by Sarah Hall
The painting was nothing for a moment, and then it was everything. The blues and browns shone, and the dust on the glassware was dense, like velvet. The signature was inscribed almost vertically in the lower right-hand corner. Peter sat himself opposite and looked at it until he felt his head clear. When he turned, the agent had moved off to another part of the storage room and was checking dockets. By the vault doorway, Dyas had hold of Raymie by her shoulders; he was shaking her, and then putting his arms round her, but she was not crying. Ivan looked over at him and smiled, and for a still, luminous minute Peter had thought everything was going to be OK.
Then there he was, an ordinary boy from the North-East, getting married in San Francisco. And then spending Christmas in upstate New York, entertaining his wealthy new in-laws after they had insisted on flying them out, while his wife stalked brattishly about the mansion. Her father, the owner of a chain of hardware companies, had pumped his hand up and down, grateful perhaps that he wasn’t like any of the previous boyfriends, had married her at least, while the mother, razor-thin and heavily pearled, had been several degrees removed. They thought he was Scottish, asked him to recite Burns. With her family, he quickly found out, Raymie was ugly as sin. She stole their prescription medicines if she thought they looked interesting, slapped her mother when she discreetly handed her a psychologist’s card. Her older brother had died in Indochina. His ashes were on the mahogany mantel. Raymie said he was the lucky one. There had been spells in school abroad, but she had never fitted the mould. She had wanted to work in Paris: Liverpool had been a compromise. He felt sorry for her, though he could see she knew how to work the switch in men, using their instinct to assist her, if she acted the victim. But that was the attraction. Beside her pale long limbs and the shirts unbuttoned to her navel, beside her obvious careless talent and fashionable, chemical liberalism, the distress was fascinating. He felt good, auditioning to be her saviour.
She was a genius, almost. Her work was hideous and unique. She collected the extracted teeth from dentists’ surgeries and sewed them on to teddies. She stuck chicken bones and fingernail clippings on to dolls. Dyas had once said she was the vanguard of a folk revival, that this was outsider art. But there was no ambition, no reason for her parents to have paid the college fees. She simply dabbled. Peter relentlessly encouraged her. ‘Why are you being a flunkey? You’re better than the rest of us put together. You have ideas. Why don’t you paint something instead of messing with that stuff?’ She’d snort and draw out a cigarette. ‘It’s easy for you, Pete. You don’t have the inhibitions and the stiffs for parents. You’re the capable one, remember. Every time I try to find my own anatomy I’m obstructed by blood, like fucking Leonardo.’ The click of the lighter at the base of the hookah. The glitter of her black, black eyes. She gave up showing her work, began modelling for other up and coming artists, Brylcreemed and panty-less, a cosmetic blush applied to her labia.
It wasn’t that he tired of trying, or tired of the way she arched her spine to the ceiling when orgasm hit her. It wasn’t the mess she made of the apartments, the ashtrays, syringes, the intimate waste, or her decision that sobriety was an unbearable state. Not her voice calling, ‘Peewee, Peewee, pass me some Lysol for my bad arm.’ Calling, ‘Please, honey, pass me some ice, pass me some cold. Shut off that bulb, it hurts my face.’ It was not finding the masticated lumps of jerky wrapped in little bags and hidden in the corners of the freezer, or seeing that she didn’t care enough to clean herself properly, when she reclined on the futon, angular and filthy as a coal-town bridge. Where other users ran the course, then left handbags full of needles on the counter for their Wall Street fathers to discover, Raymie did not want sponsored therapy. Nothing stopped her. Not the volcanic nose bleeds, not the miscarriage–they hadn’t even known she was pregnant, until the toilet was full of pink slurry–and not even the incident with the kitchen knife when he had to hold her down to stop her cutting out the red-eyed locusts, which were hatching in her veins.
