Cairo

by Chris Womersley

Unable to contain my curiosity, I peeked into the other room. It had to be Edward’s studio. In the centre of the room was an easel supporting what looked like a half-finished work of red and green shapes against a cream background. To my eye, the abstract painting displayed little in the way of technique or imagination, although the colours, juxtaposed as they were, were startling. A reading lamp was tied with wire to the easel. Scattered across a scarred wooden workbench were tubes of paint, rubber stamps, spoons, bottles of liquid, spatulas, brushes, and paint-smeared jars and plates. A hairdryer rested on the bench tangled, squid-like, in its black electrical cord.

  On a shelf above the bench were arranged at least twenty cork-stoppered bottles of differing sizes, their labels so smudged and stained that they were hard to read. There was phenol something or other, saffron, gum arabic, linseed oil, gelatine, vinegar. Pinned to the walls were colour charts, postcards and photographs, yellowing hand-written notes in an indecipherable scrawl, chemical formulae. Some looked like they had been there for years. In addition, there were various colour reproductions of artworks torn from magazines or books: a couple of portraits, one of a woman who wore a faint moustache; another showing a pair of women engaged in beheading a man with a sword, their faces set in expressions of stony pleasure. Only one of the reproductions was familiar to me, that of Pablo Picasso’s lurid Weeping Woman, a painting much in the press lately on account of the National Gallery of Victoria’s decision to purchase it.

  Canvases both painted and bare were stacked on the floor against the wall, and there were at least a dozen others under the bench. For an impressionable country boy like me — who had for so long dreamed of an urban, bohemian life — such a studio was utterly compelling: its smell, the spring-loaded energy, a sense that things were created right here. The wonder I felt could not have been more exquisite than that of a surgeon’s upon encountering his first wildly beating heart. The pug sidled into the room and began snuffling about my ankles like sea water around an outcrop of rocks.

  I was preparing to leave when a painting lying flat on the end of the bench caught my eye. It was a rectangular canvas, taller than it was wide. It was a portrait of a woman seated in front of a wavering blue background with her arms crossed on her stomach. Her hands were lumpen against a dark dress and her face was misshapen, as if hewn from a difficult clay. Her brown hair was an indistinct bob. The woman’s pose was defensive and in her eyes there nestled a challenge, as if she had sat for the portrait under sufferance. The paint was thickly applied. I peered at it, then back to the unfinished work on the easel. It was unlikely they were the work of the same hand. Neither was signed, as far as I could see.

  A cough at my back startled me, and I wheeled around to find Gertrude hovering in the doorway. I had the overwhelming feeling that she had been observing me for several minutes. She was not even five feet tall, flat-chested, her body like that of a child’s. Adding to this impression of girlishness was her habit of grasping the sleeves of her white top in her fists. She had worried at them so much that the sleeves were frayed.

  She crouched to pick up the dog and held it to her cheek, whispering to it in a language that sounded alien to my ears. The creature was so fat, it was tricky for her to hold. Its hind legs dangled against her stomach.

  I began to apologise, but she waved my words away with a bony hand. ‘Did you meet my precious Buster?’ she asked, scratching the pug beneath its chin.

  The dog’s yellow eyes half closed in ecstasy, and its growl became an insistent throb. It fell asleep. Gertrude looked from me back to the painting I had been inspecting.

  ‘Max told me Edward was a painter,’ I said to explain my intrusion.

  She hoisted the dog. ‘Yes, he is.’

  I gestured around me at the paint-spattered bench, the walls covered in pictures. ‘It’s wonderful. This studio.’

  She laughed, somewhat derisively, I thought. ‘This is where it all happens.’

  I indicated the portrait lying on the bench. ‘Is that one of Edward’s?’

  As if on cue, from the far side of the warehouse drifted the raised voices of Edward and Max.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Max was saying. ‘That’s where you are wrong, my friend. Oswald was set up all the way.’

  ‘They’re always arguing, those two,’ said Gertrude. ‘Men. Always trying to prove they’re right. As if they don’t have enough already.’

  She pointed at the colourful abstract painting on the easel. ‘That one is Edward’s.’

