The Biographer

by Virginia Duigan

  'Mischa proceeded to draw this incredible intricate maze.Well, it started as a maze; ended up more like a jigsaw puzzle. I took it home.Yet I don't think all this activity is a nervous habit or attention deficit or anything, it's just surplus energy boiling up and spilling over. For sixty-five, that's something. He looks his age, but kind of doesn't act it.'

  Greer turned over in bed. Mischa had an arm flung out, wedged under her neck. He was snoring. She tried to reposition herself more comfortably,then gave up and slid down in the bed. His arm followed her, resting heavily against the top of her head, hot and sweaty. He had fallen asleep immediately, as he usually did. She had lain awake for some time, eyes open in the darkness.

  Before she met Antony she had a clear mental picture of him. It had arrived of its own volition just the other morning, when she heard Mischa loudly singing in the shower. He was belting out his own rock 'n' roll adaptation of Blake's 'Jerusalem', an arrangement he neither varied nor tired of and which never failed to remind her of their first encounter. When he reached the last couplet, 'And was Jerusalem builded here, Among those dark, satanic mills?' Greer had seen Antony Corbino. Two words clinched the vision. Antony's face would be dark and satanic, she was certain of it.

  Instead, as she stood on the steps and watched him materialise in Agnieszka's excitable wake, she saw that he was light-haired and boyish, and far too urbane to betray anything much. He had a good-looking face in a conventional, regular-featured way. Open and round, with unblinking blue eyes.Voyeuristic blue eyes?

  Strictly speaking he should have a cleft chin,she thought, but even without one he reminds me of those illustrations of fair-haired, clean-cut young men from the Boys'Own annuals of my father's childhood. Athletic, smiling chaps who were clones of each other, wearing sleeveless Fair Isle sweaters and holding tennis racquets, well-mannered and eager to please. His manner's faintly old-fashioned too, although he may have adopted that out of a misplaced consideration for our seniority. He's younger than I imagined.

  They shook hands. I am very likely shaking the hand of my enemy, Greer thought. His handshake was firm and cool. He was smiling, and she noticed unusually white, even teeth in a smooth, tanned face.

  'I hope you were vaguely expecting me,' he said.'I heard about the computer glitch.' As he said this he inclined his head in Agnieszka's direction. He had a pleasant voice, well modulated.It reminded her of Gene Kelly's.And his clothes lay on his body with the same casual elegance. Last week she and Mischa had watched Singin' in the Rain again at one of Rollo and Guy's regular video nights.

  'Your email flew off into the ether . . .'

  He gave her a wide smile.'As they do. Hey, what a place you have here. I'd heard about it, of course, but the real thing –' He shook his head.

  'Did you have any trouble finding us?' she asked.

  'Absolutely none at all. I had that cute little cartoon by Rollo Sonabend. I'm going to have it framed.'

  Rollo would enjoy that description of his map. She looked at her watch, then across the courtyard. Sure enough, there he was emerging on cue from the chapel, pugs in tow. At home his habits never varied. Six pm on the dot was knock-off time, the signal for Campari or a gin and tonic (sherry in winter) or champagne if there was any going. With an airy, 'Look, there he is now, in the flesh,' she signalled to him and beckoned.

  Rollo's solid flesh could be a bulwark, for the moment, between her and Antony. Mischa could wait. His working hours followed no pattern and were completely unpredictable. If they had nothing arranged, and sometimes even if they did, he frequently worked into and through the night.

  'That's the Mr Sonabend? Wow.'

  She led Antony through the sitting room and down the steep steps to the south terrace.They talked landmarks, while Rollo and the pugs ambled over. Antony had done his homework. He knew the layout already: Mischa's studio in the tower, Rollo's in the chapel, even the old walled cemetery and the path that wound through olive trees and horses on agistment to the swimming pool on the side of the hill.

  They could hear Rollo's grumbles before he showed up,mopping his brow.'It's never like this in April.It's all this global warming and dimming. You'd think they'd cancel each other out, wouldn't you?' He winked at her.

