‘Well, he’s got the beak for it.’
I will kill them both. Sometime in the near future when I get them both together in more suitable conditions I will slowly and messily kill them both. I scratch at my forehead holding my hand across my nose.
‘Ganesh,’ says Kirk, ‘the elephant God,’ and doubles over.
Rosa laughs too. Perfect laughing teeth. She can hardly light her joint for laughing.
Kirk – I hope you die. I hope your tumour bursts open all over your fucking pillow tonight. I hope the surgeon’s wife leaves him that morning and he hits the sodium pentathol.
‘Did you see the one of you?’ says Rosa.
Lenny shakes his head and looks at me. ‘The one of me?’
Oh fucking fantastic.
‘The one of you. This guy is so on it. It’s fuckin’ perfect. Come see it,’ and she takes him by the hand and leads him across the room. They don’t walk side by side; Rosa’s well ahead leading him on, like a child pulling a great Dane (or should that be a Mexican hairless?). Kirk tugs at my sleeve but I ignore him.
It’s not a great painting. If I had to position it in the league of the twelve paintings here I’d place it about number ten. But then I painted it from memory. It might even be read as a departure. And it’s not that I’ve diminished Lenny in any way. I never set out to insult him. I’ve made the head a little shinier than it is and one of his eyes is not quite like the other, a bit skew-whiff, a bit boss and puzzled. He’s wearing a dog collar, like a vicar’s dog collar, and he’s sat back, leaning his head against some old purple silk gazing down at the viewer as though they’ve just snotted on his shoe. I never set out to piss off Lenny. And I never set out to hide it from him. He was away in Amsterdam at the time and when he came back I never found the moment to mention it to him. I knew that one day the moment would arrive, of course I did, but I’d deal with it then.
I’ve never seen Lenny so still. I’ve never seen anyone so still (the dead florist in the van maybe). He’s stood about four feet away, swallowing, grinding, taking it all in.
Kirk’s looking at it like a plasterer confronted by a damp patch.
Silence.
And then: ‘When did you do this, Hector?’ says Lenny.
‘When you were away,’ I say.
‘You never told me you did this.’
‘Isn’t it incredible?’ says Rosa.
Another unspeakable silence. Endless fucking chatter, coughing, laughing. Everybody’s shoes on the factory floor.
‘Why am I wearing a dog collar?’ says Lenny.
‘Cos I was gonna paint a vicar,’ I say, ‘but then I painted you.’
Lenny thinks about this. I think we all think about this. I know I do.
‘So what . . . er . . .’ says Rosa, ‘you start with the clothes?’
‘Does he fuck start with the clothes,’ says Lenny.
‘Did this time,’ I mutter, and drain my glass.
‘I look weird,’ he says, and twizzles his finger in the direction of his painted eyes.
‘You look like a Nazi,’ says Kirk.
Cheers, Kirk.
‘He looks beautiful,’ says Rosa.
‘An emasculated Nazi,’ says Kirk.
I panic and pull round in front of them with my back to the painting, ‘Kirk, he does not look like a Nazi.’
‘I look dead,’ says Lenny.
‘No!’
‘What’s with all that purple silk? I look like I’m lying in a coffin.’
‘Ha!’ I say. ‘A coffin?’
‘Yeah, that’s what it is, that’s exactly what it is,’ says Rosa. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘You’ve never painted me,’ says Kirk.
Lenny turns. ‘Why would you want him to?’
‘I don’t want him to.’
‘Paint me,’ says Rosa and takes hold of my hand.
‘I’d love to,’ I say.
‘Oh Christ,’ says Kirk and gives Lenny a look.
Lenny looks away, like he’s seen enough. He takes a drag on his cigarette, exhales into my face and asks Rosa if she has the wrap. She goes into her pockets and hands it over. He invites Kirk off to the bog, leaving me alone with Rosa. Strange chess, Lenny mate, strange chess.
‘What was all that about?’ says Rosa.
‘No idea,’ I say, ‘I think he’s losing it. It’s the pressure.’
‘Of what?’
‘Hasn’t he told you? He’s up for the Turner Prize.’
‘Oh yeah, he mentioned that. So is that some big deal?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘not really. But he thinks it is.’