  I hmmed in a manner intended to sound both perplexed and appreciative, a vocal equivalent of tilting one’s head while touching a finger to one’s chin.

  ‘Tell me, Tom. Do you know much about art?’

  ‘No. I mean, I studied it a bit at high school, but that’s all.’ I thought of old Mr Johnson in his tweed jacket (staring dreamily through a classroom window, as if willing it to transform into those of the Chartres Cathedral), trying to infuse sweaty schoolchildren with admiration for the Renaissance.

  ‘Which of the two do you prefer? Which do you think is better?’

  ‘Are those the same things?’

  She ducked her head as if to concede my point, but said nothing.

  For me — unschooled as I was — there was no question which was the superior work. The abstract painting on the easel seemed to me amateurish and ill-conceived, a jumble of shapes without meaning. The portrait of the woman, on the other hand, bristled with sullen energy. Its clumsiness was its very blood and skin. I suspected, however, that I was on dangerous ground when it came to expressing a preference.

  ‘I like them both,’ I said.

  ‘I can see you are very diplomatic, Tom. It’s a good quality in a person.’ She regarded me, and in that light her eyes were like green marbles. ‘The portrait is by a man named Chaim Soutine. It’s called Woman with Arms Folded.’

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  She laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Not quite. It’s an, um, experiment, that’s all. What do you think of it?’

  ‘I think it’s amazing. Beautiful.’

  I inspected the painting more closely. Its surface was cracked and the canvas was torn at its edges. ‘It looks old.’

  She gave a gratified snort. ‘Well, you can have it when we’ve finished with it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing.’

  I surveyed the studio again. ‘What about that abstract painting on the easel. Edward’s one. What’s that called?’

  Gertrude made a scornful gurgle in her throat. ‘Who knows. The actual work is not so important these days.’

  She put Buster on the ground and lit a cigarette with a match. Smoke plumed from her nostrils. ‘What matters is those artist statements. As long as you have one of those. Say it’s about — I don’t know — consumerism or your childhood abuse at the hands of evil nuns, and you will be fine. Mention intertextuality. The claim of what the work is about is more important than the work. Be a one-armed lesbian. Be a one-armed Palestinian lesbian. Make sure you’re oppressed in some way — it’s more authentic. Better still, get someone else to make the work for you. That way, you don’t even have to get your hands dirty.’

  It was a disdainful way to talk about her husband’s work, and I felt uncomfortable. I glanced away, but when I turned back Gertrude looked ghastly. She had reached out to grasp the doorjamb and was bent over as if likely to collapse.

  ‘Are you alright?’ I asked, stepping forwards.

  She nodded and grimaced. The episode passed after a few seconds. She stood up straight, threw her half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her heel.

  ‘I have a condition known as … Oh, it doesn’t matter what it’s called. A long and complicated name. Sometimes it catches up with me, that’s all.’

  ‘Is it serious? My uncle is a doctor. He lives in Melbourne. I could ask him to take a look at you.’

  ‘Oh, no. That’s alright. There’s a specialist I’ve been seeing. There�
�s some new treatment, they tell me. I’ll be alright.’ Her voice disintegrated into her trademark nervous giggle.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  She nodded again, caught her breath. ‘You’re new in town?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me, Tom. Are you really a person who can keep secrets?’

  I made no answer. Gertrude stared at the Soutine portrait on the bench. Her eyelids drooped and she seemed, momentarily, to forget me.

  Then Edward was behind her in the doorway, thin arms flapping about. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he said to me. ‘Gertrude! He should not be in here. This room is meant to stay locked at all times.’

  ‘Oh, darling. You scared the life out of me. Tom here was very keen to see your work. What’s this one called again?’

  Edward glared at me wild-eyed, and inspected the studio as if checking nothing was stolen or damaged, before ushering us out and closing the door. ‘I don’t know yet. Come on. Quick. The countdown has started.’

  The flight of the Challenger lasted under two minutes. The shuttle exploded into pieces like a lumbering, oversized firework against the hard blue sky. At first it was unclear anything was wrong. The audio was a direct feed from NASA Control, an engineer’s staticky drawl. There seems to be a problem. An explosion. The feed is down.