  She knew he was well aware that she needed him there and why, and she observed him closely as he was introduced. It was Rollo's impression of Antony that she most wanted to hear. Rollo had been mastering the art, he said, of character assessment (you mean assassination, Guy would say) for close on eight decades, and no one could touch him for accuracy. Greer was inclined to agree, with him and with Guy.

  Antony came forward, hand outstretched. 'It's a great honour to meet with you, sir. I'm an admirer of your work from way back.'

  Rollo turned to Greer.'Did you hear that,darling? He's one of my admirers, not that way back is very far back, in his case. But he's very good-looking, which is an excellent thing in a biographer, and he's got off to a good start by sweet-talking me. He knows I can be a big wheel in this bio. An essential primeval source.'

  He plumped himself down with a satisfied grunt. Greer knew without looking that his appraising eyes were still actively focused on the visitor. He had a tendency to stare on first meeting, which some people found disconcerting.

  'So, this is the unscrupulous young pup who will disclose to the world where the bodies are buried.'

  'Absolutely, sir, and I'm hoping that you're the trusty mole who's going to divulge all the locations,' Antony was saying as Greer went inside for drinks.

  She reached for things slowly as if on autopilot, reluctant to return: gin and tonic, mineral water, a plate of crostini and a bowl of bright green Sicilian olives. When eventually she came back, put down the tray and retrieved ice and cold glasses from the second fridge on the terrace, Rollo wasn't sir any more, one of the dogs was lying in his lap, the other in Antony's, and Rollo was recounting stories about his life as an art student after World War II.

  'I've been regaling him with my Slade period, darling. Like your Australian period, only more sordid and sleazy. I'm hoping he'll do me next, you see, after Signor Svoboda. In fact, it's a condition of my indiscretion. If I'm to be the Deep Throat in this bio, I must be bought off.'

  Antony was grinning.'Deal.'They shook hands on it.

  'But how soon can you get this little number out of the way? You've been at it for years,haven't you?'Rollo paused for a beat.'The book,I mean,'he added roguishly.

  'Oh, you mean the book.Well, I've done pretty much all the research, the travelling around and hard slog. The solid background work. Now is the fun part, when I get to colour things in, you know, fill in the foreground. All the up-close and personal bits.'

  'It's like adding reclining nudes to a landscape, isn't it? Well, you'd better not take for ever. I might not be around. There can't be that much to say about Mischa, surely? He's far too lacking in notoriety. How much longer are we talking?'

  'That depends a bit on what comes up. I haven't interviewed any of you Castello people yet.'

  'You're talking to us now, already.'

  'In private, I mean. People are way more indiscreet in private.'

  He's smiling at me again, Greer thought. The face is bland, but those guileless blue eyes are sparkling.

  'Oh, way more, you're right on the knocker there. I'll give you a completely different story when Gigi's out of earshot.'

  'I haven't even got to meet with my subject yet.Your maid was appalled at my tardiness.'

  'Oh, he doesn't need to meet with his subject, does he? It would be quite superfluous. We can tell you everything about Mischa. Besides, he's spectacularly inarticulate about his work, isn't he?'

  'He is, rather,' Greer said. Rollo's trying to include me, she thought. I ought to say something. She added, 'He's an instinctive painter, not an analytical one.'

  'Pretty amazing instincts, huh?'

  She nodded. He was still smiling. His teeth were really quite small, but remarkably white and regular.The top and
bottom rows were equally visible, like the picture of a gleaming porcelain smile in a toothpaste advertisement.

  Rollo said, 'You mustn't give too much credence to what people say in interviews.There would be a gruesome amount of best behaviour going on, I should have thought. Lashings of sanctimonious spin.'

  'That can certainly be true, but you make allowances for embellishment, and everything gets massively cross-checked again anyway. On the other hand, I have to say it's more than balanced by the amount of bad behaviour you get thrown at you.'

  'Really? You don't say.' Rollo's ears were pricked.

  'People out to settle old scores, and so on. The most lavish informants are not exactly devotees of their subject. Mostly failed painters in this case, blaming Mischa for their own less than stellar careers and lack of talent.'

  Antony looked at Greer.'But don't worry on that score, the grudge groupies are wildly transparent. They're child's play to see through. Most of them haven't even set eyes on Mischa in years.'

