Some nights she woke to pain, and found him pressed against her back, his thick fingers clutching her breasts, kneading her flesh. Why did he have to ambush her like this, drag her back into her skin from the deeps of exhausted sleep? Why when she came to him in the evening did he turn away from her? But in the mornings he would smile like a child, delighted with what the day presented, and she would remind herself that his appetite for life, which she so loved, was the same force that drove him to bite her shoulder and tug at her hips in the night, the same force that produced his art. Looked at another way, it was energy and fervour – passion – that he brought to their nights, and she told herself she was squeamish and prim.
The smokehouse plan quickly became burdensome, but she pressed on, reading about meat mincers, brine injectors, smoke generators, sausage fillers until her head spun. Then there were the legal requirements, inspectors, standards, registration, packaging, labelling. When she tried to talk to Otto he poured scorn on her concerns. His father had never needed these permits. Pah! So many laws and rules, it was not necessary. ‘Here, I will draw you the smokehouse; it is all you need. And the labels, I will do. They will be the most beautiful of any.’
She would smile, and resolve to keep these concerns to herself in future. She needed more than pretty labels and picturesque wooden buildings – she needed money. Otto was an artist, an innocent, with an artist’s view of the world. She was the practical one.
And so she found herself before very long sitting opposite the bank manager and asking him for a large overdraft. Otto was at home, painting. It was his work, he explained, and could not be set aside, even for a morning. ‘You go, Greer. It is your farm. I am not good with the money.’
Her family had been thrifty and modest, yet the bank manager made her feel like a beggar and a fool. Did she have a business plan? he asked her coolly, peering at her over his rimless glasses. Had she investigated the market for these products? Were there hygiene issues? His nostrils flared minutely, as if he could smell pig on her.
She answered his questions, listed her assets, pressing on mulishly, and he was cold and disdainful and uncompromising. She despised him, but in the end he drew up the documents and made her sign – here, and here – indicating the places with a manicured finger.
Her farm was mortgaged.
She spotted the green vase as she was on her way from the bank to the store. It was in the window of the gallery cum antique shop, alongside a set of cream-and-green canisters, some old green enamel bowls, and a couple of lime-green linen tea towels. Greer was shocked by the price tag.
At home, she walked into her parents’ old room and placed the vase on the dressing table beside his paints. ‘I found the vase, Otto.’
He glanced up, then bent over his painting, concentrating on a detail, ignoring her.
‘Warze?’
‘This vase. It was not yours to sell.’
‘Still so worried about your china cabinet?’
‘It’s been in my family for—’
‘I needed paints. Until my show I cannot pay.’ He sounded furious.
‘If you need money you only have to ask—’ She heard herself placating him, reassuring him.
‘I do not like to beg.’ He jammed his brush in the preser- ving jar of turps she had given him and washed it thoroughly.
‘It’s not begging. Otto, you know I begrudge you nothing.’
‘But you begrudge me this ugly old warze.’
‘No, I—’
‘This is bourgeois bullshit, Greer. I have told you.’
‘But it was my mother’s.’
‘Do not speak to me of mothers,’ he hissed.
One day, she recognised a journalist amongst the throng seated around her table – Evonne, Eva, something. They had both written for the university newspaper, although she must have been in her final year when Greer was a first-year.
‘Ah, here is Greer. Speak to Greer,’ said Otto, beckoning her over. ‘She has a book of worse.’
‘Worse?’
‘Poetry,’ she said quietly, filling a glass and drinking it in two long swallows. The woman barely looked at Greer.
‘You can write about my paintings and Greer’s worse,’ Otto insisted, good-natured as ever. ‘Greer, get your book while I show Eva my verk.’ He pronounced it Ever.
She fetched it, but when she returned the food had been pushed to one end of the table and Otto’s little jewelled paintings had been spread out for their admiration.
‘Do you like this?’ Otto said, indicating an abstract in rich crimson and umber. ‘This I will show, I think.’
‘You’re having an exhibition?’ Eva sensed a story. ‘How marvellous.’
‘Yes, very soon. You will be first to know.’
