Authenticity Page 12

  ‘Do you remember Spain? Seville, that little hotel?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘Was it the place with the coloured tiles all the way up the stairs?’

  ‘No, that was in Granada.’

  She shook her head. ‘Then I don’t remember it. What was the hotel in Seville like?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Then why did you ask?’

  ‘Liz, I said it doesn’t matter.’

  They finished their main course in silence. William could feel a familiar mental darkness begin to close in around him. His attempt to establish a point of contact with her had only served to drive them further apart. The waiter came and removed their plates.

  ‘Did you enjoy the exhibition?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think “enjoy” is quite the word.’

  ‘I liked it. I thought it was sad. All those people, all so completely forgotten now.’

  ‘As we shall be.’

  ‘That’s why I liked it,’ she said.

  William, surprised, didn’t know how to respond.

  ‘William, what is it you need? What do you want?’

  ‘I want a studio.’

  He didn’t know how she’d hesitated before asking that simple question, for fear that he’d slipped so far out of her reach that he might ask for anything, that he might reply, ‘I want to leave you.’

  ‘A studio,’ she said. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged. There must be places in town you could rent. I don’t know how you’d go about it, but we can ask around, look into it’

  ‘I want it at home.’

  ‘But there’s no space in the house.’

  ‘There’s the spare bedroom.’ He could see her dismay. For the past year the spare bedroom had been her pet project. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time and money on it, and only two months ago had she completed it to her satisfaction. The effect she sought was countrified, all cream and pink, with muslin curtains and a narrow brass bed. William didn’t know why she’d put such effort into the making of this room: he’d never asked her. Every summer when she was a child she’d gone to stay with her grandmother on a farm in County Roscommon. She remembered it as a luminous place full of hooting birds. Corncrakes at dusk, the smell of the hen house, the stiff white wing with which her grandmother brushed flour from the griddle, the printed roses of the cheap wallpaper: all of this lost world she could re-enter by sitting quietly alone in the room she’d created. ‘When I was little, like you,’ she told the children, ‘I slept in a bed such as this.’

  ‘You asked me what I needed. I’m not asking for much. A plain bare whitewashed room, that’s all I want.’

  ‘Whitewash the walls?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the bed?’

  ‘We can sell it. Give it away.’

  She wouldn’t rise to the bait, wouldn’t get angry. He knew how much he was asking of her, the magnitude of the sacrifice, even if he didn’t know why. If he’d acknowledged the effort she’d made, asked her would she mind, she’d have seen it differently. The room was something in her gift, and she’d have gladly given it if she thought it would make him happy. But he’d asked her, she thought, in such a way as to deliberately hurt her, to disregard her feelings.

  ‘Do as you wish,’ she said evenly. ‘It’s a pity, of course. I had thought I might move in there myself before long, make that my bedroom.’ He hadn’t been expecting that, nor was it true. He made to speak, but she brushed him aside. ‘Do as you wish,’ she said again. ‘Shall we go now?’

  William moved to take his credit card from his pocket, but before he could do so Liz had pulled several banknotes from her handbag. She gestured, smiling, at the man who had served them and handed him the money. The waiter returned with a silver dish bearing coins, a receipt, and placed it beside Liz. ‘Thank you, madam.’

  Alone in the city, the lassitude and darkness closed in around him again. He walked the streets, ended up in the National Gallery in the late afternoon, ended up in tears. No one saw his distress, or if they did, they pretended not to. Perhaps they felt there was nothing they could do. Perhaps they were embarrassed by his emotion, or perhaps they were silently agreeing that his response was wholly natural. Who would not weep before The Agony in the Garden, Mantegna’s arid study of affliction: the bare rocks, the sleeping indifference of Christ’s companions, the unsettling perspective, the shut, walled city, and the crowd of soldiers approaching in the distance? Tomorrow was Sunday. They would not go to church, although Liz always took the children to Mass when they were at home. The galleries would be crowded. Art had taken the place of revealed religion for so many people nowadays; loss of faith was taken for granted. But what of the death of Imagination? Who recognised that in themselves? Who mourned it? William didn’t even bother to wipe his eyes.

