Now talking about the Sunday of that party, Officer Lawson, I wish to mention something that’s been bothering me. It’s related to Lucie’s brooch. Sunday before last was a cold day. A nasty wind picked up at nightfall. The temperature suddenly dropped. Each time Lucie went outside to have a smoke… Where outside? Well, on the front terrace, that’s where we stood throughout the evening. Each time she stepped outside, she would put her jacket on. A tweed jacket. She’d pinned a brooch on her lapel. I knew the brooch very well since I’m the one who sold it to Ernest. It’s a small, silver cut-out, about three centimetres long, of a Magritte painting called The Lovers. It has been reproduced many times in posters and postcards. Let me describe it, I’m sure you’ll recognise it… Two heads side by side, shrouded in a white cloth, light enough to let the protruding features of the faces jut out. The nose. The chin. You guess easily it’s a man and a woman. The two faces look… Now, hang on a minute, because Magritte did several versions of this painting… In one of them the couple looks in the same direction and in another, they are kissing, so they face each other. Look, I don’t actually remember which one I sold to Ernest. See how poor my memory is… Anyhow, three years ago the Art Gallery of New South Wales had a Magritte retrospective and I got the fancy, God knows why, of having these distasteful Magritte brooches, cups, key-holders, tee-shirts and baseball caps on display at my gallery. Tourists love this kind of junk. As for this particular brooch, well, to be honest, I hated it. The painting is vivid with contrast, but this silver-grey cut-out is creepy, yes, I found it quite morbid. Ernest spotted the damn thing in the window and claimed he loved it. Are you serious? You want to buy that? I asked. He snatched the brooch and lobbed it on the counter. Who are you giving it to? I persisted. To the woman of my dreams, he replied… Anyway, while Lucie and I were dragging on our cigarettes, I couldn’t wrench my eyes away from that brooch. Eventually I looked at Lucie, I looked at this woman in the prime of her life…
I hadn’t seen much of her since she had moved in with Ernest. She and Ernest have come to my gallery five or six times in the last two years, and once I organised a lunch in Rose Bay, where I live. My mother came along, delighted to meet the famous Ernest Renfield. Ernest had been living like a hermit since he had moved back to Longland twelve years ago. He stopped throwing parties like he used to. And although I never failed to send him invitations to my shows, it was pointless, he never came…
Now before I forget, let me tell you another thing that has been bugging me, something to do with an ashtray. As I lit my first cigarette of the evening and looked around, I mean, when I was on the front… Yes, that’s right, the terrace overlooking the lake… I wondered where I could stub out my cigarette. I was about to go inside to fetch an ashtray when Lucie, red in the face, apologised, and said, I’ll get you an ashtray. But she never brought me one, busy as she was with the other guests. On top of that, Raphaël, Ernest’s brother, was buzzing around her like an annoying wasp. I think he is enamoured with her. That evening, he gave her his number, then later his address, saying she was welcome to stay with him anytime should she come to Queensland. Lucie was clearly embarrassed. To avoid him, she constantly came out onto the terrace to take a few puffs with me before returning to the party… Each time Lucie stubbed out a cigarette she attempted to brush away the ashes with her shoe, or sometimes with her fingertips, until she thought all the evidence had been carefully cleaned away. Then, she would pick up the cigarette butt to stash it behind the bronze Cupid standing on the side of the terrace. You might have seen it when you went to Longland, it’s Ernest’s early metalwork. The statue is hollow at the back, and that’s where Lucie disposed of her cigarette butts. With Raphaël becoming painfully insistent, Lucie wasn’t paying much attention to me. By mid-evening she spotted my stubs at the foot of the balustrade, turned pale and fell into a panic… She ran inside, hurried back with a plastic bag and started to collect them. I apologised, of course, feeling terribly embarrassed… As I was assisting her in gathering up the stubs, I noticed she kept glancing anxiously through the glass door, like some disobedient child afraid to be found out. Now she was tossing her own cigarette butts into the bag. She forced a smile, then squeezed the bag into a tight little ball and dashed to the kitchen. Her behaviour struck me as unhinged. At that moment, the two shrouded faces of Magritte’s lovers crossed my thoughts and curiously, they made me think of Ernest and Lucie… Lucie and Ernest…