‘Otto?’ said Greer.
‘And this is mother,’ he said, pointing to an old woman clutching an axe, like a Judy puppet with her stick, about to beat Mr Punch. Her clothes were primitive, her face a rictus of rage. Everyone laughed, and he leafed through others. The old woman figured in several – Greer was surprised to see how many. Here she stood before a burning house, flames like red hair bristling from the windows; in another she wore a white coat stained with blood and carried cutting implements – the paintings were nightmarish, but he hurried past them, saying with a smile, ‘Mother . . . mother again . . .’ until he came to a painting of the orchard, all the trees dotted with picture-book fruit.
‘Oh, that’s really lovely!’
‘Do you think?’ Otto seemed suddenly uncertain.
‘Yes, beautiful, really, you’re so gifted.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’
Greer noticed a painting of the green vase, with a tree sprouting from it, shedding leaves that turned to play money as they fell. Her face burned.
‘Oh, this is gorgeous!’ Eva pounced on a funny little painting of a flying pig that he had promised to Greer for her labels and advertising. This one flew high above the farm, the town tucked into the hills in the distance.
‘You like it?’
‘I love it. How much?’
It’s not for sale, Greer thought, it’s my trademark, but Otto mentioned a ridiculous figure for such a small work, and Eva pulled out a cheque book. ‘Sold!’ she said jubilantly.
‘You see, Greer, I too can make the money.’
They visited the bank together the following day, and Greer was astonished to find the bank manager a changed man: where she had expected contempt, she found instead a clumsy bonhomie. It seemed that no one was immune to the artist’s charm. She wanted to add Otto as a signatory to her account to grant him some financial independence, but found herself listening to a conversation about art, in which the bank manager paraded his knowledge, and Otto flattered and encouraged. Behind the cold façade was a connoisseur, apparently, and one eager to see Otto’s paintings. The paperwork was dispatched within minutes – ‘Sign here, and here, and you’ll need a debit card of course, and a cheque book? Credit card? Of course.’ Nothing was too much trouble. And Otto, at his most winning, promised to bring his work in to the bank for a private showing before it went to the framer.
Outside in the sunshine, Greer didn’t know whether to laugh or grind her teeth with rage. ‘Otto, how did you do it? That man’s a supercilious, cold-hearted . . .’
‘No, no, he is fine. You’ll see. Come on, now. Let us drink to our success.’
‘Our what?’
‘To my show.’
Greer had rarely been to the pub. Her parents had never drunk much, and it was not a place she could visit alone without causing a minor scandal. But Otto was obviously well known, and was greeted warmly by the publican and most of the drinkers. Greer noticed one of his paintings hanging in the bar.
‘Usual, Otto?’
‘Thank you. And for Greer, champagne. And one for you, my friend. One for all! Today we celebrate.’
‘Sure thing. So what’s this in aid of?’
‘In aid of me, my fri
end. My new show. It will be big success, you’ll see.’
The publican laughed, setting a pint of beer on the bar for Otto, and starting to pull beers for the other drinkers. Soon Otto was surrounded by well-wishers, and Greer found herself edged along the bar. She reached for her champagne as he proposed a toast, raising his pint pot and shouting, ‘To art!’
‘To art!’ they cried, surely the strangest toast ever made in that small country pub.
An old man on her left, his nose crimson with grog blossoms, mumbled, ‘Who’s Art?’
The barman totted up the bill and Otto took out the new credit card and slapped it onto the bar. ‘Can you make the tab?’
The barman nodded and scooped it up. ‘Cheers.’
Otto insisted the exhibition was a triumph. He had sold almost a third of his pictures, and many people had expres- sed an interest, especially in the flying pig, which he had painted again, changing it slightly. He’d sold one version to the bank manager for a hefty price, who insisted on calling it ‘Pigs Might Fly’ and made a ponderous joke about farmers and overdrafts. Greer flushed, but Otto laughed immoderately.
Afterwards he told Greer, ‘It is kitsch, this flying pig, but they do not see it. I paint it fifty times and still it sells. These people, they know nothing. Philistines! Art-lovers the worst . . . no, amateur painters – they are the worst,’ he said with relish.
