by S. P. Hozy
“It is for me. My art is all about colour. I ‘feel’ colour; it’s a mode of expression for intense emotion, which is what I try and paint.”
“But your paintings are so … so … almost sterile,” said Ray. “And I don’t mean that in a pejorative sense. It’s just that they’re so clean, so precise.”
“But that’s the point,” she said. “I don’t want you to be distracted by technique when you look at my paintings. I want you to respond to the purity … no, that’s not the right word … to the …”
“Essentials?”
“Yes,” she said. “To the essentials. What all of us share as human beings, beyond all the encumbrances of culture and personality, what we wear and what we eat, what we look like, or what we want to look like. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. Maybe that’s why I shoot so much in black and white. With photography, you can’t control the ‘message’ in the same way as you can with painting or something you create from scratch. You have to deal with the reality that exists in the frame. I can control the composition and the colour, or lack of it, the shadows, the depth of the perspective, but even that I can control only in a limited way because it’s a two-dimensional image. Colour, for me, is distracting. Like you say, a technique. In photography, colour is a technical component. How do I know that the red I’m seeing is the same red you’re seeing? The only way I can control that, to show you what I want you to see, is to strip out the colour. That way, maybe we’re all looking at the same image. At least to some extent.”
“Control,” Maris said. “You think art is about controlling the image? Controlling the perception?”
“Yeah, I guess I do. I mean, a writer gets to pick and choose his words. He controls what you’re reading. Why can’t a visual artist control the elements in his creation?”
“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t control the elements in a painting or a photograph, as much as you can. That’s the art, the craft of it. But you can’t control the viewer’s perception or their interpretation. That’s totally subjective. I mean, maybe it’s none of my business how you interpret what you see. Once I hand it off, it’s not mine anymore. It belongs to you, and you can see it any way you want to. Hell, you can cut it into little pieces and eat it, for all I should care.”
“Ah, but you do care,” said Ray.
“Yes, I do. I’m not sure how to get to that place yet.”
“Is that the place you want to get to? Not caring?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do you want to talk about Peter?”
She thought for a minute, took another sip of her coffee. “Not today,” she said. “But maybe later.”
“Okay,” he said.
It was early afternoon before Maris thought about opening the trunk. She and Ray had gone out to lunch at a funky diner down the street that served the best grilled cheese sandwiches in the world, according to Ray. The bread was thick-cut from a French stick, and buttered on both sides before it was browned on the grill. The smooth, nutty Gruyère oozed out the sides as it melted. And the fries were cut thick like the bread, done crisp on the outside and moist and firm on the inside. Ray was right. It was the best grilled cheese in the world.
“What’s in that thing?” Ray asked as she started to undo the leather straps and locks.
“I don’t really know,” she answered. “Peter left it to me in his will. I looked through it quickly before I left, but I’m not sure why he wanted me to have it. There are some old books and paintings, and I think I saw a bundle of letters.”
“That’s weird,” said Ray. “Do you think they’re valuable?”
“Might be, but he didn’t have them in the store, so maybe they aren’t. Unless the books are first editions or something.” She lifted the lid and they looked inside. She started handing Ray things and he spread them out on the floor around them.
“Edward Sutcliffe Moresby,” he said, reading the spine on one of the books. “Collected Stories. Who’s he? I’ve never heard of him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Maris said. “I think we read one of his stories in school. He was British but he travelled all over the world, starting before the First World War, I think. Especially to the Far East. I think he wrote some novels, too.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “Looks like they’re here, too.”
Maris looked over his shoulder. “Are they first editions?”
Ray scanned the title page of one of the books. “Could be,” he said. “This one’s copyrighted and printed in 1921. It’s in pretty good condition. Maybe Peter wanted to look after you in your old age.”
Maris smiled. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she said. “He would do something like that.”
“What about the paintings?” asked Ray.
There were several small canvases, each wrapped in brown paper. Maris carefully unwrapped the first one. It was a framed watercolour, about eight inches by ten inches, and covered with glass. The painting was of a young Chinese woman, heavily made up, staring with vacant eyes at something outside and to the left of the frame. There was something very moving about the image. It looked like the woman was gazing into her own past and seeing nothing there. Both Maris and Ray stared at the picture. Neither spoke.
Then Maris said, “Wow. I wonder who the artist is.”
“Is it signed?” asked Ray.
Maris examined the bottom of the painting. “It looks like there’s something in the corner here, but it’s kind of faint. Do you have a magnifying glass?”
“Do I have a magnifying glass?” said Ray. “I’m a photographer. Remember?”
“Just get it, smartass. You can give me your résumé later.”
Ray was already on the other side of the room rummaging through the stuff on his work table. “Got it,” he said.
Maris turned on a lamp and looked at the signature through the magnifying glass. The initials AS had been inscribed with the tip of a fine brush.
Who was AS? she wondered.
“I wonder who it was,” said Ray.
“Don’t know. I wonder if they’re all by the same person.” They unwrapped the rest of the pictures.
