decorating them with shells, building moats around their citadels. As the sand grew wetter, it darkened until their fortresses were black. The children told each other stories about their empires, of battles and conquests. Jason, the youngest child of Charmian and George, draped his shoulders in seaweed and declared himself the king. They shrieked with delight when they saw turtles swimming slowly, their wrinkled heads visible just above the water line and their manner slow and regal, as if they too belonged to the kingdom. They could hear cicadas clicking around them.
Martin lay on a rock, reading a book by Virgil and underlining important sentences with a pen. Shane played with Esther, showing her how to draw in the sand with a stick.
Fishermen nearby caught octopus and squid, laid them on a rock and hammered the flesh to soften it, ready for cooking. Gideon watched them do this. George gave one local some coins and brought back an octopus for them to cook on a makeshift fire. They all waited until the tentacles were roasted and then pulled them off, one leg at a time, and chewed the rubbery limbs.
Boats and time slipped past. The children played happily but after a few hours of drink and heat, some of the adults grew irritable.
‘When I write, I lose all sense of who I am,’ said George, swigging back beer. The drops gathered on the cool glass.
‘That could explain why you never help with the housework or the children.’ Charmian looked pleased at her put-down.
‘Jeez, Charm, you could wring an insult out of nowhere. It’s a real talent. Maybe you could take up writing insults rather than journalism. You’re better at it.’
Charmian glared at him. ‘I’m a very good writer, George, but you are such a male chauvinist that you believe women are put on the earth to clean and cook while the genius men focus on their art.’ She clutched her chest to make it more dramatic.
‘Too right, Charm.’ George was enjoying their baiting. ‘You’ve got it in one, love.’
‘Well, if I’m such a bad writer, do feel free to stop pinching my bloody ideas.’
‘Pinch your ideas?’ George had now moved from beer to brandy, as if their quarrel warranted something stronger as fuel. ‘I have enough of my own, thank you.’
‘Fine. Then don’t ask me to read your work in progress and comment.’
‘Suits me.’
‘Maybe the point about writing is that we escape when we write,’ Gordon tried to move the discussion away from their toxic marriage, ‘or are we more ourselves than ever?’
Leonard looked up from the guitar that he was strumming gently. ‘Both,’ he said. ‘We cannot be detached from our work if we must appear involved but nor can we be universal if we are too focused on ourselves.’
‘But are we the creators or are we merely the conduit through which the words flow?’ Chuck sai
d.
‘Both,’ Leonard chimed.
Gordon joined in: ‘Our words must seem to be inevitable though, as Yeats said.’
Chuck nodded in agreement. Marianne thought: why do Charmian and George not see how other couples work, and learn from them? It upset her the way they always fought and spoiled the day for everyone else.
As night fell, the sky was pierced with tiny stars and the adults wrapped their children in blankets and rugs. Marianne enclosed Axel Joachim inside her coat, winding it round the two of them so that she could transfer her body heat to her baby. Leonard looked at her and smiled.
No-one wanted the day to end. They bought red mullet from a fisherman for a few drachmas and cooked it on the fire, pulling at the soft flesh until it fell away. Marianne had brought along lemons and they squeezed the juice on the fish until the skin sizzled and blistered. Gathered together around the fire, watching the tiny sparks, their faces were lit by the flames and the sun lowered itself slowly into the sea as if on string, gently released, while Leonard’s guitar and his voice provided a soothing backdrop.
In the darkness, the figures melted into a single shape, as if the fire had taken away their edges and made them one. As the flames turned to ash, it was hard to make out faces. It didn’t matter. For those hours, they were united, talking, laughing, listening, sharing their dreams and planning their futures.
Marianne leaned against Leonard and thought: if I could stop time, I would, and stay here on this dark beach for ever.
viii
Anthony Kingsmill’s studio was at the top of his tiny house. He greeted Marianne at the door and led her through the kitchen, up the stairs past the floor where he slept and then to the attic room. She was shocked at the bareness of his home, hardly furnished at all, but she was not wholly surprised. Stories of his drinking and gambling were rife on the island.
‘So good of you to come, dear Marianne,’ he whispered. ‘Have you posed before?’
‘Oh yes, for several photographers. And have you heard of Marcella Maltais?’
‘Of course, she’s a wonderful artist.’
‘She painted a portrait of me with Axel Joachim.’
‘Were you pleased with it?’
‘Very much. She has captured my love for my son. I am holding him in the foreground and behind us the houses of Hydra climb the hill. The style is primitive.’
‘But on that occasion you didn’t pose naked? You are happy to do this?’
‘Of course.’ Marianne slipped off her sandals and lifted the lavender dress over her head, letting it fall to the floor like a pool of purple water. She wore no underwear. Anthony pointed to a cushion on the floor where she positioned herself, shifting slightly in order to be comfortable and relaxed.
Anthony held a pencil up for measurement, looking carefully at Marianne, and then moving his eyes back to his easel to start sketching her on his canvas. He found her beauty a distraction: her slim waist, her satin skin, her small breasts pert and firm, but fuelled by the desire to capture her beauty and the bottle of retsina he swigged from as he worked, he made some progress. He liked to talk to his models as he sketched.
‘How is your delightful child?’
Marianne tried to ignore the bits of sand and paper that fell from the ceiling as Anthony worked.
‘He is beautiful, but easily upset. I think that he will be a sensitive soul.’
‘And you look after him on your own?’ Anthony saw how her blonde hair curled itself around her neck. Her lips were perfect, as if they had been painted on.
‘Yes. Axel is in California while his lover Patricia recovers. You heard she was involved in a car crash?’
‘Yes, I did. Terrible.’
