The Lovers

by Catherine Rey

  But Ernest is a loner. And, when he’s working on a painting, he can’t step a metre away from his easel. Ernest Renfield, his name will be remembered. His work has the touch of a genius. When you look at his nudes, it provokes a reaction, something deep, violent. He doesn’t paint the flesh but tries to capture a vision… Did you see his retrospective in Canberra last year? All the nudes of the Seventies were there, those twelve portraits of me. I was intensely moved at seeing them again. And I remembered how he would gaze at me with a look that scared me. I had told him about it and he laughed away my fears: I’m not looking at you, Rosy dear, I’m looking inside you…

  If it weren’t for Ernest, I’d never be able to understand artists. They’re a special kind, you know. Few can understand them. I can.

  June Letourneau

  Petersham

  Sydney

  New South Wales

  Maman said I could stay downstairs for a while before going to bed. Someone at the party put a paper hat on my head. When they asked me to dance, Maman said, time to go to bed now. And we went upstairs to the bedroom. You know this bedroom, we’ve slept here before, Maman said. That time we saw a mother duck on the lake and her ducklings. I did remember the bedroom.

  They were having fun downstairs. That wasn’t fair. I wanted to stay at the party. But Maman said I was too young. She said children don’t go to parties. When I’m older I’ll go to parties. I put on my jammies and brushed my teeth.

  It was cold in my bed. Maman said, it’s time to go to sleep now. I asked her to tell me a story. She asked me what story I wanted to hear. I like the one about finding the golden stone in the river and asked her to tell it to me again. Maman told the story then said bonne nuit.

  I didn’t want her to close the door. I wanted to listen to the music. I couldn’t sleep so I got out of bed and went to sit at the top of the stairs. From there you could see everything. I saw Maman talking with Ernest. He was dancing. He looks funny, that Ernest. He wants to paint my picture but Maman said, not until you’re older, Ernest only paints grown-ups. I’d like to paint too but Ernest won’t lend me his brushes. I’d like it if Ernest showed me how he paints but he says it’s not for little girls.

  After, I went back to the bedroom and stood at the window. That’s when I saw the little girl on the lake. I put my hand over my face and looked through my fingers. But the little girl was still on the lake. I know who she is. She has written her name on the wall of the little house: SARAH. That’s where she lives. That’s where she goes to sleep at night. She’s also written a number on the wall. It’s 1-9-0-1. I remember that too.

  Sarah saw me and she waved at me. And I waved back. She wanted me to go downstairs to play with her. Her face was all white, she was standing on the water. I stayed at the window to watch her. I told her in a secret language that I couldn’t go outside to play because Maman said it was time to sleep. I heard a bird cry in a tree. Then I saw something else.

  I saw Lucie… Yes, I know Lucie. She’s always nice to me. She gives me cakes and cuddles me. She plays football with me when Maman is upstairs in the tower with Ernest. Maman gets painted in the tower. And Lucie was outside, she was going to the little house. I think she was going there because she wanted to say something to Sarah. There was someone else with Lucie. A man. He had a white beard… Yes, I saw him outside… No, I don’t know him. He was talking with Lucie in the garden and he wasn’t happy and she wasn’t happy. The man ran after Lucie and grabbed her arm.

  Sarah was in the little house. That’s where she goes at night. The bird stopped crying. He was going to sleep. Everyone was going to sleep. Lucie had gone and the man with the white beard had gone. I went back to bed…

  Yes, I know where Lucie was. She was on the path by the lake, down near the little house. Maman came upstairs and woke me up because it was time to go home. I put on my coat and my shoes and we went outside with Rosy.

  Maman said she didn’t like the lake. I could fall into the water. And when we walked down the path she said, be careful, it’s dangerous, you could fall into the water and no one would know. And then Rosy said, I wonder why there are no lights around here, they should have spotlights. Rosy had a funny voice and walked funny too.

