The Painter's Friend

by Howard Cunnell

  Can you take charge of these other paintings? I’d asked the old man. They need to go up on the weir. Danny will help you.

  You want me with the boy? was all the old man said.

  Here came the moon.

  Filmed Adam and Gene as they lifted the first panel of the mural and carried it to the Zodiac, wading through shin-high water. Through the lens they were dark figures about some obscure business. Poachers, drug smugglers. Partisans.

  The men laid the picture flat so that it was balanced across the boat’s inflatable sides. Adam held the panel in place while Gene, using three long bungee cords linked together and hooked to the handholds of the boat, worked quickly to lash the painting down.

  The panel and the boat moved around as Gene was working to secure it, and Adam had to fight to hold everything in place. I held my breath. Could hear Gene swearing. The splashing the men made as they moved heavily around. When they came out of the water they were both soaked to the waist, and Gene was breathing hard.

  Adam looked at Gene.

  Hands on knees.

  Fuck, he said, and spat on the ground.

  Give me the camera, he said at last.

  What? I said.

  You think we’re going to hump all these onto the boat while you sit on your arse watching?

  I’m working.

  Looking at him through the lens.

  Give me the camera, he said.

  I turned the camera to the lighted houseboats. Nobody was moving around, but I knew we were being watched.

  I turned the camera back on Gene.

  Gene, I said.

  I swear, said Gene, making a fist and covering the camera lens with his other hand, if you say one word about art I’ll stick one on you.

  Have you lost your minds? said a voice from the trees.

  Stella. Red alongside.

  Gene, she said, pull up to the shore and then load up.

  She’s right, I said. Where have you been?

  With Danny and John Rose, Stella said. What have you got on your faces?

  Adam pulled the boat onto the foreshore, mud sucking at his boots.

  Gene raised the outboard engine so that the screw was pulled up above the waterline.

  Adam and Gene loaded the two remaining mural panels, unhooking two bungee cords to add another so that the cords would reach around the bigger pile.

  Started carrying one of the giant portraits to the boat.

  We’ll make two trips, Stella said.

  Adam and Gene put the painting down.

  I’ll stay, I said.

  I filmed Adam and Gene pushing the boat into the river. Gene jumped in while Adam held her steady. Gene sat in the transom to the left of the outboard , the stacked paintings in front of him, his head level with the highest.

  The mural boards were much wider than the boat, and rested on and stuck out over the inflated tubing. Stella climbed in on the other side to Gene. She lowered the engine so that the screw was in the water. Moved to the bow and turned the key.

  All right Adam, she called, above the sound of the engine.

  Adam, soaking, hauled himself into the bow.

  They set off.

  Stella steered into the path made by the reflected moon.

  The boat was too low in the water, and went very slowly. I filmed them until they were out of sight, the dancing skirt of white water made by the boat the last thing I saw. I looked hard downstream. Even with the moon the bulk of the bridge was a dark mass spanning the river. The deep arches seemed filled-in and made solid by the dark. Now and then a vehicle crossed over, the car or van itself lighted, so that even from that distance I could make out the shape or shapes of its occupants before it passed into the darkness that was the world beyond my sight.

  I stopped filming when I could no longer hear the boat.

  First the sound of the engine was gone, then the echo of the sound came and went. I rolled a cigarette.

  Something broke the surface of the water upstream. Bird call. A light on a boat switched on and off. Fenders creaked. Whoosh of water as a night bird landed. Boots on the weir. Moving slowly. Carrying something heavy.

  Red flumped down by my side and together we dreamed.

  Engine clatter opened my eyes. The boat slowly appeared out of the dark. Chugging along. Gene in the bow, higher in the water now. Stella turned off the engine and coasted in. Gene threw me the rope and I caught it.

  The wooden floor of the boat was littered with bungee cords and smeared with muddy water. We loaded up again and set off.

  Red ran into the water and started swimming after the Zodiac.

  Go back Red! I said, go back!