  'Well, who has, really, apart from us? And even we don't see that much of him, do we?' Rollo laid his hand over Greer's.'This is probably just another failed painter talking,but our young friend here will have to confront the bitter truth in his bio eventually, won't he? Your soul mate's got a serious dose of the workaholics. Full on, he's not just a recovering one like me. He's never been a social flutterby or a nightclubable chap.'

  She made an effort to play along. 'He doesn't feel the need for what most people think of as essential – a busy social life, the kind where you keep up with a wide circle of friends.He's happy with a select few.And with them he can be quite,'she looked at Rollo,'he can be quite extrovert.'

  'Ain't dat de truth.' Rollo chuckled.

  'That's why it's so great to get here at last and meet with you guys, the inner circle who really do know him. I've been itching to put faces to the names I've had in front of me for so long.'

  'But surely you've already seen photos of us guys? And interviews on the telly? There must be a few home movies gathering dust under people's beds too these days, although we've never gone in for them here. Far too incriminating.'

  'There are, but it's not the same. Even when you've seen photos and TV clips. People are usually nothing like you imagined. In the flesh.'

  He's looking at me again, Greer thought. He's hardly touched his drink. She refilled Rollo's glass, added the two ice blocks he liked, and said, immediately regretting it,'Are they better or worse?'

  'They're neither. Just different. The same way you get a mental picture of someone from a voice on the telephone, and when you go face to face with them you're gobsmacked.'

  'Isn't that spot on? And isn't it extraordinarily odd? They're usually the exact opposite of your mental picture. Why do you suppose this is?' Rollo leant forward. He could chew over this kind of discussion for hours.When she tuned back in they were roaring with laughter over something, and looking at her expectantly.

  'She's in a dream,' Rollo said.'You'll have to get used to that. Don't take it personally. She's apt to go off at any time, whether you're Nelson Mandela or Cary Grant.Or,I suppose, Brad Pitt.'

  'Especially Mr Pitt,' she said.

  'I was just telling him, darling, that although we'd never spoken on the phone I had a definite conviction he'd be a receding brunette with horn-rims, like your standard prune-lipped critic. Not a nice blond preppy. How did you visualise him?'

  'Oh,' she looked down,'I don't think I had any mental picture.' She felt Antony's eyes on her again. He knows I'm lying. He may be fair-haired but my conviction was right: he is dark, deep down. He has a dark gaze.

  'Mrs Smith! Where are you hiding?' Mischa's shout, although she had heard it a thousand times, made her jump.

  She called, 'We're out here.' She turned to Antony and said, looking over his head, 'He always does that. Even though he could have seen us on his way here from the studio, if he looked up, and there's a limited number of places I might be . . .' Why was she explaining this, she wondered. She went to the bar fridge for his beer.

  'Antony's here, and Roly,' she added loudly and unnecessarily, feeling foolish, as Mischa lumbered in on them.

  'Have you got a beer for me? Ah, what a good woman.' He gave her a smacking kiss then seized the bottle and pumped Antony's proffered hand. 'Salve, Tony! This is my authorised biographer, base rabble, and nobody told me he was here!'

  Greer thought, he's still sounding awkward.

  Another drink later and the four of them had given up on Guy and his wine buyers and gone down to eat in the village. Just a jumped-down tratt, Rollo told Antony, nothing fancy for you. But the biographer couldn't fail to see that the group were regulars there, knew all the other diners, were hailed by Maria Paola the moment they set foot in the door, had their chairs ceremoniously pulled out and, what was more, Rollo's own special chair, upholstered in worn velvet, carried ceremoniously in.

  'I am very partial to a well-padded seat,' Rollo said, looking at Antony.'Especially since me piles.'

  'Shut the hell up about seats and piles, Roly. We will have straight-talking because the straight majority rules,that's right, isn't it, Tony? Maria Paola, meet Tony, my authorised biographer from LA. If you treat him well he will give you a rave write-up and you will become rich and famous –'

  'And our nice quiet place will be rooned.' Rollo laid a hand on Antony's shoulder.'She doesn't understand a word of English, you know. Especially Mischa's. We can assassinate critics and shred reputations in here to our hearts' content. It's so very therapeutic and restful.' He looked around approvingly.'You see? Not a horrible tourist in sight.'