  I saw something shiny in the grass, on the side of the path to the little house… Yes, near the lake. Maman said, hurry up, sweetheart, get in the car, it’s cold. But I ran to have a look at the shiny thing. Maman shouted, arrête-toi! I could tell she was angry. I stopped and said, but Maman, look, a golden stone, like in the story. Maman told me again that I could fall into the lake. She picked up the golden stone and screamed.

  Rosy came and asked Maman what she had found. And the man also came to look at the stone and when he saw it he made an ugly face… Yes, it was the man with the white beard. I asked Maman why she had screamed. Then I asked if we had found the golden stone. And Maman said, no, it’s not a golden stone, sweetheart. She was all white and the man said, as if he was going to cry: it’s not a golden stone, it’s Lucie’s brooch.

  Act III

  Gary Whitehall

  Australian Federal Police

  Sydney Headquarters

  New South Wales

  I don’t understand why I have been summoned… Yes, that’s correct, I did leave Longland at three, as I indicated in my statement…

  Pardon? You’ve been told that I spoke with Nicole and Rosy around four-thirty? What can I say? A glass of water? Yes please… I could be charged if I withhold information? Do you mind if I have a cigarette? Thank you… Listen, I would never want to mislead the police but the truth is I was scared for Lucie. I can’t explain what was going through my mind last time we spoke. I wasn’t thinking…

  Between three and four-thirty? What did I do? I talked to Lucie. I thought it was an opportune time to have a serious talk about Ernest. No one knows him better than I do…

  Pardon? What happened exactly? Ernest’s argument with Sigotti stirred up bad memories. His behaviour was upsetting… It had me wanting to leave the party immediately. I grabbed my duffle-coat from the library and rushed outside. Yes, about three o’clock, as I explained last time… I just wanted to go home, go to bed and forget about the evening… As I strode across the terrace I heard someone moaning. I turned around and saw Lucie, sitting on the stairs, her face buried in her hands.

  Yes, Officer, she did wear a tweed jacket… It was cold and windy… We were away from the guests. No, there was no one there other than us.

  I thought Lucie may have been crying. I went to her and asked if everything was okay. She lifted her head, looked at me indignantly, and didn’t answer. She wasn’t crying. I mentioned Ernest’s name and she snapped, mind your own business, you don’t understand. I know what you think of him, Lucie went on, apropos of nothing. You think he’s a hopeless drunk and a womanising ogre who’ll spit me out tomorrow…

  I said, what makes you think you’re so different from the others? I’ve seen many women giving themselves up for Ernest’s sake. I think you should be more cautious.

  Lucie fired back… Ernest loves me as he’s never loved anyone. No one understands him like I do, not even you, Gary.

  I hope you’re right, Lucie. But he’s had many other meaningful relationships. He’s had many grand passions before you. She went off the rails at that point, yelling, I don’t want to hear your nasty lies about Ernest! Then she went on about how Ernest was wonderful, caring, how she could read him intimately, with her own heart…

  The next moment, she sprung up and ran down the stairs. I followed her. She was a fair way away from me, running awkwardly in her high heels, running towards the lake. She stopped, turned to face me and went on about how little I knew of love, living alone in my Rose Bay apartment, surrounded by expensive works of art. She brought up the fact that I have lunch with my “mummy” every Sunday. True, my mother lives on the same street, two blocks away. She became quite malicious, going on about my mother missing out at being a grandmother, mummy’s bad luck in m
y having no interest in women… Have you told mummy yet? she asked. Ernest isn’t like you; he’s not a fraud, a hypocrite. He doesn’t lead a double life.

  She was talking nonsense… She called me a fraud. I shook my head. It was pointless getting angry at her. What does she know about my life? I just wanted to give her a more complete picture of the Ernest I know…

  Then she stepped in close to me. I could see she was trembling. Between clenched teeth, she snarled, what exactly do you want me to know about Ernest? Then she veered off and fled once more towards the lake. I implored her to stop because she had reached the marshes.

  Soon after, she must have lost her footing because I lost sight of her. I moved closer to the edge of the bog. The moon cast its light on the surroundings, the shadows played tricks on me… I called out, but there was no answer. I took another step and that’s when I heard her scream.