  Go back Red! Go back! said Stella.

  Red! Red!

  Before we reached deep water the dog made a wide half circle turn and swam back to the shore. When she came out of the water I could hear her shaking herself. Barked three times from the river’s edge.

  There were low, fast-moving breakers out in the channel, white horses and all, and the flat-bottomed tender hit and passed over them hard like they were made of concrete. Black water chopped and splashed into the boat.

  Filmed everything one-handed, the other pushing down on the covered pictures. Holding myself in place by jamming my feet against the steering column. Gene was holding on hard to the pictures, his fingers candle-white.

  Stella’s fair hair blown all around by the wind we made in our passing. Gave me the thumbs up.

  From so low down in the water the bridge was sheer and huge. The arches were great dark caves. I leaned back in the boat and filmed it that way.

  Under the bridge Stella cut the engine. A single whistle came from the riverbank. Gene stood in the bow and threw the rope, which looped palely in the darkness. The rope tightened, and we were being hauled in.

  Ashore, the paintings unloaded, Adam said, Mural’s done.

  Threw the heaped pile of tarpaulin and sacking into the boat.

  Adam and Gene clambered up the shallow riverbank carrying a painting. I filmed them, then gave Gene the camera while Stella and I took the next.

  We lifted the painting over the side. I had to hold the whole by holding half. Hand on the edge of the canvas, other under the corner fold where there was a natural handgrip. The rest of the picture was a dead weight. Had to almost will it in place. Below me in the darkness, Stella began lashing the painting to the outside of the bridge.

  Engine to my right. Lights showed on the camber of the bridge. Towards the sky like searchlights. The car slowly crested the rise and the lights became horizontal, pointed straight at us.

  Advanced. The wheels turned slowly against the surface of the bridge, making plump, gritty contact.

  Stella switched to the other side. Half of the painting tied down. Easier, not pulling away but still heavy.

  Rough edges of the paint-heaped canvas under my fingers.

  My back to the car. An impression of light and movement. Turned my head far as I could. The car was just a dark box shape behind the lights it carried. Single driver. Alone. Turned my head the other way. Couldn’t see Gene or Adam.

  The car lights messed with my vision. Far below me the river was full of fast-moving silver snakes.

  Stella?

  Couldn’t see what she was doing.

  Company, I said.

  Just a sec, she said.

  Something in her mouth. Cable tie.

  The car was not going past. Going slower.

  Stella.

  Hang on!

  The car crept towards me.

  OK, Stella said.

  I let go. The painting held.

  Let out the breath I’d been holding.

  Stella stood up.

  Put her arms around me. Heart beating fast. I could feel the heat of her body right through me.

  Almost in slow motion the car came alongside.

  Dark clothes. Ducked his head to look at us across the empty passenger seat. Nothing to see. Man and a woman on the bridge. Moon on th
e water. No sign of anything else. Kept on looking. Straightened up. Foot on the accelerator. Just a fraction. Carried on past.

  Terry, Stella said, look.

  Dull gold letters on the side. Island Security. Some kind of badge. Private cop.

  Turned our heads to watch him pass. Stella’s warm breath against my cheek. Hands on my shoulders. The driver looked at me and Stella, and back at me again. The car went past, then turned its nose left. Pulled in. Stopped. Door opened. Engine still running. Lights on. Driver got out.

  Big fat bloke. No other way to say it. With him came the rank scent of a car deodorizer. Several little pine trees were still swinging on the rear view mirror.

  My age, older even. Could have been wearing a uniform, or his own clothes. All black. Torchlight. Pointed at us.

  Evening folks, he said. Running a film in his head. Sheriff.

  Plastic or tin badge pinned to his shirt. Some kind of radio or walkie-talkie on his belt. Looked at me. Hard and slow. Back to Stella. Smiled. Could hear him thinking.

  You new? he said.

  What? Stella said.

  I haven’t seen you before, the fat man said.

