Prochownik's Dream (27 page)

seventeen

As he walked towards Teresa's car he noticed for the first time, as if it were something that had suddenly become important to him, that each of the tiny front gardens in the row of uniform weatherboard houses was planted differently from its neighbour. A miniature parterre of rose bushes was followed by a solitary gum tree, then came an arrangement of neatly clipped English box hedges, which was followed by a cluster of old-fashioned sweet peas growing on chicken wire. It had never occurred to him before that these gardens so strongly advertised the private dreams of the owners of the houses to which they belonged. Were these people oblivious to the existence of each other, or were they eager not to be influenced by the tastes of their neighbours, but determined to cling to a private idea of themselves and their property that, in the grandeur of its associations, far outstripped the modest reality? He wondered if he had ever really been a true citizen of this place. The great black circles of dried sunflower blooms in a neglected garden swayed towards him in the hot wind and seemed to menace the air. The long night feverishly working on his figure in
The Other Family
and the vertiginous unreality of his day with Marina had left him spent. He calculated that he had not slept for thirty-six hours. He did not know what to think any longer, and he felt himself to be dangerously exposed to any random or bizarre idea that might take hold of him and influence his behaviour. He was exhausted.

He turned in at the front gate and saw, with a rush of nostalgia, the low hedge of lavender bushes on either side of the path that Teresa had planted shortly after they arrived. This house to which they had brought Nada home from the hospital two days after she was born, swept up then in the excitement of being parents and becoming a family. He stood on the path staring at the front door. How could he still call this place his home or ever again take for granted Teresa's love and support? He felt like a man who had been stripped of his liberty, and for the first time he knew something of what it must have been like for his brother, Roy, when he was removed from the family and sent to prison. How could he ever again speak confidently to Teresa? The whispered intimacies and private confessions they shared in bed at night before they went to sleep! His
wife
! As soon as he walked through that door Teresa would look into his eyes and she would know, and he would see the pain and the anger wash through her. He would be the one to bring Teresa's reality down and to destroy it. He felt sick with the inevitability of it. And yet, in a secret place within himself that he could imagine disclosing to no one, he believed that what he had done possessed its own truth and its own necessity. He would admit his guilt to Teresa and would accept the consequences, no matter what they were, but secretly he would not relinquish his belief in the necessity of his friendship with Marina to himself as an artist. If only there were a way to make Teresa see the situation as he saw it himself! To recount to her calmly, and in all its detail, the true story of how events had unfolded for him from the moment of Marina's telephone call that day when he was posing for Nada. Show her how these events had not been part of a conscious plan but had surprised him and had lifted him onto a wave of energy and confidence that had made the renewal of his work possible. He did not feel any more guilty for what he had done than Roy must have felt for defending their father from his persistent tormentor that day. Guilt, after all, was not concerned with consequences but with intentions.

He stepped on to the verandah. Teresa was not going to forgive him. He knew that. He had betrayed her, and for Teresa that would be the end of it. He thought of how his father had created art as a haven, had refused the hazards of the human likeness and of public reputation, and had searched within the familiar objects of their lives for a morality that had sustained himself and his family; a morality that sustained Toni even now, and which had in it something that was essential to his belief in himself as a man and as an artist. That would always be the case. He would always know himself through his father's vision of art. And perhaps what Marina had said in the Red Hat was true, and there was no point in trying to explain or to understand such things. He opened the front door and stepped into the passage.

Nada ran towards him from the living area calling excitedly, ‘Daddy! Daddy! We've been waiting for you!'

Teresa stood at the far end of the passage silhouetted against the light from the courtyard windows. He lifted Nada into his arms and hugged her to him.

She struggled to loosen his grip. ‘Uncle Andy sold your pictures, Daddy!' she cried breathlessly. ‘He said we're going to be rich!' She chanted, ‘We're going to be rich! We're going to be rich!'

Teresa came up and she laughed and put her arm through his. ‘There's a message for you from Andy. Listen to it while I open the champagne. We've been waiting for you.' She turned and kissed him, cupping her hand to the back of his head and pressing her lips firmly against his mouth. ‘God, I love you, Toni Powlett!'

‘We're going to have a party!' Nada cried, forcing her head between them.

In the kitchen he held Nada in his arms and the three of them listened in silence to Andy's message, Teresa watching him, the bottle of champagne in her hand, her eyes smiling, her pleasure for him. Andy's voice, loud and confident, coming into the kitchen.
I'm in Sydney, mate. They love your stuff up here.
Geoffrey bought
Marina Golding Asleep on the Island
. You like
the title? He's showing it to his friends. It's his latest coup. I knew that was
the picture for Geoffrey. Five thousand. Okay? How do you like that? He's
set the starting price for you.
Theo Schwartz Reading Paul Klee's Diaries
went for three and a half. Don't worry, that's a terrific price for
an old man reading a book. We'll put twenty-five on
The Schwartz Family
. We'll test them. I think they're ready to get serious. How's that
other big one coming along? I've told them up here you're on a roll. Sydney's
got the hots for you, mate. You can tell Terry you guys are going to be rich
.
Just keep painting, buddy!

Andy talked until the machine ran out of tape.