  There she was… sunk to her waist. She had somehow managed to take her jacket off and her dress was torn. In desperation, she grasped at a clump of reeds. I came in closer and offered my hand, but she began to drift away, as if a current was dragging her out.

  Her arms were flailing about and she was clearly panicking. She tried to haul herself up one more time by grabbing onto the reeds with both hands. She began to weep. There was nothing I could do but run back to the house and get help.

  Just as I turned to go, she let go of the reeds. And the next minute, she was swimming across the lake. I cried out, Lucie, what are you doing? She was already half-way across and I doubt she could even hear me… Yes, Officer Lawson, she swam away… My head was spinning…

  I staggered away from the mud, took the track that surrounds the lake, looking for Lucie in the water. I couldn’t see her. Not knowing what to do next, I trudged back to the house.

  I went up the stairs, across the terrace to the French doors, wide open to the night. I stood there for a while, bewildered and dizzy. The noise of the party was deafening. People were shrieking as they conga-danced all around the room, to that silly old song “Ça Plane pour Moi”. There they were, stomping up and down the large staircase, and along the mezzanine, bellowing, “Moi-moi! Moi- moi-moi!”

  I saw a long line of paper hats with coloured feathers over stoned, grinning, disfigured faces… masks, not faces… ghostly masks… floating, oblivious to my presence as I entered the room out of breath, dazed, drenched and dripping muddy water all over the floor.

  Someone yelled, join in! A goatish-looking man let go of the woman in front of him, inviting me in. I turned away and looked for Ernest.

  He was parading in the middle, performing some sort of wild dance. I went to him and took his hand to pull him away. He resisted and looked at me blankly. Without making a sound, I mouthed “Lucie”. He poked his tongue out at me. I shouted that Lucie had gone into the lake. He shook his head and continued with his demented dance.

  I went to the kitchen, where two adolescents sat, barely able to keep their eyes open. They were from Watooga, still in Year Twelve. They were the waiters for the party.

  I was worried, Officer Lawson, I was worried about Lucie. But what else could I have done? I tried to tell Ernest she’d gone into the lake. I did what I could, Officer, believe me…

  Ernest Renfield

  Longland

  New South Wales

  I’d like to bring something to light, Lawson. It came to mind the other day, when was it, last Tuesday, when forensics searched the lake and found a human skull… By the way, anything new regarding that skull? You mean to tell me it has been sitting in the mud for nearly one hundred years? So, it all happened before my family bought the property…

  Yes, my father’s parents bought the estate in 1919. Do you reckon that could be the skull of an Aborigine? Hmm. We may never find out.

  Talking about drowning, something has been bothering me since you told me that Lucie’s brooch and shoes were found near the lake… Should we go to the sitting-room? You know the way, yes, to the right and down the corridor… After you, please. I want to be completely upfront with you. Would you mind closing the door, please, it’s a very drafty house.

  You might have heard that Lucie is a harmless little sprite who likes to play Bach and Mozart. I wouldn’t dispute that, she has many good qualities, but she’s also unbalanced… It’s not easy to talk about it. Can you give me your word that my statement will never be used against her? Lucie is the sort of person to take her own life. Believe me… I’m so relieved that forensics haven’t found her body in the lake. Just the same, I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d found her there.

  Yes, jump off the cliff, hang herself, slit her wrists, swallow a box of sleeping pills, it’s something she could very well do… I’ve been pondering her whole story, her past, her setbacks, her mother’s death, her expectations since arriving here. I’ve had a growing concern that she could have turned her morbid melancholy against herself.