  Public bridge, I said.

  Stella kicked me.

  What’s that? he said.

  Public bridge. Don’t have to answer questions.

  Put his hands on his belt. Fat and clean. Near the radio if that’s what it was. Looked at me. Looked at Stella.

  You from the island? he said.

  What’s it to you? Stella said.

  My father was a lighterman, the guard said. Upriver. You wouldn’t know what that is.

  I did, but I didn’t say so. Lightermen unloaded goods from barge to the quay, quay to barge. Flat-bottomed boat. No sail no motor. Nothing but oar power and secret knowledge of the water. Generations. River knowledge handed down.

  Weren’t none left when I come of age, the fat man said. No use for them. Between the docks and the containers.

  Sighed deeply.

  You girls have been told about working on the bridge, he said.

  What the fuck? Stella said.

  My old man told me, the river’s there for what you can get out of it. What I mean is, he said, could you do me like you just did him?

  Stella had been crouched down in the dark. Close to my waist. I was too old to be her boyfriend.

  Step to him. Bust him up. Get the fat fuck out of here.

  What’s your name? Stella said.

  The fat man stopped chewing.

  What? he said.

  I work for Alexandra Kaplan, Stella said. Sure she’d like to know we have a troll living under this bridge.

  Look, the guard said, hands up.

  No, Stella said. I want your name.

  A blur materialized. Red. Half sized because she was soaked through. Stood in front of us and spread her feet. Firm stance. She bared her teeth at the fat guard.

  Take his arm off at the shoulder, Red, I said.

  Couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Burning rubber. Let him go. Pretended to forget we hadn’t got his name.

  You all right? I said.

  Stella, arms folded across herself, nodded.

  You think he was for real? she said.

  Red shook herself back to three-quarter size.

  Knew a bloke who wore a sailor’s hat with captain written on the front in black marker, I said. Walked about giving orders: full steam ahead, fire the torpedoes. Didn’t make him a captain.

  We travelled against the current. Cold water sprayed against my face. Gene sat on the transom. Looking straight ahead. Sometimes glancing at Stella. Red sat next to Gene and stared into his face, her fur curling up in the wind we made. There was a swan that flew across the moon after all that.

  You think we’re going to change the world with a few pictures? Stella said. Fair hair whipping round as her words were carried downriver.

  Don’t know about that, I said, but have you asked yourself why a big corporation like Kaplan International would have just one security guard looking after the whole island?

  Because they’re not taking us seriously, Stella said.

  John Rose found me and Red before first light the next morning. Wrapped in blankets. Backs against the wheelhouse, looking downstream.

  Surface mist curled away, making holes you could see the water through. The bridge and my paintings would soon be revealed. If the paintings had survived the night. We’d got the go-ahead from the council, but even so the reaction of Alex Kaplan was an unknown. Been trying to work out the odds. Undiscovered or discovered. If discovered, further odds as to whether the pictures would be left up or taken down. Safe keeping or destroyed.

  Stella had said: I pitched the paintings as a community arts project – which is true – and it wasn’t campaigning for anything – also true. All they wanted to know was if this was part of the Save the Island group. Clearly, they were rattled by the possibility. But they heard me out, and it was fine. The only condition was that if the council request removal then we take them down.

  The council, I’d said, not Kaplan?

  That’s right.

  Single birds sang speculative phrases. Almost unnoticed the voices were joined, the songs connected. More birdsong as it became lighter, until no bird sang alone. Hooting calls sounded across the river. Echoing dog bark. The river randomly breaking open to rising fish. Somewhere a spring-hinged screen door banged shut.

  You sleep?

  John Rose handed me the coffee I’d been drooling over since he’d started to make it half an hour before. The mug thick, cracked. Not usual. Looked into his face against the vault of sky.

  John looked tired and his colour was bad. Dry. Ashy. Hand a bit shaky.

  I hadn’t slept. Close my eyes and the paintings were there and not there. Changed everything and changed nothing. Given a parade and got myself locked up. An endless loop.

