He touched it and responded with a reassuring smile. 'It's safely off, Greer.'
'Then you can put it away, out of sight.'
He tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans promptly. She had a desire to pick him up by the scruff of the neck and shake him.
Instead she said, 'I gather you've seen Charlie and my sister,and spoken to them.Where are they living?'
'OK now. Let's see.' He frowned and screwed up his eyes.'They keep a house in Sydney, in an upmarket neighbourhood called Hunters Hill, but Charlie's on a three-year contract in Shanghai right now. I was able to catch them on one of their Sydney visits. It's a grand old house, turn-of-the-century sandstone, with lawns sweeping down to the water and a jetty for their boat.'
Greer braced herself. 'They have a child.' In the rising inflexion of the last syllable she heard the ghost of a question. It was easy to fall back into the old habit.To clutch at straws, while knowing they had blown away.To clutch at straws you did not need any more.
Tony got up, pirouetting off the floor with one hand. She thought, Guy would like it, but that little display of athletic prowess is wasted on me. He sat back in a chair, the denim satchel resting on his knee.
'Yeah, well, they had three kids, but they've all flown the coop now.Two are away at school. One's at the national uni in Canberra and the other's doing postgrad in the UK. Sussex, I think it is.'
'Three?' She was confused.
'They adopted two, because – well, you know how your sister couldn't have kids of her own? She had that very rare thing when she was young –'
'A form of Asherman's Syndrome.'
'Right. So they adopted two Chinese race babies. Girls. Pretty cute kids – there were photos everywhere. They're grown now, of course.'
'So they were sisters for the . . . for the first one?' She heard herself speaking the words distinctly and slowly, as if she were addressing a child. And felt herself rocking in the open window, backwards and forwards. This had been a childhood habit, when awaiting a reprimand for some transgression. She straightened up, her hand on the ledge.
'Younger sisters for Will, yeah.'
Will. She saw him throwing a frisbee on a beach to his younger sisters. She pronounced his name experimentally, tentatively, in her mind.
'They called him William Charles Gordon McNicoll. William for your dad, and Charles for his. Gordon for, well, for you.And for Josie too,of course.But he's always known as Will.'
She looked at Tony. Here was the messenger with the tidings, the repository of the knowledge. His round head with its halo of bright blond hair like stalks of spiky corn was bent now, his hands riffling through the folders in his case. She felt she was seeing him with new eyes. He was not the person she would have chosen, but he was all she had.
'He's all right,Will,is he? Is he in good health?'
The strident questions had emerged, bludgeoned themselves out into the open before she thought to frame them in any different way.
She stood up again, feeling Tony's gaze on her, and turned to stare out of the window at her cypress, and the valley beyond.The familiar sloping landscape looked like an incomprehensible map, some unknown country spread out before her.The land trembled behind currents of warm air. It seemed to have no connection to her.
Does Tony know why I sound so stilted and strange? Why there is a lump in my throat? Does he have the remotest idea that this is the first conversation on the subject I have ever had with anyone in my life?
'He was doing very fine, Greer, when I last heard.'
She had her back to him and he couldn't see her face. There were small cotton-wool clouds scudding high in the sky. To her horror, she felt tears welling. She squeezed her eyes shut and brushed at them with her clenched fists.
'When you last heard? But how long ago was that?' Now her voice sounded muffled and gravelly to her ears, and foreign, like the voice of another person.
'Not so long. Just before I came here.'
He's speaking to me encouragingly now, comforting me as if I were the child.
'And you – did you actually see him?'
'Sure I did.'
Tony must have got up, she felt his hand resting lightly on her forearm.'And I have a photo to prove it.'
Instead of throwing him off she allowed herself to be guided to the armchair next to his. He was taking something from his case, one of his manila envelopes.
He hesitated.'Do you want to see it?'
