‘Eleni,’ I whisper, ‘Eleni, Eleni, Eleni.’
She looks up at me. ‘What happened?’ She sniffs and wipes at her eyes. ‘What happened to your hair? You’ve shaved off all your hair.’
‘They did it at the hospital.’
‘Why?’
Good question. ‘Er ... they thought they were going to have to operate, but at the last minute I perked up a bit and so . . . they er . . . apologized. Gave me it in a bag. Y’know, like they do with gallstones.’ What the fuck am I talking about?
I don’t know what’s going on with Rosa. Maybe she’s asleep. Maybe she’s heard everything and is just keeping still and silent. I don’t know. I have no idea. Let me announce it now, once and for all: I, Hector Kipling, have not one fucking idea about how to proceed.
‘And what is this?’ says Eleni, clocking the butchered settee.
‘It’s Lenny’s new piece. Lenny’s left Brenda and I’ve told him he can stay here till he sorts it all out.’
She gazes through her tears at the whiskered flesh settee and frowns. ‘It looks like skin, hairy skin.’
‘I think that’s the idea. Naked Settee. There are ten million stories in the Naked Settee, and this has been one of them.’
‘What?’
‘Naked City, it was an old American TV show.’ She just gawps at me, askance. ‘Forget it, it was a bad joke.’ I suppose this is no time to be cracking bad jokes.
She walks over and examines it a little more closely. ‘Why does it have a window?’
‘You tell me.’
She puts her hands up to her face and resumes her grief, hopeless and small.
‘Eleni, don’t,’ I whisper, walking over and taking her back into my arms. ‘Please don’t.’
‘It reminds me of my mother,’ she sobs and I can feel her tears soaking through my shirt and onto my breasts. I don’t really understand how Lenny’s horrible settee reminds her of her mother. What does she mean? Was she a hairy woman?
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t explain. Everything is reminding me of my mother. She was naked when she died, I don’t want to see this thing.’
‘Listen, I don’t want to see this thing. And I very much doubt that the Turner judges or the Great British public will want to see this thing, but we’re all lumbered with it.’
‘She was naked and burned and the hospital was so hollow and cold. There were people screaming in every room.’
Reminded of my own recent experiences, I blurt out, a little indelicately perhaps, ‘Oh! Oh, yeah, Kirk’s in hospital as well!’
‘Kirk?’
‘And Dad! So is my dad.’ Sensing that I might be sounding inappropriately buoyant, I add,‘... as it happens.’
She pulls away from me and looks up, deep into my eyes in such a baffling manner that I am not sure whether she is issuing consolation or revulsion. It seems to go on for hours. At last she looks away and asks, ‘Why is your father in hospital?’
I tell her the whole tale of the settee and Monger, and the burglary and Sparky’s murder, and she seems to soften a little, though she still seems a mite suspicious about some of the holes in the story, regarding how I was able to stage-manage this whole conceit, involving numerous phone calls, when I had just told her, no less than five minutes ago, that I had only just been discharged from hospital, where they had shaved my head and let me take the hair home in a bag. And who can blame her for suspecting that this whole picaresque fable is nothing other than the desperate ravings of an emotionally challenged halfwit? Not me, for one. What a girl.
At the conclusion of my exemplum she utters not one word, but lights a cigarette, gathers up her bags, kicks the hairy settee with unnerving ferocity, and shuffles off in the direction of our bedroom.
In the wasteland between my throat and my groin, all hell has broken loose. I’m lying on the floor staring at my fatuous red and black canvas. I begin to wonder how I might get my hands on a flamethrower. Eleni’s still in the bedroom, presumably changing out of her clothes. Fuck knows what Rosa’s up to. I haven’t heard one squeak. My life has become a ticking bomb. I suppose that one’s life is always a ticking bomb, nestled in the breast, but my bomb has never ticked as loud as this. Tin fists and jackboots down Blackpool’s gravel promenade. I can see no way out of this, and it’s making me tremble. It’s really quite upsetting, all this trembling business. Trembling and sweating, I begin to sneeze, just as I’m beginning to imagine how, precisely, the axe might fall – for fall it must.