  No, I said. You?

  At my age you need all the time awake you can get, John said.

  How old are you?

  Never asked him before. Never dared.

  John scratched the dog’s ears. Red leaned into his hands.

  I won’t see eighty-six again, he said, or eighty-seven either.

  Speaking seemed to take effort. Words forced across a great plain of time.

  The old man’s glasses were smeared. Dirty long johns under his reefer coat. Straight arm corded with thick veins. Muscles fighting softness. Losing.

  You have any trouble at the weir? I said.

  I’d wanted everything done at once. Should have waited. Done it myself, today. My body was sore all over from hoisting the paintings around. Had to think John would be hurting twice as much. More.

  They’re up, aren’t they? he said.

  Gone straight to the weir after we’d got back from the bridge.

  Danny keeping watch.

  More islander portraits were secured to the side of the weir, above the roaring fall of water. Tuppy Lawrence. Gene and Perseis. Adam, surrounded by dogs, foliate-headed and costumed in ferns and berry sprigs.

  Danny, his face pale with tiredness, was sitting with his hands and arms wrapping his knees, his back against the iron structure. The boy opened his eyes and jumped up when he heard me.

  Go home son, I’d said. Get some sleep.

  The line of willows on the far riverbank became visible as the sun rose. Slowly then quickly. Above the willows the almost purple lawns. A kitchen light was turned off in a low white house, door opening. A composition of coloured bands: white house, the steeply inclined purple lawn, velvet willows and the paling river. A large dog, a setter by its fringed outline, streaked from the open door down the centre of the lawn in a fast chestnut line. At the river’s edge the dog stood looking out, barking, setting off reverberations that seemed to make the boats buck in slow motion on the water. Red answered happily and I put my arm round her.

  Star-crossed lovers, I said, my hand moving in her cool fur.

  Red licked my face.


  Sitting upright, her jaws slightly parted, giving full attention to sounds only she could hear. Eyes dancing.

  Monty!

  The calling voice of the dog’s owner came echoing across the river.

  John laughed very quietly.

  There were no spires or crosses in my wide-angled view, but from somewhere in the distance came the sound of Sunday church bells.

  John lifted his head a fraction.

  The lightness in the sky spread. Mist chased away by the warming air. The river like tin. The bridge became the softest of coral pinks. Sun rays flaring through the arches.

  Red shook off her blanket and stood up and I did the same.

  The pictures were still there.

  The faces of John Rose, Michael, Stella and Danny showed high on the bridge and in brilliant angled reflection on the water.

  Artwork of the floating people. Twenty feet high. Bigger than kings.

  John Rose leaned out in his canvas chair. Wiped his glasses.

  Heavens, the old man said.

  Clouds swept upstream, and the pictures and the bridge were lost to clear view.

  The old man put his hand on my shoulder and pushed himself up. Stood for a bit.

  You leave any juice in the tank? he said finally.

  Course.

  We’d cleaned the Zodiac of mud before putting her back alongside John’s barge. Tuppy had donated a can of diesel.

  Let’s take a closer look.

  Smiling.

  Followed John across to his boat, my boots on the deck making a sound like somebody chopping wood in the distance. Got in the Zodiac, the tender in shadow, wide rubber sides still wet with dew. Sat down on the transom and looked around at the new day. Red curled at my feet, out of the way. A river dog, a good sailor. John brought us slowly out to open water. The sun felt good.

  Two minutes later I wished I’d worn warmer clothes. The wind kicked up waves and spray and pushed the clouds along. Sun breaking through but not for long. Red snapped at the river froth that flew into the boat.

  John kept us out of the path of bigger waves I never saw coming. The movement of a finger, the palm of his hand. Holding the boat to the position he wanted. Putting just enough on it so that we were not pushed back by the current I could feel moving beneath the thin wooden flooring. The water thumped against the inflated and pressurized sides.