by Lesley Lokko
‘So, where are you off to?’
‘A . . . a lecture. It’s “Art in Venice”. Dr Crawford. I mean, James.’
He grimaced. ‘Dear God, he’s not still teaching that, is he?’ he asked with another faint smile. She looked up into his light blue eyes, watching with fascination the network of laughter lines that radiated from their edges, hinting at a side of him that was lighter than that which his students were allowed to see. A delicious prickling of pleasure broke out across her skin. Something of it must have communicated itself to him. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said suddenly.
‘An idea?’ she repeated and the thought of it made her knees tremble.
‘Mmm. Fancy a stroll?’
‘Right now?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to show you something that’ll put James’s Art in Venice in its proper perspective.’
She swallowed. ‘Um, yes. Yes, I . . . I’d love to.’
‘Good. I’ll meet you on the corner by the bridge.’
She turned and watched him walk off. He was a strange contradiction: the large, solid man who looked as though he’d be more comfortable on a rugby field than in a lecture hall, combined with the curious, sensitive face of the intellectual. She was absolutely transfixed.
He took her to a small antiquarian bookstore, just off Charing Cross Road. There was a bell above the door that jangled as they entered. Like Alice tumbling after the White Rabbit, she followed him in. It was dark and fusty inside. The owner clearly knew Jeremy, greeting him like an old friend and waving them through. ‘You know your way around here,’ he chortled. ‘Shout if you need any help.’
Jeremy led her through a series of corridors until they were in the very back of the shop, in a tiny room that housed not much more than three old wooden chests. He slid open the top drawer of the chest closest to the window, and beckoned to her to come closer. She could hardly breathe. Inside, separated by layers of fine, crinkled tissue paper that let off a scent of mothy, yeasty decay, were a series of original sketches.
‘Recognise these?’ Jeremy asked, his voice breaking the reverential silence that the tiny room seemed to demand.
Rebecca looked closely at the pencil and ink drawings nestled in the sleeves of tissue before her. They were studies – quick, sharp flicks of the wrist and hand, frozen moments of time and place in the construction of a painting that was yet to emerge. They were of a couple locked in a close embrace. As he gently peeled the layers of drawings, one from the other, the sensation was of watching something in motion, of a series of moving parts. She stared at the sketches. She’d never seen anything quite so expressive. On each, she could almost feel where the artist’s soft lead had bitten into the creamy surface, the paper resisting at first, then giving way to the dent, then the mark, and then all the marks combining to provide an opening into the soul. ‘No,’ she whispered, because it somehow seemed appropriate to whisper. ‘Who’s the artist.’
‘Francesco Hayez. Eighteenth-century Venice. These are the study drawings to his most famous work, Il Baci. The Kiss.’ He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. ‘It’s the most passionate representation of a kiss in the history of Western art.’ He turned and opened another drawer. He pulled a drawing out, placing it on top of the chest. ‘Look how he’s holding her. See? She’s leaning backwards, away from him. We can’t see their faces. For the first time in Western art, it’s not important who they are, but what they’re doing, what the embrace represents. It’s the kiss that’s the centre of the painting, the expression of feelings, rather than rational thought. But look at it a bit more closely.’ He bent forward slightly. Rebecca followed suit. Her heart was racing. ‘Look at his clothing. He’s wearing red, white and green. Those were the colours of the Risorgimento, the Italian patriots fighting for independence from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. She’s wearing pale blue, the colours of France. In the same year as he painted this, France made an alliance with the Kingdom of Piedmont and Sardinia, which allowed the states of the Italian peninsula to unify under the Italian flag. It’s a kiss, yes, but it’s also the birth of Italy. And in these sketches,’ he turned back again to the first drawer, ‘you get a glimpse into the layers that constructed it, that whole vision of independence . . . the beginning of a new identity. That’s art, Rebecca Harburg. Here, in this bookstore, in these drawers, between the tissue paper and the reproductions and what we know of the period. This is where it lives. Not in some lecture hall.’
She was moved beyond words. He made no gesture towards her but just stood there next to her, lifting the sheets with a gentle, careful hand, letting them fall, touching, stroking, lightly caressing them . . . and all the while it was her skin he was touching. That much was thrillingly, shockingly clear.
33
THREE MONTHS LATER
TASH/ANNICK
‘What’re you drinking?’ Tash shouted above the racket, trying to catch the barman’s eye.
