by Alex Miller
‘I think I might have a pretty good idea.’
He waited but Roy offered no more. ‘That’s it?’
‘You do what you do, Toni. No one’s telling you how to run your life.’
He was taken aback by his brother’s lack of engagement with his situation. ‘I suppose you think I deserved it.’
‘I didn’t say that. You’re my brother. Call me if you want me to come over.’
‘Don’t say anything to Mum about it, will you?’
After Roy had hung up, Toni stood at the window looking across at the house. So he was on his own with it. But Roy was right, he should secure the paintings. Give Teresa a bit of space. Deal with things one at a time. See a doctor. He stepped over the broken image of Marina and went out the door and crossed the courtyard.
He stood in the living room listening. He had an image of Teresa lying on their bed in the front room, curled up waiting for him. It was a fiction, of course, he knew that, but he still went to the bedroom and looked all the same, seeing her there in his imagination until he saw the empty bed. He went to the window and pulled aside the blind. Her car was not in the street. He knew, suddenly, that the violent phase of this thing was over. It was finished. Whatever was to follow, there would be no more violence.
He went through to the kitchen and called Teresa’s parents. No one picked up and there was no answering machine at the Grecos. He rang Andy and left a message. Then he called Andy’s mobile. The diversion was on and he left another message. He had a growing dread that he had stepped over the line like his brother and there would be no going back to being the person he had been before this. A feeling of having slipped over the edge into something else, something unforeseen, something to do with being the artist Prochownik that he had not anticipated. Out there from now on, in no-man’s-land with his brother. Was that the fate that had been lying in wait for him? Struck sideways by the real storm when he was no longer expecting it. Theo’s kind of freedom, an existence loaded with anxiety and loneliness. He hesitated, then telephoned Marina. She picked up on the first ring.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked worriedly. ‘I’ve been sitting here waiting for you to call.’
He told her.
When he had finished she was silent for a while, then she said, ‘What are you going to do?’
‘No one’s dead. That’s what I keep telling myself.’
‘Where’s Teresa?’
‘I don’t know. I’d say she’s gone to her parents’ place. Roy was probably right. I should give her a bit of space. I shouldn’t have jumped in and wrestled her. I should have stood back and let her have a go at the painting. I don’t know why I jumped in like that.’
‘I shouldn’t have abandoned you the way I did. It was cowardly of me. I should have stayed and faced things with you. Together we might have had some hope of explaining.’
‘No! It was better this way. This is bad enough, but it’s a million times better than Teresa killing you.’
‘I’ll come over and give you a lift to casualty,’ Marina said resolutely.
He could hear that she didn’t really want to do it. ‘No. Don’t do that. I can get there.’
‘I’m coming over.’
‘No! Please don’t come over.’
‘How will you get to the hospital?’
‘I’ll call a cab. Look, I don’t think we should meet right away. Okay? I think we should let this thing settle for a while.’ He waited. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I feel responsible. I feel I ought to be doing something to help.’
‘You’re not responsible.’
‘I am responsible. We can’t just decide not to be responsible when things go wrong.’
‘Another minute and you wouldn’t have been here,’ he said.
‘If only I’d left when I should have!’
‘Teresa’s always going to believe I’ve been lying to her ever since the day on the island.’
There was a long silence, then Marina said, ‘I suppose in a way you have been. Or at least not sharing the whole truth with her. I’m not saying you could have. But I can imagine how she’s feeling.’
This was not what he wanted to hear.
‘So the painting’s ruined?’
‘It’s changed. I’m not rejecting the change.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Promise me you’ll let me know what’s happening. I need to know or I’ll be imagining the worst.’
‘Have you said anything to Robert?’
‘Robert’s not home yet.
‘Will you tell him?’
‘He’ll hear anyway. It’ll be better if I tell him myself. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine with it. He’ll just hate the way it is between you and Teresa.’ When he did not say anything to this she added, ‘Call me as soon as you’ve seen the doctor.’
After he had hung up, he stood at the kitchen bench; the peculiar stillness of the house, as if he and Teresa and Nada had never lived there. Outside, the city, the streets. The sirens that never stopped wailing along High Street. People killing and yelling and dying. He had become one of them. He had entered another reality. He was in pain and he was afraid. He hated being alone in the house. He looked across to the studio. That was where he wanted to be right now.
twenty-one
Teresa had taken Nada and vanished. The agency was closed and the Grecos were not talking to him. His right arm was in plaster to the elbow, the weight of it held in a sling. The X-ray had shown that the blow from the lamp had caused a hairline fracture of one of the slender bones in his forearm. The young woman doctor who explained the injury to him and set the arm in the casualty department of the hospital— in a curtained cubicle no more than three metres from the cubicle in which Theo had died—assured him that the injury would cause him no lasting problems. He had become a night worker again, like his father. In the night with his work he did not miss Teresa and Nada as acutely as he did during the day, and while he worked he could even imagine that they were sleeping peacefully in the house, as if everything was going along as usual for the three of them, and they would meet at breakfast and talk and laugh and tell each other their dreams, before going their separate ways into the day. Under its shroud of silence and darkness the night was not reality.
