by Preethi Nair
‘No, not just the looks. I respects her. She is just like me, coming from the humble beginnings, taking a risk and coming to London, also has the funny accent but this did not stop her, she still worked hard and made it.’
‘But Uncle,’ Ki had said trying desperately to control her laughter, ‘Cilla’s not an immigrant, Liverpool’s not that far.’
‘It doesn’t matter how far, she came in a boat with only a suitcase.’
‘A ferry?’
‘Ferry, boat, all the same, Kirelli. I understands her.’
Understanding; understanding was what mattered and Raj and I had this. OK he didn’t know about the paintings so on this basis we couldn’t have a full understanding but maybe it was time to tell him.
I stared at Foruki’s face; it had gone from calm and sedate to fiery. If it was an omen, it wasn’t a very good one.
Raj phoned a while later to say he couldn’t meet up as we’d planned because he had to take important clients who had come over from the States to dinner. I desperately needed to see him that evening, to have him put his arms around me and to know that surely attraction could grow. I wondered who else I could talk to and thought about going to see Mrs Onoro but I couldn’t just turn up, and besides, I didn’t want to go and see her empty-handed. Raj’s mother phoned to check that the flowers were still being organised by my mum and then she wanted to speak to her to make doubly sure that all was going according to plan and on schedule. It was all on track, running smoothly, she had made sure of that; there was no room for error, none whatsoever – and especially not from me.
The next morning I went to the office and began making a list of people who could help me with PR. There were only two people on it. One of them was a freelance journalist, the other was a PR director, both of whom I’d met at exhibitions. I called up the PR man first and I almost fell off my chair when he told me how much it would cost to run a campaign for Foruki. I didn’t have that sort of money and so I called up the journalist who asked me to send him a press release. Not even sure what this was exactly, I agreed. What I needed was a step-by-step book that would tell me about PR. I added this to my list of things to buy, put everything back in my folder and then went to collect the slides.
I thought about calling a courier but it was another expense so I took the slides to Artusion myself, planning to just drop them off to Christophe. When I got there, however, Michael was in the restaurant area, talking to some workmen. I thought he hadn’t seen me but just as I was leaving he called out my name.
Having made up some flimsy excuse about being in the area, he invited me to have a coffee with him and I agreed, thinking that maybe I wouldn’t be so tongue-tied and could make a better job of convincing him to exhibit Foruki if I spent more time with him informally. Michael asked how long I had known him and what was so special about him that I would want to leave Whitter and Lawson to represent him exclusively. And instead of giving him the same rehearsed bullshit, I talked about Foruki as if he was someone I really, truly believed in.
‘There’s a vulnerability about him which he doesn’t show, you can’t even detect it through his paintings but I know it’s there and I know this by what he paints. Mostly he paints inanimate objects and tries to see magic in them, even when it’s not there; and he uses bright colours if he can, or colours that seemingly don’t go together.’ Lost in the analysis of my own creation, I continued, ‘Sometimes he contrasts dead objects with something that is alive, hoping that …’ Realising I was getting carried away, I ended the sentence with, ‘… Yes, hoping that it will work. This is my interpretation of what he’s trying to do, he might tell you something completely different. Actually, come to think of it, he won’t tell you anything at all. He’s a complete recluse.’
Michael laughed. It was a gentle sort of a laugh. ‘So you say you gave up working at the firm to represent Foruki?’
‘Yes, because I believe in him and it is the first time I’ve really believed in any of my artists. And how about you? How long have you owned Artusion?’
‘Five years. Emanuel and I started from scratch with nothing except my passion for art and his for food.’
‘Who are your favourite artists?’ I asked.
‘Postmodernists like …’
‘… Picasso and Matisse,’ I said, finishing his sentence.
‘Yes.’ He held my gaze intently and I quickly changed the subject, looking away as I did so.
‘So why the installation by wardrobe man? I mean Karlhein.’
‘PR. Everyone’s talking about him at the moment, sometimes you have to play the game to get the attention and then you can do what you want.’