‘Hector, what is this?’ says Eleni, emerging from the bedroom in her clean peach pyjamas.
‘What’s what?’
She’s carrying a red rucksack. She marches over and lays it at my feet. ‘This,’ she says, and frowns.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘what is it?’
‘Hector, I don’t like this.’
‘What don’t you like?’
She fluffs open the shiny nylon edges of the bag, revealing bottles and tubes. ‘Hector, all my things are in this bag. I find this bag in the bedroom cupboard and all my things from the bathroom are in here.’
I want to vomit.
‘Are they?’
She grips the bag at its base and upends it. ‘Hector, why is all this in a bag?’
‘Because er . . .’ I say. ‘Because er . . .’ I reach out to her. I try to smother her in my arms. ‘Eleni, Eleni, I’m so sorry about your mother.’
‘You’ve put all my things ... all my things from the bathroom into a rucksack. Why have you done that, Hector?’
‘Because I was packing. I was packing, ready to come out and see you, and ... I thought you might want some of this stuff, so ...’
‘And why are there no sheets on the bed?’
I hug her even tighter. ‘Because I was in the middle of changing them.’
‘But why is the mattress all stained? There’s blood on the mattress.’
‘Because I was hit by a fucking Volvo, remember?’ This is shouted into her ear. It is the most ridiculous sentence of my life thus far.
She pulls away, violently away, and strides off to the other side of the room. She slumps down in the chair and curls up into a ball. I decide not to follow.
Silence.
‘So you’ve stopped doing big heads?rsquo; says Eleni, and I assume she’s talking about the new painting.
‘I’m thinking about it,' I say. ’I'm thinking about stopping the big heads.’ I look over. Her back is turned to the painting. She’s not talking about the painting. She’s sat up in the chair with my sketch pad open on her lap.
‘Who is this?’ she says.
‘I’ve no idea,’ I say. ‘It’s just a study from a photo in a magazine.’
‘A pornographic magazine?’
Oh, if only my confession were that simple.
‘No, it looks like that, doesn’t it? I know. No, it’s from some art magazine. I was just studying form.’
She looks closer and begins to shake a little. ‘If this is from a magazine, then why is the corner of this chair in the picture?’
‘Er ...’
‘Hector,’ her voice is breaking up, ‘Hector, who is this?’
‘I’ve told you,’ I say, rising through the octaves, ‘I have no idea. The er ... chair is there to suggest a sense of scale. To lend it... depth, er ... perspective.’
She stands up and runs across the room. ‘I’m going to be sick!’ she declares, her hand over her mouth.
‘Eleni,’ I call after her, ‘Eleni, I’m telling you the truth,’ though I don’t know why I bother, cos she’s on her way to the bathroom, and in about three seconds the sham of the remark will be exposed by fact. I follow close behind.
At first she doesn’t even notice. She runs directly to the toilet and collapses onto her knees. I put my arms around her waist and hold on tight as she empties her stomach into the pan. Awful, bestial, liquid convulsions, one after the other, four in all, and then she keeps her head down, awaiting the fifth. Her abdomen spasms beneath my f
ingers and I turn my head to look at Rosa. Now there’s a painting. The mistress of all masterpieces. Fuck Rembrandt, Vermeer, Velazquez, Leonardo, fuck ’em all. Rosa’s face in this moment. What new, cruel species of smile is this? She makes the enigma of La Gioconda look like Lucille Ball. I can’t believe I’m here, living in this century, residing at this address, kneeling on this floor, holding onto these hips, staring into those eyes, suffering the punches of this worthless heart. I can’t believe it. I really can’t. But there you go, I’m stuck with it. I press my head against Eleni’s shoulder and vomit down her back.
It’s all going very well.
Idea For a Piece: Large white gallery furnished to resemble a hospital ward. Six empty beds. On the seventh bed lies the artist of the piece, dying. Catheters and masks. Books and flowers. Grapes and machines. The glowing green blip of a monitor. The bleached floor. The finished meal. A solitary bluebottle, let loose. Footless slippers. Rings removed. The artist dying. Really dying. Call it About Time.