He was sleeping on the chaise again and had set up the coffee maker and the toaster on the plan press. Whenever he needed food he walked down the back lane to the corner shop and bought bread and tins of baked beans and cheese. The house remained dark and uninhabited on the other side of the courtyard and he rarely visited it.
Cold autumn rain slid down the windows of the studio. He was working on the figure of Marina in The Other Family. Andy had been around and paid him the money from the sale of the two paintings. Toni had kept on working while he told Andy the story, and for once Andy did not interrupt but sat on the stool in silence, his elbows on his knees, gazing steadily at the floor between his legs. Once or twice, particularly during Toni’s recounting of the fight, he made a small noise, denoting his disbelief or his dismay. But, when Toni had finished, he stopped working and turned around from the canvas and stood waiting to hear the verdict of his friend; the only one, in the end, with whom he had felt able to share his feelings of guilt and the strange ambivalent acceptance of his new liberty.
Andy looked up at him. ‘And you’ve heard nothing from Teresa since she walked out of the studio that day?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Do you have any idea where she is?’
‘For all I know she could be staying with her mother and father or with one of her brothers. But they’re refusing to speak to me.’
‘And what about her friend, Gina?’
‘I got nothing out of her. When I telephoned she just abused me and hung up.’
‘So,’ Andy said, he was matter of fact, as if he were saying something ordinary and of no greater consequence than anything else he might say, ‘What if she doesn’t
come back?’
It was too vast. The implications too devastating to consider.
Andy was silent for some time. ‘I never want to have to choose between you and Teresa. I love you both. Nada too. But if it comes to it, and I have to choose between you, then I am going to choose you.’ He looked steadily at Toni. ‘I’m telling you this now so you’ll know. It’s not something that makes me happy or gives me any satisfaction to say. In fact, it saddens me more than I can tell you. It seems to me the most obvious thing is that you need Teresa and Nada and they need you. I love them too. Don’t forget that. This is not just you and your family and your art, it’s us, your friends. It’s me, Toni. And it’s your mother. And it’s Roy. And it’s Robert and Marina. Don’t forget that. You’re not on your own with this. I’m saying this stuff about choosing between you and them because it’s what I’m thinking. And if I’m thinking it, you will be thinking it later, and Teresa will be thinking it, and whoever else. And we don’t want to leave a question like that sitting in the dark between us. I’m saying it now so it’s out in the open. But there is nothing good here.’ He considered Toni, his manner concerned and sorrowful. ‘Tell me one thing,’ he said eventually. ‘To me it’s the key to this business, and I need to know it. What would your dad have made of all this?’
Toni stood looking at the big canvas, the figure of Marina on the left margin of the picture, her figure deeper within the picture than his own enigmatic presence, her back to the viewer; her figure, surprisingly in the end, draped and evidently in the act of leaving the space of the large central arrangement of the composition, the group with Andy and Haine and Robert, dominated by the tall, imposing, presence of Oriel Liesker and her great pile of hair, which suddenly he was seeing as a predatory bird in the act of alighting on its prey. A stranger would not have imagined the picture to be a portrait of Marina Golding . . . His father, who had been a gentle man, would of course have been deeply hurt by the violence and the infidelity. He would have been shocked and saddened beyond words and must surely have seen it as a failure in his son to deal with the demands of art in a decent way. He may even have found in these events an echo of the violence of his own young life. Seeing the violence breaking in upon them again, despite his care, as if it were an inevitable part of his family’s destiny to suffer such things. After his father’s sudden death, when his grief had been fresh and at its most acute, he had often lain awake at night wondering about the young man who might have been himself if history had been different. And it had seemed to him then that his fate was no more than an accident, and carried no larger significance in the course of things than the momentary satisfaction of his own paltry and insignificant desires. If he had been standing in front of his father now, instead of Andy, would he have been as frank in telling his story, or would he have censored his account, and have left out the more difficult parts? He looked at Andy. ‘I don’t know what Dad would have thought about it,’ he said in answer to his friend’s question. But it was a less than honest reply. Andy’s question was too difficult for him at this moment, and he could not answer it, not even in the privacy of his own mind. He knew that if he should ever believe that he no longer deserved the respect of his father, then it would not be possible for him to continue with his art. The meaning of his art and his life were inseparable from his love and respect for his father.
‘Well you think about it until you do know, old buddy!’ Andy said, something of impatience and even of a reprimand entering his tone. ‘This thing happened and it is a terrible thing to have happened between you three, but you and me need to know what your dad would have thought about it. That much we’ve got to get straight, or this whole thing is lost. You know that and I know it. Neither of us would be here doing this, if it hadn’t been for your dad.’ Andy had got up after saying this and stood before the painting on the easel. Eventually he turned away from the painting and said, ‘It’s a beautiful piece of work.’
At the back door to the lane, on his way out, Andy put his arms around Toni and hugged him. He kissed him on the cheek. ‘You’re in pain. They’re in pain too.’ He indicated the studio with a lift of his chin, the mess of empty tins and used plates and cutlery and old bread wrappings on the plan press. ‘When you get sick of this come over and take a break with me.’ He pinched Toni’s cheek. ‘Hey, don’t be too downcast, you’re doing the work, Prochownik!’ But his show of optimism did not carry Andy’s usual conviction. Andy walked out into the lane and climbed into his car and drove away.