I walked across the terrace and stood behind the glass door to look inside. Ernest was slumped in his large wing chair. His eyes were half-closed, his mouth in a twisted pout. Was it contempt? Conceit? Boredom? I know that man so well… The renowned painter, the braggart who’d got himself a new trophy wife, the old lecher raising his glass to Rosy, now belly-dancing around his chair… It all made me feel ill at ease… It was a wild party, believe me. Such eccentric guests, everybody dancing, braying, laughing, drinking, smoking, snorting, oh yes, they were doing drugs. Honestly, this crowd looked like cardboard cut-outs moved by an invisible hand. That shadow theatre was grotesque and even frightening. And to think how much I loved going out when I was younger. But that night I felt very much out of place…
I stepped away from the glass door in dread. I’ve known this fool of a man for too long, I thought. I’m sixty-five; we’ve known each other for forty years. We met as students at the Sydney School of Fine Arts. We graduated and were appointed as lecturers there. I wanted more from life than a mapped out academic career and decided to establish my own art gallery. I started with a small showroom in Potts Point. Ernest was the first artist I contracted and his early exhibitions were a flop. I persisted because I believed in him, because his work was revolutionary. Back in the Sixties the mainstream artists slogged away at still-lifes, you know apples, flowers, and also at bushscapes, the standard gum trees and billabongs. But Ernest’s work spoke to me intimately…
You might get a clearer picture if I told you that my birth name is Gavril Goszynski, born to Polish parents in the Soviet Union. By 1933 my father had understood what was in store for the Polish Jews. My parents didn’t dither any longer and fled Lubán in December 1933. They tried their best to convince their relatives to leave Poland as well and seek refuge in Russia, but no one listened… Between January and June 1942, my grandparents and my relatives, both sides of the family, were rounded up. My grandparents died in Treblinka, my cousins in Birkenau… I was born in Moscow and after the war my parents opted for Australia instead of America. We came here as refugees.
As a young man, I could not express the tragedy of my family through my own art. My parents never talked about what happened to our family, their silence was laden with the remorse of being alive. My own childhood was peopled by ghosts. Ernest’s work unravelled my anxiety and somehow helped me face the demons.
Back then Ernest was the most extraordinary young man and everyone wanted to be his friend. He was handsome, eloquent and witty. The Renfields are an old family. His great grandparents owned the collieries in Kiama. Three generations of Renfields have lived in Longland. They carried a proud conceit about their wealth, they were also very conformist. I remember spending a weekend in Longland for Ernest’s twenty-first birthday. His old-fashioned mother, poor thing, who looked like she was wearing a corset beneath her thick black dress, walked right up to me and asked before saying anything else: do you believe in God, Gary? I was taken aback. I racked my brain in search of the right answer. Well, my parents never lectured me about religion, and for a long time, even at twenty-two, I had no idea about what being a Jew actually meant. I finally muttered, yes, ma’am. That was enough to make her happy and she said with conviction, that is very good, don’t ever forsake Him, Gary. She never questioned me on matters of faith again. Looking back, I think it was an absurd situation.
Ernest’s first paintings were rather satirical, almost grotesque. In the vein of German expressionism. He didn’t hold back. The European tragedy was so far from his own experience and yet, he depi
cted the drama my family had left behind. Holocaust. Ruin. Devastation. He gave form and colour to a tormented story that was my own. He painted my own devastated homeland, my own decimated family.
Anyway, after three years of hard work it so happened that an influential art critic walked past my tiny showroom one evening. Two days later, the exhibition was given a half-page rave review in the Sydney Morning Herald. The artist Ernest Renfield was born. And not long after that, the show at the MOMA, the cover of Time… Things happen in a funny way in the art world. The fireworks can peter out very quickly but this one kept on going.
But I’ve gone off on a tangent, sorry, let’s get back to the point… Lucie had gone to the kitchen with her plastic bag. Her behaviour perplexed me… I looked out to the forest. The wind had eased off. The full moon lit the sky. The mist hovered over the lake, which resembled a slab of heavy, cold lead. The clouds drifted in the moonlight… Suddenly the music stopped… They had been playing jazz, but now I could only hear the rustling and crackling of the forest. The woods are so dense, so dark, like a jungle closing in on you and there is no track. It’s impenetrable, hostile, with creepers, lantanas and towering tree-ferns. It’s oppressive. Shadows floated on the lake… And I felt presences… Not one presence but several. The music came back and I went inside.
