by Alison Booth
She said, ‘You’d better keep your eyes on the road.’
‘And you, Anika, might want to check that he really is what his business card said he is.’
‘You mean, ask for his CV?’
‘I mean find some of his articles.’
‘I’ve already thought of that.’
‘Maybe asking for Jonno’s résumé is a good idea. He wants something from you, why shouldn’t you get something from him first?’
‘Is that what life is, a series of exchanges?’
‘Of course. Sometimes it’s an exchange of gifts. Good conversations and laughter. Sometimes of punishments.’
‘An eye for an eye, that sort of thing?’
He grinned and she was ninety-five per cent disarmed. But he knew the power of his smile and was using it, and she was not going to fall completely for it. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask him what he wanted from her. He was taking her out: what did he expect in return? But she decided against it. She might not like his answer.
‘I’m going to have to pick up my sunglasses. It’s only a small detour.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now I’ll see where you live. What suburb?’
‘Neutral Bay.’
‘So you drove all the way to Rozelle only to drive all the way back again?’
‘It’s lucky I like driving.’
‘Lucky indeed.’ She grinned at him. ‘That’s very sweet of you.’
She loved seeing inside other people’s houses. It was the budding architect in her, she told herself, not any inbuilt voyeurism. Daniel would be sharing with three or four others, all artistic, and there would be paintings everywhere that she could have a good look at to make sure that none was her Rocheteau, although he was hardly likely to suggest going to his place if he did have the Rocheteau tucked away somewhere.
After a few twists and turns, he pulled up in front of an old house in the Californian-bungalow style. She congratulated herself on her uncanny ability to place people. OK, she’d thought he’d live in a similar building in the Eastern Suburbs, but this was not all that far out, just a bridge away. Yet he strode off, down a weed-choked drive at the side of the house, towards a dilapidated-looking brick garage, with a blocked-up front wall and a faded blue door in the middle.
He warned her to be careful as he unlocked the door. ‘This used to be a garage over a storage area, but the floor gave way so the owner rebuilt it as a studio apartment.’
Immediately inside were a few steps that probably contravened the building regulations, and a narrow ladder leading up to a mezzanine level. She followed him down the steps to the living and kitchen area. The overall impression was of a space that was light and bright and very white. The wall at the far end was glass, with a view over a dense hedge and descending layers of red-tiled roofs. Below that was the glittering blue of the harbour. On the wall to her right were three black-and-white photographs, stark scenes with strong contrasts, images spanning that fine line between minimalist realism and abstract expressionism. Skeletons of trees illuminated by moonlight, defining a dark hillside against a darker sky. A dark road zigzagging towards the horizon and cutting through a pale landscape. A jetty reaching so far out into a mist-softened lake that it seemed to illustrate the principle of the vanishing point.
She said, ‘Who took these photos?’
‘I did.’
‘They’re very beautiful.’
‘Thank you.’ He had become distracted, scrabbling around the books on the kitchen bench and coffee table, trying to find his sunglasses.
‘No paintings?’
‘No. The place isn’t big enough. Or not big enough for the abstract expressionist stuff that I like.’
‘Is the bathroom upstairs?’
‘Yes, at the far end of the loft. It’s a bit messy.’
She climbed up the ladder. The cover on the bed was black-and-white striped and there were art history books piled up on the bedside tables, but there was nothing on the walls apart from a white towelling robe hanging from a nail in the wall. At the back of the loft was a narrow door into a poky en suite and next to this a built-in wardrobe whose doors were gaping open. Naturally she took the liberty of peering inside. No women’s clothes, only what she guessed were Daniel’s: black and white at one end and at the other end vivid colours. No paintings either.
‘I found my sunnies,’ Daniel called out as she was descending the steps. ‘They were in the cutlery drawer.’
‘That’s a great place to keep them. Guaranteed to protect the lenses from scratches.’
