Her sense of unease intensified as she got beyond his hair and clothes to his face. It wasn’t a disturbing face in itself – strong nose, green eyes, usual number of lips – but as she talked it was obvious from the range of expressions animating it that he was intensely, mind-numbingly bored. His body language was shouting that too – now he was crossing his arms, now uncrossing them. He examined the palm of his hand, turned it over and seemed to find fault with one nail. If he did look at the painting they were gathered around, it was with an expression that suggested not only boredom but also irritation. It was followed by more fidgeting.
All that energy. All that restlessness. Hard to contain.
Once or twice she caught him watching her and then his expression became even more morose, a frown making him suddenly look more Viking than beach boy.
Not knowing the Swedish or Norwegian for ‘Are you lost?’ and hoping that he would simply drift away, she shifted position so that he was not in her sight line. A quick check on the group confirmed that nobody else was really concerned about his presence yet. Except for Gisella Tuscelli: she was running through what Grace supposed was her flirting repertoire, alternating hot glances with shy dips of her chin, her body being subtly displayed in the blond guy’s direction. He gave her a half-hearted once-over and returned to examining his fingernail.
‘So,’ Grace said briskly, ‘that’s the first of Manet’s paintings we’ll be looking at this afternoon, and now, for the second.’ She gestured along the wall. ‘It’s perhaps one of the best known in the world.’
Everyone turned to look.
‘A Bar at the Folies Bergère,’ Mrs Macintosh said, as if she couldn’t believe it was here, just a few feet away. Grace saw that a few others had the same star-struck expression on their faces and waited for the customary scramble to get the best position. She beat them to it and asked them to move back a few steps, mindful of a previous client who had been so caught up in the moment, he’d reached forward and would have touched the painting if Grace had not stopped him.
The blond guy had followed them and the unchewed thing in her chest got bigger.
‘So strange to see this in front of me,’ Mrs Macintosh said, the sense of wonder still in her voice, ‘I had a poster of it on my bedroom wall when I was a student.’
‘I also.’ Monsieur Laurent nodded at the woman in a black-and-white dress standing at the centre of the picture. ‘She is beautiful.’
Beautiful she might be, but Grace had always felt the woman seemed distant, as if she were protecting herself from all the frenetic activity around her in the painting. Perhaps that was why she loved it so.
‘This is a painting that is very much rooted in a particular time and place,’ Grace said, her enthusiasm genuine. ‘It’s full of details that make the famous Parisian nightclub come alive.’
She heard a sigh from the blond guy and turned to see him wander over to a window and stare out through the glass. He was putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers, a flash of a silver ring on one thumb. Everything about him said bored, bored, bored. He remained there, chin down, looking glumly out at the courtyard.
That was the point when, if Grace had been one to indulge strong emotions any more, she would have lost her patience. As it was, she contented herself with hoping he might force the window open and jump out, and returned her attention to Manet.
‘Painted in 1882, this was Manet’s last major work, and although he’s not strictly classed as an Impressionist, this painting conveys beautifully the new trends in painting at the time. Most importantly, Manet has done some intriguing things with perspective and reflection.’ Gisella was again turning and flirting, occasionally glancing slyly back at her parents to make sure they hadn’t noticed. Well, Gisella’s parents had paid for her to learn about the paintings in this gallery and as far as Grace was concerned that was a binding contract.
‘Now,’ she said, raising her voice, ‘I mentioned the many wonderful details in this painting so perhaps I could ask Gisella …’ She was amused to see the girl’s head turn sharply to face front as if she were a schoolgirl caught dreaming in class. ‘Gisella, would you like to come here and look in the top left-hand corner of the painting? Tell us what you see.’
Gisella’s parents helped propel her forward, and she hesitantly approached the painting, leaned in closer and peered into the corner. There was a sharp exclamation.
‘Feet,’ she said, looking round at the group, the astonishment evident. ‘Green feet on a … a …’ She deferred to Grace.