He was accepting, concerned, protesting, a good husband. Yeah, he was probably OK. What sent him home wasn’t falling out of love with her. He loved her, loved her desperately, this haunted girl, this hungry ghost. And he would tell her so, holding her slack, puking head and whispering in her stinking ear, or shouting it across the street when she pulled away and walked towards PCP Larry. ‘Hey there, officer, got any candy for me?’ It reached the point where he begged her on his knees to stop. It reached the point where he knew nothing he could say would prevent her. One day, during that second New York winter, he just knew he had to go. The weather was so cold, cold enough to freeze the piss pot in the bathroom, and she was sleeping underneath every blanket they owned, maybe not sleeping but unconscious, and he, missing the way it had been, missing the calm smell of paint, went out into the blizzard. He walked all the way to the Met through the snow, without his coat, and then sat on a gallery bench for an hour in front of a now priceless painting. Nature Morte, 1964, the very last in the series. He’d known then that he couldn’t watch her do it any more.
It would make a great story for the kids. And the journos and the critics. The beautiful destructive wife. The sixties casualties. The peace signs. What he couldn’t tell them about coincidences; what he couldn’t say about meaning and fate. He could confess it all, every intimate detail, pouring out his big loose heart. They might even believe him for a change. But he hasn’t told anyone, not even Lydia, not when they lie together at night, not in anger, not for absolution. The truth is that truth has no grand story. He packed his suitcase, borrowed money, and took those planes back home, hop-scotching from Boston to Gander to Shannon, and finally to London, from where he hitched north, migrating home. He left her to her noxious spiral. He left her to sink into oblivion. Within three months she was gone.
Old pain-that’s how it feels now. Pain that has been accommodated, and is familiar. Life goes on, and the pain hangs around. He can live with a bad leg and a limp. He can live with no leg if that’s what it comes down to. But one thing is certain-he does want to live. He wants to go home. Over his shoulder he can see the landscape now, out beyond the ravine, gorse and moor grass, rowan and elder, and the summits of the blue and yellow fells. In front of him is the dark face of the gorge. Something has to happen if he’s going to get where he wants to be. And what choices are there really, other than to say, I am this, and I am here?
He takes a breath and leans forward as far as he can. The pain is immediate and blurs his vision, until saltwater drips from his eyes and he can see clearly the rocks below. He reaches down into the crucible, between the stones, to the point of compression. He reaches further through the agony, and touches the leather of his boot, which is trapped in the narrow shaft between the boulders. His boot that is wider than the foot inside it! The light epiphany arrives. But pain in his leg is speaking directly to his brain, wanting to shut him down. He claws at the laces frantically, tugs at the fastening until the struggle is too intense. He rises, puts his palms down either side of himself, and hunches his shoulders. He shouts. His head bows. He is crying and laughing. The sound is broken and grateful and helpless and determined. Sorry, Peter, sorry. There is a world, un-chosen, and in it is a bastard lot of suffering, before you get to joy. Come on. Try.
He bends again, shouting into the granite stadium, and the noise echoes back at him. ‘Fuck you.’ ‘Fuck you.’ Again he reaches to the laces. He picks at the knot, loosens the binding a fraction. Again he rises, shouts, again he bends. Five more times he goes down into the torment, yelling, dashing the water from his eyes, fighting the threshold. He undoes the double knot, pulls the laces from the metal eyelets, loosens the tongue.
There are days when he comes home and stands at the cottage door for a moment, worrying that everything inside has disappeared. He imagines the floor has dropped out and nothing is left and no one is there and he is not who he thought he was. He has to tell himself that, when he opens the door, Lydia will be sitting in the blue armchair
by the range, keeping it alight. Her hair will be loose or knotted in a bun at her neck. Next to the chair will be her embroidery bag, the one she collects sloes and elderberries in this time of year. The one she used to carry the twins about in when they were tiny. He simply has to trust, now, that she will be there.
He takes hold of the leg with both hands and pulls as hard as he can.