‘Why do you bother with them then?’
‘Because they are useful, or they may be.’
But in spite of the failings of the townspeople, and the gallery, which was nothing more than a ‘pretentious craft shop’, Otto pronounced himself well pleased.
Greer cast her eye down the catalogue and did some quick arithmetic. The gallery took half – half, and for what? – then there were framing expenses, the cost of canvas, stretchers, and those wickedly expensive little blocks and tubes of paint . . . After they subtracted the cost of all that, there would be nothing, less than nothing, left. This was success? This was the life of art?
‘Always with you it is money!’ he shouted. ‘This is bourgeois bullshit, this always worrying about money money money!’
‘I have to worry about money, Otto, or we won’t eat.’
‘We have big farm full of things to eat. Don’t give me that.’
But it’s my farm, she thought. And it’s my hard work. If we keep on like this you’ll eat up everything I have. She began to cry, silently, shamed by her weakness.
He snorted contemptuously. ‘It is always tears with you women. Tears and money. My mother is just the same. “You must work, Otichek. I cannot do all. Art does not fill our bellies, Otik . . . ”’ He minced and mimicked savagely, then suddenly barked, ‘All from my show will go into your bank. All. You are happy now?’ He slammed out of the room and she heard him thumping and banging around in his studio and finally the sound of the front door slamming.
Greer, replaying the exchange later, wondered if his mother was alive after all. Was her resurrection no more than a grammatical slip? Was she still in Europe, or out here? Did she know about Greer? But what did it matter, if Otto had left her?
Days passed, then weeks. Otto didn’t return. The exhibition money did not appear in her account. People dropped by to see him, or called, and she made excuses. ‘He’s gone away. No, I’m sorry, I can’t say when he’ll be back.’ She let Spinner and Molly in again at night for company, as she had done in the past, and they were ecstatic, then hastily sober and polite, as if good manners might stave off banishment and keep them there by the fire forever with their beloved mistress.
Time seemed to slow and thicken. The days shortened and she felt again, as she had after her parents’ death, that winter was her enemy, sucking warmth from her. She worked to stop her thoughts, oversaw the building of the smokehouse, did what she could herself to cut costs, but she had no enthusiasm for it anymore. The paperwork and red tape were maddening. Everything exhausted her, and she was off her food, feeling a faint nausea whenever she thought of eating. What was the matter with her? You’re tired, she told herself. And you’re sad. Work. Sleep. Forget. And so she plodded through each day, hoping that she would look up from her books and see that blocky little figure standing in the door- way of her kitchen and they could start again, and talk.
The first postcard came in the same mail as the bank statement, which she opened at once. Casting her eye down the withdrawals for builders, concreters, plumbers, smoking equipment, she found a cluster of expenses from a city in France! And wait, there were more. For an instant her throat closed with panic – someone had stolen her bank details – and then she knew. Her account was almost empty, and here was confirmation, a postcard with a foreign stamp and the familiar extravagant hand.
My favourite painting in whole Louvre. I am reborn after visit to this my true home. Thank you Grir. Back on 30th. I have much to tell.
Greer felt a spurt of laughter catch in her throat, then turn to a sob. She cried tears of fury and fear and joy. He was coming home. But he had emptied her account. What would she do? He might have much to tell, but Greer had news of her own: she was pregnant.
Otto arrived one evening, luggage stuffed with books, prints, small sculptures, new camera equipment, brushes, paints, liqueurs, chocolates and other little luxuries. He was in high spirits, showing her his work, telling her stories about what he had seen and where he had been, what he had eaten, the wines he had drunk, and the promises of exhibitions in Paris, Milan and Bratislava. They would be rich! It was his big break. They would go together, travel the world! She listened, waiting for the right moment. But there was no right moment, and he seemed oblivious to her silence. Instead, she told him at dinner, abruptly, when his mouth was too full of food for him to talk.
‘Otto, I’m pregnant.’
