She’s obsessed with a little girl, I explained. Every time we come here, she drives us crazy with stories about a little girl. June had got to the caretaker’s house and called out, she’s in here! As she walked to the door, she said, Sarah, why don’t you want to talk to me? The big fig tree above the old caretaker’s house kept everything dark. Rosy was very drunk but she remembered there was a miniature torch in her handbag.
As we got to the abandoned caretaker’s house, I heard a noise, as if someone was crying inside. I thought it might be Lucie seeking refuge. Why? Well, um… Lucie wanted to leave Longland… She wanted to leave Ernest. Yes, I should have told you in the first place, but I promised Lucie that I wouldn’t tell a soul. She called me on the Friday prior to the party, told me she wanted out, she had plans to flee.
Why did she want to leave Ernest? She said she could no longer put up with his behaviour… I’d better leave now, she said, otherwise if he doesn’t kill me, I’m going to kill him… When I sat for Ernest he told me how Lucie often got hysterical. He was worried for her. He asked me if I knew a good psychoanalyst in town, preferably French-speaking.
As I’m telling you all of this, it sounds as though Ernest is all sweet. But there is another side to him. I’ve seen Ernest out of his wits and believe me, he can be terrifying. Forget that argument he had during the party with the guy in the white tuxedo, that was a trifle. What I’ve seen is much scarier… Like that Sunday, when Lucie and June were playing football and little June broke a terracotta pot. Nothing exceptional, just a small lemon tree in a pot… It tumbled down the stairs… Ernest heard the noise. He left his brushes, ran to the garden and went completely insane. He railed, especially at my daughter, and I could see Lucie was petrified. His face was scarlet. I tried to calm him down but he let fly at me too. The three of us then endured a relentless barrage of vicious comments about how careless and selfish we were. Even with June in tears he showed no restraint. Eventually he turned around and disappeared for the rest of the day.
Anyway, as we reached the caretaker’s house, I asked if there was anyone there. It’s me, Nicole, I said. No one answered. Rosy pushed the door open. She walked in first, flashing her torch around the room. A few yellowing papers and an old plastic pen were lying on a wooden table that had been pushed against the window. Lucie must have forgotten them the previous summer when she worked on her biography of Jean Lucien. Even though the caretaker’s house has few comforts, it has always given her a peaceful working environment, away from Ernest.
We searched the house, including a broom cupboard tall enough for an adult to stand in, but there was no one in sight. We could still hear a kind of wailing nearby. Eventually we began to walk out, Rosy leading with her torch. Shush, she said, it’s coming from over there. We stopped moving. We were dead silent, standing there for an eternity. After a while the sounds of the night returned and we made a move.
June clung to me as we trudged back up the path. As Rosy was rummaging for her car keys to return the mini-torch to its clip, she began shrieking that her wallet was missing. She complained about having bought a cheap, nasty handbag, saying that it might have fallen out, as the zipper was defective. She began to walk back to the main house to search for her wallet.
I said, you go and we’ll wait for you here. Gary didn’t say a word. His teeth were chattering and he looked drained. June was about to collapse from exhaustion. After what seemed like a long while I suggested to Gary we go and look for Rosy. That’s when we heard the two explosions. Like two blasts… No, I’m not able to tell where they came from. They could have come from the main house or the forest. Sounds get swept down the creek and always seem closer than they really are… Gary threw his hands up. He looked terrified. I took June in my arms. We ran up to the main house.
On the terrace, the glass doors had been left wide open. We walked inside. The reception room was bedlam. It looked as if the place had been ransacked. The floor was littered with confetti, plastic cups, dirty plates, tissues, napkins, empty bottles. Layers of pink streamers covered most of the furniture, though I could make out the red wine stains on the expensive white leather couch.
