All the Days and Nights

by Niven Govinden

  – Who’s dying? We’re just painting here.

  – Something happened after the first evening that dissipated all the bad feeling. Temporarily, at least. Granny had been fairly heavily sedated for the few days prior to our arrival, and the nurse had taken it upon herself to lessen the medication, surmising that clarity was more important than steam-rollering pain relief; those wards where sick people turn into morphine addicts near the end; folks prepared to sell their houses if it meant being injected with a shot that would knock them out cold.

  – I’ve seen those people. I’ve had family that were those people.

  – It was ugly before Granny woke up. That’s the only way I can describe it. The sadness of everyone in the room, overtaken with ugliness. My mother, who I’d always thought as the most beautiful woman in the world; her face contorted with hatred as she prepared herself for the onslaught from her sister and her greedy children. My mother, who rarely confronted anyone, who shied away from arguments, turning into a gargoyle like the others, while Granny lay unconscious in her bed, sweating out the morphine. I’m not sure whether the nurse had this brainwave because of all the bad feeling, or from some misguided notion of a group of loved ones spending their elder’s last moments in peace. A stroke of genius, either way, for when Granny came to, she surprised everyone by how strong and clear her voice was. ‘I could feel your bitterness in my sleep,’ she said, ‘that’s what roused me. I know that you’re ready to murder one another over my decisions, but that is something you are going to have to learn to live with. You have all this to look forward to: your years of arguing, piousness and regret. Everything that will both nourish you and make you miserable. But this can happen after I’ve gone. Until then, I want you to love one another, or at least, make me believe it.’ Straight as an arrow, was Granny. Even when her insides were being eaten away.

  – She had mettle.

  – Selfishness, too. She wanted to control every element of how she went, including how we acted, what we thought. She was unable to stop what was happening inside her: cancer growing, strangling her vital organs one by one until only a shadow of life remained. But what she could do was to fashion our responses, to cohere the family.

  – Safe passage.

  – What?

  – That’s what my mother used to call it: those last days sat in the room of the dying, having reached that point where all other concerns become meaningless. ‘Safe passage is all the dying want. Whether it comes from God or the garden, family or otherwise. They need reassurance that all will be well; that love is felt.’

  – What about the old bastards filled with regrets? Those who die alone?

  – Safe passage, still. They trawl their memory to find it from somewhere. If there’s time.

  – Granny had time. Two days, near enough. Her coherence wavered after that, slipping in and out of consciousness. Energy spent. The family was still ready to kill one another, but we made the best of it.

  – Lay down your arms.

  – We did, for a time. For Granny. Shared our stories of her, at her most tyrannical and her most loving. Songs were sung; those that came from the garden on the Fourth of July and under the Christmas tree. Songs we thought we didn’t believe in, but that she loved: ‘O Holy Night’, ‘My Country ’Tis of Thee’. And in singing those, words mentioned from nowhere, picked up from the thread of another conversation and turned into a song, the room lifted. You know that moment in church when you’re made to sing the choral, and somehow through the romance of the room – a giant cross bearing down upon you – and those manipulative chord changes, your chest suddenly becomes full; sound in voice and bursting with passion or belief? We found ourselves there: strength and love, good humor too, because everything else was put aside.

  – And the day after that?

  – We were back to committing murder. Shaking off the stink of death by threatening one another and hiring lawyers. The family was actually better behaved at Granny’s bedside than they were at her funeral. They couldn’t even sit together by then.

  – Like I said, no one’s dying. Your talk of funerals is premature. Sit still for a moment and let me look at you.

  The man I see standing under the skylight is resolutely who is on the canvas. A build that is close to flesh and blood, bar the imperfections, the tiny, infinitesimal imperfections that make it so. The aim I must always strive for – unachievable, agonizingly so – is this: that life should breathe from layer upon layer of drying oils. The day that I can walk away from the painting without hating myself for it is still some time away. I will never be anything less than a harsh judge. It is the moment of weakness when I think otherwise; when traces of leniency flitter through the dust and fug as the late afternoon light fills the room; when my energy levels suddenly drop, making me light-headed and my hands numb and useless, severed for the good they are to me; the definitive point when I set down my things to signal the session has reached its nadir, and send you (or Ben or Vishni) away. It is the first moment alone after you have left, when the day’s work is squared up; mistakes calculated for which I must atone into the night; a sound evaluation of any strengths. For as much as I am depressed by the failures I have marked onto the canvas – marks covered and re-covered with paint, but still there for me to find – the sight of Ben sitting on the floor in your fishing jumper makes me shiver with longing; wanting you to be here. For though Ben’s features have been drawn since the first day, I have painted around and around several questions until they could no longer be avoided; those that can only be answered in the dark, ignoring all calls to join them in the kitchen. Would your pose adequately replace Ben’s if you reappeared? Would the painting be junked if this was not so? Who is the painting for? When is the time to accept that such an appearance will not happen? When will it be finished? When will you return?

  – I DON’T THINK that they were aware of the time difference. If they were, it meant nothing to them. They spoke as if they expected people from New York to be awake at all hours.

