Authenticity

by Deirdre Madden

  ‘What about the trunk?’

  ‘Oh, I’m hoping she’s forgotten about the trunk,’ Julia said. ‘It’s been there for so long I sort of consider it mine now.’

  She went on talking about how much she had learned about antiques since she started to work for Hester; that the table was a hunting table, that the wood it was made of was actually … Roderic’s attention drifted away from her, and he became again wholly absorbed in his own thoughts.

  He hadn’t known that William had called to the gallery in March. Julia hadn’t mentioned it: why not? And what had happened there? He wondered if he should bring up the subject of the postcard, but didn’t know how to broach it. The matter of his having read it made the issue a delicate one, as did the weird coincidence of the final message. Perhaps she would be angry, would think he had been deliberately prying in her private correspondence. He had always known his visual memory was good, but never, until now, had he thought of himself as having a particular aptitude for remembering language. And yet every last line of the text, every prissy phrase and stiff conjunction was burned on his mind … understanding means more to me than I can easily say … for that I offer sincere apologies … With affection.

  ‘Roderic? I said, don’t you think so?’

  He stared at her dumbly.

  ‘You haven’t heard a single word, have you? You haven’t been listening.’

  He couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess at what she had asked him, and had to admit as much.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing too important,’ she said, and his absentmindedness appeared to amuse rather than annoy her. How irritated Marta used to get when this happened, and it had been a common occurrence. She would begin some long discourse about getting the shutters painted or buying new bed linen or planning a dinner to which her family were to be invited: domestic details that bored him so immensely his mind would simply close down and move on to a more absorbing subject.

  ‘I see you’re admiring my postcard,’ Julia said unexpectedly. Without realising it, his eyes had kept straying back to the picture of the woman with the squirrel. ‘William sent it to me from London recently. You remember him – William Armstrong? He’s got nice handwriting, hasn’t he?’ She lifted the card down and handed it to him.

  Duplicitously, Roderic pretended to read the message. ‘The last line,’ he said. ‘What’s that all about?’

  ‘I thought that was a bit cheeky myself. Your card was in the book I lost that he brought back to me. Obviously he read it and remembered.’

  ‘I didn’t know he came to the gallery’

  ‘Surely I told you about that? No? I could have sworn I did … oh, he came all right, it was a weird session. It really spooked him; he’s quite prim and proper.’

  ‘Oh, I can believe it,’ Roderic said quickly. ‘Awfully tight arsed and buttoned up, I’d have thought, just on the strength of that one meeting.’

  ‘He’s not that bad,’ Julia protested. ‘A bit stiff in his manner, but good hearted, I think. The photographs, you remember? The women and the babies? They really shocked him, and as for the installations … I shouldn’t laugh, for he really was mortified, but it was terribly funny.’

  ‘I’d have thought taking off his shoes and crawling up a fake vagina was just what he needed,’ Roderic said.

  ‘Why do you dislike him so much?’ Julia said. ‘What is it you have against him?’

  ‘If he’s as great an art lover, a collector, even, as he claims to be, he should be more at ease with contemporary art, I’d have thought.’

  ‘In fairness, he had his children with him, and I think he was bothered about the effect it might have on them.’

  ‘And what did the kids make of it?’

  ‘They had a ball. Of course they hadn’t a clue what it was about. As far as they were concerned it was just some kind of funfair.’

  ‘Children are pure hearted,’ he said, ‘and unless a thing is in and of itself corrupting, it won’t harm them.’

  ‘They liked the gallery,’ Julia said, ‘the boy, I think, in particular, but the way their father reacted made them uneasy’

  ‘Speaking of the exhibition,’ Roderic said carefully, ‘I wonder if you’ve seen this.’ Reaching down to a bag at his feet he took out a magazine and handed it to her folded open. ‘Brace yourself: it’s pretty grim. Begin with the last paragraph.’

