by Preethi Nair
I moved the large table to the side and laid all the pictures out on the floor in the order that I had done them, beginning with the grubby pair of black boots and ending with the hand print and then the portrait of Foruki. It went from darkness to light and in between were shades of vibrant colours; the reds from the buddha and the background of the painting with the elephants. If it were really my exhibition, I would have laid them out in this order, as each painting had a part of me and my story to tell: from the blackness and need to escape the grubby hands of the Guru to the red footprint of committing to a marriage; the inanimate bricks and stones and the constant need to believe and to keep believing and the many houses that despite being vibrant with colour still made me feel alone. But it wasn’t about me any more, it was about trying to turn an unknown Foruki into a success. I began rearranging the pictures.
From Obscurity to Light, I thought. That was a good title for Foruki’s exhibition, not just to describe his work conceptually but also his feelings about entering the art world from the point of being a recluse and not wanting to be known. I thought about painting a black shadow on a grey background to go alongside the picture of the boots – this could be Foruki’s feelings back then and then I could end the exhibition with his vibrant self-portrait alongside the handprint.
There was a knock on the door. It was Michael. I invited him in and tried to make him feel welcome by tidying up the clutter on the battered chair so he could sit somewhere, but he said he was fine standing.
‘Completely understandable. Don’t want to get your suit dirty.’
‘No, no, it’s not that, I want to help you arrange your paintings,’ he said, taking his jacket off. He was wearing a pale blue shirt with faint white pinstripes that were hardly noticeable. His shoulders were broad; they looked like they could carry the weight of the world and still remain strong.
‘Before I forget, here is your contract. Get a lawyer to check it over,’ he smiled, handing it over to me.
He had sturdy, dependable hands; hands that were … I had to stop myself thinking about them.
‘Thank you,’ I said, taking the envelope and putting it to one side.
We discussed what each of the paintings would mean to Foruki and he helped me rearrange them.
At times our hands brushed past each other’s and I had to tell myself to get a grip as I felt like a coy protagonist in an Indian film; thinking all that was missing was the wet sari, the rain scene, and a tree for Michael to pop out from behind and for us to dance around.
‘So when are you thinking of going back to New York?’ I asked.
‘When I’m happy that the gallery is in safe hands.’
I hoped it would take him a while to find someone to run it.
‘Don’t your family miss you when you spend so much time away?’
‘My family are based in Ireland.’ I knew this already but I wanted to know if he would say the word girlfriend. He had to have a girlfriend in New York.
‘Where in Ireland?’ I asked, trying to escape my thoughts.
‘Galway. Have you been there?’
I told him I hadn’t, missing out the fact that I hadn’t really been out of London much. My dad didn’t believe in holidays: ‘Peoples, they pay to see anything. If I paint the house pink and put “Taj Mahal of Croydon” they’ll come, you’ll see that, Kavitha,’ he said to my mum once after she hinted that she would love to go somewhere.
Michael began to describe Galway; rugged countryside and rough seas: ‘You can’t help but be captivated by it. It’s one of the most beautiful places to paint. Even in winter it has something special. People say that winter is when it’s at its most depressing, but when everything is seemingly dead, that’s when all the elements really come together.’
Michael asked me where I was brought up. I thought about Croydon and its elements, most notably the tramp and his dog who sat on the corner of the High Street each day; and it was hard to make it sound as exciting, more so in winter, so I said London.
He told me his family had always supported him and allowed him to do whatever he wanted, even when he chose to go and study art in the States. The struggle, therefore, when he had finished was entirely with himself and trying to make a go of it alone. ‘You’re fortunate and they must be so proud,’ I replied, thinking of my dad preparing me for my career with the Encyclopaedia Britannica, the path he had chosen for me and the list of men I was presented with. Perhaps it’s harder when you have the luxury of choice and the struggle is internally and not externally. If Dad had said to me, ‘Goes on, Nina, be an artist,’ where would I have ended up? It would have come too easy. Would I have relished every moment of painting as I did now?
We could have spent hours more talking but I was aware that he had a launch to prepare for and many other things to do, besides helping me, so I thanked him for his time and said I could manage on my own. He looked surprised and I realised it sounded ungrateful and had come out all wrong but I was too proud to say that what I really meant was that I wanted him to stay for as long as he wanted to.
I understood what my dad meant when he said Cilla was like dynamite. He clearly felt attracted to her but admired her from afar, in his world of fantasy. That was what I felt about Michael. It was hard not to admire him, to be intrigued by him, but it was safe to admire him because I knew nothing could come of it; he probably just felt sorry for me and thought that I needed all the help I could get. He was probably attached – there was no way a man like that would not have been attached – and anyway he would be going home to whoever was waiting for him and I was getting married.