She takes out another cigarette and offers me one. She pulls out a battered old Zippo and ignites it with a flick of her knuckle. As I light up I catch her eye and even think about winking. In fact maybe I do wink. Who’s to say?
‘Would you really paint me?’ she says.
I look into her eyes. It feels like I have the right to look into her eyes; after all, I’m an artist. I’m a major artist making a major decision. I can see myself in them, tiny and bloated. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘I’ll paint you.’ She smiles and squeezes my hand. I squeeze back and then she lets it go.
We walk over to Aunty Pat. The smell of Rosa is making me blink.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s my Aunty Pat.’
We’re almost touching and I imagine that at least eighty per cent of the people here must think we’re together. I imagine that we live together and that she’s smart and strange and wild and funny and the sex is great and sometimes I cook for her and sometimes she dances around the bedroom in nothing but a wet orange sarong.
‘That is my favourite so far.’ She says it quietly, almost a whisper, sincerely, almost in awe.
‘Thank you,’ I say, almost not pompous.
My phone rings.
‘Hello?’
‘Hector?’
‘Hello?’
‘Hector, it’s Eleni.’
I hold it away from my ear and look at the buttons. All those buttons. Numbers, arrows, stars, letters. ‘OK’ it says on the big round button. ‘OK’ in green capital letters. No, no, no it is not OK. It’s the opposite of fucking OK. ‘Off’ it says in red. My thumb shifts across the keypad like a metronome.
Err . . . I turn it off.
I know that’s a monstrous thing to do, but that’s what I do. That’s the choice I make. I turn it off and put it back in my pocket.
‘Who was that?’ says Rosa, not really interested.
‘A dead line,’ I say.
Silence.
Marc Quinn comes through the door and then some ugly actor with a pretty girlfriend.
‘I feel lost in her eyes,’ says Rosa, gazing up at Aunty Pat. ‘I feel buried alive by those eyes. She’s too beautiful.’
‘Yes.’
‘And her hair, has she really got hair like that?’
‘Yes, she had hair like that. She’s dead now,’ and I run my hands across my eyes.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Rosa.
‘No it’s OK,’ I say, sniffing ‘it was a few years ago. It was quick. God bless her.’
Rosa steps way back, almost to the other side of the gallery, to get a better view.
Why did I do that to Eleni? For fuck’s sake, Hector! You haven’t spoken to her for four days. You have no idea what’s going on, how she is. She may be in tiny pieces. Her mother may be dead. Her father may be dead. She might even be dying herself. You didn’t just hang up; you hung up and then turned it off. Turned her off. Flicked her out of existence like a light switch. For fuck’s sake! Turn it back on. Turn it back on right this minute, you fucking robot.
‘And who’s this?’ says Rosa, moving over to the next painting.
‘Erm . . .’ I say.
‘Eleni’, says Rosa, peering at the label. ‘Who’s Eleni?’
All the blood in my body is summoned to my head. My feet turn blue. ‘She’s er . . . she’s my sister.’
‘Your sister?’
‘Yep. She’s a . . . a dentist.’
‘A dentist?’
‘Yeah, teeth,’ I say, and point at my teeth.
‘She doesn’t really look like you,’ says Rosa.
‘Well –’ and I hold up my hands – ‘who does?’ and I laugh like I’ve just come out with something really quite magnificent.
Suddenly there’s a whiff of patchouli and a little tanned hand on my arm.
‘Hector, I have to go,’ says Bianca.
‘Oh,’ I say, ‘Bianca, do you?’
‘I do, dear, but I think it’s all amazing, it’s all so . . . fucking . . . amazing.’
Christ, how many has she had?
‘And you are . . .?’ says Bianca, holding out her hand to Rosa.
‘Rosa,’ smiles Rosa, curtsying and shaking her hand, half expecting Bianca to kiss it.
I wouldn’t be surprised.
‘Ah, yes, Rosa. I see. I’m Bianca.’
‘My osteopath,’ I say.
‘Osteopath?’ says Rosa, and frowns. I think the Americans must have different words for all these jobs I’m plucking out of the air.
Bianca smiles and squeezes up her shoulders. ‘Yes, that’s right, I straighten him out,’ and she winks at me.
‘Rosa, Bianca. Bianca, Rosa. Well, see you, Bianca. See you on Monday,’ and I kiss her on the cheek, pushing her towards the door with my lips. We hug. We’ve never hugged before and it feels disgraceful.