Well, it had been a wild party; people had been drinking heavily and doing drugs… I cleared the couch and laid down little June, who had fallen asleep in a chair. We called out to Lucie. We called out to Ernest. Nothing. Then Rosy appeared in the doorway, pallid, with her mouth agape, clearly distressed. Her right hand was bloody. She also had blood on her lips. Registering the alarm on my face, she replied that she had cut herself on a piece of broken glass. I asked where Ernest was and she mumbled that we should look upstairs.
I led the way, with Gary and Rosy close behind as we crept up the stairs. Gary was the one who knocked at Ernest’s bedroom door. We waited a few moments before entering the room. We tiptoed towards the bed. The odour was heavy and sickening: a mix of musty bed linen, the reek of spilt liquor, stale sweat oddly overlaid with the smell of patchouli oil…
Ernest likes collecting antiques… you’ve seen his house… but his bedroom is without doubt the most over the top. It’s like a bazaar, decked out in Indian red, velvet drapes around the bed, cluttered with statues, chandeliers, artefacts, Moroccan brass lamps, wall hangings… But the centrepiece is the huge, canopied four-poster bed… You could almost imagine it being custom-made for Ernest.
He was there, yes, Ernest, in his gigantic bed; right in the middle, on his back, his arms outstretched. His pyjama top was unbuttoned, the sheet pulled up to his waist. He was asleep. His face was red and swollen, his grey hair sticking out. The day was dawning; the soft light caught the Saint-like figures of the bed’s bas-relief. The drapes hung from the canopy like cataracts of blood, framing the bulk of Ernest’s body… A surreal vision.
Rosy and I drew closer to each other. Gary called to Ernest. There was no reaction, so he checked to see if he was still breathing. He tapped him on the shoulder. Ernest didn’t budge. He was absolutely still. Gary looked at us and whispered that he must have drunk too much and passed out. He could have taken pills as well. I’ve never known anyone able to sleep so soundly with three people hovering over them. It did cross my mind that he wasn’t asleep…
The guests who were staying overnight had been woken up by the two blasts and were now standing on the mezzanine. I could hear snatches of their alarmed murmurs… Gary lifted a finger to his mouth, beckoning us not to make a sound. Then he walked out of the bedroom and explained to those on the mezzanine that the noise most likely was from hunters shooting deer. This was hunting season, he said, and dawn is the best time to catch a deer.
They seemed satisfied and returned to their rooms. I suggested we go back to the sitting-room. I wanted to check if Lucie’s travelling bag was still there. You see, when Lucie called me on Friday, she had planned to hide a small travelling bag somewhere in the house. Initially, she thought about leaving her stuff outside but I advised her that inside would be more practical. That way, she could discreetly immerse herself among the departing guests and make her way to the car.
I assumed that she wanted to leave specifically on the night of the party because she would be able to get a lift out of Longland. I also advised her to leave all of her manuscripts behind. This upset her, but as I explained, this was the best way not to rouse any immediate suspicions from Ernest. She promised that she would.
Now, I had no idea that June and I would be coming to the party in Rosy’s car. That Saturday morning, my old bomb refused to start. I called Rosy just in time to get a lift to Longland. Lucie saw us arrive in a car that was not mine and when she figured I had travelled with Rosy, she pulled me aside and curtly said, I am not going anywhere with that woman. She didn’t trust Rosy and was convinced she would jeopardise her plans to leave Ernest.
We left the bedroom. I walked downstairs, followed by Rosy and Gary. I entered the sitting-room and tried to find Lucie’s bag… It was nowhere to be seen. I assumed that Lucie had taken it. Rosy asked me what I was looking
for. I’m looking for your wallet, I lied. Didn’t you say that you lost your wallet around here? Rosy scoffed and said, no, no way, and that her handbag had been in the library.
We headed to the library. We searched but couldn’t find the wallet, Rosy groaning every now and then that she had three hundred dollars in there. Her state of anxiety seemed out of proportion to what had been going on.
I didn’t know where Lucie was and was too exasperated to hang about any longer. I suggested to Rosy we leave without the wallet and I offered to drive. Gary carried June to the car.