Daniel’s absent-mindedness – and the untidiness of his kitchen bench and his lovely black-and-white photographs – made Anika feel quite tender towards him. It helped that the detour had distracted him from his obsession with Jonno. For the rest of the journey they talked of other things.
* * *
Daniel parked above Taronga Park Zoo. The road below the car park passed by one side of the zoo and down to a jetty. A bus disgorged passengers not far from where they stood. Over their chatter Anika heard a distant roaring that she thought could have been a lion. She and Daniel walked slowly behind a young couple with their arms entwined until, as of one mind, they forged past them, and Anika felt a pang of regret for their innocence. First love: such trust, and so much heartache in store.
Daniel knew where they were going: they headed along a path through bushland, walking in an easterly direction. At first, they didn’t talk; there were too many other walkers, tramping in both directions, but after a kilometre or so they had the path to themselves. Through dense trees that Daniel identified as pittosporum, Anika caught glimpses of the sparkling harbour water below. The cloud of gulls circling about reminded her of being with her brother Miklos and watching the birds forever wheeling above the chain link bridge spanning the Danube. A murmuration, Miklos called them in English, liking to impress, for they appreciated long words in her family.
When they reached an open area with a kiosk, Daniel suggested stopping for afternoon tea. As if choreographed, a couple rose from a table near the serving hatch and Anika and Daniel took seats that were still warm from their bodies. In front of them, the grass was dotted with groups of people and there were small children running everywhere, their cries and laughter punctuating the quieter murmuring of their families.
Waiting for service, they talked of nothing much, desultory conversation that had no focus. After the waitress took their order, Daniel leaned across the table towards Anika, and for a heartbeat she imagined he was about to take her hand. Instead he clasped his own, fingers over knuckles, and said, ‘My Uncle Jake knows a man called Julius Singer. I hear he knows your aunt, Tabilla Molnar.’
Only now did Anika notice that clouds had appeared and the afternoon had become cooler. She tried to speak but her words came out strangled. At the second attempt, she managed to say, ‘It’s a shame Tabilla was out this afternoon, otherwise you could have met her. She suggested I take the Rocheteau to Mr Singer to see what he thought of it.’
‘You didn’t tell me that when you asked me to make the appointment to see a dealer.’
‘I didn’t know then. And anyway, why should I have told you beforehand? I’m telling you now.’
‘Only because I confronted you.’
His use of the verb to confront irritated her. ‘Is that what this is all about?’ she asked, and was surprised to hear how well she’d controlled her touchiness. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t mention it. It was thoughtless, I know, especially after you’d gone to such trouble to be kind. But two evaluations are better than one, don’t you think? If one was high and the other low, I could have taken the average and that would be what my painting was worth. But all this is academic with the picture gone.’
He said, ‘We had a family dinner last night and my Uncle Jake was there.’ He paused to stare at h
is fingernails as if sizing them up before manicure. When he’d finished inspecting his nails, he directed his attention to the tabletop. ‘Jake said Julius told him he’d had a visit from a young woman who’d brought in a Rocheteau painting to be valued. I knew it had to be you from the description of the painting.’
Daniel was now watching Anika closely; she felt it was as if he were trying to catch her out. She seized the initiative and blurted out an account of what happened the afternoon of her visit to Singer’s gallery.
When she’d finished, Daniel said slowly, ‘That’s interesting. So Julius thought the painting wasn’t yours. Uncle Jake didn’t tell me that.’
These words sowed a seed of doubt in Anika’s mind. Surely Julius would have told Jake that he thought the Rocheteau couldn’t be hers, especially seeing they were supposed to be friends, or at least acquaintances. Could Daniel have lied about his uncle to get her to reveal more? That was an interrogation technique she’d heard a lot about growing up in Budapest. Fabricate a story that would get the prisoner riled. In attempting to refute it, the prisoner might divulge the truth or something else that could be used against them.
‘Mr Singer could have arranged to steal my painting,’ she said. ‘Or to have it stolen.’ She watched Daniel’s face closely but it remained inscrutable.