The question was so absurd she had to stop herself from seizing the envelope and tearing the paper to extract the colour photograph, a ten by eight print. Instead she saw her middle-aged hand extend itself as if in slow motion and slide it from his smooth young fingers with their shiny manicured nails.
She lowered her eyes to the photograph in her hand, but at first saw nothing.Her vision was still blurred.Acutely conscious of the presence of the young man next to her, she laid the image on her knee and pressed the cold palms of her hands against her eyelids.
She unfolded her hands slowly, like two doors opening outwards, keeping her thumbs pressed to the corners of her eyes and her head lowered. That way Tony could not see her face when she looked on the likeness of her son for the first time in her life.
What she saw at first was what anyone might see. A lanky youth, dark-haired, wearing jeans. He was standing outside a house with a lacy iron balcony, a house in the style of the inner-city Victorian terraces she remembered.
It was an oddly formal photograph.The young man was not lounging but standing stiffly, as if to attention. His arms, blue shirtsleeves rolled to the elbow, were folded in front of him, his feet planted wide apart. He presented the camera with a challenging stare, chin jutting, unsmiling.
She thought, he is like a soldier presenting arms. He is goodlooking, there is strength and vigour there. A look of Charlie.A dependable face.That is what anyone might see. This could be any testosterone-fuelled young male. But what is it that I see? Because I am the single person with the closest possible relationship to him.
I am his mother.
'He asked me to take it.'
She hadn't heard. Her head close to the sheet of paper, she was momentarily unaware of anything else. Just this image, with its uncompromising body language. Her son was signalling to her.
Tony waited before saying again,'Will asked me to take the picture.'
She removed her hands from her face and put them in her lap. She thought, I have no defences against what is coming.
'He asked you?'
'For you. He wanted me to bring it here for you.'
Because there was something else, something Tony was not saying. She knew it, from his flickering, evasive eyes and the hawkish stance of the young man in the photograph. She wanted, for a few more precious moments, to be ignorant of it.
'Tell me – about him.'
'He looks a bit like you, Greer, don't you think? The same high-bridged nose. He's a very cool guy. You'd be proud. He's an architect, working on low-cost housing, for Asia mainly.Very socially responsible and politically aware; plans to set up his own outfit in a couple of years.'
There was warmth in his voice, liking. She had a startled memory. A conversation on the lower terrace, when she'd asked Tony if he had ever been in love.
'Is he – I mean, does he have a partner?'
Tony lifted his eyes and turned them on her. A distinct glint of amusement. 'He's engaged to be married, Greer. Lovely girl, too. Rebecca. Long dark hair with red high-lights. Great figure. She's just done her Finals, in architecture like him.They're living together.She was with him.'
He raised his eyebrows and flashed a reminiscent smile. 'Yeah. It was very obvious they were crazy about each other.'
'Really, engaged? Already? Do you have a photograph of Rebecca? When are they getting married?'
She felt dazzled, overwhelmed by the quantity and import of Tony's information. She was unsure how to broach the most pressing subject. From being drained of all response, now she had a thou
sand nervous, buzzing questions.
'You've got me there. Some time this year, that's for sure.'
'What did he –' She sought to rephrase this.'Tell me the truth about this,Tony.What was Will's attitude –'
She stopped, confronted head-on with her renewed vulnerability.
Tony gave her a sidelong glance but didn't address the unformed question immediately. He swallowed. She saw his Adam's apple bobbing.
'When I met with him his parents were in Shanghai. I hadn't, you know, got around to contacting them yet. So they didn't actually know anything about the biography. I'm talking about Charlie and –'
She tried to put a brake on her impatience.'Charlie and Josie, yes. His parents.Yes, I know.'
Her voice was husky.What was he getting at? He was rummaging in his denim briefcase again. He pulled out another of his dictaphones. It was labelled. How many did he have? He forestalled her objection with a gesture and shook his head.
'There's something I think you need to hear. I feel very bad about this, Greer.' He licked a little bead of sweat from his upper lip.