I’m out on the street with Eleni. Will this rain never stop? The taxi is waiting, its diesel purr echoing against the cobbles.
‘Eleni, don’t go!’
‘Of course I must go!’
‘No, no, you absolutely must not. Not now.’
‘How can I stay?’
‘In a million ways!’
‘There is not one way I can stay!’
‘You have to let me explain.’
‘No, Hector, you have to let me explain. You have taken everything that was having a past, and everything that was having a future, and you have screwed them up into the ball and kicked this ball through a sewer so it has turned into nothing. You have treated me without respect, you have abused everything that we ever had. Well, I hope that you have now what you were looking for, for all this time. I hope now that you can paint, Hector. I hope now that you can paint with the passion, as much as anyone has ever painted. As long as you’re sure that my mother is enough for you.’
‘What do you mean, am I sure that your mother is enough for me? What does that mean?’
‘I mean is my dead mother enough death for you, Hector? Is it? Or which one will you be wanting to be next? Kirk? Your father? Then will that be enough? Or me? What about me?’
‘Eleni, how can you say such things?’
‘I open my mouth and move my tongue! Because it is true.’
‘It is not true.’
‘You don’t even believe yourself when you say that.’
‘Eleni, this is awful. This is the most awful moment of my life.’
‘Then go and fucking paint!’
‘Stop!’
‘I’m going.’
‘Just don’t get into this taxi!’
‘All there is left for me is to get into this taxi!’
‘Eleni, come back inside!’
‘Hector, goodbye!’
And she throws her bags into the taxi. I hold open the door.
‘Eleni, I love you!’
‘No, Hector, you do not love me! Love resists!’
‘Eleni!’
‘You have not resisted!’ She ducks into the car and sits back.
‘Where to, darling?’ says the driver.
‘Hell!’ screams Eleni. Really screams. Screams like I have never heard her scream. And I have never heard her scream. Not once. ‘Hell!’ she screams again. Really, really screams. The driver fiddles with his meter.
‘Eleni!’ I plead.
‘Just drive!’ she barks. She slams the door and her grief is swallowed by the glass. I feel like she’s shut herself up in some gas chamber. Or shut herself out. Maybe it’s me, who must now inhale this poison. He lets off the handbrake and shifts it into first. I watch as his little brown shoes dance upon the pedals, and the next thing you know the whole package eases off. The back of Eleni’s head – her beautiful Greek head – shrinking with the distance.
I watch it go.
Her go.
The humped taxi, like a fat black orthopaedic shoe, slides away. The orange indicator. The wide left turn. The puff of the exhaust. And then ...
Nothing.
And only that which was there before.
Silence.
In the lift on the way back up, my heart is in my mouth, hanging out over my lips. I poke at it with my thumb. My tongue can’t bear the taste. My brain can’t bear the stink. I take a breath and spit it out. I watch it on the floor and crush it with my boot. The lift’s bell rings. Here I am, on the fourth floor, and in I go. Now here’s a most splendid conversation:
‘Rosa,’ I croak, leaning my head on the bathroom door. ‘Rosa, please, say something.’
Silence.
‘Rosa, let me explain.’
Silence. A turn of the knob. The squeak of the hinges.
‘Rosa, really, let me explain.’
The rug scuffing up on the base of the door.
‘Rosa?’
My feet across the threshold.
‘Rosa?’
Silence. The silence of an empty bath and the last hundred bubbles, bursting against the enamel.
‘Rosa?’ I shout, out into the room, out into space, ‘Rosa? Where are you?’
She is nowhere. Nowhere that I know.
I drift out into the hall and cock my ear to the stairwell. The distant patter of dirty combat boots on stone. The clunk of a Zippo. The twisting of a lock and the slamming of a door.
Idea For a Piece: The main door of the gallery, slammed shut over and over. Ten o’clock till six o’clock, six days a week, twenty-six weeks, over and over, again and again, every ten seconds, opened and then slammed, opened and then slammed. The artist dressed in blue. The door painted white. Call it Communicating At An Unknown Rate.