  – I may have given that impression, for which I apologize.

  – Was it vampires you spoke of? I noticed how they kept their distance once we arrived.

  – They were shy. Unused to visitors in their home.

  – And the filth. I was not prepared. The cleanliness of the country; the wholesomeness of the farms. How the air is meant to be pure; the vibrancy of the land itself. All the myths that had been peddled to me over the years were not created from those shacks. You were sleeping on the floor of a shack, John.

  – This is how people live. The way things are. I saw no different as a kid, even on the Hudson.

  – How that milk smelt. The dirt around it. I’m sure there’s a reason for what you were doing but I don’t profess to understand it.

  You worry for Haley and Peg, and their place in a future America; how a life of living simply, of kindness, will be lost; something that you are unable to remedy or explain. They will exist for as long as the shacks stay standing and the cattle yield. After that, it is the kindness of others that they will have to rely on. The welcoming floor of other shacks.

  Twenty hours in the town car has loosened St John to nervous chatter; skittish and babbling. There was assurance as he collected your things from the farmhouse and made a discreet contribution to your hosts for the trouble they had taken. What emanated was controlled softness, authoritative but empathetic, employed when dealing with clients who find themselves in reduced circumstances; patient, adaptable, but overwhelmingly in charge. Now the two of you are alone, he loses much of this professionalism, revealing the extent to which the journey has unraveled him. He despises himself for it but cannot help the speed of his mouth, the observations he feels he must share. It is payment in kind for his charity; for you to be made aware not only of the time spent to reach the farm and return to New York safely, but the very great expense in doing so.

  – I consulted your doctors before I left. They did not advise a plane journey, so for
that at least, we’re in agreement. They would rather you were in a hospital, but then, they’re probably saying that about Anna too, and we both know the outcome of that argument. Are you comfortable? Are you sure? As comfortable as you can be on the freeway. I wish I’d had the foresight to think about hiring a Winnebago or suchlike, but you’re thinking on your feet when the phone wakes you at one a.m. Firstly, you settle your nerves, and are thankful that no one has passed. Secondly, you go with your gut responses: the car and driver you have on standby; adrenaline packing your bag and getting you out the door. I hope you have not found my attempts too shabby. It was the best I could think of in the time.

  – You always look after me. I’m grateful. You can see it in my face, I hope.

  – That makes me feel better. I won’t lie and say that I wasn’t worried – both for the condition I would find you in, and your pleasure or otherwise in being airlifted, so to speak.

  – Fine on both counts.

  – On one count, maybe. You’ve lost more weight. Your face is drawn. I thought they were feeding you.

  – I ate like a king. When I had the appetite for it.

  – I’m wondering whether we should find a hospital en route and have you checked out. Montana has a university city, so there will be an establishment there of some repute. Denver, failing that.

  The dying know the hopelessness of their condition. There is nothing a hospital can tell you; no relief they can provide to stymie this. It is several hours wasted that could be spent elsewhere; gaining distance back to New York or another city where a further jewel may be held.

  – Don’t ask me about Washington. It’s too far for a vehicle of this nature, even if we use the freeway. You look like you want to ask me. It’s bursting from your face, like a man about to cough or sneeze, but I have to put my foot down.

  – I’m not asking for anything. What you’re doing is a kindness. I hope to be able to do the same for you one day.

  – I’m sure that you will.

  You are aware that his tone has returned to its previous state: the one he employed with Haley and Peg. He is on firmer ground now, confident in his role: benign parenting; the overseer. Sweat on his face drying from the car’s air conditioning; his hand reaching to tighten the knot in his tie.

  – I was wondering about your luggage. Was it given to your hoteliers, as some form of deposit?

  – I don’t have luggage. Never have.

  – Your bag. It was on my mind as we helped you to the car, but an insensitive question to ask in their company. Certain sensitivities must be observed in the country.

  – You mean, they would have blasted your tail off if you’d asked.

  – As you’re aware, I packed it tightly, so its absence does weigh heavily.

  – I bought a painting in Kentucky. Something for her. A memory.

  – With all of it?

  – Most. Unsure of the ultimate destination of the rest. The mind can be an unreliable thing. Doesn’t always tell you what you want to know.

  Washington continues to weigh on your mind; the paintings found there which you will never see; the painting after Wendell drowned, more so. Wendell, in the forefront of your thoughts: impulsive and good-natured, inquisitive and wild as a cat. A twelve-year-old boy left in the care of you and his father for one afternoon, no different to afternoons you had spent before; a similar strength of benign parenting as you threaded flies, fished and drank beer. A competition between you as to who could net the biggest trout. Excitement burning in his eyes; certain that he could win. Turning your back for a couple of minutes as Edwin told dirty jokes, giving Wendell time to wade deeper into the water. You will not find a trace of the boy in Washington; only a picture that shows your disgust with yourself; disappointment in a body you had thought strong holding no sway against the current. How you were barely able to keep yourself from floating downstream, let alone reach Wendell, who drifted faster and faster. It is the hands you want to look at; those that finally stretched to their fullest and made contact with Wendell’s forearm, tightening their grip and pulling him closer to you; regaining the equilibrium to balance him on your back and swim to shore. The hands are heroic. It is the face that makes you ashamed; the eyes that had been looking elsewhere. The shaved head you were so stupidly proud of. This is what Washington holds.