“Yup,” said Ray. “Looks like it.”
“Yes,” said Maris, gazing at each of the paintings. “And they’re all portraits of Chinese women. How interesting. I wonder who he or she was.”
“If we knew the name, we could Google it,” Ray said.
“What about Edward Sutcliffe Moresby? Let’s Google him,” she said.
Ray went over and opened his laptop. “Oh yeah. Plenty about him. Born 1887, died 1965. Hey,” he said, “the year you were born. Synchronicity. Cool.”
“What else?” she said, reading over his shoulder.
“There’s a list of his books. Wow. They’re still available on Amazon. That’s amazing.”
“Great,” said Maris. “I can see if any of them are first editions.”
They went through the pile of books, checking each one on the Internet. Every one of them was a first edition.
“Amazing,” said Ray. “I wonder what they’re worth. Must be fifteen or sixteen of them.”
“Twenty-five, actually,” said Maris.
“Even better.”
“Maybe Peter wanted me to read them,” she said.
“Maybe. Did he leave any instructions? Like in his will or a letter?”
“No,” said Maris. “But his death was sudden and probably a lot sooner than he expected. Maybe he would have done something like that later.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “It must have been really horrible. Being with him at the time, and all that.”
“It was the most terrifying, sad, depressing experience of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.”
“No, probably not. I’m the last person to suggest this, but what about counselling? Have you thought about it?”
“I’ve thought about it but I don’t think I could do it.”
“You mean you don’t want to do it.”
/> “I mean I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to talk about it with a stranger. I don’t even want to talk about it with a friend. I’m afraid that if I start, I don’t know where it will end.”
“You’re afraid it might make you ‘normal.’”
“Yeah, something like that. I don’t want to mess too much with my psyche. I don’t want to over-analyze myself, you know what I mean? If I start explaining what I’m about, maybe all the stuff that I need to do my art will get sanitized.” She laughed. “Like your sleeping bag.”
“Better to keep all that garbage inside,” said Ray. “That what you mean?”
“Yeah, in a way. If I start putting it ‘out there,’ then it will be objectified. It won’t be my shit anymore. It’ll just be a bunch of sentences.”
Ray laughed. “Believe it or not, I know what you mean. If you untie all the knots, all that will be left is a piece of string. How boring is that?”
“Exactly,” she said. “Maybe I can work it out through my art. At least, that’s what I keep hoping.”
“Yeah,” said Ray. “Keep that myth alive: the tortured artist. I have a hair shirt around here somewhere, if you want it.”
But she had tears in her eyes, and he knew he had gone too far.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, and put his arms around her. “I’m stupid and a little insensitive. Well, okay, very insensitive. I’d probably be a basket case if I’d been through what you’ve been through. I wouldn’t be able to handle it at all.”
“I’m not handling it,” she said, drying her eyes on his shirt. “I’m kind of paralyzed by it.”
“Well,” he said, “you have to start somewhere. Maybe you should read some of these books. Take a break. You can stay here as long as you want.”
“Thanks,” she said. “I want to go see Spirit at some point, but maybe I’ll spend some time at the library. See what I can find out. See if I can figure out why Peter left me this stuff.”
Marriage and Love
A Short Story
by
E. Sutcliffe Moresby
It’s not often that I’m invited to attend a wedding on my travels, but, occasionally, if I’m in the right place at the right time, an invitation is graciously extended and I usually accept. Weddings are, as a rule, happy occasions and they give one a chance to eat and drink and converse with people who are in a mood to celebrate. And I, once it is revealed that I am a writer, have often been the recipient of a story or two, sometimes divulged after much drink, but usually freely given in conversation by someone who is forced, because of the nature of their occupation, to spend many lonely hours away from the company of people, so talk is a welcome, dare I say it, yearned for pastime.
This particular wedding was, in fact, a very small affair, consisting of the bride (recently out from England), the groom, their two attendants (both male, as it happened), and about a half dozen “guests,” including myself. Although it took place in a chapel attached to the Anglican church, there were no flowers and the bride was dressed in a dark blue woolen suit — a bit warm for the intense, steamy climate, but she had only just arrived from England and, I suspect, had nothing else to wear — and a black felt hat pulled down over her hair and framing her face, as was the style au courant in the 1920s. I said there were no flowers, but I do recall that she had a small bunch of white jasmine pinned to her jacket that made a simple but attractive complement to her plain white silk blouse.
The groom was someone I had previously met in England, an aspiring writer who had come out to Singapore with his savings in order to produce a book — something he claimed he could not afford to do in England. He had very little money and, as a result, the wedding ring he put on his bride’s finger was made of brass. The ring was as shiny and yellow as gold, but before the party celebrating their nuptials ended, it had turned her finger green because of the excessive humidity that is common in that part of the world. I believe shortly thereafter she took to wearing the ring on a gold chain around her neck, the chain having been a gift from her parents on her eighteenth birthday. I felt a little sorry for the poor girl that day. She clearly had not yet adjusted to the heat, nor the exotic surroundings and alien customs of her new life. She seemed nervous and uncomfortable, but now, as I look back these many years later, I realize with some disconsolation that it was the happiest she would be for the rest of her life.