‘Goodnight,’ calls Bianca over my shoulder.
‘Goodnight,’ calls Rosa.
After a brief scuffle and a volley of platitudes I see her off.
Matt Collings is watching my every move as though it’s all one complex piece of performance art – I think he’s impressed. Stuart Pearson Wright’s explaining to Jenny Saville the genesis of his cane. Gilbert and George are doing something strange with each other’s fingers.
I wander back to Rosa, smiling at my people. It’s filling up nicely.
Rosa just stands there gazing at Eleni. I draw alongside and stare at Eleni too. We stand in silence for a long time. Well, look at this, just look at this: Hector Kipling and Rosa Flood gazing at Eleni Marianos.
‘You know what?’ says Rosa. ‘I don’t like this one as much as the others.’
I look deep into Eleni’s eyes. ‘Oh?’ I say. ‘Why not?’
‘I dunno.’
I see Lenny and Kirk emerge from the bog.
‘I think . . . ’ says Rosa and fiddles with her rings, ‘I think it’s that all the others are so powerful and jarring cos they’re kinda grotesque, but this one has no adrenalin, no thunder and lightning. It’s just beautiful, so it kinda lacks something.’
I look deep into Eleni’s burnt-bronze eyes. Life’s a terrible thing.
‘The ugly may be beautiful, the pretty never,’ I say.
‘What?’ she says.
‘Paul Gauguin,’ I say.
‘Ah,’ she says.
Silence.
For some reason all this has given me an erection. The feeling that I have just betrayed Eleni so horribly, so completely – first by turning off the phone, and then by denying her identity – the feeling that I have mortally insulted her soul, the feeling that I’m in the pay of the devil, has given way to a dark and lurid arousal. How can that be? I look deep into Eleni’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘you’re right; I have a problem painting beauty.’
Silence. I concentrate on swallowing. I wish everyone else would just leave now. After all, I feel that I may be about to say something.
I swallow and turn to look at Rosa. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t paint you after all.’
What a guy!
Rosa smiles and looks down. This is obviously not the first compliment she’s ever received. Her familiarity with such foppery is apparent from the precision of her skill in accepting it. She smiles, bows her skull and stares at the floor, offering up her mind without the burden of the eyes, making herself all the more beautiful. There is nothing more beautiful on this earth than casual guilt feigning considered innocence. Or is that just me?
‘Oy oy,’ says Lenny, ‘what are you two looking so coy about?’
Rosa straightens up.
I take a swig of my wine but forget to take the cigarette from my mouth and the result is just silly.
‘Has he proposed to you?’ says Kirk.
‘Or merely made a proposition?’ says Lenny.
I really wish these two had stayed away a bit longer than they did. Another five years would have done it.
‘Fuck off,’ says Rosa, ‘you think a man and a woman are incapable of communicating with each other without loosening each other’s pants?’
‘Yes,’ says Lenny and clinks Kirk’s bottle.
‘Oh, hello, Eleni!’ says Kirk, looking up into Eleni’s eyes.
‘Oh yeah, hello, Eleni,’ says Lenny. And then he looks down at my legs and cocks his head. ‘Are those Brenda’s jeans?’
‘What?’ I say.
‘Are you wearing Brenda’s jeans?’
Kirk looks at my legs.
‘What?’ I say.
‘You’re wearing Brenda’s jeans.’
‘No I’m not,’ I say.
‘Who’s Brenda?’ says Rosa.
If I’m honest, I’m not really enjoying myself.
‘They look like Brenda’s jeans,’ says Lenny.
‘Well, they’re not.’
‘Who’s Brenda?’
Lenny lifts up my sweater. ‘That’s Brenda’s belt!’
‘I know,’ I say.
‘Why are you wearing Brenda’s belt?’
‘To hold up Brenda’s jeans.’
‘So you are wearing Brenda’s jeans?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say.
If ever there was a perfect moment for an asteroid to collide with Western Europe, now is the time.
Lenny stares at me.
‘He’s probably got her knickers on as well,’ says Kirk.
‘Who the fuck’s Brenda?’ says Rosa.
