The Scarlet Macaw

by S. P. Hozy

  Little Frankie is doing exceedingly well and growing like a weed. He is already three and a half feet tall and runs like the wind. He is quite the chatterbox and never tires of asking questions. His “Grand Maud,” as he calls her, adores him and answers each and every one of his questions with patience and wisdom. Grand Maud she truly is, with more stamina than the entire Indian Army.

  But I know he misses his mother still and says a prayer for you every night — “God bless Mummy and God bless Daddy, who’s in Heaven, and God bless Georgie” (his new Beagle pup, named for the King) “and teach him not to chew everything to bits,” after which follows a long list of names, including Grand Maud and me, the cook, Nurse Nancy, the maids, the gardener, and anyone he met that day, and not necessarily in that order. He is a real treasure.

  I implore you and will continue to implore you to come back with me to England, Annabelle.

  In the meantime, I enclose a recent photo of Frankie.

  We send our love and hope this letter finds you well.

  Your devoted friend,

  Edward

  Annabelle looked at the photo of Frankie and saw how he had changed, even in a few short months. He was no longer a baby, but a little boy, and soon he would be going to school. She knew he would miss her less and less as time went on, but she seemed to miss him more. One thing she was certain of was that he would not die of fever the way his father had. And this knowledge sustained her in her loneliest moments.

  The path she was on, if it was a path, seemed to be taking her nowhere, and yet … what? There were the Chinese girls whose portraits she painted, although portrait was too grand a word for the drawings she did. Annabelle drew comfort from being among people whose lives were sadder and more desperate than hers. She couldn’t explain this, but that’s what it was: a kind of cold comfort. And as time went on and she became more deeply mired in their unhappy lives, it became more difficult for her to think of leaving.

  She folded Sutty’s letter and put it with the others in a lacquered box he had given her. Too much thinking would do her no good. Besides, it was time to go out and do what she usually did at this time of day: visit Francis’s grave. She would tell him about their son and about Sutty’s pending visit. On the way, she would pick up fresh flowers for his grave and a steamed bun for her lunch. She would look at the small oval photograph of him embedded in the gravestone and she would pretend he was there with her. It was her favourite part of the day. The cemetery was peaceful and shaded and they would be alone together.

  It never occurred to Annabelle that her daily visits to Francis’s grave might be morbid or strange. It had become a normal part of her day, like stopping at the greengrocer and picking out the bruised fruit and wilted vegetables that he would give her at a reduced price and then buying a packet of biscuits or tea from the shop two doors down. She had been doing this for nearly four years now. And in the evening, she would walk over to Chinatown and talk to the prostitutes and persuade them to let her paint their pictures. Sometimes she sold a picture and that would keep her going. Sutty sent her money, too, and although she hated to take it, she knew she couldn’t survive without it. He paid her rent in advance so she could stay in the same rooms she had shared with Francis. And the shopkeepers knew that if she couldn’t pay, Mr. Edward would pay the next time he came back to Singapore. And he always came back.

  Annabelle knew it wasn’t much of a life, but it was the one she had made for herself — the one she clung to and the one that connected her to Francis. That was all that mattered.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “I never thought I’d enjoy unpacking crates so much,” Maris told Dinah. “The last time I did it, Angela gave me shit for being so slow. Remember?”

  “I remember,” said Dinah. “You got off easy. She’s been on my case for months.”

  “When’s she coming back, by the way? Does she let you know or does she just surprise you?”

  “She lets me know, thank God. Otherwise I’d be in a constant state of anxiety.”

  “I don’t know why she treats you so badly. You’re Peter’s sister, after all.”

  “His half-sister,” said Dinah, “by a Chinese mother.”

  “Meaning you had the same father. But I knew that. Do you remember your father?”

  “Oh, yes, I remember him well. He was very much in love with my mother. She was much younger than him and very beautiful. At least, I thought so. Maybe I imagined the whole thing, but I always thought it was a big love affair between them.”

  “So he left Peter’s mother for her?”