14
The last time I sat on this train, Eleni slept in my lap. I remember how I wanted everyone who passed to see her. To see how pretty she was in sleep. How happy and safe. How happy with me. I smiled at people just to attract their attention, just so they would notice her. I’m not smiling at anyone now, quite the opposite. In fact my radiant contempt must be affecting business at the buffet. No one wants to pass me twice. Can’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to pass me. On the other hand there is nothing I would rather do than pass me. At least then I could leave myself behind. Board another train. Go somewhere better. Be someone else. Perhaps that’s what Monger has perfected. Perhaps he is someone else every few days. What bliss. To lead a thousand lives in the space of one – and then to make a bit of money on the back of it. What’s his game, then?
There was no discourse between Eleni and Rosa. Rosa remained in the bath and Eleni ran into the bedroom. While she packed a couple of bags, I stood in the doorway, scratching my head, unable to utter one word – and the idea of putting two words alongside each other was completely beyond my comprehension. Hence, I was silent. Not one part of me made the smallest sound. Not even my heart, which had stopped and hardened into glass. And even when it shattered, deep inside my breast, and rained down on my bones, even then there was silence. Eleni’s dresses fell into the suitcase like secret parachutes. Even her shoes made no sound. She packed away old diaries, documents, statements, certificates, a rosary, sunglasses, two toy owls and her favourite cow. All of them silent as they found their place in the hush of her luggage. I felt as though my head were underwater. Under Rosa’s water. Which in turn made no sound. She was obviously not about to step out. And for that I was thankful.
If this was chess I’d simply lay my king on its side and shake the hand of my opponent. But it’s not, and I can’t, and I’m not even sure if my opponent has a hand. I believe he has a fist, but his fist is bloodless. His fist is made of diamonds and tar.
We’re pulling into Warrington. I snap open another lager. I watch an ant as he crawls across my ticket. I flick him into oblivion.
There’s seagull crap all over Dad’s blue Mazda. I ring the bell and peer through the frosted glass for a shape in the hallway. Nothing. I ring again, a silly and erratic seq
uence of rings that I’ve been doing ever since I was tall enough to reach the bell. I don’t have a set of keys. Never did. There’s a Kentucky Chicken box in Mum’s shrubbery and a parcel in the porch. I should have phoned to tell her what time my train got in. But I didn’t, and now I’m locked out. But that’s all right. I’m too drunk to bother much. In fact I might just be drunk enough to climb on top of the garage and squeeze in through the window of the spare room. Yeah, now I think about it, I’m definitely drunk enough to climb on top of the garage and squeeze in through the window of the spare room. Just let me lie down for a few minutes. Let me just lie here on the floor of the porch for a few minutes and snore beneath this boorish watercolour of Tintern Abbey. There’s fly paper hanging from the lantern. A moth trapped in the letterbox. One of Sparky’s old stools, drying on the lino. Damien would love this space. He could call it Porch. He could fill it with seawater and pills, call it The Logic of Fossils in the Comical and Rococo Arsehole of a Long Distance Lorry Driver Called Balzac. I don’t know. I’m past caring, I really am. I sleep. I dream. In my dream I’m asleep, and in that sleep I dream, etc. My brain is dipped in lager and cheese, and when Mum wakes me up I wish that she hadn’t. She wakes me with her foot.
‘Hello, Mum.’
‘Hector!’ she yells, boggle-eyed, scandalized. ‘What on earth are you up to?’
‘What?’
‘What on earth’s going on?’
‘Nothing’s going on, Mum,’ I say, ‘what do you mean what am I up to? I said I’d come home today and I have. Here I am. I was locked out and I fell asleep in the porch. What’s the big deal? What do you mean what’s going on?’
‘I mean why’s your thingy out?’
‘My thingy?’
‘Your thingy’s out,’ she says and nods at my groin.
I look down. I’m wearing a pair of black button-up Levi’s and all the buttons are undone. My green and yellow pants are peeled down to my thighs and sure enough, there it is, my thingy. My poor confused fucking thingy, basking in the dusk. That’s it. That’s definitely it. No more drinking.
The Late Hector Kipling Page 25