  A small boy sitting on the bench beside him looked ostentatiously at his watch. ‘We’ve been in this place now,’ he said, ‘for exactly two hours seventeen minutes and thirty seconds.’ If Gregory were here, he wouldn’t be counting the minutes. He would be absorbed in the paintings, in the worksheet that the little boy held crumpled in his hand, his mother negotiating with him now, bribing him, cajoling, buying herself more time. Lots of children liked to paint: it was Gregory’s delight in pictures that was strange. In recent months he had shown more interest in his father’s books than his own. William had been astonished on coming into the drawing room one day to see him with a heavy volume about Kandinsky open upon his knee. The child had looked up, his eyes full of fear. ‘Is it all right?’ he asked. ‘I washed my hands before I started.’ William nodded, tried to smile. The child turned his attention again to the book, and William noticed his unnerving concentration, how he spent a considerable period of time studying each picture in turn, before slowly turning the page and moving on to the next one. Already he had learned how to look at things, something some adults never mastered. Most middle-class parents would have spent a fortune in the hope of interesting their child in art to this degree, but William had not encouraged Gregory. On the contrary, art had always been for him a private passion that he did not want to share. It afforded him an escape from family life, and he realised now with a start that for his son it had exactly the same function. Their home life was something from which, even at the age of seven, he needed a refuge. The child was a fetch, a tiny ghost made in his own image to walk beside him in life and to torment him.

  The previous week Gregory had been playing in the garden when he suddenly exploded into the house, bawling, to the room where William was sitting. ‘What is it, Gregory, what happened?’ But even as he reached out to comfort his son, the boy pushed him violently away and continued on into the kitchen, to his mother. William sat listening, as Liz shushed and comforted him. He could feel the spot on his chest where the child had placed his hands to thrust himself out of his father’s enclosing embrace, as if Gregory’s hands had been burning and had scorched him. The shrieks dwindled to sobs. He rose from his chair and went into the kitchen. Two faces looked up at him.

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ Liz said. ‘He nipped his finger on the swing, he got a fright, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, if it’s nothing serious,’ William said, ‘is there really any need for all this racket?’

  He flushed with shame to remember it. In the gallery shop he would buy something special for Gregory, a book or a kit. He stood up and attempted to shake himself out of his grief, walked from room to room and tried to focus on the works displayed. It struck him, not for the first time, that what was singular about the pictures was not the skill that had gone into their making, nor even the vision, but the energy they contained, contained and radiated. To look around the room without focusing on any one work was to be aware of how each picture demanded attention, seemed aware of its own weight and significance. What must it have been like for the artists to have felt that energy flowing through them, to have been a controlling channel for it? The power of the work contrasted
sharply with William’s own weariness.

  He could barely drag himself around the gallery, and he soon sat down again, this time near Holbein’s Portrait of a Lady with a Squirrel. The painted lady, with her tethered, bright-eyed pet snuggled to her breast, was being studied by a young woman. Would he have noticed her had she stopped in front of any other picture? Perhaps no other would have afforded a more striking contrast. He examined them both closely. The young woman’s hair was cropped shorter than William’s own, and she had three stars tattooed on her foot, just above the ankle bone. He could see her nipples through the tight white T-shirt that was cropped to reveal a flat tanned midriff. It took only a slight mental effort for him to see her as naked as one of the vast goddesses in the paintings which were displayed in adjacent rooms. The woman in the painting was also dressed in black and white, but in clothes that concealed everything, from her angular bonnet of white fur to the white folded stole draped across her shoulders. The young woman standing before him was not the final word on the fate of women. It was hard to believe that she might look, some hundreds of years from now if her image was preserved, as quaint as the woman in the painting. I know exactly what you’ll think of Madame in her crystal! There was something hard and cynical about the young woman’s face. He had often noticed this in young people recently, particularly in girls. It was the look of someone who had no illusions about society: what it offered, what it amounted to. Liz was always fretting about the children, especially Sophie, and what her life would be when she grew up. ‘Everything’s changing so quickly now. How can I prepare her properly for the future when I have no idea what sort of world she’ll be living in?’