The foreboding choked in her throat like swirling smog. He switched the recorder on. At first she heard only the piping of birds. The liquid warble of an Australian magpie.And then Tony's noncommittal introduction.
'Interview with William McNicoll, March twenty-one 2006. We're sitting in William's back garden in Rozelle, Sydney –'
A second, energetic young male voice interrupted. 'Hang on, what's the point of this? I can't tell you anything about my father's life before I was born. I wasn't there, right?'
'It's not about your father. Sorry if I didn't make that quite clear on the phone. I'm researching a biography of your mother's partner,Mischa Svoboda.The artist.'
'Then you've obviously stuffed up, mate.You've got the wrong person. My father's name is Charles McNicoll and he's certainly not an artist.'
'He can't even draw recognisable stick figures,Will,can he?'A young woman's light-hearted voice chimed in.
Tony again. 'It's your mother's partner I'm writing about.Your birth mother,Will.Greer Gordon.'
There was a short pause.
'You've got the name right, yes. My actual mother was Greer, Mum's younger sister. But you're on the wrong track, mate: she's dead. I never knew my real mum. She died when I was born.'
Greer said,'Turn it off.'
Tony touched the switch. He avoided looking at her, sucking in his breath.
'I'm more than sorry, Greer. That's what they brought him up on and I swear it never occurred to me.'
'How did he react?' She found herself on her feet and pacing the floor, the photograph tightly under her arm. She felt ill.'No, give me that. I want to listen to it by myself.'
She snatched the recorder from Tony's hand.
In her study, she put it on the desk and shut the door. She knew how to operate it, she had watched Tony often enough.There were a few minutes left to run on the tape.
Tony's response.Taken aback.'They might have told you that, but Greer is very much alive. She lives in Italy with the well-known Czech artist Mischa Svoboda.You've probably heard of him? She's a winemaker, herself.'
A short pause and an altered tone.'Oh, jeez. Look, I'm really sorry if this comes as a shock to you,Will. Greer and Mischa have been an item since, well, since before you were born. Since about five months before, right? I just assumed you knew all that. I didn't mean to break it to you like this. I honestly had no idea they'd given you a different story. I guess they figured it was the least hurtful way out of a tricky situation. Least hurtful to you, when you were growing up.'
'What the hell are you talking about?' Slowly, more puzzled than hostile.
'Greer split up with your dad, you see. She'd fallen heavily for this new guy.'
'Are you saying he's my father?'
'No,no,she was already pregnant with you when she met Mischa. She was working in an art gallery, right? He was a pretty wild character, Mischa, back then, but obviously a huge talent, and I guess she didn't feel he'd be accepting of –'
An emphatic interruption:'Another guy's inconvenient brat?'
'Uh. Possibly. Yeah.' An exhaled breath. 'Anyhow, I'm sure she had her reasons. She handed you over to her older sister to look after from day one. I guess they flew you straight from Sydney to Hong Kong, where your dad was by then.'
'A kid would've cramped their style so she donated it to her sister who couldn't have one? Is that what you're saying? And everyone swapped partners? Jesus. Had Dad switched over to Mum before I came along?'
'Well, I haven't met with your mum and dad yet so I can't be specific, but I guess they must've told you pretty much what happened after you were born?'
'They told me a story. Here's how it went.There was a period of grieving. Mum came over to help look after me. Then a year or so later they fell in love.'
'Yeah.Well, I'm sure that's probably pretty accurate: that they lived in the same house but apart for a while, and hooked up later.There's no doubt your dad had been mad about Greer and was pretty devastated when she ran out on him.'
Another pause.Then a long-drawn-out, almost amused groan. 'For Christ's sake. She ditched Dad when she was already pregnant, farmed me out to her sister and wrote me out of her life.Where'd you say she lives?'
'Italy.'
'Whereabouts?'
'In Tuscany.'
An incredulous laugh.'Tuscany,yeah,that'd be right.'