No, believe me, I don’t know where Lucie is. She hasn’t contacted me. I swear, Officer Lawson, she hasn’t called… I can’t imagine what could have happened to her. I know she was fearful of Ernest’s reaction… No woman would want to stand up to that man when he’s angry…
I didn’t call the police until the following Wednesday as I thought it would give her at least three days to hide… Yes, that’s right, eventually I did call the police even though I had pledged secrecy to Lucie because I had grown worried, very worried…
Wait, I just remembered something else… When we were in the caretaker’s house, I picked up a piece of paper lying on the table. I recognised Lucie’s handwriting. I took it with me. One of Lucie’s poems. I brought it along to show you.
The one who has been broken
Blinded by pain
Seeks in a lover whom he doesn’t see
Another lover who will never be
His heart begs for love
Yet love is nowhere to be seen
For whom has been broken
By pain.
Gary Whitehall
Paddington
Sydney
New South Wales
I remember Virginia Hackton rather well. She was standing on the mezzanine with the other guests who were staying the night at Longland. From her statement, I can see she would make a very good detective indeed.
Yes, I was in Ernest’s bedroom. I admit to lying and withholding information. And yes, I confess that I lied; I would do it again if I had to. I did it for Ernest. Because he’s my dearest friend, he’s the younger brother I’ve never had and I feel a duty to protect him… Yes, to protect him.
You see, that night, when Nicole, June and I were in the former caretaker’s house, when we heard the sound of gunshots, I remembered all of a sudden that Ernest kept a hunting-gun in his sitting-room. It belonged to his grandfather. They used to go hunting together… No, I wouldn’t be able to give you more details about it. I’m not an expert in firearms. When I heard the two blasts, I initially thought that Ernest might have done something terrible… gone too far…
Perhaps I should start at the beginning. There’s something about Ernest’s past that you should know. I had hoped that he would be seen solely as a great artist, without the burden of his disturbing past. But I’ve come to realise that it’s impossible.
Twice in his life Ernest has been admitted to a mental hospital. The first internment occurred when he was thirty. Back then we shared an apartment in Kings Cross. A night patrol found him wandering about the city centre almost naked. The policemen assumed he had been in a fight, seeing he was bruised and bloodied. When asked who he was, he answered, I am Diogenes. When asked his address, he said, I live inside a barrel in Martin Place and intend to be a living example of virtue. They drove him to the St Vincent’s Hospital Psychiatric Unit. To the nurses and psychiatric staff who tried to work out his identity, he kept on affirming that he was Diogenes. Every morning, they’d find him asleep on the linoleum floor. Four days later, the police finally identified him and called me – Ernest and I had been living together for about two years. That episode happened shortly after his big show in New York. Fame hadn’t done him any good.
A few weeks prior to that incident, I was witness to Ernest’s deepening madness. I had just opened the gallery and business was sluggish. One afternoon, I came home early. Ernest was talking loudly. He was in his room and I thought he had someone with him. His door was ajar and I peered in. He was on his own and raving. I couldn’t understand his mumbo-jumbo, and then, suddenly, he let out a long scream. Then he started throwing around his paint pots, his brushes, ripping up canvasses, before flinging his easel against the wall. I was shocked by this outburst. The next minute I heard him wailing before he snapped. Fuck it all, fuck everything, leave me alone, I’ve had enough, he screamed.
I left the apartment, found myself heading in the direction of Centennial Park. I don’t know how many circuits of the park I did before I found the courage to return home… I walked in. I called out to Ernest. He came forth to greet me, in his customary jovial way, as if nothing had happened. I have never told anyone about that episode.
I remember back then the psychiatrist had diagnosed Ernest with schizophrenia. I’m not a world expert on mental illness, but I believe that these days he would more likely be told he was suffering from Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Anyway, the psychiatrist prescribed him tablets, which eventually must have worked, as three weeks later he came home.