  In contrast to these squalid and explicit images, Julia Fitzpatrick offers us an art of concealment, which also fails utterly to engage. Closed and cryptic, her work is derivative. The pieces on show here focus upon objects and images (shells, stones, pieces of fabric) which evidently hold some private and talismanic significance for her, but the meaning of which she fails to share with us, and wilfully so. Fluttering curtains of white ribbon serve to exclude the viewer from Fitzpatrick’s work. Hers is ultimately a self-absorbed vision, and the viewer who struggles to make sense of her world finds himself deliberately and definitively shut out. One is left, however, with the conviction of being excluded from something that is of neither interest nor importance.

  Brendan Halpin.

  ‘Jesus,’ Julia said.

  She tried to smile at Roderic, but she couldn’t quite manage it, and he noticed that the hand that held the magazine was shaking. He wished he could tell her that the first time was the worst, that in the future something like this would fail to bother her, but he knew it wasn’t necessarily true. Instead he said, ‘If it’s any consolation, he hated the photographs and the vaginal thing even more. I mean, what can you say about a man who finds pictures of women with their babies squalid? Put it out of your mind. You’ve met Brendan: I rest my case.’

  They had, at least, stopped talking about William, but Roderic knew that wouldn’t be the end of it. When they met again three days later, she said that he had called to the shop that morning.

  ‘And how is he?’

  ‘Slightly better form, I thought. He’s converting a bedroom in his house into a studio.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t think that’s going to solve all his woes.’

  ‘Who’s to say? He seemed pleased about it. If I had his money I wouldn’t settle for a bedroom. I’d set myself up in a first-class studio with loads of space, but I got the impression it’s important to him that it be in the house. I think it’s some kind of declaration of intent. Good luck to him. Anyway, he didn’t just call for a chat. He told me he’d liked my work very much and he’s interested in buying a piece.’

  And Roderic was genuinely pleased to hear this.

  *

  For well over an hour now they had been in the studio, choosing things that she might offer for sale. The ones they settled on were all smaller than those she had shown in the exhibition. The smallest of all was a kaleidoscope containing not fragments of coloured glass but a series of tiny photographic transparencies that appeared and disappeared, multiplied and were reduced in number as the viewer turned the ring. The largest was a peepshow: a long wooden box with the side farthest from the viewing aperture covered in parchment. The box contained leaves, hundreds of pressed leaves arranged with a series of mirrors and magnifying glasses so that the viewer saw them doubled exactly, saw green ribs and veins, saw the leaves receding away to the back of the box. It gave the effect of being absorbed into the still and silent heart of a forest irradiated with light.

  Roderic straightened up and stood back, glanced over at Julia. She was staring hard at one of the other pieces and was chewing her thumb, as she always did when she was anxious. It was as if he had never known her, as if their relationship counted for nothing when faced with the work and the knowledge of that distant, inviolable part of herself from which it came. He was so fond of her he sometimes forgot how good an artist she was, and he chided himself silently for it now. Was he already beginning to take her for granted?

  Julia noticed that he was looking not at the work but at her.

  ‘Well?’ she said. ‘What do you reckon?’

  He pointed to each of the
pieces in turn and named a price.

  ‘God, as much as that?’

  ‘You do good work,’ he replied. ‘You should never sell yourself short.’

  ‘Still and all, I don’t want to price myself so high as to put him off. I don’t want him to think that I’m pushing my luck.’

  ‘He said he wanted to buy. You’re not doing him a favour, nor he you.’ But he knew himself that he was pushing it, and that the figures he advised were at the limit for a young and unknown artist. He took out a paper and pen, and wrote down each price in turn, saying it aloud and revising downwards from his earlier suggestions. ‘Go no lower than that,’ he said as he handed her the page. ‘Above all, don’t give an inch on the one with the leaves.’

  Still she looked doubtful.

  ‘People like William Armstrong are not like us,’ he said simply.

  ‘We need them, though.’

