Bowl of Fruit

Home > Other > Bowl of Fruit > Page 14
Bowl of Fruit Page 14

by Panayotis Cacoyannis


  ‘Ruth stays up very late,’ Anna explains.

  We’re inside now, and Ruth shuts the door.

  ‘My neighbours aren’t impressed,’ she makes a show of whispering, ‘but then I can’t say I’m too enamoured of them either. I’ve heard them call me so many different things, all dreadful, of course, just because I like to stay awake.’

  ‘To be fair to your neighbours, you do a little more than stay awake,’ Anna laughs.

  ‘But it’s not like they can hear what I’m doing, they just mind the idea of me doing it. And they always give my guests such looks, if they happen to run into them the morning after. So no, I don’t want to be fair to my neighbours. They’re all absolutely hideous, and I try to be as unfair as I can.’

  ‘I’m also an unpopular neighbour,’ I say. ‘Known as the neighbourhood freak.’

  ‘Then you must move next door to me, help me drive the bastards away,’ says Ruth. ‘You and Anna together, perhaps.’

  ‘Ruth!’ says Anna.

  ‘Now,’ says Ruth, when Anna and I have settled on one of her several sofas. ‘Who’d like a glass of champagne?’

  ‘You promised me dull conversation and a nice cup of tea,’ I say to Anna when Ruth disappears. And when we hear the pop of the champagne cork, ‘Let’s not stay too long, I’d like it to be night when I have my first nightcap.’

  ‘The champagne doesn’t count?’ Anna asks.

  ‘I think you’ll find it’s not a nightcap unless you have it just before you go to bed.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Anna. ‘That’s a very precise definition.’

  ‘Do you two always talk to each other in riddles?’ thunders Ruth as she stomps in with flutes of champagne on a large silver tray. ‘What was it earlier that wasn’t worth Leon’s trouble to try and figure out?’

  ‘The apartment numbers,’ I say. ‘They seem completely random.’

  ‘That’s because they are completely random,’ says Anna.

  ‘But historically speaking they’re not,’ says Ruth. ‘The block was built by a very wealthy American man whose mother was a wealthier eccentric, and she demanded 31 for the penthouse, so everyone else who bought an apartment was allowed to pick the number they liked from the numbers that were left.’

  ‘So random but so rational,’ I say.

  ‘Including Floor 1, which is really the ground floor, there are eight floors in all, with three apartments on the first seven floors and one on the last, so the numbers all end in 1, 2 or 3, from 11 to 81. Imagine the chaos if the witch had insisted on a different number altogether, like 106, for example.’

  ‘Does anyone know why she chose 31?’

  ‘Rumour has it she was very forgetful, and 31 was a constant reminder of something important.’

  ‘The key to her fortune,’ says Anna.

  ‘Or her favourite bus route,’ says Ruth. ‘Now what was the other thing, Leon’s very precise definition?’

  ‘Of a nightcap,’ I say.

  ‘Leon thinks it isn’t a nightcap unless you’re going to bed when you’ve had it.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s a nightcap unless you’re going to bed to have sex when you’ve had it. Are you two having sex?’

  ‘Ruth!’ says Anna.

  ‘Well, are you?’ Ruth insists. ‘If you’re not, you certainly ought to be.’

  ‘Leon and I are working together on a project,’ says Anna. ‘We met for the first time this morning.’

  ‘You met for the first time this morning and you’re still together now? And he’s the only man you’ve ever thought worthy of the roof. Sex must surely be on the cards. But I’m embarrassing dear Leon, I think, which makes him even worthier in my books. Much nicer than that Spaniard you went out with last year.’

  ‘It was the year before last,’ says Anna. ‘And I went out with him just for a couple of months.’

  ‘No wonder,’ says Ruth. ‘He was a nice enough boy, I suppose, but a complete Narcissus. Fortunately by the time we discovered the roof he was already gone.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference if we’d discovered it earlier,’ says Anna.

  ‘You’re right,’ says Ruth, ‘he was never quite roof material. Although you did seem rather smitten back then. Now what was his name, it’s right on the tip of my tongue…’

  ‘Ivan,’ I say.