Suddenly, behind us, there’s a commotion and we all turn to look. It’s fine by me. Matthew Collings is down on the floor holding onto his head. That’s fine by me. Myers is pelting across the room in his yellow suit looking like an animatronic fucking omelette and the tall lopsided foppish-looking fella from the canal is rushing towards God Bolton with a bucket full of something horrid.
‘Fuck,’ says Lenny.
‘Fuck,’ says Kirk.
‘Fuck,’ says Rosa.
They all say it at the same time. In fact a lot of people say it. Maybe everyone says it. I know I do.
‘Fuck!’ I say.
I’d like to tell you that it all happens in slow motion, but it doesn’t. It’s all over in a flash. In fact there is a flash. There’s a dim, hypnotic, sad little flash as the bucket spins, catches the spotlight and smashes into God Bolton’s throttled blue throat.
Oh dear.
I’m outside now. And I’m running. Oh yes. You might even say that I’m in pursuit. It’s frosty and calm, almost pastoral in a brooding, industrial kind of way. Still. Silent, save for the sound of Tall Lopsided’s boots slapping against the cobbles. Tall Lopsided’s legs getting away from my short tubby ones. As he disappears into the dark, headed for Vallance Road, I swing out wide on the corner of Tent Street. I hear a snatch of Nina Simone, it gets a little louder, louder still – what is that song? – and then suddenly a huge silver Volvo appears in front of my thighs. I bounce up nicely against the windscreen and land with a thud on the greasy grey pavement. What a mess. Someone’s thrown away a vegetable samosa and half a bottle of Lucozade. Bus tickets rocking in the breeze. The Volvo hasn’t stopped. I can hear him changing up a gear. Someone has tried to chalk the Mona Lisa on the wall. My spine feels like a buckled slinky. There’s a copy of Razzle flapping about in a doorway. ‘LIVE, 30 second wank GUARANTEED!! 09090 44 79 79.’
Oh dear.
9
When Rosa said, ‘Paint me,’ I saw no canvas nor palettes. I
saw only my brush on her flesh. I saw her legs apart so that I could get into the corners.
Myers had tried to rugby-tackle Tall Lopsided as he sprinted across the room towards the door, but Mental Delaney had got the wrong end of the stick and rugby-tackled Myers, who crashed to the ground with a bold yellow ‘Ooof!’ For a few seconds no one moved. Most people stared at God Bolton, monitoring the progress of the dark and noxious fluid as it made its way down his collar into the bevels of the frame. Collings was still on the ground, but even he couldn’t resist the thrill of how it would turn out. I looked at Lenny and then at Kirk. Lenny and Kirk looked at me. It no longer seemed to matter that I’d painted Lenny like a dead, emasculated Nazi reclining snottily in his coffin. It no longer seemed to matter that I was wearing Brenda’s jeans. I looked at Rosa. Rosa looked at me. The most bizarre thing I could have said right then was ‘Wait here’ but that’s exactly what I said, and then paused for a moment, balancing on one leg, feeling a bit like Batman. And off I went, thundering down the stairs, alone, frightened, fractured, scuffed, incredulous, my mask a bit skew-whiff and my cape caught on the banister.
Lying there on the pavement amongst the grids and litter I was beset by an overwhelming and relentless sense of déjà vu. Abundant and tireless. There was nothing vague about it, nothing fleeting. The images were crystal and endured for well over fifteen minutes. The effect of all this was that during those fifteen minutes I fancied that I was capable of -if not madly accomplished at – seeing into the future. For fifteen minutes of my life I was able to anticipate and then witness the ensuing few seconds of my existence with alarming accuracy. It was as though the anticipation and the fulfilment of each shattered incident existed at one and the same time. For instance, it was inevitable that a small bird would land, mess around with half a bagel and then alight, scared off by the slamming of a distant door. As I stared at the wheels of a milk float I heard the flapping of wings. And there was the bagel, midway between the samosa and the copy of Razzle. I lay there on the kerb and wondered if anything was broken. Nothing hurt, but I wondered if anything was broken. Maybe everything was broken. Maybe I was finished. Maybe all this seeing into the future meant that I was finished. Maybe one is only permitted to see into the future when one has no further investment in it. Maybe one would eventually tire of seeing the future and beg to see the past instead, as a treat, on a Sunday: three hours of the past for a whole week of the future. Every Sunday, every week, for evermore.
The Late Hector Kipling Page 16