  ‘They need us too. The difference is, they don’t realise it. Remember that he’s doing this for himself. He wants a bargain, and he’ll be getting one.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks for helping me with this. For the moral support, as much as anything. I can’t tell you how glad I’ll be when this is over, however it goes.’

  ‘Don’t let him try to haggle. Be businesslike with him,’ Roderic urged. ‘Be distant, and be firm.’

  Julia nodded, and he risked adding, ‘Be wary of him.’ She looked at him curiously.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s a bit of a lame duck. The depression and so forth, you know. People like that can be more dangerous than they realise.’

  ‘Dangerous.’ She repeated the word in a tone that implied he needed to explain further.

  ‘Someone as devitalised and miserable as that needs energy. He’ll take yours, if you give him half a chance. He’ll suck you dry.’

  ‘You make him sound like a vampire,’ Julia said, laughing.

  ‘He’s due to call tomorrow afternoon. I’ll let you know how I get on.’ And the moment did not seem right for Roderic to press the matter further.

  He dreamt that night that he was in a railway station made all of white marble. From high windows, shafts of light came down to where he was standing under the clock, waiting for someone. When that person arrived they would take a train together, and it was vital – a matter of literal life and death – that they did not miss it, although he did not know why that should be, nor even the identity of the person for whom he was waiting. All he knew was that his expected companion had not arrived and that the train was due to leave in five minutes, five minutes that took an hour to pass. Someone in the endless crowd that streamed past, jostling and pushing him constantly, murmured without looking directly at him, ‘Why are you here? You were to meet at the ticket office, not under the clock.’ Was this true? What if he left his post and the person he was waiting for arrived? What if they were indeed waiting for him at the ticket office? Should he move or stay where he was? There was no luggage at his feet. He had had a suitcase – hadn’t he? A shrill train whistle blew, and then he woke up.

  *

  ‘Guess which one he bought.’

  ‘The one with the feathers? No? The one with the leaves?’

  She nodded, and Roderic was genuinely surprised. He had been silently sure that William would balk at the price, and his delight for her was sincere, She told him she had felt anxious and that William when he arrived appeared to be completely on top of the situation, which had only made her feel worse. He had considered what was on offer and the prices; had talked about her work and then spoken more generally. Just when she was sure that he was about to say he would think about it and be in touch – a polite way of saying no – he made her an offer for the box with the leaves.

  ‘Lower than the price you asked?’

  ‘Lower, yes, but not by as much as I’d feared. I told him it wasn’t negotiable, and suggested the feathers again. But he wanted the leaves.’

  ‘Of course he did. It’s the best piece.’

  ‘So he thought about it for a few minutes more, and then he said yes.’

  Roderic congratulated her again. Later, he would think he should have been more explicit at that point, should have warned her off. ‘Let that be an end to it. If he rings you or makes contact again, refuse to see him. Tell him you’re busy.’ It wasn’t that he didn’t think of it at the time, those very words of warning formed in his mind, but he had thought too: ‘Who am I to tell her this? What right have I to lay down the law?’ In any case, Julia would never stand for being told what to do. He had made his unease concerning William plain enough, to say more at this stage would be to keep the issue open, just at the point when it seemed to be quietly drawing to a close.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Did you get one of these too?’ Maeve asked. Dennis nodded dumbly. She propped the card up on the mantelpiece and they both stared at it for a moment. ‘It’ll be a very grand affair if the invitation’s anything to go by,’ she said. ‘Look even at the envelope,’ and she thrust it under Dennis’s nose so that he could inspect the calligraphy and the thick, heavy paper lined with tissue.

  ‘I told you, I got one myself.’

  The invitation was engraved, silver on white; the flowing letters looked as if they had been iced on to the card by a master baker. There were no images at all, no silver bells or golden rings, no silhouettes of bride and groom, no fake stained-glass windows and no candles. It was understated, elegant and in perfect taste, and as such, Dennis thought, wholly inappropriate as an invitation to Roderic’s wedding.