He understood about the game. Maybe he would understand that sometimes you have to bend the rules in order to play, even if you really didn’t mean to play in the first place. Half an hour had passed in an instant. We talked more about the art world and I could have talked to him for hours but I had work to be getting on with and so I thanked him and left. Michael said he would be in touch soon.
I went for a walk along the back of Cork Street, taking in the pictures displayed in the gallery windows. What if mine was in there one day? Mine couldn’t be but what if Foruki’s was? What if he was a success? What would happen then? Would I have to continue to be him? I couldn’t suddenly switch and be me – Mangetti could never find out. Don’t get carried away, Nina, it’s a sabbatical – remember that – and then you get back to reality.
Raj and I met later that evening and I stared at him, wishing that he would just hold my gaze for once and not feel the need to fill the silences with inane chatter.
‘So, baby, tell me about your day?’
I began by telling him about Artusion but he wouldn’t let me finish. He interrupted me by saying that he had read about it in one of the papers but didn’t think the concept would take off in London because the last thing people wanted to do after a meal was to look at paintings.
‘There are people who can see paintings anytime,’ I responded, surprised by his comment. ‘Anyway, you love paintings too.’
‘Yes,’ he said, attempting to backtrack, ‘but I like to know what I’m doing. If I’m going to a restaurant, I want to have dinner; if I’m going to a gallery, I want to see art.’
His argument didn’t make any sense: it was such an odd thing to say for someone who liked art. ‘But if you’re going to a place where you know you can do both, all the better.’
‘Not left your lawyer-head at work today,’ he said patronisingly. ‘Anyway, baby, why do we care if it’s a success or not?’
And then I lost it. ‘I care,’ I shouted, ‘and I care because it’s original and it’s bold to do something different and not follow the pack like sheep.’ Maybe I subconsciously meant us, being herded from list to engagement to marriage, but he stopped me from going any further and tried to calm me down.
‘This is our first real argument, baby.’
‘No it’s not, because if it was an argument you would be shouting back at me. What are you passionate about, Raj, tell me?’
‘You, Nina, you. I love you.’
And hearing those words made me realise how deeply we had gotten into this. There was no turning back – love had entered into the equation, for one of us at least. How could he love me? He didn’t even know me. Maybe it was me who expected too much; I expected too much and therefore was always so disappointed. There was no room to be disappointed with Raj because this was who he was; he was uncomplicated; he liked to know that a restaurant was for eating in and a gallery was for seeing art. Why was I getting so worked up? No expectation, no room for disappointment, just stability.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s just been a long day.’
‘I understand,’ he replied.
He couldn’t understand. Michael Hyland had crept into my psyche in a way that nobody, not even I, could understand.
There were hardly any people on the train when I made my way to the studio early the next morning, not even waiting for the ligh
t to begin painting. There was an energy bubbling away inside of me that worked its way onto the canvas, balancing the red hues on Foruki’s face. Madame Butterfly was playing as usual while I was working so I didn’t hear the knock on the garage door until it turned into a bang. It was ten o’clock in the morning and nobody ever came to the studio, so I kept silent, hoping whoever it was would go away.
‘Anyone there?’ There was another bang on the door.
‘Who is it?’ I asked, clutching my paintbrush in case I had to stab an intruder.
‘It’s Michael, Michael Hyland.’
Bloody hell. What was he doing here? I put down the paintbrush, thought quickly about grabbing my proper clothes but it was too late, he had already pulled the door open.
‘Hi,’ he said.
I didn’t even have time to roll down my sleeves; my arm was exposed. He could see the scarring. I fumbled with the sleeve, trying not to panic, trying to find some kind of explanation as to why I would be standing in a studio clearly in the midst of painting a portrait of someone who did not even exist.
‘You left this at the restaurant,’ he said handing over my folder. ‘I thought it might be important so I looked inside for an address, hope you don’t mind.’