Translated from the Bottle Journals
The rain has been keeping us indoors by the fire, but this morning the weather has broken and I am able to venture outside. I try not to dwell on my condition but I am asked frequently by the doctor and Theresa and Antonio to describe my discomforts. What can I tell them? Yes, it is uncomfortable. I have no appetite. I am thinner. Something dark consumes me from inside; it has multiplied and has entered the lymph system. There is no miracle. Everything has slowed–my writing, my movements, the paintbrush. I am full of sorrow for the loss of delicate fragrances. I can no longer smell the herbs or the rain or cinabrese. Even my old friend paper is too subtle with his cologne! But I am noticing other things more sharply. A cherry stone darkening on one side while the other remains pale and lit, like this remarkable planet. A piece of coral from the shelf is uncomfortably crisp to hold, as if baked almost to desiccation by salt kilns. I make these observations with a sense of wonder, and am only roused when Theresa comes into the room and asks what it is that I have forgotten or am looking for, and why I am stalled.
I am kindly forgiven for wearing this old robe, with ragged cuffs, when visitors arrive. Antonio limits the time of anyone wishing to call upon me, and now refuses to let me give interviews. This is a relief, and I am thankful. The newspapers are already commemorating my life, it seems, though the speculation about the motifs continues. More reporters would like to come, but the door of the studio is closed to them. One day one of them will write a simple sentence.
I must fortify myself and commit myself to putting the studies and canvases in order. They lean against the walls every which way and are not in series. Antonio is doing much lifting and carrying; he goes beyond his call of duty. The accounting has been done. The papers have gone to the solicitor. I know nothing of archives; needless to say, I am no clerk, and I leave much work for them to do! The house is to be left to my wife’s family. They will have to excuse its gardens. There is a sense of preparation here at Serra Partucci, and it is strange to think that I will not need luggage, or even a hat upon my head, for my departure. I strongly feel that I should fold my clothes, press my shirts and polish my shoes.
I have begun several letters to Peter. Each sounds too conclusive and too imperative, and each has been discarded. I have no wish to depress him, nor should I press upon him any methodology for working. I wish only to say his correspondence has given me great pleasure. He will find his way, I am certain. I was schooled with Nelo Ungaretti, the great mathematician and architect, a man of such vivacity that all who knew him were certain he would prosper in his field, and though the war sadly robbed us of him, he was indeed triumphant. I believe Peter has Ungaretti’s qualities.
I have sent my best wishes to the children in the school, and to Signora Russo I have donated many books. Upon my request, Giancarlo brought his small dog here and permitted me to stroke him. He has proved to be a good forager. Giancarlo and I talked fondly while the dog ran about, sniffing in the corners of the house. Theresa was nervous throughout the meeting and kept her hands tightly linked. Perhaps she thought our discussion would move on to politics or that I would embarrass her with praise. I have made small provision for the family in the will but I have not mentioned this in case they will not accept it. The doctor has given me a small supply of morphine for the coming days. I have not yet taken any.
My mind reaches back into the past. Today, as if finding a lost charm or trinket, I have suddenly recalled the infant nickname my mother gave me. Gyri. I have remembered my mother’s voice calling from the orchard of Via Lame, calling to me now, sixty years after she passed away. I recall the woven basket she wore over her shoulder with its red scarf under the strap, the pop and rustle as each fruit was snapped from the branches and placed without bruising into the container on her hip, and the pollen shaken down into her hair. One does not question God. One does not question a life beyond this. We cannot understand or predict. But if such a thing should exist, and if the beloved remain there, then how willingly I am gathered.
The voice calling is not my mother’s; it is Theresa’s. She has arrived early. She is keeping kind hours. She has rested her parched bicycle against the gate with its pedal between the railings. She has come into the house and has begun to prepare breakfast for her patient. I must extinguish my cigarette!
Now there are medical procedures to be endured, for which I need her help. I will pause and resume after.
The painting of the blue bottles is almost finished now. I am pleased with it. Standing at the easel is difficult, as I have less strength. I have tried sitting but it is an uncustomary position-the canvas is tall and awkward, as the artist must have been all his life! I am committed much of the time to my bed, and it is a comfort to look over and see this composition nearing completion. The bottles on the studio table collect and empty their bright tides as the light of each day arrives and passes. What can be said of them finally? I do not know. They are not consolation, but they have always been sufficient.