The light, musical voice:'Excuse me, can you turn that off?'
'Shit, is it still on? Yeah, turn the fucking thing off. In fact give me the tape –' There was a scuffling noise. 'No, on second thoughts, don't. Just leave it. Put it all in your book, OK? Verbatim.'
A click, then silence. Greer sat motionless at her desk. The blood had drained from her face.
Tony's voice came back on the tape.
'The poor guy was pretty shattered, finding out cold like that. I tried to tell him more about her, the artists' colony where she lives and so on, but he didn't want to know. He did get me to repeat at what point Greer had met the Czech lover.Too late to get it aborted, was it, he asked me. Pretty much, yeah, she would've been over three months gone, I had to tell him. I suggested he should maybe think about going over there and meeting with her, but he just snorted and said he'd rather go surf with the sharks.
'But he did add, almost throwaway, when I was leaving, that I could take a picture of him outside the house and hand it over so she could see what she'd spawned. In case she had any residue of interest. Not that she'd give a fuck, in all probability, he added. Not a flying fuck.'
21
Greer went to the back of the house and took the uneven path that sloped down to Mischa's studio.The pugs had emerged from the bushes and they trotted after her, snuffling and panting. Greer knelt to pick one up. She held its tight little body like a warm, pulsating barrel against her face. Only minutes had passed since she first heard her son's recorded voice. She still held his photo in her other hand.
She looked up at the crown of the ruined tower, where it leant into the sky. The high, fretted clouds that had been around earlier in the day were all blown away, but there was a flat heaviness in the air. She put the dog down and pressed her face against the stone. Faint, disembodied sounds of string music came from within, where Mischa was working, and floated down. She listened to a few bars: it was Schoenberg's Transfigured Night.
She remembered Mischa's most recent compositions. The two unfinished pictures, each with running figures and strange, empty holes in the canvas. The impression they conveyed, that some crucial piece of information had been left out.The impression of loss.
Greer thought, they are like jigsaws with missing pieces. And then: how could I ever have imagined anything was accidental in Mischa's pictures?
I can't talk to him. Not yet. I am not ready. She turned away and retraced her steps.
She sat with Rollo, side by side on the couch in his studio.
'Well, you must meet eac
h other right away, darling.You need to see him and he needs to see you.'
She had ignored the dictum that he was never to be disturbed when working, save in an emergency. Rollo had seen at once, without being told, that this was one. He had said nothing, but had put down his brush, switched off Wagner and gone to her.
'I can't do that.You've heard the tape.'
'Forget about the tape,' Rollo said briskly. 'That's his initial response. He's just had a great big shock. His world has been turned upside down. He's responding by being aggressive, like a cornered bull. That's a normal, healthy young male response. Now he's had time to get used to the idea, natural curiosity will have asserted itself.'
'This only happened a few weeks ago.'
'Weeks are years when you're young.' She saw Rollo dissecting the photograph, every detail of it, as she had.
'He didn't exist, and now suddenly it's as if someone has waved a magic wand and, abracadabra, he's materialised and he's part of our world. He's very dishy, darling. I can't stop looking at him.'
'But he's not part of our world. I chose Mischa over him. He will never forget that and never forgive it.How could he?'
'In our youth we've all done unspeakable things for love.'
'But this is an unforgiveable thing, isn't it?'
'You didn't know him then. He was a newborn. They have no personality, do they? Babies are just unformed clay. They're like a blank canvas.'
He doesn't get it, she thought. Even Rollo doesn't understand. But I'm not surprised that it's incomprehensible to him. It would be beyond the comprehension of any normal person.
What must it be like for my son?
'I didn't take the trouble to get to know him.' She thought, this is what despair is like.
'Life changes every one of us. If we're lucky enough, we can take advantage of that. Look at you, for example.' Rollo took her hand.'You're not the same personage now as you were twenty-five years ago. Not the same at all.'
She looked at him. Is that true? Am I not?
The Biographer Page 30