'I wasn't talking about you. You can stay,' she said magnanimously. 'But let me make one thing clear. If he's the master of the house, there's only one lady of the house from now on. And that's me.'
Later on that evening, as I walked past my grandmother's room, I saw my father masqueraded in his swallow-tailed coat and lavaliere, with all four limbs attached to the bedposts, putting up no resistance to what she was performing (I choose the word performing because it seemed to me like a performance intended more for spectators than for herself). I wouldn't have looked, but the door was wide open and she was laughing to herself or at least that's what the noises perhaps more in line with what she was doing sounded like.
***
Elsa painted more vigorously, caring not whether her night was day, or her day night. Her self-portraits became less substantial than paper dolls, in time less than the reflection of oneself in a winter's windowpane, and finally were reduced to a residue of light. Her blossoms took on vast proportions; her leaves gradually shrank until they disappeared, naked stems streamed across the sky. A first tiny thorn appeared on a poppy one day, then golden horns on a sunflower, the sky bled. The stems became dissociated from the blossoms, then there was a series consisting of only stems, this time perfectly stiff. A vertical green line in the middle of blue. Parallel green lines standing, slanting.
'Isn't there a detail that bothers you?' Elsa was facing her easel with her back to me.
I remembered her ears, which she still had never let me see up close. 'Let's see . . .' I stalked up behind her, moved her hair up on one side.
She swatted my hand. 'Cut it out. The bottom doesn't strike you as blank?'
'Not really.'
'What should be there?'
'A flower pot? Earth? Beats me. Roots?'
'A signature.'
'Oh.'
'A very important "oh". How can you exhibit works without a signature?'
'Sorry, I . . . um . . . didn't notice.'
'You must start noticing the details that will save or damn us. Dear God lives in details.'
'Then why didn't you sign them?'
'It has to be your name.'
'You can sign for me.'
'You have to believe these are yours. You have to feel that you're the one who painted them. You're the artist, Johannes, not me. You'll be the one to face the public, the criticism; to bring us help. Not me. Remember, I don't exist.'
I looked at the paintings with a cooler disposition. What did she mean? Was I 'the artist' because I was creating our world, a world in which she was both as inseparably connected to me and yet as non-existent to others as my own shadow? Or did she have the cheek to insinuate I was a dictator rising upon and extinguishing her, my victim, for the sake of my vanity?
'Well, do you feel capable of signing them?'
Troubled, I retorted, 'I can write — you know it well! Don't put me down all the time!'
'I don't mean physically, I mean artistically. Do you feel these are worthy of you?'
'Why not? Pass me a paintbrush. Move over.'
'Wait. How will you sign?'
'You'll see. Make room.'
'You'll ruin them. You have to practise. Try this one. If you're a schlemiel and slop it up, it doesn't count.'
The letters came out thick; the gaps filled until we were left with a smudge. Elsa had that nasty crease between her eyes. 'It would be more catchy if you shortened your name to J Betz. Artists often change their names. It's part of their forging reality to suit their own taste.'
I spent two days experimenting.
'Too pretentious.' 'Too mousy.' 'Johannes, where's your mind? You're always somewhere else!' 'It must be a wink at the outer world!' 'Wrap the J around the Betz.' 'Hook the Betz with the J!' 'Tilt the J so it leans on the Betz. Leans — I didn't say topples over.'
At last she gave me permission to go ahead. She set her chin on my shoulder as if she were my second head — or should I say my first, since mine clearly didn't count — and guided my every move. 'Now hold your hand steady.' 'Lower — no, higher!' She made me so nervous it was no wonder things turned out the way they did.
Hitting her small white fist in the palm of her hand to accent certain words, she despaired over my leaden hand! If I had just listened! Light and flowery! Couldn't I tell the difference between 'J Betz' (her voice high and crisp) and 'J Betz' (at a low pitch, slow and retarded)? I painted a clover on the stem of my J, asked her if that made it more light and flowery.