Ernest was still in his wing chair playing up as Ernest Renfield, the living myth. He was arguing with Fernando Sigotti. Sigotti is Ernest’s nemesis. Twenty-five years ago Sigotti reviewed one of Ernest’s exhibitions for the Herald Sun. He compared his work with that of Egon Schiele. Ernest loathes the suggestion that Schiele had ever influenced him. But Ernest doesn’t let go and it only takes a few drinks for him to forget good manners. I moved closer. It can be entertaining watching Ernest. Let’s face it: the man is an untamed beast who doesn’t fit in a civilised world. He will never fit in it…
It was very late. People were sitting in a large circle around Ernest, who appeared wasted. The conversation was heated and all of a sudden the jesting got out of hand. Ernest got to his feet, hauling his bulky body out of his armchair, God knows how, and once up, he drawled: I’m no pornographer, you puritan tosser! I paint women’s beavers, fuck women’s beavers and I love it! Next minute he called Sigotti a motherfucker, before raising his fist. Sigotti stepped back and groaned: you are mad, Renfield, completely mad, you should be locked up or on medication!
This was the perfect opportunity to take my leave… I quickly slipped away to the library and grabbed my duffle-coat. I waved goodbye to Ernest. He stared at me for some time. I don’t think he recognised me. Then he gave a lurch before sinking back into his chair. I looked about. As I couldn’t see Lucie, I left… As I said, it would have been about three o’clock.
Act II
Ernest Renfield
Longland
New South Wales
I didn’t expect you so early in the day, Officer Lawson. Come inside, please… I feel wretched! Lucie’s been gone now for sixteen days. Sixteen days!
I don’t get it. Why hasn’t she called me? Where is she? What have I done? Don’t stand there, you’ll catch a cold, come in, let’s go to the kitchen. I was having my breakfast…
Sorry? Say that again? You’d like to go through Lucie’s personal papers? Sure, Lucie’s papers, why not? This way, Officer Lawson… To the left and down the corridor. Be careful, the passage is full of antiques… Watch that statue, the stand is wobbly. It’s Medusa, that’s an exceptional piece. I bought it many years ago from Lord Edward, a compulsive gambler. When he needed cash, he’d sell one of his treasures. Poor Lord Edward, he wound up selling what he’d collected over a lifetime. Rarities. Exceptional pieces. Everything!
Here we are. Warmer here, isn’t it? Please take a seat. Coffee maybe? A tea? A drop of something? No? No alcohol? That’s right, you don’t drink. If you don’t mind, I’ll lace my coffee with rum. A rum toddy.
I beg your pardon? Ah yes, that’s right, you wanted to go through Lucie’s papers… I talk too much. You’ll find her things as she left them, on the table over there. She prefers being in the kitchen, next to the fire. But it’s all written in French. Good luck understanding it, it’s all Greek to me! Please, go ahead. You have authority to do so… Yes, that’s where she’d sit.
Do you know that as well as articles she writes poetry? Poetry! What a waste of time! People don’t read poetry these days. Apart from the tabloids the rabble aren’t interested in reading anything… least of all poems.
Anyway, why is she doing this to me? I’ve been like a father to her. And now, where is she? How is she managing without me? I’m here to provide for her, I was here to help. Why can’t she be happy? How lucky she should be to have me, because when it comes to money, she’s useless. And as for practical stuff, it’s completely beyond her…
What do I mean? Ah, I can see that you’ve never met Lucie… So many examples come to mind, I don’t even know where to start… Let’s talk about her French publisher if you want, yes, this Fargue. Things were not going so well with him. No, not at all. If I hadn’t got involved, she would’ve signed a dodgy contract. She’d agreed to start a job without laying down the terms of work and payment. You’ve got to stand up for your rights, I told her. You’ve got to learn to talk things through, Little Miss. And then, upon my word, Lawson, she looked at me and rolled her eyes, yes, she rolled her eyes… She should be grateful to have me supporting her. What about the piano over there? Yes, that’s Lucie’s piano. Do you play, Lawson? No, of course… No time. You’re a busy man, like me… Well, the piano! That’s another story! Boy, Lucie hadn’t been here less than a week when she began to moan that she couldn’t live without music. Alright then! I totally understood. Music is important to her. For me, music is nothing more than disturbing noise. Birdsong is the only music I can bear… Anyway, she wanted a piano. I drove her all over the state to find the special kind she wanted. If you want to hire a piano, that’s fine with me, I said, but it’s only fair you pay for it. She was a bit surprised but agreed.