  We watched in silence, shocked and thrilled at witnessing the deaths of seven people live on television. White smoke fizzed off in various directions, a dozen zippers opening in the sky. Shots of faces in the crowd turned skywards with mouths agape, hands clutched to pale American throats.

  After seeing a replay of the explosion for the umpteenth time, Edward said, with an ill-concealed and callous air of satisfaction, ‘Well, I doubt they’d fake that.’

  *

  Some time later, the television was switched off. Dawn light slunk through the warehouse. Despite this, no one showed any inclination to retire for the night. Gertrude was curled in a chair leafing through The Face magazine with a picture of Grace Jones on its cover. Buster snored on a red satin cushion on the floor. Edward and Max continued an argument they had been having about the Kennedy assassination (‘Edward, the word “assassin” does not come from sneaky Arab killers smoking hashish in the goddamn kasbah — you’ve been reading way too much William Burroughs’). I was exhausted and still drunk. It had easily been the best night of my life to date. I wanted it never to end.

  As the room brightened, and hitherto unseen parts of the warehouse were illuminated, I became aware of a remarkable sight. Like a silent-movie buffoon I sat up and rubbed my stinging eyes. The vision, however, remained. From beneath an arbour painted across the portion of the ceiling adjoining the far wall, there rose broken, vine-covered columns lining an ancient Roman terrace, shrubs, stone urns, a family of gypsies resting in the shade. Beyond that was a large bay enclosed on its left by houses. The sky was pale blue, its clouds wispy and thin. On the horizon was a mountain shrouded in gauzy mist. The cry of distant gulls, sunlight glinting on water. A breeze caressed my face. I sniffed the air, expecting to detect a briny tang from the sea.

  ‘Welcome to Naples, Tom.’ It was Gertrude. She was standing directly behind me. ‘Do you like it?’

  ‘I think it’s the most incredible thing I have ever seen,’ I said, quite sincerely.

  The trompe l’oeil stretched across ten metres of wall, floor to ceiling, the effect interrupted only by a low bookcase and a wooden chair in the right corner. If one studied the mural, one might also notice the vertical bump of a water pipe passing through a menacing-looking succulent on the left.

  ‘Naples is on Italy’s coast. The home of Caravaggio after he fled Rome accused of murder. The birthplace of pizza, believe it or not, and the capital of its own kingdom for a while. That mountain in the background there is Vesuvius, the destroyer of Pompeii. This is based on a nineteenth-century painting. Naples doesn’t look anything like this now.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  She gave one of her cackles. ‘No. I don’t leave the house much. But I don’t need to go there, do I? Naples came to me. It took us five months. The morning is when it’s at its best.’

  ‘Are you a painter, too?’

  Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Not really. I used to be.’

  Max and Edward’s argument ran out of steam. Coffee brewed on the stove; spoons tinkled against cups. I lay back on the couch, unable to remove my gaze from the splendid view of Naples that had materialised before me as if at a genie’s whim. I closed my eyes and imagined myself far away. I heard waves washing up on a distant beach, the hoarse laughter of sailors and whores drifting up from the port. Birdsong. Morning sun beat down on my face.

  EIGHT

  SOME HOURS LATER, I WOKE ON THE COUCH TO THE SOUND OF Edward reading aloud articles from the newspaper in a mock-newsreader’s voice. He and Max were sitting at the laminate kitchen table. Edward crunched into an apple between stories.

  It was already hot. Somewhere, incense was burning, and it filled the space with tendrils of sweet blue smoke. Gertrude was not in evidence. My brain pounded against my skull. The slightest movement sent pinballs of pain to the front of my head, where they careened about for several seconds before falling still. I closed my eyes again.

  Edward rattled the newspaper. ‘Listen to this, Max. Police believe they could be hunting a serial killer following the discovery of a man’s mutilated body in Moonee Ponds yesterday afternoon. Goodness, that’s only up the road. Detective Sergeant Mulrooney of Victoria Police confirmed the gruesome discovery and said there was a possibility it was linked to a similar case two months ago in Brunswick. Blah, blah, blah … “We may be looking for a serial killer,” said Mulrooney. But he’s advising the community not to be alarmed. Yes, right. Listen to this: It is believed that in both instances, the men had been strangled and there was suggestion of satanic rituals, although Detective Mulrooney refused to comment on this aspect of the case.’