She didn't speak to me for two whole days, or it might have been the other way around: I was equally taciturn. The morning of the third day I came up with her breakfast tray to find the other nine paintings in three rows on the floor. I knew that was the most I'd get by way of an apology. She offered me no advice as I signed them, even forced herself to look away while I laboured on my knees. Instead of thanking me when I was done, all she had the nerve to say, after a sneaky sideways glimpse at them, was that if I became famous it would be thanks to her.
The success of the paintings in Vienna was, I led her to believe, immediate. After my supposed inaugural exhibition I told her I received offers from Ernst Köhler, a talent scout from Berlin; Engelbert Stumme, a connoisseur from Trier; and Herbert Ranzenberger, from the Feine Kunst Galerie in Innsbruck, who said I hid much in my simple forms; whereby I supposedly answered, 'Do we not hide "much" in the simple forms of our heart? In the simple squares of our homes?'
By the hour, Elsa indulged in words such as 'stirring', 'powerful', 'original' — made me repeat them without a semblance of modesty, moped over others, such as 'incomplete'. She became so engrossed with their opinions it became clear to me she was losing track of the reason I'd convinced her to paint in the first place. Her works had become art for the sake of art.
I led her to believe that there were to be other exhibitions throughout our territory, which after the war was vast; her work might even find its way abroad. I pretended to know fame, acclaim, admiration. I became familiar with intimidated smiles, people being flattered if I stepped on their foot. I was always the last to leave, relishing the silence before stepping over the discarded cigarette butts, overlapping footprints. I watched Elsa close her eyes to picture the beauty, the grandeur of walking by my side — or perhaps in my place — in Casablanca, Cairo, Rome, Volksstadt (formerly Stalingrad), sipping champagne in high-domed galleries, jostling in crowds for space. I watched her travel to the four corners of her mind as she sat with her infantile bowed legs stretched out on the floor of a dishevelled attic room.
Elsa handed me a blue canvas that represented the sky. My signature had to be blue this time, so it would barely be seen, and only by those who knew where to look. I descended the cold stone steps to the cellar and had to force the door with all that was stacked behind it. I could hardly get in any more. I blew away what dust I could from the canvases nearest me, snatched away the fresh cobwebs that were within my reach. I wedged the painting between two others. It took a lot of shoving before the door would close again.
Part III
xviii
Madeleine was wearing my mother's housecoat, having breakfast in my grandmother's bedroom, where she spent most of her time — more specifically, in the four-poster bed, which had become her permanent nesting place. Pimmichen had been obliged to move to my parents' bedroom. Because Madeleine was a chain-smoker, there was a fog about her as thick as pea soup; well, maybe not so opaque because it didn't stop me recognising a sapphire pendant necklace that dangled into her cleavage; it was a wedding anniversary gift from my father to my mother. I might come across as weak for keeping my resentment to myself — although I'm sure it showed in my attitude — but what silenced me was the fact that my father's state was improving as a result of her company, however much it eats me up to say so.
'Get me another ashtray, will you? A silver one. This crystal is too heavy on my lap.'
'Yes, my Maddie. No problem.'
'Can you stir my coffee for me? My fingernails aren't
dry. Damn it, you just burnt me! You have to learn to be more gentle, my dear.'
Mocking aristocratic manners, she held out her hand as if rehearsing for the Czar to kiss it. While my father brought his lips to just above her skin, no pucker and no noise — he hadn't forgotten the proper way to perform a Handkuß — she looked at me in an equivocal way, making me feel awkward. I'd come down to say something and found myself standing there dumbly, having forgotten what it was.
Madeleine appraised herself in the trumeau mirror over the mantelpiece across the room, fluffed up her red hair, fingered it away from her cleavage and turned her eyes to the reflection of my father waiting obediently by her bedside. 'Dear? Would you roll up that Persian rug for me? Those curlicues or whatever the heck they are give me a headache.'
My father lifted the foot of her bed, with her in it, pulled the rug out from under it and dragged it out of the room.