  6

  21st July

  Isle of Ps

  What's really ironic is that people come here for a rest cure, it's so unbelievably quiet & peaceful. I must be the only guest who's in a permanent massive turmoil. It's only a week since we came and it seems like a year. We've settled into a routine – getting up late, having breakfast on the porch, collecting a packed lunch and biking off somewhere in our togs. Picnicking at some idyllic spot with no one else around, going for a swim, then back for a siesta & read. A sail or another swim, then dinner. The food (Frog) is divine. You couldn't find a more gorgeous place for a holiday.

  Charlie's so happy & I'm trying to act as if I am too, when inside I'm cold & apprehensive and full of dread. He keeps urging me to do some drawing, but I've got no motivation at all. He even offered to sit for me, to mark 'this auspicious occasion'. I just felt ill. He keeps making advances at night and I keep making excuses, which he's accepted, so far. He's always so understanding. I just can't face it.

  What am I going to do?

  'What are you up to, Mrs Smith?'

  Greer's hand flew to her heart.'Don't come in like that, Mischa, you gave me a terrible fright.' His eyes were accusing and blurry from sleep. He was naked.

  'Why are you in here? I woke up and you weren't there. I was worried. Come back to bed.'

  He advanced. She pushed him away, gently. 'I couldn't sleep, that's all. I came to get a book.'

  'Why couldn't you sleep? I was asleep.'

  He always relates everything back to himself, she thought without rancour. 'I know you were, you were snoring like a steam train. Go back. I won't be long.'

  He looked hurt. He always claimed he couldn't sleep without her in the bed. 'You'll catch cold. Bring the book back to bed and I'll warm you up.'

  'I'm looking for it. Go away, you'll catch cold too. I'll come back in a minute.'

  He padded off, apparently satisfied. She waited, then went through the kitchen door and out on to the side steps. She looked across to her left at the smaller of the two neighbouring houses.Antony's house.Tony's.There were no lights burning. Under the clear moonlight it was the same as it had always been, much as it had looked for centuries, yet she found she could not think of it in the same way as friendly territory. Because of the person within, it had ceased to be neutral. It had taken sides.

  Was Tony in bed, fast asl
eep? Or was he lying there in his upstairs room, blue eyes wide, shutters open to let in the moon, idly regarding the beam of its light on the wall as he mulled things over? He would think, wouldn't he, that the evening had gone well?

  It had been a convivial table, jolly, the three-cornered conversation of the men ranging over art, inevitably on to conspiracy theories (Rollo's speciality) and thence progressing naturally to European and American politics. Mischa found politics baffling but he enjoyed discussions about their Machiavellian complexities. His naïve amazement at what he heard tended, as on this occasion, to rouse his informers to competitive heights of hyperbole. He had begun to draw a maze on the paper cloth, using the flattened edge of a black crayon.

  Greer hadn't contributed much.The reason for Antony's being there at all didn't come up until late in the piece. Until they started on the Bilbao art gallery. He had written about it.

  'Talking of galleries,' he went on casually,'what do you think of the one in Melbourne?' None of the others had seen it. 'Huge mosaic stone walls: it's like great sheets of crazy paving have been levered off a sidewalk and hoisted a hundred feet in the air. Lots of angled glass that doesn't seem to be held up by anything. Natural light as far as possible, a very Southern Hemisphere openness.'

  He gave Mischa and Greer a surprised look.'You haven't gone back at all? You should definitely do a pilgrimage. It's a changed city, I guess, from a quarter of a century back. Cosmopolitan, lots of buzzy little laneways full of bars and cafés.Very multicultural.'

  'It was multicultural then,' Mischa said. He was drumming his fingers on the table. His nails were encrusted with paint in a variety of colours.

  'Wouldn't you like to see the place again?'This question was definitely directed at Greer, she wasn't imagining it. She let Mischa reply. She knew what he would say.

  'Never go back.' Mischa started to draw a path of arrows through the maze. 'It's not a good idea, under any circumstances.You should live in the present and look forwards, not sideways or back.You can write that down if you like,Tony.'