Let me tell you, Lawson, I’ve seen better days… I have to be honest, I don’t have money to burn. When I was at the pinnacle of my career, when I had exhibitions in every state, when none of my paintings were left unsold, when I was courted by merchant bankers and generous patronesses of the arts… Mind you, I’ve had a magnificent retrospective in Canberra last year but there was no money in that and these days, every cent counts. This house is costing me a fortune to run. I know… I know what you’re going to tell me. But you’ve got to understand, Lawson, when Lucie moved to Australia, I assured her I would look after her, that’s true. You’re here to start a new life and be happy, I told her. Word for word, because that’s what I genuinely felt. Yet the cost of living keeps going up… I don’t think she realised that sooner or later she would have to contribute.
But you know, paying for the piano wasn’t so much a matter of money. Let me explain… She was bored. That was obvious enough to me. Lucie was bored in Longland. To pass the time she rang France, or talked endlessly over the phone to her friend Nicole. Her nattering was so annoying – yack, yack, yack. Anyway, one morning I spotted a notice pinned on the community board in Watooga. Immediate Start, it said. A fashion store needed a shop assistant, part-time, nothing exhausting, and only five kilometres up the road. I would’ve driven her to work. I mentioned the notice to Lucie. It would’ve been perfect for her, but she brushed the idea aside. I was annoyed…
So, talking about the piano, well, I considered it to be a luxury. We went north, south, west. We ended up hiring one from Jeff McCarthy’s store in Moss Vale. He’s in the phone book. He’ll tell you the whole story himself, if you ask him. When Jeff heard Lucie play on one of the basic uprights, he was so impressed that he insisted she rent out a better quality piano for the same price. We shook hands on the deal. Yes, she played every day. She plays well, oh yes, very well…
Sunday? You mean the Sunday of the party? At what time did the last guests leave? I thoug
ht I’d already answered that question, Officer Lawson. They left at the crack of dawn. I’m up each morning at sunrise. It’s the best time of the day to paint because of the light. Yes, the last guests left at dawn.
Interesting… You’ve been told that I was intoxicated… that I didn’t know my head from my arse? Good grief! Why don’t people mind their own business? I drink… That’s what you heard. Well, I am a bit of a boozer, that’s correct. I do drink. But before you speculate any further, let me tell you that I’m not an angry drunk. I’m a crying drunk. Drinking helps me not to think too hard on the human condition and forget about my own decline. Look at me! I’ve been adored, celebrated, praised, awarded, revered, given medals… They’ve organised dinner parties for me with the governor, at Government House. I’ll be a national treasure soon enough. But I swear to you, in the end, it’s all bullshit. “Fame is the mourning of happiness,” Madame de Staël said. She was too right, the old bird. Just look at me… What do I have to show for all my achievements? I’m an old fart feeling sorry for myself, waiting for my damsel to call…
Remember the tight-rope walker of Nietzsche? In Zarathustra? No? You’ve missed out, it’s one of the greatest books ever written… Imagine a guy walking on a rope stretched between two towers above a crowded market place. It’s all going fine for him, he’s carefully stepping ahead, when suddenly a jester jumps out from one of the towers. He follows the tight-rope walker, shouting “Get out of my way!” As you would expect, the funambulist loses his balance and falls to the ground. As he is about to die, he asks Zarathustra, sitting by his side, if the devil will drag him to hell. And this is where the story becomes unsettling… Zarathustra tells him there is nothing to fear. There is nothing, Officer Lawson, after death, the after-life is a wide empty space. So why should we carry any fear since there is no devil, no soul, no paradise and no hell?
The Lovers Page 4