by Preethi Nair
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday, Auntie, I wanted to.’
‘It’s OK, beta, you must be busy.’
‘I’m getting married, Auntie, and I wanted to ask you and Uncle to the wedding.’
I looked over at Ki’s dad. A man once so full of life, now reduced to flicking television channels like a zombie, hoping that someone, somewhere might give him some answers. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn and look at me.
It was a stupid question but I asked her if she was all right. I wanted to ask her lots of other things, like if she ever had doubts, doubts about getting married, doubts if Ki was out there somewhere. Most of all, I wanted to ask her if she had lost her faith along with her daughter. But I didn’t ask her anything; nothing important, anyway.
Auntie said she was glad that I was getting on with my life and then she asked me if Raj was a good man.
‘I think so,’ I replied.
She nodded.
‘Is it OK to go up?’
I had lost count of the amount of times I had asked that question. Every day, without fail, I had visited Ki, no matter how late it was or how tired I felt.
‘What’s changed in the world today, Nina?’ Ki would ask, waiting for me. And throughout the day I would collect in great detail things that I could tell her. The way the light had fallen, if someone had made me laugh, the people I’d come across, the food I’d eaten. If nothing had happened, I’d just made it up.
‘And tell me how it’s going to be?’
‘I’ll find a way to tell Mum and Dad about Jean Michel and marry him. We’ll move out of London and then at some point I’m going to paint pictures.’
‘What kind of pictures?’
‘Bright, colourful ones on huge canvases.’
‘Where will you live?’
‘Maybe in the country or by the sea. We’ll have one of those old farmhouses and I’ll learn to cook.’
‘And?’
‘You’ll come to visit.’
‘Yeah, I’ll come and see you there. I’ll always be with you, Nina, I know I will, and I’ll talk to you.’
Whenever I needed to change the subject so we could avoid the topic of death, I’d ask, ‘Where are we going next?’ That’s what we did on the weekends. We’d pretend we were in one of the countries she hadn’t yet travelled to. I’d get the appropriate food just so it smelled vaguely like the place, put some music on even if it didn’t correspond exactly with where we were meant to be, and then I’d lie next to her and read to her about it from travelogues.
She died on the day we were in Chile. She died in my arms while I was reading to her about Patagonia; salsa was playing in the background.
I went up to Ki’s room. The walls were light green and everything was in the same place as it was the day she left. Her scent still lingered. It was as if she would walk back in and resume her life at any moment. Her patchwork quilt was thrown over the bed and on top of it was a tatty dolphin. The television was still on the dresser with the remote control on the side table next to her mirror, along with her make-up box and photos.
‘I’m getting married. I don’t know what you think about it, you haven’t said anything and if you don’t think it should be him I suppose you would have let me know by now. It’s still lonely without you. I didn’t think it would be like this but it is. What else? I’m painting. Did a buddha for you the other day, don’t know if you’ve managed to see it yet but I thought it would make you laugh. I’m sorry I haven’t seen your mum for so long. It’s been … well, there isn’t really an excuse. Miss you, but then I know you know that.’
I blew her a kiss and went back downstairs.
‘I’ll make sure it’s not as long next time, Auntie,’ I said as I held Ki’s mother and kissed her goodbye.
New Year passed without much excitement. Raj and I had dinner together to see it in. He made a toast to the first of many. Jean had sent me a card wishing me every happiness and part of me felt furious with him; if it hadn’t been for him I wouldn’t have been in this situation … and how dare he wish me luck, did he think it wasn’t going to work? I was eager for the holidays to end so I could get back into the studio and forget. Forget Jean, forget the wedding, forget everything.