‘I doubt it. Why would a man like Julius arrange a break-in? He’s a respected figure running an excellent business. He wouldn’t want to jeopardise that.’
‘But he thinks the painting wasn’t mine. So what does he do? He decides to have it stolen. He couldn’t take it himself because he was at a concert with my aunt that night. A last-minute arrangement, I might add. He called her up saying he had a spare ticket. That could have been to get her out of the house.’
At this moment the waitress brought out their pot of tea and cups and saucers. Daniel became distracted, as if he’d taken himself somewhere far away. After pouring the tea, Anika asked if he took milk and he pulled himself back with a start. ‘Did Julius say who he thought owned the painting?’
‘No. All he said was that it couldn’t possibly be mine.’
‘And you still don’t have the provenance?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you’ll have to find out more about its history. You must want to know how Tomas came to have it.’
‘Of course I do. But I’m going to have to get back to Budapest to find that out, and that’s out of the question now.’
A tennis ball rolled under their table and soon after was followed by a laughing toddler and her apologetic father. When they had gone, Daniel said, ‘The Nazis stored lots of looted paintings in disused mines or caves or whatever. Secret places. And then after the war ended they were gradually removed, one by one, to be sold. Often on the black market. And they’re still turning up, even now.’
‘Are you implying my Uncle Tomas was a Nazi? He was barely ten when the Nazis were driven out of Hungary.’
‘I wasn’t saying that.’
Anika’s heart was a trapped bird in her throat. ‘What are you saying then? That my Uncle Tomas bought a looted painting after the war ended?’ Her palms were so sweaty that the teaspoon slipped from her grasp and clattered on to the wooden tabletop.
‘It’s possible.’
‘What do you expect me to do about it?’
‘There’s nothing you can do about it. Not at this stage.’
‘Not when it’s been twice stolen, is that what you’re getting at?’
‘I just thought you should be aware that it’s a possibility.’
‘Well, you should know that Tomas was in his early twenties when he died. It was in 1956 when he was an engineering student. He was hardly likely to have had enough money to spend on paintings. So he wouldn’t have bought it at that time.’
‘Where did he get it from then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There must be ways to find out without going back to Budapest. You could try asking your father, for instance. He might have proof that you don’t know about.’
‘How can I ask him? Everything’s censored.’
‘Everything? I thought Hungary had relaxed its restrictions.’
‘They open my letters to my parents. I got into trouble with the authorities before I left. Do you know what the Danube Bend is?’ When Daniel shook his head, she continued, ‘I thought you mightn’t. There was a big dam planned for the Danube north of Budapest that would wipe out historic towns. I got involved in protests about that. The police caught me. That’s one reason I wanted to get out of Hungary after they let me go.’ She didn’t mention the other reason: that her offer of a place to study architecture had been withdrawn.
She looked down at her hands and observed that, while she’d been talking, she’d shredded her paper napkin. It lay in ribbons on her lap. With nothing more to shred, her right hand automatically adjusted her watchband. Although it was wide, it barely covered the scar on the underside of her wrist. She continued, ‘I’ve got to be careful what I put in letters and what I say on the phone. Anyway, I don’t care about my painting’s history. I just want it back.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘It’s all I have of home. Have you got any idea of how it feels to be so far away from your family? That picture’s a connection to my parents.’
‘Leaving family behind is the fate of most immigrants,’ he said slowly. ‘At least your parents are alive. A lot of my parents’ generation lost their entire families.’
It hurt that he was accusing her of something: self-pity; a deficit of courage; a shortage of empathy. ‘I’m really sorry that happened, Daniel.’ Her cool voice was in stark contrast to the anguish that began to swell up like a geyser inside her. Though she might have deserved his comment, she knew she had to get away before exploding. ‘I can’t listen to this right now, I’m going home.’
Standing up, she knocked the metal milk jug on to the ground. For the barest instant she watched as the milk trickled across the concrete and began to form a rivulet. It was all too much to bear. She ran across the grass under the darkening sky. Weaving around groups of picnickers packing their things, she soon found the path she and Daniel had followed earlier.