‘Glass of white!’ Annick yelled back. ‘But something decent. Not Blue Nun.’
‘Give me a break!’ Tash rolled her eyes. She finally caught the bartender’s attention and fixed him immediately with a beady glare. ‘Glass of white, please. And a double whisky. On the rocks.’ She slapped her debit card crisply on the counter. No point in ordering for Rebecca. She was late. She collected their drinks and turned back to Annick. She rolled her eyes again – in the time it had taken Tash to turn round and order drinks, two men had sidled up to Annick.
‘Here you go,’ she said, quickly elbowing them both out of the way. ‘A glass of the Rising Sun’s finest.’ The men took one look at Tash, opened their mouths to protest and then quickly changed their minds and sloped off. She was six foot tall with an expression neither wished to question.
Annick picked up her glass. ‘Is it safe to drink?’
‘Don’t be such a snob,’ Tash said, taking a sip of her own drink. After a couple of shots, she mused, she felt ready to take on anything, including the embarrassment of standing next to Annick whilst half the men in the room drew near, ignoring her. Not that anyone would guess – she’d long since perfected the mask of bored insouciance that protected her from most of life’s indignities. ‘Where the hell is Rebecca? And why’s she always late these days? She never used to be.’
Annick shrugged. ‘Dunno. I was supposed to meet her on Saturday on Oxford Street and she never showed up. Said she forgot.’
‘What were you doing on Oxford Street?’ Tash felt a sudden pang. She hadn’t been invited.
‘Shopping. Well, she wanted to go shopping. She’s got some dinner party or the other coming up. She’s acting very weird these days.’
‘Why don’t you ever ask me to come shopping with you?’ she asked, already cross with herself for sounding plaintive.
Annick looked at her in surprise. ‘You hate shopping!’
‘That’s not true. I just hate crowds.’
‘That’s why we didn’t ask you, silly. Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon? You?’
‘Yeah, okay.’ Tash was partly mollified. She looked at her watch. ‘So what d’you want to do? I don’t much fancy sitting here all night watching every bloke in the room try and get off with you.’
Annick laughed. ‘Don’t exaggerate. Just because one person came up to me—’
‘Two, darling. Two men came up to you as soon as my bloody back was turned. Oh, well, whatever.’ It was still her favourite expression. What-ever. Delivered with a small shrug of the shoulders and the faintest twinge of an American accent. It suited her perfectly. Whatever.
‘There she is.’ Annick pointed to Rebecca, who had just hurried in through the door. She looked flustered. Her hair was prettily dishevelled and her face was flushed. She looked as though she’d just woken up.
‘What time d’you call this?’ Tash said, pointing to the clock above the bar as she rushed up to them.
‘Sorry, sorry . . . I . . . I got caught up.’
‘In what? Bed?’
Rebecca flushed scar
let. ‘No,’ she mumbled, turning away and busying herself with her coat.
Tash and Annick exchanged quick, surprised glances. ‘You’ve been in bed all afternoon. You have, haven’t you?’ Tash said slowly, incredulously. ‘With who?’
‘Shh!’ Rebecca’s head jerked backwards. ‘Not so loud!’
‘With who?’ Tash repeated, her eyes as wide as saucers.
Rebecca’s face was buried behind her hair. She began fishing around in her bag for something as a distraction. She mumbled something inaudible but didn’t look up.
‘Rebecca?’ Annick said, more gently than Tash. ‘Is something wrong?’
Rebecca shook her head furiously, still keeping it down.
Tash and Annick looked at each other again. Neither had any idea what was going on, or what to do. ‘D’you want a drink?’ Tash asked finally. ‘Red?’
‘Yes, please.’ Rebecca finally looked up. Her face was still flushed but she was a little more composed. ‘Sorry . . . I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’
‘Tired? How can you be tired if you’ve been asleep all afternoon?’
‘I’m just not feeling very well,’ she mumbled. ‘I . . . I think I might be coming down with a cold or something.’
Tash’s eyes narrowed. ‘What aren’t you telling us, Rebecca Harburg?’ she asked finally. There was an awkward silence. Annick and Tash glanced at each other. Rebecca continued to stare at her hands. Finally she lifted her head. She cleared her throat, an odd, high sound, audible even above the racket of the bar.
‘He’s . . . he’s one of my professors.’