'Don't go too far. And you see that thingamajig over there, that gold thingy with the wings?'
My father put his right hand on it and, with his left, pinched his nose between his eyes, where his reading glasses always used to hurt him. 'Yes, um . . . the . . . the pendulum?'
'The pendulum. The little bugger must have chronic hiccups. My head is splitting. Just stuff it in a drawer. I can still hear it — get it out! Oh, before you go would you mind taking that portrait down? Seeing her that young makes me travel a century back every time I look at it. I'm getting motion sickness.'
'I already told you. I don't mind anything, if it's for you. Honestly.'
In lower spirits than I'd been of late, if that was possible, I dragged my feet to the gas range to make Pimmi's and Elsa's breakfast. I reheated diluted tea and toasted both sides of the stale bread in a pan. The coffee and sugar cubes Madeleine shared with my father were, as she'd said to him loudly enough for us to overhear, compliments of an old friend. From what I could gather she had truckloads of those — old friends, I mean. Without warning, Pimmi stepped out from behind the kitchen dresser and grabbed me by the wrist. Fully dressed, ready to go, she said, 'We're going to Dr Gregor's now. This has to end.'
***
'Ah, Frau Betzler. Johannes. Good thing you've come. Saves me posting this.'
'I hope it's the certificate I need to consign my son into better hands.'
'I thought he was doing best in your hands? No, it's Herr Betzler's laboratory analysis.'
My grandmother took it from him and brought it to the tip of her nose. 'Don't tell me this gonococcus bacterium means venereal disease?'
'He will have to be treated. Take antibiotics.'
'Cupid's itch?'
'A little more serious, but nothing he won't survive.'
'You know the low-down harlot who gave it to him?'
'Not personally.'
'That Madeleine you told us about. She's living at home with him. You have to come and see with your own eyes what's been going on, and hopefully you can do something about it. That's why we stayed put in your waiting room until one leg then another fell asleep. Mind you, our heads weren't far behind.'
'I'd better examine her to see if she's infected.'
'Just examine her behaviour. That's noxious enough. It's a disgrace. Take him away, lock him up. Whatever it takes to get him away from her.'
'Has his general condition worsened?'
My grandmother looked at me for help and, after I paused too long, not knowing how to answer, Dr Gregor joined her, crossing his arms, waiting.
'Well . . .' I began, fumbling for words, 'it's that, generally, mostly, he's actually been doing better since she's been with him. He doesn't have fits any more. His speech has, to be honest, made headway. I think my grandmother means that . . . this Madeleine woman has him by the nose, worse than a bullring. Nothing else matters to him, least of all us.'
Dr Gregor's disapproving face caused my grandmother to look away. She got up and peered out his office window at our house.
'Isn't that to be expected if he has no memory of you?' Dr Gregor asked. 'Whereas he knows her. What are your real motives for wanting him put in an institution? No jealousy involved in this change of mind? Purely your son's well-being? I certainly recommend such institutions when I believe the care of specialised staff will be to a patient's advantage. But I already told you, I prescribe medication, not morals.'
'Just come and see the no-good she's up to, Doctor, dragging him down into her unhealthy life. Don't we owe that to him?' Pimmichen shuffled back towards him, her orthopaedic shoes undone because her feet were swollen.
Dr Gregor ultimately gave in and, after he'd finished with his other patients, followed my grandmother and me back to our house. We led him into their room, where Pimmi and I stood mouths agape. Not only had the bed been made, an all-time first, but the furniture had been rearranged and many of my grandmother's effects removed, giving a general impression of more space. My father was in the hallway on his knees, assembling a hand drill. He'd lined up the drill tips according to size and something about them made it look as if he was playing with toy soldiers. He took us in briefly with what looked like mild curiosity or unsettled confusion, and nodded before returning to what he was doing. This was another first-time sign of progress.