There was a postcard from Australia waiting for me at the studio when I arrived on my first day back. ‘Sending you Sydney sunshine. Hope you are finding what you want. Gina x’
Was it what I wanted or was it all happening way too fast, as if I had no control over it? But through painting I was finding something; it was giving me a sense of peace, especially the buddha. My studio was full of dead objects brought back to life and overseeing it all was my happy buddha, breathing life into the studio. He needed to be framed. Every day I thought this but every day there was some excuse not to leave the safety of my haven. But after seeing Ki’s mum I wanted her to have him: the buddha would bring light to the dark corners of her house and I knew even if she didn’t like the picture she would hang it somewhere and he’d watch over her.
I started painting a left footprint on icy grey pebbles but framing the buddha was on my mind; I left the painting and wrapped up the buddha so I could take it into the frame shop around the corner. A shiny black Bentley with tinted windows was parked just outside the shop. There was an argument going on inside between a very well-dressed man and the framer: ‘Mangetti won’t be happy with this, you said it would be ready. He waits for no one, he’ll be furious.’
I knew the name.
The framer was trying to pacify the angry man who was huffing and pacing up and down. A young apprentice swiftly came up to me and asked how he could help. I told him I needed my canvas framed. Instead of just unpacking the canvas, I balanced it on the counter and ripped it open. The ripping sound brought all eyes to the counter. The angry man glanced at me and at the buddha.
As the young apprentice went to get some sample frames out I could feel the man staring intensely at the buddha.
‘Anyway, tell me how much longer you will keep us waiting?’ he shouted at the framer.
‘It should only be a few more minutes,’ the framer replied.
The apprentice brought the frames out and I chose a silver-plated one. I was shocked when he told me the price but then it was for Ki’s mum so the cost didn’t matter.
Sensing my initial apprehension, the apprentice said, ‘We are specialists, used by some of the best gallery owners,’ and then he lowered his voice. ‘I would say to ask Mr Mangetti’s assistant but now is probably not the best time.’ He smiled, signalling the angry man with his eyes. I left my name and a deposit.
Tastudi Mangetti was Director of the Fiorelli Gallery in Milan and also had several high-profile business interests in London. I had come across his name when representing one of my artists who was having an exhibition at the Fiorelli and his paintings had been damaged in transit. Mangetti refused to accept liability; he was just awful to deal with. What would he be doing having paintings framed in London Bridge when he could have them framed anywhere in the world? I passed the Bentley again on my way out, and seeing as I was out already I decided to go and buy myself an engagement card and a present from the people at work. It would keep Dad happy and also distract me.
The shop assistant at Selfridges was really helpful and I spent a long time debating whether we’d like a vase or a lamp. After I opted for the vase I went back to the studio and dabbled a bit with the red on the footprint, then wrapped up the vase and wrote the card out to myself, and then wrote out a card that I had bought for Gina. I was going to enclose a letter telling her how I had got myself engaged but then I thought it wouldn’t make any sense to her as it didn’t make any sense to me, so instead I said I hoped she was having a nice holiday and that she would have a fantastic year ahead of her. It was time to go home when I stopped to ponder what my year ahead would be like.
Both my parents immediately spotted the huge carrier from Selfridges.
‘Engagement present from work,’ I sai
d holding up the bag. One lie turned into another and then another and then it didn’t matter how many I told as I had become totally immersed in it. As soon as the painting was out of my system, maybe before the wedding, all the lies would stop and then I could stop feeling like such a fraud.
‘Show,’ my dad signalled, reaching for the carrier. He pulled out the vase and looked disappointed and I waited for him to voice it.
‘This is all they could whip the round?’
‘It’s a really nice vase, Dad, by Marcela Lonecroft.’
He read out the card which was stuck to the wrapping paper.
‘Congratulations, wishing you all the very best, Felicity, Richard, Seamon …’
Before he went through the whole list of names I stopped him at Simon. ‘Simon is the senior partner, Dad.’
‘Very good, invite them to the wedding,’ he replied, returning to his newspaper.
‘We don’t have to invite them to the wedding. I know we are restricted on numbers,’ I panicked.
‘No, no, plenty of room for the peoples at work,’ he replied.