There was a further moment of stunned silence as Tash and Annick stared at her. Then Annick drained the rest of her wine, set her glass carefully down on the counter and picked up her coat. ‘Coming?’
‘Where to?’ Tash asked, already grabbing her own coat.
‘Follow me,’ Annick said grimly. The other two had no choice but to do as they were told.
‘Good evening, Miss Betancourt. Welcome to the St James’s.’ The doorman at the front door was quick to welcome them in. ‘Will you be dining with us this evening?’ he asked, relieving them of their coats.
‘Yes, please, William. Is the corner table upstairs free? The one in the alcove?’
‘I’ll just check, miss. Won’t be a moment.’ He picked up the phone nestling discreetly behind the desk. Two minutes later whoever had been seated at the table by the window was gone. ‘If you’ll just follow me, ladies,’ William said, bowing slightly.
Even Rebecca, who was no stranger to members’ clubs, was impressed. ‘The St James’s? How’d you manage that?’ she whispered as they walked up the stairs behind him.
Annick shrugged. ‘My dad’s been a member for ages,’ she whispered back. ‘And it’s quiet. It was the only place I could think of round here with a decent enough wine list.’
‘Clever girl,’ Tash murmured, looking round, only just remembering to keep her mouth shut. Was there no end to the wealth surrounding these two? She’d never in her life been in a place like this.
There was a few seconds’ wait as the table was expertly cleared and then the three of them were seated. ‘I wanted us to be somewhere comfortable whilst we hear this,’ Annick declared, picking up the wine list. ‘Now, darlings, what’re we having? Something nice and expensive, I think. It’s on the house. Well, on my dad, at least.’ She looked down the list. ‘That one.’ She pointed to a bottle of Chateau La Mission Haut-Brion. ‘Nineteen eighty-five. Ought to be good.’
‘Very good, miss.’ Their waiter disappeared happily.
‘So,’ Tash said, taking charge as soon as their glasses were filled. ‘Tell us what the hell’s going on. And don’t spare us the details, either. We’re your friends, Rebecca.’
Rebecca fiddled around with the stem of her glass for what seemed like ages. ‘His name’s Jeremy,’ she whispered finally. ‘He’s my seminar tutor. He’s the most intelligent person I’ve ever met and he . . . he likes me.’
‘Why’s that such a surprise? When did it start and, more importantly, how far have you gone?’
Rebecca bit her lip. ‘Quite far,’ she said after a moment. The other two stared at her.
‘Is he married?’ Tash asked finally.
‘Tash!’ Annick glared at her.
‘What? Most professors are,’ Tash retorted. ‘It’s a fair question. Well, is he?’
‘I . . . I don’t know,’ Rebecca said, looking at her hands.
Tash and Annick looked at each other again, both lost for words. ‘What does that mean?’ Annick asked at last.
‘It . . . it means . . . well, I haven’t actually asked him.’ Rebecca’s face was the colour of the wine.
‘Why on earth not?’
‘I . . . I don’t know.’ Rebecca turned her face up to look at them both. ‘I . . . I guess I just don’t want to know.’
There was silence for a few moments as the three of them looked at each other, then at the ground as Rebecca began helplessly to cry.
ANNICK
Almost two hours later, Annick clambered gratefully into the taxi that the doorman at the club had flagged down for her. ‘Park Lane, please. Bishop’s Court.’ She sank back against the seat. A light drizzle had begun to fall. It was past midnight and all of London looked as if it were draining, draining slowly away. Her head was swimming, a result of the wine and the conversation. She still couldn’t quite grasp it. Rebecca Harburg was sleeping with one of her professors? A married professor at that. She’d sat opposite her, her chin propped in her hand like a child listening to a bedtime story. It seemed so . . . so unlikely! Rebecca was such a good girl. The one with the inner moral compass, the one who never, ever went astray. She didn’t even smoke. Rebecca was so goddamn sensible and however reluctant she might be to face the truth, sleeping with one of her married tutors was the goddamn opposite of sensible. Annick could see it already – disaster was looming.
She was just about to fish in her pocket for a cigarette when she saw the sign. NO SMOKING. She pulled a face; she was dying for one. So, Rebecca was in love, she mused, watching the traffic slip past in a watery blur. Properly, madly in love. Annick felt a surprise pang of envy, listening to her.