‘A trapeze,’ Grace said, ‘trapezio. It’s one of the entertainments in the nightclub: an acrobat. I love the way he, or she, is just tucked away up there. I’ve seen some posters of this cropped so badly that the acrobat isn’t even on there.’
‘That’ll be the one I bought,’ Mrs Macintosh said with a wry shake of her head.
Gisella went back to her parents and after one or two others had come up to peer at the feet, Grace began to talk through other details about the painting: a way of leading everyone gently towards the bigger things Manet had been trying to convey. She pointed out that there was champagne and beer at the bar and that the beer was Bass Pale Ale, so the tastes of British tourists were obviously being catered for. She showed them where the painter had signed his name on one of the bottle labels.
‘Damn clever,’ Mr Baldridge said.
‘Indeed. So, remember I was saying about perspective and the use of reflection? Well, if you look behind the barmaid and off to the right, do you see the back view of a woman and a man in evening dress?’ Grace could not stop herself from glancing towards the blond guy and his take on evening dress, and was pleased to see he had not moved from his contemplation of death by jumping. ‘Now, if this is meant to be a reflection of the barmaid here, talking to a customer who would be standing where we are now, it’s in the wrong place. It should be right behind her – that’s how reflections work. Does that mean Manet wasn’t that good a painter? Or has he deliberately played with perspective to create a kind of before-and-after situation – two realities? Look closely at those figures off to the right. The man is bending in to ask the barmaid something and even from the back she looks engaged, animated; but here at the centre of the painting, the barmaid we see staring out at us appears distant. Are we seeing her reaction to what the man in the reflection has asked her for?’ She paused. ‘It’s only one reading of the painting, but it makes us question her status and her relationship with the man.’
Grace usually left it there and let the grown-ups draw their own conclusions, but she had barely got the word ‘man’ out when a bored American voice said, ‘Oh come on, cut to the chase. What you mean is, has he just asked her for sex because she might be the kind of barmaid who’s also a prostitute?’
The voice came from behind the Macintoshes this time and was accompanied by a hike of eyebrows and a grin suggesting that the blond-haired guy had started to enjoy himself and was fully aware of the effect his words would have. Nearly all of the group were now staring at him rather than at the painting, except the Hikarantos, who had their phrase book out and were no doubt searching for the word ‘prostitute’.
Grace knew that at least one of Mr Baldridge’s hands would be on a hip. His wife’s mouth looked as if she’d drunk hot varnish.
If Grace weren’t careful, this was going to descend into something unpleasant. But would trying to get rid of the blond guy be even more disruptive? She checked along the gallery to the seat usually occupied by Norman, a large, amiable attendant, but it was empty.
‘Thank you so much for that interesting comment,’ Grace said, hoping that beneath her sweet delivery the blond guy would hear the sarcasm. She followed up with her iciest stare, the one which unfailingly told anyone getting too close to retreat. The guy just stared right back and, if anything, seemed even more amused, but whether it was by Grace or the reaction his speech had just provoked, she could not tell. For the first time in a long, long while, she was tempt
ed to stop being well behaved and say exactly what she thought, something along the lines of ‘Bog off, you smug freeloader.’
She quashed that idea and said politely, ‘I’m sorry, I think you might have mistaken us for your group. I did notice another one in the “Italian Masters” section. If you go through that door—’
‘Nice try,’ the blond guy said, ‘but I’m right where I’m meant to be.’
‘You think?’ Mr Baldridge cut in. ‘You paid to be part of this group, son?’
‘Nope.’ The tone was laconic.
‘Well, we have.’ Mr Baldridge raised his chin. ‘Paid in full, up front.’ Others in the group nodded.
Mr Baldridge upped the ante with a double-hand, double-hip stance and the blond guy responded by pointedly folding his arms and lowering his chin. Monsieur Laurent was strangling his leaflet again off on the sidelines.