Raj came around for dinner and my dad asked me to show him the vase that work had bought us. He said that his colleagues hadn’t got him anything as he hadn’t told anyone this time around; didn’t want to tempt fate. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had as I knew there was no way that fate could possibly be tempted – this was a wedding that was going to happen no matter what.
A few days later the framed picture was waiting for me and I went along to collect it.
‘This painting that you brought in by Foruki,’ the framer began.
‘No, no, that’s, “For you, Ki,”’ I replied.
‘That’s what I said – Foruki,’ he repeated. ‘Japanese name, isn’t it?’
He didn’t wait for my answer and just as I was about to tell him that it was a dedication, he continued. The framer said that Tastudi Mangetti’s assistant was so impressed with my painting that he went back to the Bentley and called Mangetti to come and have a look at it.
I stared at him in disbelief. ‘What?’
He continued, ‘We do a lot of work for Mr Mangetti and he came out of the car. He said it was original and was intrigued by Foruki’s bold use of colour and the way he signed his painting.’
‘Did he?’ I asked astounded.
‘He did, and he doesn’t come in here for nothing. Are you Foruki’s assistant?’ he asked.
‘No. You see it’s a bit of a long story,’ I began.
‘You’re his friend?’ the framer interrupted, indicating that he didn’t want to hear the long story.
‘Well …’
‘Tastudi has left his card and has asked your friend Foruki to call him.’
I thanked the framer and took the buddha back to the studio, utterly amazed at the turn of events.
‘Tastudi Mangetti,’ I laughed out loud, ‘interested in my painting.’ Looking at the signature I could see why he had thought Foruki was the artist’s name. The ‘F’ and the ‘K’ were written in a sharp, elongated way that made it appear slightly oriental. I sat thinking what I would say to Mangetti if I had the courage to call him.
I couldn’t say to Mangetti that it was a painting done by me; he wouldn’t possibly buy any pictures if he knew it was me – a complete unknown – and anyway, I didn’t have the confidence to say ‘I’m Nina, the artist.’ I wasn’t an artist – not in the true sense. How could he possibly be interested in me? Mangetti wasn’t just anyone, he set trends, but if I could just sell him one painting then I could prove to my dad that it was possible to make money from something you loved doing. What would be the best way? If I said that I was Foruki’s agent maybe that would work; that would create a distance between me and the work. Besides, Mangetti might be more receptive to talking to me if I said I was the agent. Planning what I was going to say, I picked up the phone and then I panicked and put it down again.
‘Breathe, Nina. Relax, distance yourself, it’s not your painting, it’s done by a man called Foruki. You’re not selling yourself, you’re selling someone else. It’s not that difficult.’
I dialled the number again. My heart was thumping. His assistant picked it up and asked who I was.
‘Breathe,’ I kept telling myself, ‘act as though Foruki is your client.’
‘I’m Nina Savani. I represent Foruki.’
‘Foruki,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, Mr Mangetti showed some interest in his buddha painting.’
After a few seconds he transferred me to Mangetti.
‘Tastudi Mangetti.’
My heart was beating faster. ‘Just be bold,’ I thought, ‘show no hesitation.’
‘Nice to talk to you again, Mr Mangetti. It’s Nina Savani, I represent Foruki.’
‘When did we speak last, Ms Savani?’ he asked.
‘I used to represent Françoise Dubois, she had an exhibition at …’
‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ he said dismissively. ‘I’m interested in buying the buddha piece.’
No, he couldn’t have that one, it was for Ki’s mother. Maybe I could persuade him to buy another one.
‘I’m terribly sorry. That particular one is not for sale.’
‘Has it been earmarked already?’ he asked.
Yes, that was it, it wasn’t for sale because it had been earmarked. ‘Yes,’ I replied, trying to sound confident.
He said he had never heard of the artist and began asking me lots of questions about him. I wasn’t prepared for all these questions and in an attempt to halt them in a seemingly confident manner, I tentatively suggested we meet for lunch.
