Cairo (11 page)

It was a disdainful way to talk about her husband's work, and I felt uncomfortable. I glanced away, but when I turned back Gertrude looked ghastly. She had reached out to grasp the doorjamb and was bent over as if likely to collapse.

‘Are you alright?' I asked, stepping forwards.

She nodded and grimaced. The episode passed after a few seconds. She stood up straight, threw her half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her heel.

‘I have a condition known as … Oh, it doesn't matter what it's called. A long and complicated name. Sometimes it catches up with me, that's all.'

‘Is it serious? My uncle is a doctor. He lives in Melbourne. I could ask him to take a look at you.'

‘Oh, no. That's alright. There's a specialist I've been seeing. There's some new treatment, they tell me. I'll be alright.' Her voice disintegrated into her trademark nervous giggle.

‘Well, if you're sure.'

She nodded again, caught her breath. ‘You're new in town?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

‘Tell me, Tom. Are you really a person who can keep secrets?'

I made no answer. Gertrude stared at the Soutine portrait on the bench. Her eyelids drooped and she seemed, momentarily, to forget me.

Then Edward was behind her in the doorway, thin arms flapping about. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?' he said to me. ‘
Gertrude!
He should not be in here. This room is meant to stay locked at all times.'

‘Oh, darling. You scared the life out of me. Tom here was very keen to see your work. What's this one called again?'

Edward glared at me wild-eyed, and inspected the studio as if checking nothing was stolen or damaged, before ushering us out and closing the door. ‘I don't know yet. Come on. Quick. The countdown has started.'

The flight of the
Challenger
lasted under two minutes. The shuttle exploded into pieces like a lumbering, oversized firework against the hard blue sky. At first it was unclear anything was wrong. The audio was a direct feed from NASA Control, an engineer's staticky drawl.
There seems to be a problem. An explosion. The feed is down
.

We watched in silence, shocked and thrilled at witnessing the deaths of seven people live on television. White smoke fizzed off in various directions, a dozen zippers opening in the sky. Shots of faces in the crowd turned skywards with mouths agape, hands clutched to pale American throats.

After seeing a replay of the explosion for the umpteenth time, Edward said, with an ill-concealed and callous air of satisfaction, ‘Well, I doubt they'd fake that.'

*

Some time later, the television was switched off. Dawn light slunk through the warehouse. Despite this, no one showed any inclination to retire for the night. Gertrude was curled in a chair leafing through
The Face
magazine with a picture of Grace Jones on
its cover. Buster snored on a red satin cushion on the floor. Edward and Max continued an argument they had been having about the Kennedy assassination (‘Edward, the word “assassin” does
not
come from sneaky Arab killers smoking hashish in the goddamn kasbah — you've been reading way too much William Burroughs'). I was exhausted and still drunk. It had easily been the best night of my life to date. I wanted it never to end.

As the room brightened, and hitherto unseen parts of the warehouse were illuminated, I became aware of a remarkable sight. Like a silent-movie buffoon I sat up and rubbed my stinging eyes. The vision, however, remained. From beneath an arbour painted across the portion of the ceiling adjoining the far wall, there rose broken, vine-covered columns lining an ancient Roman terrace, shrubs, stone urns, a family of gypsies resting in the shade. Beyond that was a large bay enclosed on its left by houses. The sky was pale blue, its clouds wispy and thin. On the horizon was a mountain shrouded in gauzy mist. The cry of distant gulls, sunlight glinting on water. A breeze caressed my face. I sniffed the air, expecting to detect a briny tang from the sea.

‘Welcome to Naples, Tom.' It was Gertrude. She was standing directly behind me. ‘Do you like it?'

‘I think it's the most incredible thing I have ever seen,' I said, quite sincerely.

The trompe l'oeil stretched across ten metres of wall, floor to ceiling, the effect interrupted only by a low bookcase and a wooden chair in the right corner. If one studied the mural, one might also notice the vertical bump of a water pipe passing through a menacing-looking succulent on the left.

‘Naples is on Italy's coast. The home of Caravaggio after he fled Rome accused of murder. The birthplace of pizza, believe it or not, and the capital of its own kingdom for a while. That mountain in the background there is Vesuvius, the destroyer of Pompeii. This
is based on a nineteenth-century painting. Naples doesn't look anything like this now.'