  You think of those who have spent their life reading books; novels that made the deepest impression that may have been read only once. Books intended to be read again, but neglected and forgotten. How to choose which books to reread when the reality of what is finite becomes clear? How to accept what must be abandoned? Your thoughts come to me and my needs; a question that you have asked many times before.

  – Why do you have no interest in these paintings once you’ve completed them? They’re finished and taken away, and you get to see them in a show for the last time, and then once more in a gallery or private house, if you’re lucky. Does it feel like you’ve had something taken away? Or that you’ve removed something that you no longer need?

  Of course, the answer is one that you’re aware of, but still find hard to tally; throwing out its reasoning in the same way that I seemingly discard the paintings. What is kept, and what is held. It is never as simple as that, but as with the paintings themselves, what is seen is taken as truth.

  You understand the need to make peace with a city you will never visit; that other paintings can now only exist as memory or on paper. Your glorified taxi has made that all too clear. The simplicity of your wish – riding train cars as you had as a teenager; crossing the country in any direction you liked, on whichever impulse, to see various paintings; the triumph of space over confinement; the freedom of thought – is now a futile one. Car, driver and self-appointed guardian now play a role. You remember the struggle of late childhood into adolescence; how hard you fought your parents for each scrap of independence. Now these shackles have returned.

  The near darkness of the studio as you sat for the painting. How the black of each corner matched the boy’s eyes as he swam away from you. How they did not change even after you had pulled him close. Grabbing his arm and pulling him tight. Legs wrapped across your back; boots digging into your waist. How loudly you shouted at him to stay on. Still the eyes did not change. Your jumper afterwards, sodden and so dark. The torturer and salve that memory becomes in old age. All that you have left.

  – I’M GOING TO ASK my assistant to come down for a couple of days. He’ll be able to get on with things while we finish the painting.

  – Whatever you think is best. We have the room.

  – It’s a better use of the time. Means I can sit in the studio and think of nothing else.

  – I thought that was what you’ve been doing?

  – We talked about possibly including this in the next show. We’re up against it, time wise, if you are.

  – You were the one who did the talking. Let’s see how we finish.

  – I’m putting myself at your disposal. Joshua arriving here will facilitate that.

  – The telephone is being used less, I’ve noticed. That’s probably been playing a part in your frustrations. The defeat of the modern age.

  – There is only so much business I can conduct in my room. I need a man on the ground. A gopher in plain sight.

  Ben is closing his deal with me. Future commerce reaches for him. His eyes and nose tell him that the finished painting is close; from the tension that sits on my neck and shoulders; that I am barely away from the studio, eating and sleeping there; the anger that comes so easily every time he breaks my concentration with another observation or story. He is a house guest who has outstayed his welcome; a nurse disillusioned with the job. He complains frequently now, when his body seizes with cramp; asks for the skylight to be open more often, ostensibly for the oil fug to escape, but in reality because he cannot bear my odor: how finality clings so tightly to my frame. Twenty years ago he could sit and watch his grandmother pass because she was in a country whose dista
nce was too vast to fathom; why he was able to sing with so much heart. Now it is uncomfortably close; its minutiae unwelcome; something that cannot be entertained.

  Vishni is the one who accepts the burden of care; who bathes me from the couch in the corner of the studio; who quietly moves many of my things downstairs when she realizes how fast my mobility deteriorates. A chair of height and depth of surprising comfort, found and placed next to the canvas. The food, now simple and nourishing; soft and easy to digest: fish, soup, cooked fruit and strong, green vegetables. I do not eat all that is set before me, some days barely anything, my appetite taken elsewhere, leaving her to sit patiently with a bowl under my chin, one spoonful of broth at a time; encouragement, soft soap, matter-of-factness; whatever it takes for me to respond. Still I talk about the painting. Still she listens.

  – I am sitting with a barracuda. He remembers that he has fangs.

  – You have always been aware of that. He’s family too.

  – He will be worse when this boy arrives. Two scavengers ready to photograph and catalog. No item will be left private. Everything up for appraisal.

  – Remember that he is your champion, and that we trust him. He will protect all this from being broken up. Stop the real scavengers.

  – Where is he now?

  – I’ve sent him to the store. Orla called to say that a parcel’s arrived for you from Kentucky. Any idea what it is?

  – None.

  He needs the respite. Unprepared for what he sees, Ben now protects himself with his business; insulation from the reality of what is happening in the room. The first to talk over me when my breathing becomes labored; looking at a fixed point when I reach for the mask – five minutes of oxygen giving me the energy and clarity to continue. This is what the next sketch should be: myself with a brush and canvas and the oxygen tank. It fills me the way other paintings have done before; a new impulse attempting its dominance as an old one, the previous painting, dies out. Insurance of another kind. But I understand that this sketch will not come. It will remain in shadow, merely described.