After the second glass of wine, she confessed to being unable to eat or sleep. Annick simply couldn’t imagine it. She’d sooner have died than admit it to either Tash or Rebecca, but she couldn’t actually remember the number of men she’d slept with. Not because there’d been hundreds, but because she hadn’t technically been in a relationship with most of them. In her first year at university she’d woken up several times after one party or another, not really able to remember fully what had happened, or how she’d wound up at midnight in some flat in Camden or Kensington with a boy whose name she might – or might not – recall. She hadn’t really thought anything of it. Most of the girls on her course did exactly the same. She rather liked the feeling of grabbing up her clothes, pulling on her coat and walking out of the door without stopping to think what he might think. It seemed a neat reversal of the usual order of things. Silly female histrionics over who should call whom, when, how, for how long and so on, simply bored her. One of her boyfriends had once accused her of being more like a man than most men. He was baffled when she laughed. It was a compliment! But listening to Rebecca’s account of the past few months, her first reaction was one of jealousy. A man! A proper, grown-up man with a whole life outside the Student Union and Friday-night parties that were really just excuses to go out, drink as much cheap beer as possible and then tumble into a generally unwashed sack.
The cab stopped suddenly. ‘This it, miss?’ the driver enquired.
‘Yes. Thanks.’ She pulled a ten-pound note from her purse. ‘Keep the change,’ she said, suddenly feeling generous. She got out, ignoring his wide smile, and hurried up the steps. The whole façade was in darkness. The entrance hall and the short corridors were ghostly and empty. There were months when there was no one else in the entire building except
for Annick and Mrs Price. A few years earlier, in her last year of school, there’d been a Saudi family on the floor above, who’d stayed for longer than the usual three or four months. Six or seven small children, a gaggle of Filipina maids and several indistinguishable women in floor-length burqas came in and out all day long. One day she’d accidentally come upon two of the women in the lift, sans burqas, and they’d struck up a conversation. Dina and Amina were cousins in their mid-twenties, and both spoke excellent English. Dina was a medical student; Amina was studying pharmacy. A rather hurried invitation followed to tea, which Annick accepted with alacrity. From that day, she went upstairs to tea at least once a week. The rules surrounding social engagements in their culture were stricter than anything Annick had ever known, but there was a warmth and intimacy about the way the women lived together that drew her in. She would knock on the door at the appointed hour, remove her shoes and follow one or other of the maids in. There would be scarves beside each chair in the unlikely event that one of the husbands, uncles or brothers walked in, and warm cries of welcome. She would sit down, cross-legged on the floor as they did, opposite the older women who spoke no English but who smiled and nodded at her as they received cups of sweet mint tea from the younger ones. The same maids would bring in trays of delicacies from Fortnum & Mason and the children would be temporarily banished.
Weekends were no longer stretches of empty time to be endured. But their respective courses ended and Dina and Amina returned home.
It had been a couple months since then and now the corridors seemed lonelier than ever. She slid her key in the lock and opened the front door. The flat was silent. Mrs Price was away, visiting her daughter. The central heating gave off its usual soft hum, the only audible sound. She stood uncertainly in the doorway for a moment. She was home. The loneliest place she’d ever been.
34
REBECCA
Seeds of doubt, once planted, will grow. Is he married? Rebecca climbed into bed that night with the question ringing loudly in her ears. She had no idea. He wore no ring and certainly hadn’t mentioned a wife. It had been going on for almost three months and not once in all that time had he ever brought the subject up. As mad as it sounded, even to her, neither did she. They met once or twice a week at her place or in college, never at his. They’d done it once in his office with her bent backwards (most uncomfortably) over his desk, her mouth hanging open as much in surprise as anything else at the force with which he’d grabbed her in the corridor and pulled her in. He was the most interesting person she’d ever met. He was some twenty-odd years older than her, but, like an actress, was vague about his age. He could talk about anything and everything: art, history, politics, literature, philosophy, film . . . his was a mind of extraordinary depth and talent. But emotions were off-limits, especially his. Whenever she tried, however lightly, to express what she felt about him he swiftly turned away. He had a way of deflecting anything that touched upon the personal (unless it involved his own career), turning things quickly into the abstract. Abstract ideas were safe. Despite the age difference, within a fortnight she saw quite clearly that for someone who made a living out of his head, he had remarkably little understanding of what went on inside it.