Toni watched him go, then went back to work.
Marina telephoned that evening. She reproached him gently for being neglectful. ‘I need to know how you are,’ she said. ‘You have to let me know what’s happening. You can’t just stay out of touch.’
‘Nothing’s happening,’ he told her.
‘You’ve still not heard from Teresa?’
‘No.’
‘That’s unbelievable. Have you been able to do any work?’
‘Yes, I’m working. Did you tell Robert?’
‘We’ve hardly talked about anything else these past few weeks.’
‘How is he?’
‘He wants to see you, but I told him we should wait.’
Toni said nothing. Did she mean wait until Teresa came home? Since the day of the fight, Robert and Marina had seemed strangely remote to him. There had even been moments when he had forgotten they had come back, and had imagined them to be living in Sydney still. ‘Yes, we might just give it a while,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I’m feeling a bit detached.’
‘It’s no wonder,’ she said. ‘You’d hardly be feeling normal. We’ll all catch up soon enough.’ She hesitated. ‘Did Oriel get in touch?’
‘No.’
‘She wants to know what you’ve got for the show.’
‘Andy’s handling all that.’
They hung up, finally, without finding much more to say to each other, a slight awkwardness persisting between them.
•
There was a picture of a hotel and a swimming pool in the top left-hand corner of the envelope. He sat on the stool beside Nada’s little table and opened it. Folded in with the letter was a square of brown paper with a coloured drawing on it; the figure of a woman in a green diamond-shaped skirt, a teardrop on each rosy cheek, above the figure the simple caption, Mum.
As you can see, I took the Noumea package. It’s beautiful here and I feel strangely content in these surroundings. Nada is missing you, of course. The worst thing is that she does not say anything, but keeps it all inside. There’s a circus school here at the hotel for the children and she and Snoopy Dog are learning to be clowns. Thankfully she seems to be enjoying it.
The temperature is around thirty to thirty-two every day and I’m swimming two Ks each morning in the pool while N is at the clown theatre. So I’m getting fit and I’m off the smokes again. I’ve lost four kilos.
This is my umpteenth attempt at a letter to you. I phoned once, but didn’t have the courage to leave a message. I couldn’t think of what to say when the machine came on.
I will always love you. And I know that you will always love me. I think we both know this. Our love is not as simple or as nice or as straightforward and perfect as I thought it was, but it is still real and it is still love.
I am coming home in time for the opening of the island show, but I don’t know whether I will feel able to go. I have spoken to Roy a few times by phone. He has been incredibly supportive. I don’t know if he has spoken about this to you? He has told me you only have a hairline fracture to your right arm, which is a relief. I’m glad I didn’t seriously hurt you. It’s lucky it wasn’t your left arm! When I was telling him about our fight, Roy said something he learned in prison was that murderers are ordinary people like us. After what happened, I believe it. It is a funny thing, but he and I were able to have a good laugh about it, and I think that’s when I started getting a bit of perspective on the realities of this and seeing that we have the rest of our live
s to go yet.
Roy is going to do some debt collecting for me when I get back. If he can get the big accounts to pay even a percentage of what’s owed the agency, I’ll have some hope of getting into the clear.
There is no point in you writing to me here as I will be home before your letter arrives. I will probably go straight to Mum and Dad’s. I wanted to let you know that we are both well and will be back soon, and I also wanted to say that I love you. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened and I had not told you this. Nada did the picture of me last night. I’m afraid I’ve had a few good cries. I think it’s done me good.
P.S. Don’t be angry with Roy. I made him promise not to tell you we’d been talking. He’s kept me in touch. It’s been important.
Toni read through the letter again then folded it carefully and put it back in its envelope. It was raining heavily outside now, the studio cold, the sound of the rain hammering on the tin. He pinned Nada’s drawing of the weeping woman next to her picture of himself above his dad’s suit. Then he dragged the doona off the chaise and draped it over his shoulders. He was seeing Nada doing her clown training. Maintaining her dignity. Solemnly instructing Snoopy Dog. Keeping the world of her imagination safe from the real world.
They were coming back.
He realised, suddenly, that he was exhausted and could do no more. He stood looking at The Other Family. It occurred to him then that the picture was finished. Whatever finished meant. The feeling that it was finished. The sense that it was finished. Not that it was perfect, but that it was done with, which was not the same thing. Its story was over. The energy for it had been expended. Emptiness after the act of passion. Or perhaps it was something so different from what he had expected when he set out to paint Marina’s portrait that he was not yet capable of really seeing it. There was a sense in which he was a stranger to this painting. Was there not, after all, a strange misalignment of truth and fiction in its story that might have been drawn from a place he scarcely knew? He reached and took the painting down from the easel and leaned it with its face to the plan press. He was careful with it. He cherished it. For it carried within its image the disconcerting authenticity of the unexpected and the unknown. As if another hand than his own had painted it.