There was a familiar smell I couldn't place: fragrant, comforting. We followed it into the kitchen, where we were dumbfounded by what we saw. Madeleine sat leaning back on a kitchen chair, stark naked, her legs up on the bench, using a wooden spatula to streak whatever was warming in a cooking pot on to them. Whatever it was had also gathered on her upper lip like an old field-marshal's mustachio and set her pubic hairs in a triangular frosty frame. She started, and for a split-second there was embarrassment on her face before she recovered back to her thick-skinned self and dropped another of Pimmi's holy candles into the pot.
'Inform her where my office is,' Dr Gregor ordered as he took his leave.
My grandmother brought her hands to her hips, drew herself up with an intake of breath and burst out, 'I demand decency in this house!'
Poking the candle with the spatula to make it melt faster, her stance one of determined defensiveness, Madeleine snapped, 'You think hairy legs and a big bush are decent?'
'You horrid carrier of disease!' My grandmother waved Dr Gregor's prescription in her face until it caught in her moustache, upon which she was content to let it dangle. Madeleine ripped it off.
'People who live in glasshouses shouldn't throw stones. You look pretty disease-ridden yourself, old bag!'
In order to keep my eyes off her body, I picked up a cold strip of wax from the bench to examine it. It reminded me of a millipede — a smooth body with hundreds of short black legs underneath.
'She's a hairy primate. An animal,' my grandmother said to me. 'A primate who thinks waxing herself will make her human . . .'
'That's below the belt,' said Madeleine.
'Your specialty, from what I gather.'
'And yours? Into cobwebs? It'll do you good to die. Woodworms will be the first thing to wiggle in you for over a century!'
Madeleine tried to get up, but the wax applied to her private area had hardened on to the upholstery, adhering this section of her painfully to the chair. She called out at the top of her lungs, 'Teddy! Come quick!'
Pimmichen didn't wait for my father to come running. 'Leave him be! I don't intend to remain here another day. Decency has no price. Something you wouldn't know.'
I followed her as she stomped and ranted about the house, flinging items into her old monogrammed leather trunk, a relic from the days when the wealthy had servants to carry such heavy luggage for them. Nothing I did or said had any impact, but the pain in her chest did at some point. She staggered to the edge of the ottoman in the boudoir and held her side. I talked her into letting me unpack her things, and helped her to recline. Just as I'd persuaded her to relax, she saw the walls and what else had changed while she and I were away.
'The nerve of her, bringing her cheap scabs of art here chez nous! Sh
e can take them right back to her house of ill-repute! That's where such eyesores belong — to go with the sores and scabs they have everywhere else! Does she think she's doing us a favour bringing that second-rate trash in here? I take that back! First-rate trash! Quelle merde! Quelles croûtes!'
'Pimmi, stop. They're mine. I . . . I don't know how they got here.'
'Ah! Ah?' Her smile came with great effort.
I went to get the spectacles she asked for, knowing it was an excuse for her to gather herself together. I knew it was a bad sign when I came back and she'd turned one of the canvases on its side, was stepping forward and back on shaky legs, resorting to the rickety three-legged escritoire for balance whenever she cocked her head.
I turned it right side up again. 'The stems go down.'
'Those are stems?'
'From the sunflowers. Look here.'
'I thought they were kites in the sky. Aren't they kites?'
'I think I should have a little bit of an idea what they are.'
'Sorry, but what are those green ribbons on the kites' tails?'
'Those are leaves.'
'They look like ribbons to me. Leaves don't grow side by side like that, evenly spread like the rungs of a ladder. Look how tiny they are, out of proportion for such giant blossoms. And the woman? Did she fall victim to a rolling-pin? Do you want my glasses?'
She held them out for me to take. When I didn't she sat down, breathless, her fist to her heart. 'My, my. So that's what you've been doing up there all those hours. My, my . . .'
It felt as if I had been the one painstakingly applying a thousand tubes of pigment to as many canvases. I forgot all about Elsa; I was alone to defend my work. Because my name was on them, they'd become mine — entirely, indivisibly mine. I stared at my fiascos, feeling miserable, misunderstood.
Caging Skies Page 20