  He was so lost in thought that he forgot the woman wasn’t a painting but a real person until she turned to him and gave him a taste of his own behaviour, until she looked him over coldly, long and hard, every inch of him. ‘Seen enough, granddad?’ Determined not to lose face, he did his best to stare back insolently. ‘Piss off. You give me any hassle and I’ll call the security guards, d’you hear?’ She had raised her voice, and people turned to stare at them both. Suddenly William lost his nerve. He stood up and walked quickly away, forcing himself not to break into a run.

  In the gallery shop he chose a book about Giverny for Gregory, and a postcard of the squirrel painting, then went to the café and bought himself a cup of tea. The girl at the till reminded him of Hannah: she had the same unusual and attractive combination of blonde hair and dark brown, almost black eyes. He almost never thought of Hannah these days. There had been other women since then. Not many: the opportunity didn’t present itself often and he had to be careful. Liz had said she would leave him if it happened again and he believed her. He didn’t know why he had been so indiscreet about Hannah, didn’t understand what had possessed him at the time. At least now, he thought, he had the sense when he sought release elsewhere not to let emotions come into it, his own or anyone else’s.

  The postcard was for Julia. He would write it now and post it before meeting Liz at the time they had arranged. She had nothing to fear in Julia, no reason to be jealous, but she wouldn’t necessarily understand that so it was best she didn’t know. He drank his tea and wondered what he should write. He was embarrassed about how things had ended when he went to see her exhibition. It was strange and fortuitous his meeting her at just this moment in his life, and he was keen not to break the connection. On the back of an envelope he took from his pocket he drafted out what he might say to her, anxious to strike exactly the right tone. When he was satisfied, he took out the card. He glanced momentarily at the image again, at the woman’s odd bonnet and decorous clothes, at the lithe, bright squirrel.

  And then he started to write.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dear Dennis,

  Well, I got here, just about. What a journey! First off, a huge THANK YOU for taking me out to the airport and helping me with the luggage and everything. I must confess I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I arrived in Fiumicino and stood by the baggage conveyor looking at all the cases coming out, waiting for mine. It came eventually, although all my bags seemed to have mysteriously doubled in size and weight somewhere between Dublin and Rome. I stood in the boiling heat sweating like stuck pig, hearing people all around me talking, and I wasn’t able, quite naturally, to understand a single word that was being said. So I realised at that moment that from here on out I really am going to have to rely on the comfort of strangers, and look out for myself, and stand on my own two feet and all that jazz. If I have a problem now there’s no point in thinking ‘I can ask Dennis and he’ll help me, he’ll know what to do.’ I will just have to deal with it myself. And about time too, I can hear you say. All this is a very garbled and inarticulate way of thanking you not just for seeing me off yesterday morning, but for everything you’ve done for me over the past years.

  So the trip from Rome up to Siena was my baptism of fire in Italy. It was all fairly frantic from the moment I arrived. I had arranged with Enzo, the man in charge here, before I left Ireland that he would meet me off a particular train and bring me out to the Villa Rosalba. I was worried that if I missed the connection I didn’t know how I would make contact with him, or how I would get here. Every stage took longer than I thought and it was all cut very fine. I almost got on the wrong train, and then got the right one just at the last gasp; the doors of the carriage literally clipped my heels as I got in. I did manage to relax during the journey and admire the landscape which is so marvellous: the hills, the little towns, the remarkable colours, the light. I know I’m just going to love it here. I began to worry a bit as we approached Siena, that I might not be able to find Enzo, worried more when I actually saw the hordes of people in the station, but there in the middle of it all was a man with a huge placard saying ‘R. Kenedy’.