After he left I tried not to miss his presence and began finding things to clean. I didn’t have to be someone else when he was around; he saw me as I was, in my space, and accepted me. When I’d cleaned the brushes for the fifth time I decided to open the envelope and sit and read the contract. For some reason there were two contracts. One was for the artist Foruki, who was represented by me. I skimmed through it – the terms and conditions were standard and it stipulated that Foruki’s work was to be exhibited for four weeks. And then I flicked through the other contract thinking that it was an addendum of some sort. My name jumped out at me where it said ‘Artist’s Name'. It didn’t make any sense. Thinking that there had been an error I went back to the beginning and read word by word, line by line, and almost fell off my chair by the time I got to the end.
The other contract was for me; for me to have my first exhibition as myself in a year’s time with Artusion. I couldn’t believe it; nobody except Ki had shown that much faith in me. I read, savouring each line, each paragraph, marvelling at the possibility of having my very own exhibition, being able to share my work freely. Feelings of elation quickly returned to sobriety as a year seemed a long time away. So many things were going to happen in between now and then and having my exhibition seemed the least likely.
Stunned at his gesture, I changed out of my clothes and into my suit and went to Artusion.
Emanuel was by the entrance, giving instructions to Christophe. He stopped when he saw me. ‘Michael tells me the publicity is going well.’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Good, that’s what I like to hear.’
I asked to speak to Michael.
‘Is there a problem, Nina?’ Michael asked when I walked into his office.
‘I can’t accept this invitation to exhibit. I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t want you to get into any trouble. What if someone finds out that you knew all along that Foruki doesn’t exist. It’s your business we’re playing with and I can’t do that to you.’
‘If it happens, I will deal with it, Nina.’
‘And why have you drawn up this contract for me?’
‘Why not? You can hold your own as an artist, you don’t need to hide behind anyone else, and in a year’s time when this is all over and people have forgotten about Foruki’s exhibition, I want you to come and exhibit with us. I mean, we are getting something here –
exclusivity.’
I wanted to tell him then that it was highly unlikely because I was marrying someone else, someone who didn’t even know about my need to paint or that part of my life, but instead I thanked him for his generosity and faith in me.
‘Come for lunch on Sunday,’ he said as I left. ‘We can go over things properly then.’
‘But you’re not open … and won’t you be busy with your launch?’
‘We always make time for our prospective artists,’ he replied.
Something had changed; someone else totally believed in me. Foruki’s exhibition had to work. I went to the office to respond to all the telephone calls and enquiries Foruki had received. Apart from the invitation mix-up it was going well; people had begun responding, confirming that they would be there. A few journalists called to ask me to reveal his real name as I had told them all that Foruki was a pseudonym. But I refused and then they wanted specific information like how old he was and where he had exhibited: the more vague I was about him, the more they wanted to know. So I just made things up that I thought they’d like to hear: tragic childhood, substance abuse, a man who had cleaned up his act and who was ready to share his talent. The gallery details Gina had given me for Japan when I’d last spoken with her were so obscure that I knew they wouldn’t bother to go and check his previous exhibitions. With what remaining time I had I worked on new canvases with a different kind of light and optimism, buoyed up by Michael’s faith in me.
On Saturday morning Raj came so we could go and see wedding cakes. His mother had come with him so I didn’t really get a chance to sit and talk to him like I wanted to. In fact it was pointless the both of us going because she already had her heart set on a five-tier cake with a tacky couple on top who had been made from brown marzipan.
‘Cute, no?’
After a few hours of shopping with them I decided I would prefer to go with my dad and collect my mum from the airport, so I rushed off.
The plane had arrived early and we spotted my mum from a distance as we entered the arrival hall. She was wearing a sari, an overcoat and some thick woollen socks and was mopping her brow with a Kleenex. Although we were waving frantically at her and my father was bellowing out her name across the concourse, she stood at the exit squinting her eyes, clutching on to her trolley and obstructing the other passengers from meeting their relatives. The trolley was stacked high with three suitcases, two of them tied with string to fortify the contents. No doubt these contained the bridal outfits. My father and I made our way over to her.
‘Ma,’ I said, hugging her.
My father patted her on the back.
‘Raj?’ She gasped, staring at the empty space between my father and I.
‘He’s just sorting out some bits and pieces. I’m sure he’ll come around later.’
She breathed a sigh of relief.
On the journey back home, my dad told her how he had had to sort out his own food as I was always too busy. He invited her to comment on his weight loss but as he seemed heavier she made a comment on how healthy he appeared given the fact that she had been away. Not satisfied with her response, he expressed his concerns about what would happen if she were to die first and wondered how I would look after him in his old age as I was never there. Before you knew it he was protesting, refusing to be put in a home.
‘This is the way now, Kavitha. Old, take their pension, their house, and put them in the home.’
She ignored him.
‘So how are you, beta? Everything going well?’
‘Yes, it’s more or less all organised.’
‘Very good,’ she smiled.
My father interjected and told her about the food tasting he had had to endure and said she was lucky she hadn’t come back a widow. My mum wasn’t listening; her mind was on those suitcases. Eager to unwrap the goods she had brought, she asked my father to drive a little faster.