  “Oh, no. She was his mistress. You didn’t know that?”

  “I guess not. I always figured she was his second wife. Silly me,” said Maris, making a face.

  “It was very common then,” said Dinah. “I was born ten years after Peter. His mother, Henny, knew about me, but didn’t acknowledge either me or my mother.”

  “Henny?” said Maris.

  “Yes,” Dinah laughed. “Henrietta, I think. She and Father were married in England in the fifties. I have Peter’s photo albums. We’ll sit down sometime and have a look at them.”

  “I’d love that,” said Maris. “It sounds like a fas-cinating story.”

  “It is,” said Dinah. “Believe me.”

  Maris had started coming into the gallery every day with Dinah and helping out. There was plenty to do because Angela was always sending a new shipment. She was relentless and was constantly on the move, making new contacts and milking old ones. Sometimes Dinah had instructions to hold shipments until Angela came, in which case they were stored in the back room or in a locker Dinah had leased when the back room filled up.

  “I think she doesn’t trust me to price it right or display it,” said Dinah. “And of course, Peter always called up the customers when he thought there was something they would like. Although I do remember that she didn’t trust him to open all the shipments, either.”

  “Control freak,” said Maris.

  “Big time.”

  They sent Dinah’s cousin Lim out to get lunch while they continued unpacking, dusting and polishing, discussing the displays, and deciding on pricing. Dinah was grateful for Maris’s help with the displays. She seemed to have a good eye for it, the way Peter had, sensing what would show better where and next to what. For her part, Maris found herself enjoying the work. She felt useful for a change and it felt good to carry on with what Peter had been doing. It was like keeping his memory alive. It was still very much his gallery.

  Maris liked Lim — she called her “Slim” because she was so tiny, smaller even than Dinah — and Lim thought Maris was wonderful. A real artist. Lim was impressed whenever one of the artists came into the gallery. She would run out to get fresh buns and make their favourite tea, treating the visit as a special occasion.

  “She’s young,” said Maris. “Give her a few years and she’ll get over it. Be prepared to pick up the pieces when she discovers we have feet of clay. It could be crushing. I’m thinking nervous breakdown, major depression at the very least.”

  Dinah laughed. “You know what would be really funny?” Maris shook her head. “If Angela comes back and starts giving you a hard time. I can picture Lim turning into a Rottweiler and letting Angela have it — right between the eyes. Wouldn’t that be great?”

  “You’re scaring me, Dinah,” said Maris. “Maybe you need a holiday.”

  “Actually,” Dinah agreed, “I probably do. Now that you’re back, maybe I’ll just do that.”

  “All right by me,” said Maris. “I’d be happy to manage things for a while. I’m sure Slim and I could do very well. I think we’ll try and double sales, just for the fun of it.”

  “On second thought,” said Dinah, “maybe I’ll wait. I don’t want to be out of a job when I come back.”

  Maris had been back in Singapore a month when Axel Thorssen walked into the gallery. Dinah spotted him first and thought he was a good-looking guy, but not the usual type of customer
to amble in off the street. When Maris came out of the back room carrying a carving of a fertility goddess from Indonesia, Dinah saw her eyes widen when she spotted the tall, fair-haired man. Maris looked over at her and smiled, then mouthed the word “cute.”

  Dinah went up to him and said, “Can I help you with anything, sir?”

  Axel said, “I’m kind of new at this, but I liked what I saw through the window and thought I’d come in and have a closer look.”

  Maris was listening as she set the fertility goddess on a pedestal. She thought she detected a Scandinavian accent. Either that or German, she wasn’t sure.

  “Are you interested in something that hangs on the wall, or an object, say, pottery or a carving?” Dinah was saying.

  “I think maybe an object would suit me better,” said Axel.

  “Are you living in Singapore?” said Dinah.

  “No, just here on business. I live in Sweden.”

  Right the first time, thought Maris. Scandinavian. The accent was a little softer, more lilting than German.