‘Have you been there?'

She gave one of her cackles. ‘No. I don't leave the house much. But I don't need to go there, do I? Naples came to me. It took us five months. The morning is when it's at its best.'

‘Are you a painter, too?'

Her eyelids fluttered. ‘Not really. I used to be.'

Max and Edward's argument ran out of steam. Coffee brewed on the stove; spoons tinkled against cups. I lay back on the couch, unable to remove my gaze from the splendid view of Naples that had materialised before me as if at a genie's whim. I closed my eyes and imagined myself far away. I heard waves washing up on a distant beach, the hoarse laughter of sailors and whores drifting up from the port. Birdsong. Morning sun beat down on my face.

SOME HOURS LATER, I WOKE ON THE COUCH TO THE SOUND OF
Edward reading aloud articles from the newspaper in a mock-newsreader's voice. He and Max were sitting at the laminate kitchen table. Edward crunched into an apple between stories.

It was already hot. Somewhere, incense was burning, and it filled the space with tendrils of sweet blue smoke. Gertrude was not in evidence. My brain pounded against my skull. The slightest movement sent pinballs of pain to the front of my head, where they careened about for several seconds before falling still. I closed my eyes again.

Edward rattled the newspaper. ‘Listen to this, Max.
Police believe they could be hunting a serial killer following the discovery of a man's mutilated body in Moonee Ponds yesterday afternoon
. Goodness, that's only up the road.
Detective Sergeant Mulrooney of Victoria Police confirmed the gruesome discovery and said there was a possibility it was linked to a similar case two months ago in Brunswick
. Blah, blah, blah …
“We may be looking for a serial killer,” said Mulrooney. But he's advising the community not to be alarmed
. Yes, right. Listen to this:
It is believed that in both instances, the men had been strangled and there was suggestion of satanic rituals, although Detective Mulrooney refused to comment on this aspect of the case.'

‘The Moonee Ponds killer,' Max said with relish. ‘Imagine that. How exciting.'

‘Satanic rituals. What does that mean?'

‘It means that some unlucky guy had his dick cut off.'

‘What makes people think Satan is so interested in penises? Some weird religious thing, I suppose. Religious people are all obsessed with sex — who's allowed to do it, when they can do it, the
kind
of sex you're allowed to have. Ugh. Max, this apple has a worm in it.'

‘Well, they're from the health-food shop. I told you that. They don't use pesticides.'

‘Damn hippies,' said Edward.

‘Hippies probably cut that guy's dick off.'

‘I would not be in the least bit surprised. You know, I saw one the other day in Smith Street with dreadlocks almost down to his bum. No shoes.'

‘Anyway,' said Max. ‘Carry on.'

Edward scanned the newspaper. ‘Car crash in Frankston, one woman injured. Some political stuff.'

The front-door bell rang. I sat up, startled. Edward crossed to the large windows and lifted one of the matchstick blinds, releasing into the room a burst of brilliant sunlight. ‘Who the hell could that be?'

He stood there for a while before turning around. Edward looked from me to Max, then back to me. The bell rang again, more insistently this time.

‘Who is it?' asked Max, now standing.

‘It's Anna.'

Max was nonplussed, but Edward jerked his thumb at me. ‘Take him to our bedroom and tell Gertrude to stay in there. They're with her, too.'

‘Who?' Max asked.

Edward hesitated. He checked his Papa Smurf watch. ‘You know. I suspect they've come to talk about … our friend Dora and whatnot.' Then, to me: ‘Tom. This is serious. Don't make a sound. And don't come out until we come and get you, OK?'

Before I knew what was happening, Max had bustled me towards the other end of the warehouse. Edward and Gertrude's bedroom was on the other side of the studio and bathroom. We went in, and Max roused Gertrude. ‘Anna is here,' he said, ‘and she has someone with her.'

Gertrude sat up and squinted at Max. Her hair was tousled, and her eyelids were clogged with black make-up. ‘Who?'

‘Those, uh,
other
art dealers, I think. So Edward says to stay quiet in here.'

This explanation sank in. ‘Oh, right. Let the men have their powwow.'