‘I think,’ Grace said slowly, calmly, ‘it would save time if we left chatting about payment until after we’ve viewed the paintings.’ The blond guy opened his mouth, no doubt to say he wasn’t paying for anything, but she had regained the group’s attention and she wasn’t giving it back. She was already moving. ‘Come along then. It’s Van Gogh next. No time to waste; remember there’s so much more to see.’
Like a fussy mother goose with her brood, she got them out of the room and on to the next one. She talked brightly to cover up any lingering embarrassment and spotted where Norman the attendant was roosting today. Slumped on a seat next to the wall, he had his eyes closed, but at the sound of their feet on the wooden floor, he opened them and mouthed, ‘All right, Grace?’
She was going to mouth back, ‘Not really,’ when she saw that the blond guy had not followed them.
The unchewed thing in her chest dissolved slightly, but even while she was talking them through the self-portrait of Van Gogh, she kept an eye out for that blond hair. She explained about the painter’s extraordinary use of colour and the huge influence he had on artists who had come after him. She waited. No interruption; still no sign of him. Gradually she felt her muscles stop clenching and, as she relaxed, she could see the group was doing the same. If one of them felt at ease enough to ask a question, she knew all was well again.
‘I hear,’ Signor Tuscelli said, ‘Van Gogh did not sell any paintings when he was alive.’
She flashed him a grateful smile. ‘That’s very nearly true, Signor Tuscelli. He sold just one – Red Vineyard at Arles. Tragically, much of the time he was struggling against poverty. And now … well, the highest price ever paid for a Van Gogh was $82.5 million back in the 1980s.’
‘So sad,’ someone said. ‘Such a pity.’
There was an exasperated, ‘Only if you think an artist’s worth is measured in money.’
‘You back?’ Mr Baldridge snapped and the blond man, now towering over the Hikarantos, said, ‘No fooling you, is there?’ did a pirouette and wandered over to a bench and sat on it. He made a big show of turning in the opposite direction, but when Grace started talking again it was obvious he was listening. At one point he sighed loud enough for everyone to hear, before stretching out his legs and wiping something off his boot. Grace could see he was unsettling people once more – every now and again someone would turn to check what he was doing.
She carried on, refusing to lose what felt like a battle of wills. When they moved from Van Gogh to Cézanne, she saw Blondie lie down on the bench and cross his hands over his chest as if he were dead. She increased her volume and animation and when she looked again she was pleased to see that Norman had hauled himself off his chair and was standing near the bench, presumably asking the blond man to sit up. He did so like a lamb, but as he turned his head to look at Grace, she heard him say, ‘Hey, she’s the one who put me to sleep. Tell her off.’
Grace fought the temptation to walk over and ping all the wristbands on his arm to wipe that lazy grin off his face. She could feel her muscles, particularly those in her jaw, start to tighten up again. She would ignore him, talk louder.
The next time she checked, the source of her irritation was leaving the room, methodically folding and unfolding his gallery ticket as if that was the only thing that would prevent him from falling into a coma.
‘I think we’re safe now,’ Grace chanced saying in a conspiratorial whisper to the group, as the noise of his heavy boots receded, and was pleased to get back laughter and smiles and a comment from Mrs Macintosh that she didn’t know how Grace had stopped herself from ‘slugging the guy’. Gisella gave Mrs Macintosh a look that suggested she’d like to strangle her, ditch her parents and follow the sound of those boots.
For a while, there were no further incidents, and Grace should have headed straight upstairs to ‘Impressionist Landscapes’, but she wanted to introduce the group to a painting hanging on the wall in a darkened side room. Although, if she was truthful, her detour had more to do with her need than the group’s: she could no more have walked past the room than a mother could have ignored a child pulling at her skirt.
‘If you’ll forgive me,’ she said, as she led them into the room, ‘I’d like to show you this recent acquisition. It’s a fifteenth-century icon from what is now Macedonia. I think if the people at the front move along a bit, we can all fit in. That’s it … Mrs Macintosh, you here, and you, Monsieur Laurent. Please mind your footing; it’s a little darker in here to protect the colours.’