The artistic efforts of men are indicative of our human openness, our inquisitiveness, I think. When we attempt to evaluate, or to obviate, we seldom guess correctly. Our minds are born nervous, in darkness. We are subterranean beings. We must learn by the senses and continue to be instinctual, to use the antennae. The oils of lavender bring sleep when we apply them to the pillow. Aniseed stirs us. In the museums, we must believe in the Dutch trick, the red deer, and the monk beneath the vast sky. We must look at the reality, and then look again at the illusion. We must see beyond. For what shakes the eye but the invisible?
Theresa is calling for me to come inside and eat. I must obey her or there will be unrest in the house and the broom will come out. I cannot be responsible for the decimation of our lizard population! But the view from the veranda is marvellous, and I linger.
I abhor catastrophe in all forms. There has been much I have wished to retain and repair. There is so much still to order. Yet I wait for the snow to arrive on the mountains.
The Mirror Crisis
You hold the thin plastic device in your hand, watching the strip for a blue line, which may or may not appear. The bathroom door is locked. The blinds are drawn. Opposite you is your reflection. Nathan is in the kitchen–you can hear the gonging of pans as he lifts one out of the cupboard, the hiss of the tap, and the bowing of water as the metal hull fills. The lid of the toilet seat is cold on the backs of your legs. There are small hexagonal tiles under your feet, the edges of which you trace with your toes. This is a scenario you were never sure you would experience. You have always been ambivalent about children. But here you are. You’ve followed the test instructions with clinical precision. The box tells you the percentage of accuracy is high. You are in the hands of trustworthy science. Science will scout out the correct hormones, distinguishing them, or declaring their absence. The tiny portable laboratory in your hand is, at this moment, going about its business.
It should only take a few minutes, and then you will know. The world will arrange itself around this information. It will make way for another temporary pulse, or it will retain its position, adjusting the count elsewhere around the world as people pitch in and out, headlong, hundreds of them by the second. The indicator paper is clear and prepared. You think of bromide emulsion, light sensitivities, of waiting for a face to develop in a photograph. It’s like waiting to know if the image has succeeded or failed. The device is a viewfinder, an observatory. And in a few minutes you will know who is or is not there.
You feel no discernible emotion either way, and you are not sure what you will feel when the result comes in. Terror? Elation? Disa
ppointment? Or something in between? You will have to wait and see.
The funny thing is, you’ve been thinking so long and hard about death that you’ve lost sight of its fraternal twin, its obverse pole. This is the prerogative of grief you suppose. There have been times you’ve not realised you were crying, until you put your hand to your face and it came away wet, until you noticed that someone was looking at you curiously, the concerned stranger on the train, or the woman in the supermarket who offered you a tissue. You have been so consumed that you’ve almost forgotten about the other side, the affirmation, the positive stroke. Life.
What is it really? A term. A condition. A state of being, for a while, animate. A state that is no longer radically felt, perhaps, that has no hard mortal slap, day after day, no jeopardy, nothing hanging in the balance–at least not in this safe little bolthole of the globe. There is no requirement to kill, no murdering for the scraps. Even the bloody bookends of birth and death are dulled with morphine, epidural, euthanasia. The occasional reminders of what it is to be anatomised, what it is to be made of particles, neurons, nerves, and senses, what it means to be homo sapiens–the car accident, the toxic oyster, the bolt rattling out of the rollercoaster–are few and far between. Ecstasy and agony are now on sale. Pay for the ride, pull the parachute cord, pop the pill, there will be insurance of some kind, a safety net below. The brain fires but the true biological impetus, of pain and desire, of hunger and fear, is missing. Because human beings can’t be given happiness, after all. They have to fight for it, sprint for it, get close to the edge for it. They have to rut for it, permit the striking of those dutiful, savant gametes. So you go on, in abstraction, until something wakes you up–a bomb, an accident, a close miss. So you fuck him, not for love, but because you both understand that death equals life. Perhaps.