‘Don't start on that.'

I became fearful. ‘What's going on?'

Max shushed me and began backing out of the room. ‘They're, ah, art dealers, as I said. But they're a very cautious tribe. Unusual people, you know. Very secretive. Best if you stay right here and be quiet for now.' He left, closing the door behind him.

Muttering like a disgruntled goblin, Gertrude vanished behind a screen to dress.

The bedroom was stifling, its air laced with the smell of ethanol and rot. There was a pile of leathery orange peel on one of the bedside tables, along with an overflowing ashtray, scraps of paper and a torn cigarette filter. The floor was covered in mounds of clothes. There was a bookcase in one corner crammed with paperbacks. Pinned to the walls was an assortment of about a dozen postcards from around Australia: Goulburn, home of the Big Merino; Coffs Harbour, home of the Big Banana; and, perhaps most alarming of all, Gippsland's Giant Worm. There was also
a colour picture of Lee Hazlewood torn from a magazine, and a poster for the film version of
Lolita
.

Naturally, my curiosity about these mysterious visitors was inflamed. I opened the door a crack. In the kitchen area, Max and Edward were talking to a very tall woman who pulsated with intensity. She was facing the opposite direction, but I could tell she was wearing a bizarre black-and-grey robe that required constant adjustment. Thick black hair fell well past her shoulders. Chunky jewellery glinted at her wrists as she laughed at some witticism of Edward's. She towered over a ruddy, round-faced man whose belly strained at the edges of his buttoned-up blue suit.

Gertrude materialised beside me. ‘Anna Donatella,' she whispered. ‘The Cyclops.'

Just then, as if it had been choreographed, this Anna Donatella wheeled around and I saw she wore a black eye-patch across her left eye.

Gertrude and I shrank away from the door, before sidling back again.

‘Who's the red-faced man with her?' I asked.

After a second's scrutiny, Gertrude pushed the door shut. ‘That's Mr Crisp. Don't worry about him.'

‘But why do we have to hide?'

She lit a cigarette and flopped on the bed, where she picked up a magazine. She said, without looking at me, ‘You studied art, you say?'

‘Only in high school.'

‘Then why don't you name a few famous painters for me.'

I thought of my dog-eared copy of Gombrich's
The Story of Art
, its modest reproductions. ‘Well, Michelangelo, I guess. Titian. Tucker, Caravaggio, Rubens, van Gogh.'

‘Excellent,' Gertrude said, and I felt inordinately chuffed. ‘But what do you notice about them?'

‘Is this a test?'

‘What do these painters have in common?'

I lowered myself into a wicker chair and at once regretted it: the chair was uncomfortable. I shifted my weight, tried to settle, to no avail, all the while trying to think of an answer to Gertrude's question. The chair creaked beneath me. I shrugged.

‘It's not your fault,' she reassured me with a bleak smile. ‘It's the way history is written. Some people are inevitably left out. All the painters you named are men. Great art is seen as the province of men. The common perception of the heroic artist is almost exclusively male. The history makers, the painters of record. They don't want to think a woman can do it equally well. They never taught you about Frida Kahlo or Georgia O'Keeffe, did they? Elizabeth Durack?'

I shook my head. I had never heard of them.

With a wetted finger, Gertrude swept over a page of her magazine. ‘Or Artemisia Gentileschi, famous for, among others, her painting called
Judith Slaying Holofernes
. It's a Bible story about two women who slice off a general's head in two swift strokes.' She made an upward slashing motion with one hand, her other pushing against the meaty temple of her imaginary Holofernes, her gesture replicating that of the woman in the reproduction I'd seen pinned to the studio wall next door.

‘Caravaggio did the same scene, and — surprise, surprise — his take on it is better known. Artemisia was raped by her tutor, then tortured during his trial, subjected to an
examination
. Charming. Thus is the fate of women encroaching on male turf.'

Gertrude's genial manner had fallen away to reveal something quite different, and I didn't know what to make of it.

‘You said earlier that you used to be a painter?' I said.

Gertrude looked at me as if preparing to reveal a secret, before thinking better of it. She ground her cigarette into a saucer on the
cluttered side table. ‘Oh, don't worry about it. Sorry. It doesn't matter anymore.'