He stopped chewing, frowned. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
She felt a sudden chill, then a wave of heat. ‘Why are you sorry? I’m not.’
‘Greer, don’t be stupid. This cannot be.’
‘But—’
‘No. I am artist, Greer. I am not caught so easily.’
Caught? Caught! Greer was speechless.
‘You are poet!’ he went on. ‘You do not want babies. How can you have babies and be poet and farmer?’
Why did he mention her poetry only now? She had not written a line for months, and he had always been indifferent to her work. She stood abruptly and went to her bedroom, shutting the door firmly. She lay on her bed, her mind threshing between impossibilities as the hours ticked by, and he did not join her.
In the morning Greer made him coffee, feeling too queasy for anything more than weak tea. When it became clear that she would not be cooking breakfast, he slammed into the pantry and came out with eggs, bacon, garlic, onions and bread. The smells sickened her, but she sat there as he listed his requirements and fried up a pile of food for himself. She would have her little baby, but he would need a studio, a large studio, big enough so he could show his work. A studio gallery. There must be room for him to paint and draw, and for a press – he had decided to return to printmaking since his trip – and space for him to sleep if he needed peace and quiet. His first European show was in six months’ time. It was necessary that he attend, and he would be away for at least six weeks. It could not be helped. And if Greer insisted on such foolishness, she must understand that he could not be trapped like this. ‘You must pay all, Greer, if you want babies like every stupid woman.’
‘I do want babies,’ Greer said quietly, ‘and I hoped you would, too. But if you don’t, then I will have this baby alone, and I will care for it alone.’ For a moment sorrow welled in her, but she fought it down. There at the kitchen table she determined that she would ask him for nothing. She would manage as she had always managed, and he could have his studio.
‘The orchard’s the obvious block to sell, Greer, if you must.’ Charlie’s voice was kind, but he was frowning.
‘I’ve got no choice. I can’t go back to the bank, and I’v
e got feed to buy and bills to pay, and the mortgage, and I’m . . .’ She couldn’t say it, couldn’t tell him. Even asking his advice seemed unfair.
‘I could—’
‘No, Charlie. It’s my problem.’
He sighed, nodded. ‘Well, the orchard, then. It’s on its own title, there’s easy access from the road, and it’d make a nice weekender for somebody, although the pigs might be a problem.’
‘I can keep them further to the south. That next paddock can be used for crops. I’ll figure out something.’
‘Greer, I’d buy it myself, but it’s too far from my place, and you’ll get more if you sell it as a house block.’ For an instant she slipped into a parallel life with Charlie and a baby, finding to her surprise not tedium but safety and kindness and ease. Almost, she thought, love, then shook herself.
It was decided, the orchard had to go, the trees her grandparents and parents had planted and tended must be sold. It felt like cutting away part of herself.
Greer felt better and stronger in her second trimester. The smokehouse was finished and the product trials had been surprisingly successful; she had more orders than she could fill for her hams, farmhouse sausage and salami. Business was looking good, and she began to feel more hopeful. She caught herself whistling or singing as she worked, something irrepressible rising in her. She hadn’t felt as buoyant since her parents were alive. It was the child growing steadily within her, she was sure.
Otto had produced an etching of the flying pig for her labels, which managed to look both elegant and rustic, but apart from that he took no interest in the business, only in the smoked meats. His appetite was prodigious. Greer looked at him crossing the yard, and saw that he had ballooned into a humpty dumpty; face round as a plate, the strong planes of cheeks, forehead and jaw blurred. His clothes no longer fitted. More expense, Greer thought. Each day he would cut slabs of bread and ham or salami for his lunch and take them into town, where he rented a studio. It was necessary, he said, until his new studio was built. Her parents’ room where he had painted for months no longer sufficed. ‘I must be seen. The farm is too isolated, too quiet. I need people, Greer. People will buy my paintings.’ And he needed to go to the city regularly to negotiate with one of the big galleries. Once he signed with them, he would be rich. ‘Money for studio is investment, Greer. Like smokehouse. You have to spend money to make money.’
Tales from the Tower, Volume 2 Page 15