  I’ve only been here for twenty-four hours and I’m still overwhelmed by it all. For anyone to be here would be a pleasure – you for example would just love it, I feel sure of that – but for a painter it’s something more again. I know I’m going to do good work. I’m still getting the studio set up, but I hope to start tomorrow. It is, as you know, the only thing that really interests me. I need to be painting and what with preparing to come out here I haven’t done anything much in the past week, so I feel restless and mad keen to get started again.

  The Foundation is well organised. We each have a studio and a bed-sitting room, with a little kitchen corner: fridge, hot plate, press for food and crockery. We cater for ourselves at breakfast and lunch, which is good because it means you can put your own shape on the day, rise early or late as you wish, and work straight through what should be lunch time if you feel so inclined. Then we all come together in the evening to share a meal cooked by Marguerite who, together with Enzo, runs the place. We ate out on a terrace, with a view of the valley below, and the olive trees and the cypress trees, and night fell and bats came out in the dusk. We ate pasta with an aubergine sauce, then roast chicken with spinach, then fruit and cheese.

  As regards the company of the damned, there are six artists in residence at any one time, three Italians and three foreigners. We all stay for six months, but the arrivals are staggered, so that there are only ever two new inmates wandering around like lost souls at any one time. The other person who arrived yesterday is an American called Ray, who’s from Maine, and seems decent; in fact they all seem quite nice. There’s one man I haven’t met yet, Karl from Heidelberg, who is off in Rome for a few days. There’s Elsa, from Turin. She’s a lovely woman and speaks fluent English, which is a help to me. Gina is a sculptor from Catania (doesn’t speak a word of English) and Mauro is a painter from Milan. From my point of view this is no bad thing, as it means I have enough people to talk to easily, but also a good incentive to learn the language. I’m determined to learn as much Italian as I can while I’m here and I listened to my cassette for an hour this afternoon. I haven’t seen any work by any of the others yet, although I’m curious to do so. I fee
l there’s a bit of needle between Elsa and Mauro, but that’s only a hunch. I don’t think I should have too many problems fitting in. As I say, they seem like a decent bunch, and I like having a bit of company in the evenings when I’ve been working all day.

  I’ll finish up here. I’ll write again at the end of the week when I’m more settled. I’ll be sending cards to the family soon, but in the meantime give them all my love. These are just first impressions in a note to let you know that I’ve arrived. It is important for me to be here Dennis – good for me too. And again, I really can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done not just over the past mad week, but over the years. I really am grateful

  Best love,

  R.

  Dear Dennis,

  I’m glad you were pleased with the little cakes from Siena. I know you could live on marzipan so as soon as I saw them I thought, ‘Dennis would kill for these.’ I bought a box of them for you on the spot. Let me know if you can think of anything else that you’d particularly like from here. I’m always on the lookout for things that might please you. A wine buff like yourself would be in heaven: I’m developing a great taste for it myself. I wish I could see my way to sending you a few bottles but I don’t know how it might be done. You’ll just have to come out here and drink it on the spot. I’m still trying to think of what I might send Dad. Speaking of gifts, I sent three silk scarves for Mum and the girls, do you know did they ever arrive? I posted them at the same time I posted the marzipan to you, but I thought they would have arrived long before now. Mind you, I haven’t had a cheep from anyone in the family since I’ve been here, apart from you. Thank you for all the letters. There’s a table in the common room where Enzo sets out our post for us to collect, and I love to walk in and see one of your blue envelopes with the familiar handwriting sitting there waiting for me. It’s good of you to write so often, as I know that after a long day at the office sitting down at night to write a letter must take considerable effort. I love to hear your news. The stuff about the builders made me laugh, although in all seriousness you must have been damn glad to see the back of them. The new windows will make the house more comfortable for you, especially that big front room that was always hard to heat.