Even in the low light the vibrant blues, golds and purples sang out and Grace gave the group a few seconds to take in what they were seeing.
‘The Madonna with child is a common, much loved subject of religious art,’ she said when she gauged the time was right, ‘but this painting, with its quite tender and animated pose, is more unusual. The child hugging his mother with his back to the viewer looks natural, but the mother’s response does not. She’s looking straight at us, not at him, and we see how worried she is – you get a real sense of what’s to come.’ Grace fought to keep her voice steady and carried on. ‘The intimacy of the relationship between the Virgin Mary and—’
‘Jesus!’ It was the blond guy, leaning against the door frame. He prised himself away from it and there was a shake of his head suggesting he thought that she was crazed. ‘What, you’re going backwards now – you plannin’ to do cave paintings next?’
As he came further into the room he caused a general shuffling to make room for him.
Grace closed her eyes, hoping that when she opened them not only would he somehow be gone but that this dizzy feeling slowly spiralling up from her feet would have disappeared too. She opened her eyes to find him still there, and everyone was looking from her to him and back again.
She should concentrate on the colours, finish what she was going to say.
‘Do you have a problem?’ she heard herself ask sharply.
All heads swiftly turned to him.
‘Well,’ he said, squinting at the icon, ‘as you ask, and apologies if you’re religious, but an icon? Really? You’ve got everyone all cosied up in here for this?’ Now he was really screwing up his eyes as if assessing the painting. When he opened them again it was obvious what the assessment had been.
‘This icon,’ Grace said, aware of the heads snapping around to look at her as if they were watching some kind of point-scoring, art-based tennis match, ‘this icon is interesting and relevant in so many ways. Its survival, for a start, is miraculous in the face of all kinds of historical upheavals – war, communism, the black market. Icons like these used to be slashed with knives, dumped in rivers, sold abroad only to disappear into private collections. Even …’ she was going to say loaded on to bonfires but couldn’t get the words out. She took a deep breath and set off again before he could butt in. ‘And, yes, they are an aid to prayer, but icons have also had a huge influence on all kinds of painters. Matisse, to name but one, loved their colour and spontaneity and they influenced his own work.’
She came to a halt to see the blond guy was smiling at her and his expression had a
warmth to it which made her feel more uneasy than everything else about him.
‘OK, OK,’ he said, ‘I get it, you like the icon. Boy, you’ve got some real passion going on there. Makes a nice change from all that painting-by-numbers spiel earlier.’
Grace did not hear that last bit, because at the word ‘passion’ she suddenly had such a strong vision of a beach that she had to put her hands behind her and press on the wall. There were waves too, baby ones, running up and back. She could feel the sand under her bare feet, even though when she peered down she was wearing the shoes she had put on that morning … blue shoes to match her blue suit. She lifted one hand from the wall and placed it on her jacket to check it was still there and had not been replaced by something made of cheesecloth.
She knew that she had to do something, but she was running into the sea, Bill behind her. She was splashing him before he caught her in his arms. ‘You’re pretty quick for an old guy,’ she whispered into his neck and he laughed and let her go. ‘I’ll show you who’s an old guy,’ he said, turning and sprinting out of the water and back up the beach, and she knew there was only one way to stop him – she was reaching for the hem of her dress and peeling it up and off, chucking it back over her head into the waves. Tips of her thumb and third finger in her mouth, she whistled sharply and saw Bill turn; her heart gave a jolt at the way he veered to a halt, seemed unsteady. ‘My God, you can’t do that here, there are people,’ he shouted, but he was coming back to her. ‘Look at you, look at you, Venus out of the waves,’ and she stood there feeling the sun all over her, his gaze all over her, beautiful, adored, free. Sublimely, crazily happy.
Playing Grace Page 2