He was taken aback by the suggestion. I was beginning to lose my nerve.
‘Why would I want to meet you?’ he asked.
Why would he want to meet me? And at that moment I knew how Jean Michel felt when he was losing and decided to bet all his chips on one colour. I sat upright in my chair and said with certainty:
‘He’s about to hit the London scene. I’m sure you’ll be intrigued by what I have to say about him.’ People in the art world loved to know that they had made a discovery; they loved all that hype.
Mangetti said that he might be available Thursday lunchtime and asked for Foruki to be present. He said his assistant would call later to confirm the meeting.
My hands began to tremble as I put the phone down. ‘You’re a lunatic woman,’ I said to myself. ‘You lied and you did it so blatantly. What’s happening to you? What kind of person are you turning into?’ And instead of sitting down and finding the answers to these questions, I got up with a rush of energy feeling completely exhilarated. Getting changed, I went to meet Raj.
I was buzzing when I met Raj at Lazio’s, the Italian restaurant in Covent Garden. He noticed and asked me what had happened. I was going to tell him all of it, explaining the painting scenario from the beginning, just missing out a few details like the coconut, Jean Michel and the signs. To spill everything out in one great flood would have been such a relief and then I thought about the vase that was a gift from my colleagues; where could that fit in? And all the times I sent him to Holborn tube station to meet me after work because …?
My mobile rang and I wanted to get it in case it was Mangetti’s assistant.
‘I’m sorry, Raj, I have to get this,’ I said, and then spoke into the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Tastudi Mangetti here.’
‘Hello Mr Mangetti,’ I said getting up from the table to go outside.
‘Yes, I would like to meet Foruki. It’s my particular interest to bring new talent to the fore. I’ll meet you both at one o’clock, Thursday, at the restaurant in Brown’s Hotel.’
Before I had an opportunity to say anything, he hung up.
I switched the phone off, taken aback. Where was I going to find a Japanese man who looked the part? My grocer was Japanese but he wasn’t old – in my mind Foruki was old and, anyway, the grocer didn’t look right – he had streaks in his hair the colour of his plums. That left
three days to find a Japanese man. What was I supposed to do? Filled with panic, I went back to the restaurant, doing this neck-jerking thing I did whenever I was nervous or had something to hide.
‘You were going to tell me what happened to you today, Nina.’
‘Er … yes, well … we … I, I got a new client today. Except he isn’t a real client. What I mean is …’
‘He’s not signed on the dotted line yet.’ Raj had a habit of interrupting me. ‘He will, I’m sure you’ll charm him. You know, Nina, it’s so refreshing to see someone who is as into their career as I am.’
‘What?’ I asked, seeing the opportunity to tell him pass me by.
‘I’m so proud that your career is important to you too,’ he said. ‘It gives us more common ground.’
Forget ground, I was skating on thin ice. ‘Ice,’ I vocalised the last word.
Before I knew it he was calling the waiter to get me some. He was like my dad – he only acted on the words he chose to hear.
‘So my career is important to you?’
‘Definitely. I’m so proud of what you do,’ Raj replied.
My stomach felt tight, I didn’t feel hungry any more. ‘Tell me about your time in Japan,’ I asked, trying to find a distraction.
He happily talked about his trip to Japan while I wondered what had possessed me to ask Mangetti for lunch and about the web of deceit I was weaving – it wasn’t me.
Pay attention to what he is saying, Nina, I kept telling myself; it might come in handy as research. But my thoughts were consumed by how important my career was to Raj and where I could find an old Japanese man within seventy-two hours who could be relied upon to say very little.
The next morning I got up late as I had supposedly taken the day off work to run some errands for the wedding.
‘Good,’ my mother said. ‘Maybe you can help me with a few things. Wedding is less than three months away.’
‘I’ve got some people to see.’
‘What people?’