In the bush there were no people about. The gulls were now silent. All she could hear, as anger and suspicion propelled her along the track, were sticks crackling, leaves rustling underfoot, and the pounding of her heart. With the sun screened by ever-thickening black clouds, the trees began to seem threatening. Suddenly she felt that someone was watching her. Halting a second, she glanced around. No one in sight, yet the bush was expectant. Dark and brooding, it might have been waiting to pass judgement.
Again she broke into a run. A sudden loud crack of thunder made her jump. Increasing her pace, she started to feel more frightened. The bush was too quiet, too dark. She might almost be back in the forest near the Danube Bend. Another clap of thunder but she’d seen no lightning. The pounding of her sneakers on the path became a syncopated rhythm. Thud thud thud went her feet, and there was a separate rhythm in between. She ran faster, her heart pumping harder and air rasping into her lungs.
‘Anika,’ Daniel called. ‘It’s only me!’ She slowed, sweat dribbling down her forehead and beading on her upper lip. When Daniel caught up with her, panting with the effort, he said, ‘Don’t shoot the messenger.’
‘Why not?’ Anika said, breathlessly. ‘What was good enough for the Greeks is good enough for me.’
He thought she’d made a joke and started to laugh, but stopped when he saw her expression.
‘I’m taking the ferry home.’
‘Don’t do that, Anika. It’s cutting off your nose to spite your face. You’ll have to wait ages for a ferry and then for the bus at the quay. It’ll be hours before you get home.’
‘That’s what I want. I’m sorry, Daniel
, but I need time on my own to think.’
‘I know you’re upset. I’ve made things worse. I’m sorry too.’
She glanced at him. Again, his black eyes were drilling into her face. She averted her gaze. Her body had become numb and her brain was blocking messages, all except for the one that was urging her to get away. The silence between them was broken by another rumble of thunder, louder this time. Without a word they hurried along the path. When they reached the road, he leaned towards her as if to kiss her cheek. She backed away and, with a quick nod, headed down the hill. A ferry was steaming slowly across the choppy water of the harbour towards the Taronga Park jetty. A sheet of lightning slid down the purple sky and twelve seconds later came another clap of thunder.
When the ferry pulled into the wharf, Anika was among the first on board. Sitting on a slatted wooden bench at one side of the boat, she stared unseeing over the shifting green water. Her body felt anaesthetised. Only when she was on the blessedly empty bus from Circular Quay and the rain began did the numbness start to wear off. There was now a dull sort of pain in her chest, as if someone or something was pressing down on her ribcage. Like a tongue seeking out a mouth ulcer, her mind kept returning to the conversation with Daniel, running through every sentence they’d spoken. Sentences that were as clearly written on the surface of her brain as a script of a play. Raising Doubts, it would be called, the play that Daniel had written for her. Raising doubts about her family and her past.
Chapter 17
That evening Anika made a start on the Butler’s Stairs design project. Work provided an escape, she told the framed photograph of her family that sat on one of the bookshelves next to her drawing board. Work was a glorious retreat from the trauma of engaging with people, she told them. Carpe diem, that was how she should be living. Seize the moment when it was good, and bury it under mounds of work when it was bad.
After spreading out the sketches and photos of the arches at Butler’s Stairs, Anika put the cassette Tender Prey by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds into her Walkman and began to rough out a design. She’d already decided that the purity of that colonnade with its high arches had to be retained. The way to do this was to set a wall of glazing back a metre or so and make the glazing uninterrupted, or as much as possible, given that there would have to be joints in the sheets of plate glass and somehow air allowed into the building. There had to be some way of getting an updraught into the space through openings that could be concealed at the very top and bottom of the glazing so they wouldn’t be visible from outside. Joining the glass panels would be relatively straightforward. One advantage of working part-time at Barry Oreopoulous and Associates was that she’d seen how it was done in Barry’s buildings.