  “We ship to Sweden,” said Dinah. “In fact, we ship all over the world.”

  “How long have you been here in Singapore? The gallery, I mean.”

  “A long time,” said Dinah. “My brother opened the gallery in 1989.”

  “That would be Peter Stone, of Peter Stone Gallery? Like the sign says?”

  “Yes. Peter Stone.”

  “Is he around?”

  “No, I’m afraid my brother passed away nearly a year ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Axel. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s all right. I’m slowly getting used to it.” Dinah smiled. “I’m Dinah, by the way. And this is my associate, Maris Cousins. She’s a painter.”

  “Pleased to meet you both,” said Axel. “I’m Axel Thorssen. Future collector, perhaps.”

  “You’ve chosen an excellent place to start, Mr. Thorssen,” said Maris. “Dinah and I can guide you gently and painlessly through the process.”

  “I’d like that,” said Axel. “And, please, it’s Axel.”

  “Where would you like to begin?” said Dinah. “Should we be talking about age, colour, shape, basic material?”

  “Whose?” asked Axel. “Mine or yours?”

  They both laughed and Maris smiled. Sense of humour, she thought. Or, at least, trying to be funny.

  “Maybe we should be talking price range,” said Axel. “I’m not a wealthy man.”

  “You don’t need to be wealthy to be a collector,” said Dinah. “Especially at the beginning.”

  “And later?”

  “Well … if you get the bug …”

  “There’s a bug? Uh-oh. Then I’m in trouble because I usually catch whatever’s going round.”

  Dinah laughed again. “Would you like some tea, Axel? We have green, oolong, black, and orange pekoe.”

  “Ah, so we’re starting with colour. I’ll have green, thank you.”

  Maris smiled and went back to ask Slim to bring them green tea for three.

  When she returned, Dinah was showing Axel the Indonesian fertility goddess. The figure was kneeling with her hands on her large belly; her enormous breasts were shaped like coconuts with the nipples pointing skyward. “This is a relatively new piece,” said Dinah, “carved from chinaberry wood from Bali. We have priced it at 125 Singapore dollars, which is around seventy Euros. Not expensive at all.”

  “It’s exquisite,” said Axel, picking it up. “It feels solid.”

  “It is,” said Dinah. “Chinaberry is a fairly dense hardwood of very high quality. It’s resistant to humidity, which is why the Balinese use it for their carvings. Although it’s a coarse wood, when properly finished it has a beautiful smooth texture and interesting grain. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes, it’s quite remarkable,” said Axel. “I think I’m getting the hang of this collecting thing. You see a piece and you have to have it.”

  Dinah laughed. “You’re a collector at heart, Axel. I can feel it.”

  Just then Lim walked in with the tea, and Dinah invited Axel to sit with her and Maris to talk about some of the finer points of collecting.

  “You mean Visa or MasterCard, I imagine,” said Axel.

  He just gets funnier, thought Maris. Better not to encourage him.

  “Just kidding,” he said. “I’m smarter than I look.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Maris and smiled at him. “Just kidding,” she added.

  “Maris,” said Dinah, “Mr. Thorssen is a potential client. Don’t be cheeky or we’ll lose him.”

  “Axel,” said Axel. “And I think I like the way you do business. The personal touch and all. It’s the most fun I’ve had in weeks. I don’t suppose you’d both consider having dinner with me sometime. Maybe even tonight. I’m free, and I’m sure you’ll be hungry later.”

  “Well, that depends,” said Dinah.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re just interested in us, or in us and our stuff,” said Maris.

  “Oh, both,” said Axel. “Definitely both.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Axel treated Maris and Dinah to dinner at Raffles. He thought about doing a prowl of the hawker stalls in Chinatown, then decided it would be better the first time to talk to them in a quieter place. He didn’t want them to know he’d been in Singapore for several months and thought it seemed more tourist-like to have dinner at the hotel. Besides, it would be a nice change for them, he thought. They probably weren’t used to such grand dining. The downside, of course, was that they might try to sell him some of the more expensive items in the gallery. Actually, he had liked the Indonesian sculpture and was considering buying it.