  ‘Carlos!’ says Ruth.

  ‘Carlos,’ Anna confirms peremptorily.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I’m not really sure where that came from.’

  ‘It came from looking at the sky,’ snaps Anna.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again more contritely.

  ‘I’m the one who should say sorry,’ says Ruth, interrupting as peacemaker now. ‘I never mean to pry, but I don’t seem to be able to help it, and then I always overdo it. Now tell me about your project.’

  ‘It’s a very personal project,’ says Anna.

  ‘Anna wants to be my ghost,’ I say, glad to be changing the subject.

  ‘And you should definitely have her,’ says Ruth, ‘Anna makes an excellent ghost. Is there an interesting story to tell?’

  ‘There is,’ Anna says.

  ‘I’m just not sure if we should tell it,’ I say.

  ‘Then let me help you decide,’ says Ruth.

  ‘Ruth’s my agent, by the way,’ Anna warns me.

  ‘I see,’ I say.

  ‘But tonight I’m just the best roof in town,’ Ruth reassures me. ‘Let’s talk about your story when you’ve made up your mind.’

  ‘We can talk about it now,’ I say. ‘It’s Anna’s story too.’

  ‘Is it really?’

  ‘Our stories overlap,’ I say. ‘And we share the same birthday. Same day, same year, same faraway place.’

  ‘So you’ve found him, you’ve finally found him!’ Ruth cries out excitedly. ‘Then of course there’s an interesting story to tell!’

  ‘You know about my story?’

  ‘Do I know about your story? Let me show you what I know about your story!’

  When Anna reaches again for my hand and holds it very tightly while Ruth leads the way to the proof of her knowledge, I take it to be a gesture of forgiveness, and wish it to be also an acknowledgment that there’s something more than ghostliness existing between us – it doesn’t cross my mind to interpret it as any kind of warning.

  Tonight the past is bent on reasserting itself not in ripples but in violent giant gushes, and what Ruth knows about my story half-drowns me. Bowl of Fruit (1907), expertly spotlighted on a wall in her study, confronts me with a vision from my childhood that is not entirely bogus, and as contrary feelings entrap me in a wistful mirage of nostalgia, for a moment the pain of the uncertainty of what, or where, or whom I should be pining for disables me completely.

  12

  Not Exactly

  1+1=1

  Something has ended. Something new has begun retrospectively. The past at last is one, indivisible and whole, and now that its entirety belongs to me, as it pervades me it propels me forward, unafraid of uncertainty or of the future.

  Beauty has united the two contradictory claims that had threatened to tear me asunder. With the passing of time disillusion and doubt had polluted my memory of the past with a cancerous mythology of denial, and a creeping bitterness had gradually become so ingrained that I had almost come to accept it as part of me. Tonight the physical reality of a painting I barely remembered inflicted itself with such force on my consciousness that it purged it entirely.

  My perception is fresh, and my sense of perspective restored. But this has been a day of discrepant discoveries, and not every discovery I have made on this day of discrepant discoveries has been to my liking. I would never have guessed that the thought of Anna enjoying the moon with Ivan in a past that turned out to have never existed could have made me so painfully jealous. This morning, if anyone had asked me, I would not have been able to explain what jealousy was, nor to say it was painful. If anyone had asked me what love was, my answer at best w
ould have approximated to the positive of negative feelings. Now I know what jealousy is, in the sense of how it feels to be jealous, and if anyone asked me what love was, I would know not to struggle to put what I know into words.

  ‘Are you sure you feel okay?’ asks Anna.

  ‘Never felt better,’ I say, exaggerating slightly.

  ‘Poor Ruth was freaking out, she thought you were about to faint. You were shaking, and then you went white. Are you sure you’re okay, maybe we should wait for a cab.’

  ‘I’d rather carry on walking,’ I say. ‘I like the cold air.’

  ‘You probably need it,’ says Anna.

  ‘That painting took my breath away,’ I say.

  ‘That painting that you painted,’ says Anna.

  ‘You must’ve known Ruth had it,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, of course I did,’ says Anna. ‘And I’m pretty sure that this time I do know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘That that was one coincidence too many.’