Yes, he stayed three weeks in that psychiatric unit. He had aged and lost weight. That was heart-breaking… Then we got organised. A friend partitioned the largest room into two. One would become Ernest’s studio and the other his sleeping alcove, with a small fold-up bed and a sink. We screwed a strong bolt on the outside of the door and cut a hole for a hatch at the base, whereby I could slide through Ernest’s meals… That’s how we coped with his fits. His episodes wielded so much strain on his mind that he feared something terrible could happen, so he’d ask me to lock him up whenever he wasn’t feeling right. He admitted in his own words that he could “go too far”. He never told me what “go too far” meant, though I suspected the worst. As soon as he felt the warning signs he’d say, I’d better go in the boob. That’s what we called the tiny room: the boob. Make sure you bolt the door, he insisted. He would be pacing up and down in the room all night. I got used to it. That’s who Ernest was… I loved him, and I still love him, and when you love someone, you care for them, no matter the circumstances.
We found a fleeting sense of stability. Anyone else would have deemed his situation unbearable. There was no room for people like Ernest in a mental hospital. In such a place, they’d keep you for a week or so, give you a few tablets and send you home. Back to your life, your ghosts, your nightmares. When Ernest left St Vincent’s Hospital, he was given mood stabilisers. He took his tablets for a while and then stopped taking them, believing he could lead a normal life again through the strength he derived from his art. I believed it for a long time too, up until the day I realised he would never get better.
I had taken it upon myself to help him. He’s an exceptional painter and he simply has to paint. Without his art, life would be insufferable. I supported him financially. His family wrote him off. His father forbade him to even visit Longland. I paid for all his expenditures – the canvasses, the brushes and paints, the taxis and hotel rooms. Perhaps my devotion, my persistent concern for him drove him off… one day he decided to move out. He lived alone for a couple of years, and then a woman called Annette moved in with him. At some point, something serious happened between them. I never knew the crux of the story. Did he “go too far”? He must have, as he was committed again, this time for six months.
His mental illness has a strange control over him. After an episode, he doesn’t remember a thing… Yes, I saw that when we lived together. As sad as it sounds, once he was back to his usual self, he would knock three times on the door and say, are you going to keep me in the boob for ever, you bastard? I’d unbolt the door, we’d hug. I pretended not to notice his blood-shot eyes and blotchy face. We would laugh. Sometimes he’d look at me with surprise, wondering what had happened.
After his parents’ death he shifted back to Longland. Annette was gone and now Brit had entered his life. That was twelve years ago… We hadn’t seen much of each other until recently… He would ring me every thre
e months or so to ask whether his work was selling. He would say he was over life in the city, the noise, the traffic, the rabble, as he called it. I didn’t think it was such a good move going back to that old house. He hadn’t been happy down there, but it seemed to me that he was somehow trying to recover the status he had been robbed of by his father…
I tried to talk to Lucie that Sunday night. I didn’t want to unnerve her, but rather to open her eyes to Ernest’s struggle. She knew something wasn’t right, of course, but he’s a hard man to figure out. You’ve met him, so you know how charming and captivating he can be.
He’s inspiring too. His charisma draws artists, eccentrics and bohemians to him, his circle of friends opened up my world. If it were not for Ernest and his liberated “freaks”, I would have been stranded in a mainstream crowd, blending in like everybody else… My cool, scholarly approach to art was turned upside down by Ernest’s visceral nature. Even today, he’s the only person whose conversation, when it comes to art, still excites me.
Of course, it’s not just Ernest’s vision that drives him, but also his ego. Ambition consumes him. He’s a calculating one when it comes to tracking down helpful contacts, influential journalists. He’s even been known to lie to his best friend to serve his interests.
The party was supposedly for Lucie, but in my opinion, it was a means for Ernest to bring back useful acquaintances and resurrect his career.
And, as is often the way with Ernest, he needs too much alcohol, too much Benzedrine, too many uppers, and of course, the women… I know the ugly side of Ernest, a lubricious ogre ready to devour his own children to get what he wants.
The jacket? You would like to have Lucie’s jacket? I was hoping to give it back to her in person.
The Lovers Page 9