‘Axel says he is looking after her but his long letters are more about his friendship with John Starr Cooke. He is an astrologer who also uses tarot cards and the Ouija board to help his friends uncover the truth.’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘Oh, he’s quite a character. Axel met him in the Sahara when John was riding a white camel. He claimed to be descended from the Pharaohs. He comes from a wealthy family in Hawaii but chose a different way of life. One day he and Axel swung a chain and wherever it landed they had to go. It was in Norway, in the north. Axel just blindly followed him.’
‘Do you think he has actually helped Axel?’ She could hear Anthony’s pencil scratching on the canvas.
‘I don’t know. There are drugs that they have been taking, psychedelic drugs, and that may mess with his mind or maybe it will help him. Now he says he wants to go to Mexico to travel with John. Axel is struggling with his new novel, Line, but Henrik Groth thinks that it will make his name. I hope so. But I have to make my own life now with Axel Joachim.’
‘And Leonard Cohen?’
Marianne’s face lit up. ‘He’s the most amazing man. Everything he says is wise and thoughtful as if he never wants to waste a word. I love to listen to him speak and sing. And Axel Joachim loves him also.’
‘Will you leave Axel and live with Leonard?’ Anthony had finished the rough sketching now and was starting to paint. He mixed yellow with white to try to convey the corn-flax gold of her hair.
‘I am unsure. Leonard is busy writing also, his novel The Favourite Game, and his poetry and songs, and I do not want to interfere with that.’
‘So you are a muse to two writers?’
‘I don’t know that I am a muse. I don’t know exactly who I am.’
The hours passed and Marianne was worrying about her baby although she knew that Maria would care for him well.
‘Good,’ said Anthony after a period of silence. ‘I think I can continue by myself, Marianne: thank you. I wish that I could pay you but I haven’t a bean in the world, my dear.’
‘No need,’ she said graciously. ‘The pleasure is mine.’
She slipped on her lavender dress and went towards the easel.
‘Not yet,’ he said, shielding the painting with his hands. ‘I will let you know when it is finished.’
As Marianne left his house, she saw Charmian arriving. She looked thin, red-faced and she was walking unevenly.
‘Darling Marianne, have you been modelling for Anthony?’
‘Yes. Are you going to sit for him, also?’
‘Well,’ said Charmian, her dark eyes shining, ‘I will sit for him and then I’ll lie for him.’
‘You are wicked,’ said Marianne hugging Charmian and smelling drink on her.
‘A woman has needs and as my husband can’t satisfy them, I have had to look elsewhere. Between Anthony and Nature Boy, I am well catered for.’
‘Nature Boy?’
‘You’ve seen him in the harbour, surely? His real name is Jean-Claude Maurice. Tanned body, earring. Sucks eggs. Paints nudes. A knotted cloth around his groin, which he will untie if you want him to. And I do. Frequently.’
‘Charmian!’
‘What? George knows I have lovers. He’s a once a year man, and that’s if I’m lucky. Nature Boy satisfies my carnal desires; Anthony is more sophisticated and genteel.’
‘I hope you have a good time,’ said Marianne, walking away.
Anthony always liked to draw Charmian before they made love. It was a good way to lead in: to look at her lying on the cushion still warm from Marianne and the two women one after another, one slender, blonde, small-breasted, and the other larger, dark-haired, exotic and mysterious, excited him.
As always, he liked to sketch the outline in pencil first, before committing himself to paint. As he worked, he listened to her complaining about George, the children, the housework, the maid, her writing which was often not going very well, so that this time provided them both with something: him with a chance to move himself into the mood for love; her to be allowed a safe space in which to rant.
So when the sketch was done, he left the painting to another time and lay beside Charmian. Light streamed in from the window and he felt as if he were stepping into his drawing of her: the curves and
hills made of flesh, her long dark hair, her sculpted features, her wide mouth which she had painted crimson and her long legs which seemed to lure him in.
From Nature Boy she got a good fuck when she wanted it, but with Anthony they took their time. Anthony made love as he painted and spoke: carefully, elegantly, with style. Somehow he was erotic without being crude.
He stroked her skin, kissed her large mouth, placed his paint-stained hands between her legs, feeling her push against him, part resistance, part playfulness, but he persisted as he knew she wanted him to. He felt himself stiffen to a rock and she stripped him, teased him, so that he gripped the sides of the couch and could hardly control himself. He tried to wait but he wanted to enter her and reach the very heat and heart of her.
Lying naked side by side afterwards, Anthony wondered whether his art improved if he slept with his models. He knew them inside out, saw them differently to the painter standing face on. He did not want to leave the softness of Charmian’s body but when he did, he would take his pencil and make a few adjustments, just slightly redraw the nose, widen the mouth, add more shading around her eyes.
It was difficult being torn between a lover and the portrait of her but when he felt her body relax and realised that she was asleep, he lifted his arm carefully from her, stood up and returned to his other passion.
Walking home across the island, Marianne felt that spring was now rooted. Earlier in the season, the flowers had emerged tentatively, as if anxious of what awaited them. But as March turned to April, they seemed more self-assured and ready to open fully. Their colours were deeper and more authentic as if they had shed their doubt and accepted that this was indeed spring. A lemon-blue light filtered through the gaps in the trees, as if determined to reach the flowers and nourish them. From a dovecote in one garden came soft white birds, in and out of the wooden holes, their feathers and tails frilly.
When Marianne looked up, she saw the hawthorns, freshly green, reaching for the sky, and the almond blossoms stamping their whiteness on the air, like transfers. The world had been affirmed today, restored without losing its authentic colours. The dark red tulips were even more so; and the white gardenias purer than ever.