  ‘But it wasn’t a coincidence,’ I say. ‘You knew Ruth was your agent, and you knew she had my painting, you just said so.’

  ‘In a sense, that was also a coincidence,’ says Anna. ‘That Ruth’s my agent, I mean. When I suggested looking at the moon from her roof, I was thinking of the roof, not of Ruth. And when the roof looked like it was getting out of hand, I thought of Ruth as an escape, not as my agent.’

  ‘And the painting?’

  ‘Honestly, I never even thought of the painting.’

  ‘Really? But we talked about it earlier. Bowl of Fruit (1907), my first Picasso painting.’

  ‘We talked about everything earlier.’

  ‘We’ve talked a lot, I know,’ I say. ‘But not about everything.’

  ‘Almost,’ says Anna.

  ‘It’s been a long day,’ I say.

  ‘You must be exhausted,’ says Anna. ‘You should probably call me a cab when we get to Tufnell Park.’

  ‘I’m not exhausted,’ I say. ‘And I’m not quite done with the day yet, I want it to be longer.’

  ‘It’s not the same day any more,’ says Anna.

  ‘Perfect nightcap time,’ I say. ‘And as long as we’re together it is the same day. It’s the same day until we go to sleep.’

  ‘Or until we wake up,’ says Anna.

  We are completely alone in the street. Already the greyness of dawn is painting itself on the city, sharper, shriller, more penetrating in its promise of light than the sombrely volatile substance of dusk. Day and night, both equally black if they lack expectation, and alternatively equally bright…

  ‘I’m not surprised the painting took your breath away, it’s stunning,’ says Anna.

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘And I can say that without being accused of being boastful, because it’s not really my painting.’

  ‘Of course it’s your painting,’ says Anna.

  ‘I painted it,’ I say, ‘but that’s not why it’s stunning.’

  ‘It’s stunning because it’s a Picasso,’ says Anna.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, not exactly,’ says Anna.

  ‘No, not exactly, you’re right. And even if that’s why it’s stunning, it didn’t take my breath away because it’s a Picasso. I think it’s stunning that I painted something so beautiful, and it is a gift, there’s no other way to describe it.’

  ‘There isn’t,’ Anna agrees.

  ‘If it was just a talent or a skill, then that painting would be just an imitation.’

  ‘A Picasso look-alike,’ says Anna.

  ‘But it’s more than that,’ I say.

  ‘It’s much more than that,’ says Anna.

  ‘Though I’m not sure exactly what it is.’

  ‘I think we can’t say “exactly” about anything,’ says Anna. ‘Except maybe that this is exactly a kiss.’

  A passing car blows its horn good-humouredly as we kiss and kiss an interminable kiss on the pavement, two figures unconsumed by the greyness.

  Happiness

  I’m feeling my tiredness remotely, like a distant spur to go on. Something keeps both of us going, and the slowness of our step is deliberate – a prolonging, not a postponement.

  ‘Bea’s note was for my father,’ I say, ‘it can’t have been for me unless she knew she was going to be killed. So “our” secret was their secret, not Bea’s and mine.’

  ‘And what was it?’ Anna asks. ‘You, or the drawing?’

  ‘All of it, everything,’ I say.

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences any more,’ says Anna. ‘If you think of all this logically, none of it makes sense – you don’t make sense. You never made sense to begin with, but after Bea’s drawing everything makes less sense than before, including you.’

  ‘I really am the neighbourhood freak.’

  ‘More than your neighbours can ever imagine,’ laughs Anna.

  ‘But I don’t feel like a freak,’ I say. ‘I feel… I can’t describe how I feel.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ says Anna.

  ‘I feel happy,’ I say.

  ‘I feel happy too,’ says Anna.

  We are fifteen minutes away from Tufnell Park, maybe twenty or even twenty-five at the pace we are walking, dawdling almost, like a long-time couple on their customary stroll, although in reality there’s nothing either long-time or customary about us. But then reality today has been running on parallel courses, and the cumulative impact of eyebrows and even of a death in the park, of momentous revelations in a letter from the past and of the wholesale rewriting of everything from scratch, has hardly impinged on this concurrent but separate segment of time that has bound us ever closer together. Am I wrong to take climax for granted?