He swore pretty much at every driver who overtook him and at times didn’t bother to indicate. It was moments like these I wondered how he’d survived on the buses.
‘It’s the woman. They should stay in the kitchen and be banned from the road.’
We didn’t comment. My mum was thinking about which saris would be best and I was thinking about what names to give the paintings.
As soon as we got home Mum went into the kitchen, got a knife and cut the string, unlocking the cases. She didn’t even bother to take off her coat.
‘What do you think, beta?’ she said, pulling out an ornate red sari and then placing one hand to her heart.
Ki had been dressed in a beautiful, plain, embroidered wedding sari for her funeral. I wanted to cry. She would laugh if she could see this, she probably could see it and would say that it looked like something a drag queen would wear. It had sparkly bits everywhere with a kitsch gold pattern.
‘It’s pretty,’ I said.
‘And here, here are the bangles and the rest of the jewellery … And then I have bought this one for later,’ she said, pulling out a gold thing. ‘Go, go try it on.’
‘I’ll do it later, Ma.’
‘Half the way around the world I’ve gone for you and you can’t try it on?’
‘All right, I’ll do it now.’
I went up and got changed. Maybe it wouldn’t look so bad if we could take some of the tassels and sparkly bits off. After I got changed, I went downstairs. My mum burst into tears when she saw me; my dad began to sob. Red, after all, was his favourite colour.
‘The beautiful,’ he cried.
Raj came around later and my mother sat close to him all evening.
‘Nina has all her clothes,’ my mum said, ‘looks very beautiful.’
The BA Baracus/drag queen look was hardly what I’d call beautiful but if it pleased them then that was the main thing. ‘And you, Raj, everything is done?’
‘Yes, though I don’t think I’ll look as beautiful as Nina but everything is pretty much arranged. Mummy is happy with it all and now I just can’t wait to go for it.’
‘Go for it?’ she repeated, more as a question about what that meant precisely.
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘I certainly will.’
‘Meeting Raj?’ my mum asked as I was sitting by the mirror putting lipstick on.
‘No, just a client.’
‘On Sunday?’
‘It’s the artist I was talking to you and Dad about.’
‘It’s a woman?’
‘Yes,’ I replied uncomfortably, sensing that this was what she wanted to hear.
Michael had invited Emily to join us, and in a way I was relieved. It was too tense and charged when were alone. I gave her a list of people who I had contacted and we talked about concentrating only on Foruki’s artwork as opposed to his personal life.
‘Are you sure we can’t take any pictures of him? He’ll be much easier to pitch if we have a photograph.’
‘No, he’s an enigma, he won’t allow any.’
She found this fascinating and I had to give her the whole back-story that I had made up about him.
‘It’s fascinating,’ she said. ‘It’s all material we can use.’
‘Emily, I think at this stage all we want is an awareness, no features, so if you bring up his name to people that you speak to that would be really helpful,’ Michael said.
‘Of course,’ she replied and then she went through the coverage she had lined up for wardrobe man.
We had lunch together and then she had to dash off somewhere.
‘I’d better be going too,’ I said.
‘Someone’s waiting for you?’ Michael asked.
I should have said yes, I should have told him about Raj, but again, I didn’t.
Despite having every intention of leaving Michael there, I found myself walking in Green Park with him and then sat with him on the bench where the whole episode had really started. The grass that had been yanked out all those months ago had grown back, while winter had taken me through a bizarre series of events. Now ever
ything had changed again. Those insecurities and doubts had gone and others had replaced them as I sat pretending that I didn’t feel anything for this man. I felt strangely uncomfortable because I was myself with him and I hadn’t been truly myself for a long time. It was effortless – the days I didn’t know how to be me or how to express what I felt, I threw myself into my work and painted. But here I was articulating everything that had ever meant anything to me. If only things were different and I wasn’t marrying Raj.
‘What’s wrong, Nina?’ he asked, seeing the thoughtful look on my face.
I told him about the time I sat on this bench after seeing Jean Michel. He then told me about his fiancée who had left him a month before they were supposed to get married. A few months later she was married to someone else.
‘Did you love her?’ I asked.
‘Like I’ve never loved anyone,’ he replied.
I was going to ask him how long ago it had happened and then I answered my own question. ‘Five years ago?’ The single-mindedness with which he had built up his galleries could only have been fuelled by a passion that had been redirected.
He nodded. ‘Did you love him?’
‘Loads.’
‘Do you still think about him?’
‘Yes, but it’s getting better.’ I didn’t know if it was getting better because of all the distractions I had in my life or because of the months that had passed since Jean’s betrayal, but it had been a while since he had occupied the major part of my thoughts.
‘It’s hard to put your heart on the line and trust again after something like that,’ he replied.
‘It’s better not to,’ I answered. ‘It’s all about expectation; the bigger the expectation, the harder the fall.’
‘Is that why you’re hiding behind an artist who doesn’t exist?’
‘I don’t think I’m hiding. It just happened that way.’
He said that everything is planned; that we subconsciously instigate every situation we bring into our lives.