I hadn’t even noticed the folder was missing. Oh God, he must have seen my scribbled notes and the plan. ‘Thank you,’ I replied, not knowing what else to say and willing him to leave.
‘Even more impressive than on the slides,’ he commented.
‘Foruki was kind enough to let me use his studio for the morning. I just dabble,’ I said, flicking white paint randomly on the canvas.
He stood studying the pictures.
‘Thank you for bringing back the folder. Was there anything else?’ Leave, please leave, I willed.
‘I saw the slides yesterday evening but this, this is something else. He’s good, isn’t he, very good. There’s a tremendous warmth that comes from these pictures.’ Then he turned to me, ‘So do you paint here often?’
Go, just go, I thought.
‘Is that him?’ he continued, pointing at Foruki.
I nodded. He would know if I had done the self-portrait, I would have done the rest. He wasn’t stupid. I had to get him out of the studio before he finally put two and two together. ‘Like I said, Foruki has let me use the studio for the morning. I don’t mean to be rude but I don’t get that much time to myself so if there isn’t anything else.’ I signalled towards the door with my eyes.
‘Why are the lines not longer on that palm?’
‘What?’ I replied, thrown by his question.
‘That painting there, the lines are so short.’
‘Because everything about the picture is so alive and the only way I … Ki … Foruki could capture the nature of death was by the length of the life, heart and fate line.’
‘Did he experience the death of someone close?’
‘His best friend.’
‘Died young?’
I wanted desperately to tell him about Ki but nodded instead.
There was silence.
‘Anyway, I mustn’t keep you. I just wanted to tell you that you – Foruki – can exhibit at Artusion. There will be no charge for the food or the drink but come around when you are not so busy so we can finalise the other details.’
He knew. I knew he knew, he knew I knew he knew, but I couldn’t say anything except, ‘Thank you.’
‘If Foruki needs help with PR, let me know and I’ll tell Emily to get on to it,’ he said, glancing at the canvas behind me with the list of things to do so prominently displayed.
‘I’ll tell him,’ I said. ‘Thank you, Michael.’
A splattering of white had hit one of Foruki’s eyes and it looked like a stream of tears. I know how he felt. What was I going to do? How would I explain it? What if he told someone? No, he wouldn’t, he would have said something now. Out of all the people in the world, why did it have to be him? Why wasn’t it Raj? I left the canvas, anxious after Michael’s visit. He had seen me, me in my studio, and accepted it with no questions? Why? He understood about the lines on the palm. I had had this overwhelming need to tell him about Ki; I didn’t even have this with Raj.
Raj had to come and see the studio and the pictures. Raj would restore a sense of normality but at the same time I also had to tell him everything. It wasn’t right that Michael, a virtual stranger, knew; and Raj, the man I was about to marry, remained in blissful ignorance about this part of my life. I called him up and said that there was something I wanted to show him and asked him to meet me at London Bridge when he finished work. Raj wasn’t good with surprises and wanted to know what it was. ‘Just meet me at six-thirty,’ I insisted.
It was the perfect opportunity to tell him about Foruki but I needed to see his reaction to the paintings first without telling him it was me. Deep down, I wanted him to just look at the pictures and guess. I tidied up the studio, took down the canvas with the list of things to do, packed away anything that he would know was mine, changed back into my suit, and feeling very excited I went to meet him.
‘Hi baby,’ he said as soon as he saw me. ‘What’s with the big secret?’
‘It’s not a secret, Raj, it’s just that Foruki has left me with the keys to his studio and I wanted you to be one of the first to see his work.’
‘Do we have his permission?’
‘He won’t mind, just come see it with me. We won’t get another chance to see it together like this.’
‘If it means so much to you baby, let’s go,’ he said, grabbing my hand.
‘Were you very busy today?’
‘No, not really, what about you?’
‘It was a strange day,’ I said. ‘I forgot some important documents at a restaurant and the owner came by to drop them off.’
‘Right. Why was that strange?’