  That Roderic would someday either marry or set up home with someone was a thought that had crossed Dennis’s mind from time to time over the years. It had come close to happening once or twice, with his girlfriend in the west, and with another woman, Annie. It had never bothered Dennis then as an idea, and, given that it bothered him so much now that it was becoming a reality, he asked himself why this should be. It was when Roderic had decided to extend his time in Italy and moved in with Marta that Dennis had started to feel uneasy. That he was now marrying her meant that he would probably never live in Ireland again. He stared at the invitation on Maeve’s mantelpiece with something close to anguish, as he had sat looking at his own in the house that morning. It was all wrong.

  Now that it wasn’t going to happen, he could imagine the wedding Roderic might have had with one of the women he’d known when he lived with Dennis. He could see the invitation: a big jazzy card the size of a paving stone, WEDDING! written across it in thick paint, and surrounded by an ironic slather of ribbons and sequins and spangles, cheerfully over the top. Better that than this icy, massproduced thing that had arrived. Or perhaps there wouldn’t have been an invitation at all. He imagined his brother sitting beside the telephone, working his way through his address book. Jim? Jim, it’s me. I have a bit of news for you. We’re getting married. Yeah, cheers. We’re having a big bash that night, Friday fortnight. Will you and Moira be there? Great stuff. He saw Roderic with a gardenia pinned to his jumper, the bride in some mad muslin confection of her own making, barelegged and with a crown of wild flowers on her head. He saw the riotous party that was their wedding reception, with no speeches and no receiving line, no clear soup and no white cake: nothing that was conventional.

  ‘Chiesa di San Stefano,’ Maeve’s voice said, cutting into his thoughts. ‘Does that mean it’s to be in a church?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well I suppose that’s something, anyway. And she’s an arty type too, I gather?’

  ‘Who’s “she”?’

  ‘Why, this woman,’ Maeve said, ‘that Roderic’s marrying.’

  ‘Your future sister-in-law’s name is Marta, and she’s an expert in art restoration. Whether or not that makes her an “arty type” I couldn’t possibly say.’

  His irritation irritated Maeve, but she decided to let it pass.

  ‘Her father’s a judge,’ she said. This was news to Dennis.

  ‘How do you k
now that?’

  ‘Mum asked Roderic when he rang to tell her he was getting married. I suppose you’ll go over to the wedding?’ ‘Of course. What about you?’ She shook her head.

  ‘Mum won’t be going either but Cliona’s thinking about it, and Daddy definitely wants to be there. Maybe you’ll take out presents from us to give to him?’

  Dennis nodded. He couldn’t speak now. Maeve peered at him curiously. He looked as if he was going to cry and she couldn’t for the life of her think why this should be.

  *

  As the invitation sat uneasily with any idea of a wedding to which Roderic might be a party, the gifts, too, when they started to filter in, added to the sense of dislocation. Dennis saw that the embroidered linen Cliona bought, Maeve’s crystal and the silver cutlery his parents offered were suitable wedding presents in so far as they were typical. But as gifts for Roderic they seemed mystifyingly inappropriate, unless since moving to Italy he had undergone some tremendous sea change, some transmogrification of personality and lifestyle of which there was no evidence in the cheery letters he continued to send to his brother; nor in the enclosed photographs of him standing with his arm around Marta, or lifting his glass to the camera. Dennis himself was at a loss to know what he ought to buy. It was a particular source of anxiety because Roderic himself had, Dennis thought, a kind of genius for selecting presents, remarking once, ‘When you choose the right thing, it’s a way of saying to someone, “I know who you are,”’ For all that, he found himself falling in with the general ethos, found himself wandering glumly around displays of china and crystal in department stores. On one of these excursions, he saw a couple standing with a clipboard-wielding sales assistant before the dinner services.

  ‘Well, which do you prefer?’ the woman asked the man crossly. ‘The one with the ivy or the one with the gold line?’