  It’s embarrassing, but let’s be upfront. The first time you came here, I stated that Lucie and I had a few words regarding Rosy Barth on the Sunday morning. That’s not exactly true. We didn’t argue about Rosy. No, we didn’t… It was already late in the day, we had missed lunch, the two waiters hadn’t shown up and we were expecting our guests to arrive soon. We still had lots to do. The heavy couches and the chairs had to be moved, the rugs cleared, to make space for dancing. Lucie was giving me the silent treatment. God knows why, but she’d been sulking all morning. Then, out of the blue, she said she was sick and tired of putting up with my “issues”. What on earth are you talking about, my dear, I asked. I know I can make a fool of myself when there’s a good-looking girl flouncing about, but she was talking about something else altogether, my “drinking”. First time she mentioned this since we’ve been living together. Then she asked me to keep my “consumption” under control, as she put it. Why would she confront me about this now, when we’d been living together for two years? What a perfect day to bring up a grievance like this! I told her we had more important matters to see to, like moving the couches. That made her angry. In fact, she was so infuriated that I thought she was about to hit me… That wasn’t the first time either…

  No, she’s never hit me, but she can get terribly worked up. I’ve noticed how frustrated she gets when she can’t express her thoughts accurately. She’s an intelligent woman; her command of English is good, but she’s always struggling with the subtleties. Anyhow, you’ll understand my point in a minute…

  Instead of giving me a hand with the couch, she went on strike. She sat down on a chair and declared that we had to discuss the matter. You are ridiculous, I told her. Why don’t you make an appointment with a shrink? She was flustered now and asked me what in hell a shrink was. I sighed. So many things she’s never heard of. I was going to explain when all of a sudden the two waiters turned up – two local kids I’d hired. Lucie dashed upstairs. I got the kids to help me shift the furniture…

  Now, since last Tuesday I’ve been thinking of another incident, which took place in Paris last year. It had to do with Lucie’s interviews with that violinist Jean someone… his last name eludes me. Lucie’s old uncle had put us up. Since he lives in the country, the keys were with the concierge. Entering that pokey flat I realised that a cheap hotel room might have been a better option. The place was filthy and smelt of mould. Crikey, have you ever seen that black grime coating the walls, the windows? Nauseating. Lucie explained that these days her uncle barely used the apartment, and without a minute’s delay, she set off to clean the dump. At least we were in a good location, ten minutes by foot from the Père Lachaise cemetery and five minutes to the nearest metro station…

  I had a longing to go back to the Louvre. Yet going to the museum wasn’t part of Lucie’s schedule… When she wasn’t busy interviewing her violinist, a couple of hours three times a week, she kept pestering me: let’s go to the Galeries Lafayette! Let’s go to Montmartre! What about paying a surprise visit to my friend Eric? You’ll love his wife, Maria
nne! She’s such a good cook!

  I tried to explain: Lucie, I don’t give a damn about your friend Eric and his wife. All I want to do is go back to the Louvre, can’t you make an effort to understand that much? Well, she couldn’t.

  Anyway, we had argued so much, that evening I opted for the couch and let her keep the bed… So there I was, lying on this hard and narrow thing, wrapped in a smelly blanket, keeping one eye open, in case that crazy woman snuck up on me and stabbed me in the chest… I truly thought that our Parisian sojourn was going to end in a blood bath, and we’d make the front page of the tabloids. No, I’m not blowing it out of proportion… Anyhow, I managed to fall asleep shortly before dawn.

  Now imagine, the first thing Lucie asked me that morning was how come I didn’t sleep with her. You really are out of your mind, I said. Her eyes lit up with fury. She clenched her fists as if she was about to strike. Yes, I am serious… Abuse in relationships, you know, isn’t always directed at women. Men cope abuse too. That’s not uncommon… And when it comes to Lucie, aggression is always lurking beneath. There’s a hidden perversity about her.

  Oh no, I don’t mince my words. Why should I? I’ve become aware of this troubling side of her. What I’d like you to know, Officer Lawson: Lucie, yes, Lucie Bruyère, isn’t what she appears to be. Don’t believe what people tell you about her. Ask me, I’ve lived with her. You must live with people to know them. She’s full of contradictions.

  So, after two weeks of insufferable bickering, I told her I was going back to Australia. Your country, your family, driving hundreds of kilometres to see ugly churches, having to put up with uncouth French people blowing their cigarette smoke in my face, the traffic, the noise, the pollution, contemptuous waiters who pretend they don’t speak English, restaurants serving raw meat and overcooked vegetables, I’m sick of it all, I announced. She begged me to stay. What about my family, she cried, what am I going to tell them?