Yes, why was it strange? I was going to say that Michael could have sent Christophe or one of his staff with the folder, that he had 101 other things to do when his restaurant was about to open, and then when he came … ‘You know, when you expect someone to behave in a certain way and they don’t.’
‘Is that a good thing or a bad thing?’ Raj asked.
‘I don’t know, that’s why it’s strange. Anyway, Foruki wants the exhibition held there – it’s Artusion.’
‘We’re here,’ I said a few minutes later, stopping outside the studio.
‘What, here?’ Raj asked surprised, looking at the building. ‘You’d think that he could afford somewhere better.’
‘It’s about what he does with the space inside, not what it looks like from the outside,’ I said, unlocking the padlock and pulling the door open. ‘Let me just put the lights on. So, what do you think?’
He stood as if he were taking in the atmosphere. ‘It’s amazing how people can work in such places.’
‘What?’ I asked, irritated.
‘I mean what he is able to do with such space and the paintings are … the paintings are … interesting. Yes, look at that buddha. You can see there how he is trying to make a point.’
‘Really?’ I asked.
‘Yes, baby, see there again. Andy Warhol did a picture like that about the nature of fame. This guy Fuki is trying to say that even religious concepts in today’s era go through a fashion.’
I was dumbfounded. What was he going on about? ‘I don’t think that’s what he meant …’
‘He’s obviously got some Indian influence here,’ he pointed at the derelict houses painted in the colours of sari material.
At last, I thought, thinking that surely he must recognise the orange house with the delicate elephant print – the pattern of my engagement sari.
‘Again, social commentary. Maybe about how cultures have fused.’
By then I was exasperated by Raj’s words.
‘Then this footprint,’ he continued, analysing the painting of the red footprint on pebbles. ‘It’s possibly the mark he wants to leave, the red boldness is what he has t
o offer. See, all his paintings are bold and expressive.’
‘It’s my left foot that wasn’t captured on the white sheet, the one that doesn’t belong to your family,’ was what I wanted to say. But instead I asked him what he thought about the palm.
‘See the contrast in colours between the palm and the foot, the palm is …’
I wanted to save him from himself and from what I would say if he continued any further so I threw a rope to help him. ‘That’s the palm I was talking to you about, Raj, you know, when I said I felt the lines should have been longer but they’re not.’
‘Yes, I see what you mean. They could have been longer. He seems an interesting guy this Fuki. Is that him?’ he glanced over at the portrait.
‘Yes it is, and it’s Foruki.’ I tried to hide my disappointment. There was no moment of revelation, no spark of recognition, no comprehension of who I really was. Maybe after the exhibition I wouldn’t even tell him that it had been me, and we’d just get on with our lives like normal people, living normal lives in a normal world.
‘Now, baby, I’ve got a surprise for you too.’
‘You have?’ I asked.
He put his hand inside his pocket. ‘I’ve been waiting all day to do this.’ He pulled out the ring. ‘There,’ he said, putting it on my finger. ‘It fits and it’s beautiful just like you. Don’t you think so?’
‘Yes … beautiful.’
‘And thank you for sharing all this with me, baby, I can see how it’s important to you.’
‘It is,’ I said, switching off the lights and putting the padlock back on the door.
I didn’t sleep all night, thinking about Raj’s reaction, thinking about Michael coming to the studio. They had both seen me and my work and reacted in different ways. Raj didn’t want to see me in the pictures, it was about him – how much he thought he knew about art. But then that was unfair of me to do that to Raj – if I hadn’t built Foruki up so much to him, I’m sure he would have seen that it was me.
It must have been about seven o’clock on Saturday morning when my mum came into my bedroom, mumbling something about Raj’s mother telling her that he had given me the engagement ring. I pulled my hand from under the duvet and waved it at her. She gasped, seeing again the size of the rock, and then tried to get me up so we could all organise who was coming to the wedding. It had to be done that day as she was leaving for India that evening. I couldn’t wait to have ten days where I could just concentrate on the exhibition.