  ‘I feel happy but it doesn’t mean I want to paint Picassos,’ I say.

  ‘And I feel happy but it doesn’t mean I want to write your story,’ says Anna.

  ‘Our story,’ I say.

  ‘Our story,’ Anna says.

  ‘It doesn’t mean you do, but do you?’

  ‘I’m not sure any more.’

  ‘How come?’

  Anna shrugs her shoulders.

  ‘You’re a ghost, it’s what you do,’ I say.

  ‘But that’s just it,’ Anna says. ‘It’s not what I do.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Like you said, it’s my story too. Or to be more precise, parts of it are parts of my story. And if I’m telling even parts of my own story too, then I’m not really ghosting.’

  ‘So it’s not what you do,’ I say. ‘That’s all the more reason to do it.’

  ‘I think you should write it yourself,’ Anna says. ‘Make the story all yours.’

  ‘But it’s not all mine,’ I say. ‘You knew things I didn’t, and that’s part of my story, so I think we should write it together.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ says Anna.

  ‘You’ll do more than just help me,’ I say. ‘For the good of the story, whoever’s it is. Two interesting stories mingled together must be better than one interesting story by itself.’

  ‘I’m not sure, let’s see,’ says Anna reluctantly.

  A distant sound of sirens is no longer distant, and we stop to watch silently as an ambulance speeds past, followed by one and then another police car.

  ‘The world of everything and everywhere,’ I say after the noise has subsided.

  ‘I haven’t heard that in years,’ says Anna.

  ‘You mean you’ve heard it before?’

  ‘From my mother,’ says Anna. ‘She used to say it all the time.’

  ‘My father used to say it. The world of everything and everywhere is too much for one man to bear.’

  ‘But that changes the meaning completely,’ says Anna.

  ‘It’s true, though. “Man has but a short time to live and is full of misery.” It’s the same sort of thing.’

  ‘So, each to his own misery,’ says Anna. ‘That’s just self-indulgent, and it’s not how you sai
d it just now, when the ambulance passed.’

  ‘It’s not how I said it, of course not.’

  ‘I thought people said it to remind themselves not to be so self-obsessed.’

  ‘My father wasn’t self-obsessed.’

  ‘Nor was your mother,’ says Anna.

  ‘She was the least self-obsessed of all of us,’ I say. ‘But there’s only so much any of us can do.’

  ‘We can do more than just think that we’re totally powerless.’

  ‘We can do what we can do.’

  ‘And we should do it,’ says Anna.

  The world of everything and everywhere speaks to me of the littleness of man and of the sadness of confluent time, but it strikes me just now and fills me with dread that it also contains what to Anna might seem – what to anyone might seem, and now even seems to me - like the epitome of self-indulgence: the Metamorphosis room in my house. In my youth I painted real Picassos, and Anna is right that it doesn’t make sense. Then I stopped, and that only makes sense as the opposite to being self-indulgent. If the room represents affectation, it also represents the reverse metamorphosis I have yearned for so deeply ever since. Even now, I refuse to submit to “our secret”. After Bea’s drawing everything makes less sense, Anna said, but less sense than no sense is nonsense.

  All the same, I care very much how Anna defines me, and now is a good time to mention the room.

  Crash

  ‘Oh my God,’ says Anna.

  At the bottom of Prince of Wales Road we turn left onto Kentish Town Road towards Tufnell Park, and the scene that confronts us like a garish three-dimensional abstraction is at first just a maelstrom of indefinite movement through layer upon layer of discordant flashing lights. In the foreground, not more than ten metres ahead of us, a police car’s headlights blink on and off as though tuned to the rhythm of a heartbeat. A distance behind, the ambulance has come to a stop at a sharp angle to the pavement, and a white flood of light pours out through its open back doors to mark where the injured, invisible to us, are already being tended. The blue rotating lights on all three emergency roofs give this eerily muted epicentre of methodical activity an additional impression of spasmodic and decelerated movement. The second police car is parked diagonally across the road to demarcate the furthermost edge of the accident scene, and its rear lights are flashing towards us in red.

 

‹ Prev