But on that day, when anything was possible, including living blissfully ever after, we were all in a mood to celebrate, so after the formalities were done, we went off to the Raffles Hotel and had a party. The Raffles was the hotel I always stayed at when I was in Singapore. It was opened by the Sarkies brothers from Armenia in the late 1880s. I was also fond of staying at two other Sarkies hotels when I was in Asia, the Eastern & Oriental in Penang and the Strand in Rangoon. They are handsome buildings with well-appointed rooms where one is always made to feel at home. The staff I have found to be exceedingly helpful and polite, and one never has to ask twice for anything.
The two attending witnesses had made arrangements earlier with the hotel staff to discreetly present them with the bill, so as not to stint on the celebrations and not to embarrass the groom. They were both bachelors in the employ of Guthrie and Co., the trading company started by a Scotsman, Alexander Guthrie, around 1821. I had noticed that one of them, Rodney, seemed more than a little fond of the bride. He had been unable to take his eyes off her during the brief marriage ceremony. I was intrigued by this and decided to have a word with him at some point during the festivities. Maybe there would be an appealing story in it.
As the party progressed, and much food was eaten and much beer and whisky drunk, I was able to glean certain facts about the couple from the various guests, none of whom knew them well, but each of whom seemed to have a piece of the story, as it were. The groom, Thomas Noble, had come out from England about six months earlier, with the grand dream of becoming a famous author. I knew something about the difficulties involved in this kind of endeavour, having once been an aspiring author myself. Being a few years older than the groom, I had already established myself as a writer whose books and stories found a market among the literate and semi-literate of England and those parts of Europe where English books are sought after and read. I wished him well and hoped that he had enough money to support himself for at least five years. Publishing is a hit-and-miss business, and not everyone who writes a book will see it in print, let alone see it sell.
The bride, Adele Simpkins (or Adele Noble, as she would now be known), was no more than twenty-five years of age I was sure, a pretty girl in that classic English way, with a lovely clear complexion, eyes the colour of cornflowers, and soft brown hair that fell in natural waves around her heart-shaped face. Thomas and Adele made an attractive couple. He was several inches taller than her, with wheat-coloured hair and hazel eyes that promised an interesting variety in their children, should they have any. They appeared to be very much in love, but I sensed a degree of self-absorption, common to writers, in Thomas that Adele would have to learn to put up with. Writing is a solitary pursuit, and even though writers want a wife and family like everybody else, they are inclined to live apart from them in some ways. Because they more often inhabit the places of the mind rather than the body, it can be discouraging for those who have to live with them.
I managed to catch up with the young man from Guthrie’s who had acted as one of the witnesses to the marriage of Thomas and Adele, and we sat together with a bottle of whisky and swapped stories. He was an intelligent chap, handsome and athletic like most of the young men who came out to that part of the world in those days. A love of competitive sport and a cheerful (verging on jovial) disposition were almost prerequisites for employment with the trading companies and the Malayan Civil Service (or the M.C.S. as it was then called). The workday was long and demanding, the weather often boiling hot, and the climate, to say the least, unhealthy. Marriage was discouraged, in fact often prohibited, by the company for a number of years.
Sports and games were considered a healthy outlet for young men’s energy. It was also a widely held belief that a man who participated in competitive games was a man you could count on to do a good, honest day’s work, and who would do his best for the “team.”
Rodney Sewell was just that sort of man. He immediately impressed me as the kind of chap who would lay down his life for king and country if called upon. He was very good looking but in a casual, even indifferent way, and he seemed unaware of his effect on women. His hair was fair and sun-bleached, and his skin was tanned to an agreeable shade that was one part coffee to three parts cream. He sported a handsome blond moustache that precisely framed his top lip.
We sat at a small table in the Long Bar and watched as the wedding guests mixed with the bar’s regular patrons. Rodney’s arm was casually draped across the back of the unoccupied chair next to him. The afternoon was hot but he looked cool in his white linen suit. I pulled out a handkerchief and wiped my brow. I wanted to ask him how he did it, but instead I thanked him for his generosity to the young couple and offered to pay a share of the bill.
“Very kind,” he said, “but not necessary. My mate Archie and I are happy to cover it.”
“How long have you known the happy couple?” I asked.
“I met Tommy soon after he got here,” he said. “That was about five months ago. He used to come and watch the cricket matches on Sundays. We got to chatting one time and he said he was a writer. I thought that was kind of interesting. Never met a writer before. I started inviting him round to our bungalow — me and Archie share with two other Guthrie’s chaps — and we had some grand conversations. He told us all about his girl, Adele, and said she was his fiancée but he couldn’t persuade her to come over and get married. He was bound and determined to write a book, and said he couldn’t do it in England. Money, he said. He was quite open about the whole thing.” Rodney chuckled. “And we could sympathize, I tell you.” He poured us both another shot and turned to face me.