  Dinah and Maris arrived on time and met him at the cocktail bar of the Courtyard restaurant. Here, under the ornately carved arches, they could order oriental or Mediterranean-style seafood, al fresco, surrounded by palm trees and potted plants. It had a charming colonial look and feel and was one of Axel’s favourite spots in the hotel, mainly because the dress code was more casual. Axel hated being told what to wear to dinner.

  They ordered drinks and chatted about things Singaporean in general for the first half hour. Axel told them he was there on business and hadn’t had a lot of time to sightsee, but that he was looking forward to a little time off so he could wander around the various districts and maybe do the boat trip on the river.

  “It’s so hot and humid all the time,” he said, “that I walk one block and I have to stop for a cold drink and some air conditioning.” He laughed. “I’m not used to this kind of weather. Even in the middle of summer in Stockholm it’s never this hot.”

  “I know,” said Maris. “It takes some getting used to. I grew up near the mountains in British Columbia, where it gets cold and it gets hot, but never this extreme. It’s the humidity that kills you. I’ve gotten used to being sort of damp all the time, but Dinah never seems to sweat at all. And she wears long sleeves when it goes below thirty degrees. It drives me nuts.”

  Axel laughed. “You have my sympathy.”

  They moved to a table with a large umbrella and the waiter brought their appetizers. They dug into crispy calamari, chicken satay with spicy peanut sauce, and vegetable spring rolls. Axel ordered a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, not the cheapest thing on the menu by any means, but he intended to write it off as a business expense. The wine reminded Maris of her mother and the evenings when they had shared a similar vintage. It seemed like a long time ago now.

  “So tell me more about the gallery,” said Axel, as they waited for their main course. “I’m interested in where you get your stuff. Do you travel around the world looking for it or do you have agents doing that for you?”

  “Well,” said Dinah, “my late brother’s ex-wife actually owns the business now and she operates mostly out of Germany, where she has agents, but she also travels a fair bit, too. She has a good eye, and I have to admit, she and my brother were a great team, businesswise. They
just didn’t do as well as husband and wife.” Dinah giggled. “Oh dear,” she said, “am I being indiscreet? I’m not used to drinking.”

  “It’s okay, Dinah,” said Maris. “You haven’t revealed the combination to the safe, yet.”

  “That’s a relief,” said Dinah taking another sip of wine. “This is very good, Axel. Thank you for treating us so well. But I’m sure it’s supposed to be the other way around. We’re supposed to be entertaining you so you’ll buy our stuff.”

  Axel laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “I could always quietly disappear before the bill comes, if you like.”

  “That’s quite all right,” said Maris. “We’re happy with this arrangement. I don’t think Angela would like it if we spent all the profits on one potential customer.”

  “Angela?” said Axel.

  “Yes,” said Maris. “Peter’s ex. She’s a very shrewd businesswoman.”

  “Well, you seem to have a pretty successful enterprise. You’re not a partner, Dinah? Being Peter’s sister and all?”

  “No,” said Dinah. “That might have changed in time, but I don’t think Peter intended to die so soon.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to bring that up. It must be painful for you. Was he ill?”

  Maris and Dinah looked at each other.

  Maris said, “He was murdered, Axel, and the case has never been solved.”

  Axel stared at them in silence. He hadn’t expected that and wondered how it had escaped the scrutiny of Satya and Charles.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Very sorry.”

  “Thank you,” said Dinah.

  “It’s been hard,” said Maris. “Dinah’s done her best to carry on, and the clients have been very loyal. But the worst part is not knowing what happened to him and why. I mean, it’s not like Peter had enemies. He was so decent and honest, and the gallery was his life. It was his own work of art, if you will.”

  “You were close to him, too, were you, Maris?” said Axel.

  “Yes. He was my mentor in a way. He gave me confidence in my work and sold a lot of my paintings.”