  ‘The Moonee Ponds killer,’ Max said with relish. ‘Imagine that. How exciting.’

  ‘Satanic rituals. What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that some unlucky guy had his dick cut off.’

  ‘What makes people think Satan is so interested in penises? Some weird religious thing, I suppose. Religious people are all obsessed with sex — who’s allowed to do it, when they can do it, the kind of sex you’re allowed to have. Ugh. Max, this apple has a worm in it.’

  ‘Well, they’re from the health-food shop. I told you that. They don’t use pesticides.’

  ‘Damn hippies,’ said Edward.

  ‘Hippies probably cut that guy’s dick off.’

  ‘I would not be in the least bit surprised. You know, I saw one the other day in Smith Street with dreadlocks almost down to his bum. No shoes.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Max. ‘Carry on.’

  Edward scanned the newspaper. ‘Car crash in Frankston, one woman injured. Some political stuff.’

  The front-door bell rang. I sat up, startled. Edward crossed to the large windows and lifted one of the matchstick blinds, releasing into the room a burst of brilliant sunlight. ‘Who the hell could that be?’

  He stood there for a while before turning around. Edward looked from me to Max, then back to me. The bell rang again, more insistently this time.

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Max, now standing.

  ‘It’s Anna.’

  Max was nonplussed, but Edward jerked his thumb at me. ‘Take him to our bedroom and tell Gertrude to stay in there. They’re with her, too.’

  ‘Who?’ Max asked.

  Edward hesitated. He checked his Papa Smurf watch. ‘You know. I suspect they’ve come to talk about … our friend Dora and whatnot.’ Then, to me: ‘Tom. This is serious. Don’t make a sound. And don’t come out until we come and get you, OK?’

  Before I knew what was happening, Max had bustled me towards the other end of the warehouse. Edward and Gertrude’s bedroom was on the other side of the studio and bathr
oom. We went in, and Max roused Gertrude. ‘Anna is here,’ he said, ‘and she has someone with her.’

  Gertrude sat up and squinted at Max. Her hair was tousled, and her eyelids were clogged with black make-up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Those, uh, other art dealers, I think. So Edward says to stay quiet in here.’

  This explanation sank in. ‘Oh, right. Let the men have their powwow.’

  ‘Don’t start on that.’

  I became fearful. ‘What’s going on?’

  Max shushed me and began backing out of the room. ‘They’re, ah, art dealers, as I said. But they’re a very cautious tribe. Unusual people, you know. Very secretive. Best if you stay right here and be quiet for now.’ He left, closing the door behind him.

  Muttering like a disgruntled goblin, Gertrude vanished behind a screen to dress.

  The bedroom was stifling, its air laced with the smell of ethanol and rot. There was a pile of leathery orange peel on one of the bedside tables, along with an overflowing ashtray, scraps of paper and a torn cigarette filter. The floor was covered in mounds of clothes. There was a bookcase in one corner crammed with paperbacks. Pinned to the walls was an assortment of about a dozen postcards from around Australia: Goulburn, home of the Big Merino; Coffs Harbour, home of the Big Banana; and, perhaps most alarming of all, Gippsland’s Giant Worm. There was also a colour picture of Lee Hazlewood torn from a magazine, and a poster for the film version of Lolita.

  Naturally, my curiosity about these mysterious visitors was inflamed. I opened the door a crack. In the kitchen area, Max and Edward were talking to a very tall woman who pulsated with intensity. She was facing the opposite direction, but I could tell she was wearing a bizarre black-and-grey robe that required constant adjustment. Thick black hair fell well past her shoulders. Chunky jewellery glinted at her wrists as she laughed at some witticism of Edward’s. She towered over a ruddy, round-faced man whose belly strained at the edges of his buttoned-up blue suit.

  Gertrude materialised beside me. ‘Anna Donatella,’ she whispered. ‘The Cyclops.’

  Just then, as if it had been choreographed, this Anna Donatella wheeled around and I saw she wore a black eye-patch across her left eye.