Teresa handed him a glass of champagne. ‘It's happened, darling!' She touched his glass with hers, watching for his reaction.

Nada reached for his glass and he let her have a sip. ‘I told Andy those pictures weren't for sale yet.'

‘You know Andy. With Andy everything's for sale. He'd just think you were trying to push up the price saying a thing like that.'

‘I wouldn't do that.'

‘
I
know you wouldn't do it.' She gazed steadily at him, measuring his response. ‘Isn't it fantastic, though? I knew you'd do it. I knew from the minute I saw you at Andy's party that you were the only real artist in the place. Don't you feel like yelling and dancing? Do you really think he'll get twenty-five thousand for that picture? Has Marina done a background for it? Has she still got it? You won't have to give her half will you? How much will Andy's commission be?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Didn't you ask him?'

‘Andy will look after us. I don't need to ask him.'

‘You'll have to start being businesslike about it. There's no point giving money away.' She refilled their glasses.

He carried Nada over to the couch and sat and rested his head against the back of the cushion. He closed his eyes.

Teresa brought the bottle over and sat close up beside him, studying him. ‘You look worn out. There's nothing the matter, is there? You're happy, aren't you? You're selling your pictures. It's happening at last. You're a real artist. You're being who you've always wanted to be. This is what you've worked for. It's the beginning, isn't it?' She reached for Nada and took her from him. ‘Let Daddy have a rest for a minute, darling. Don't give her too much of that, it'll make her sick. We'll be able to repay Dad. God, you've got no idea how good this makes me feel. Can I ring Mum and tell her yet? I can't wait to hear their reaction.'

They drank the wine and Teresa talked about the money they were going to make and what they would do with it.

He lay back against the couch, struggling against the whirling in his head, struggling to keep his eyes open.

•

Later he read
Mog's Mumps
to Nada and fell asleep beside her on the bed. His sleep was deep, soundless, dreamless; a sleep of exhaustion. He woke with Nada's arm over his neck. They were both sweating; her head thrown back and her mouth open, dark strands of hair sticking to her forehead, the sweet, intimate smell of her child's breath in his face. He held her close, then eased himself free of her encircling arm. He got up and straightened her on the bed and stood looking down at her . . . The telephone began to ring. He went down the passage to the kitchen. The clock on the refrigerator showed two a.m. He picked up the telephone. ‘Hello,' he said cautiously. He already had the feeling it was going to be Robert.

Robert said, ‘I'm sorry to wake you, Toni.'

‘I wasn't asleep.'

‘Dad's had a stroke. We're at the Alfred. I thought you'd want to know at once.'

‘Is he going to be all right?'

There was a short silence. Toni could hear voices and noises in the background, an echoing space, a siren wailing. Robert said, ‘No. I don't think they expect him to survive the night.'

That word,
Dad
! ‘I'll come over,' Toni said.

Teresa came into the kitchen and walked across to put her hand on his arm. She whispered, ‘Who is it?'

‘There's no need for you to come over,' Robert said. ‘There's nothing we can do. He's not aware of us.'

He held the phone away. ‘It's Robert. His dad's had a stroke.' He put his mouth to the phone again. ‘I'm coming over. I'm sorry, Robert. I'm terribly sorry.'

‘You were fond of him. He thought a lot of you. He was glad of your friendship.'

‘I meant, I'm sorry for you.'

‘Thanks. I know you did.'

‘I'll see you in half an hour.'

Robert said, ‘We're not in intensive care. Come to casualty. They're not giving him any treatment. They're just making sure he's comfortable.'

Teresa went to the front door with him. ‘I came in to look at you,' she said and she kissed him. ‘I couldn't bear to wake you. You both looked so beautiful sleeping in each other's arms.' She kissed him again. ‘Drive carefully!' It might have been that the sudden grip of death on Theo had rendered them all vulnerable.

As he pulled out from the kerb he turned and waved. She lifted her hand.

He drove along the empty streets of the city and thought of Theo asking him not to tell Robert his real reason for coming back;
I came back because I was hoping to distract myself . . . You
won't tell Robert, will you?

The hospital was a blaze of light and activity, a hub of life and death in the sleeping city. He found Robert and Marina in a curtained cubicle in the casualty department. Robert stepped up and embraced him, taking Toni by surprise and holding him strongly in his arms. He began to cry.

Toni put his hand to the back of Robert's head and held him against his shoulder.

Robert yielded to his friend's embrace for a moment, then he drew in a big breath and stepped away. ‘Sorry!' he said, and he laughed; he was an emotional, almost boyish version of himself, suddenly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He looked at Toni and grinned. ‘I don't know why, but seeing you made me cry. I saw you come through that curtain and it caught me in the throat.'

‘I can have that effect on people.' He thought Robert seemed younger and lighter with his grief, almost as if he had shrugged off a burdensome inhibition.

They laughed and both reached at the same instant and touched each other's fingers, then let their hands fall away, something of pleasure, shyness, surprise and embarrassment at this sudden intimacy, the unaccustomed openness of their emotion with each other.

Robert said, ‘You walked in just then and I remembered the way it used to be with us. The old days. You know? The way it was for us? I've got to ease up.' He stood looking at his father lying in the bed, tubes and drip lines and pulse meters coming out of him.

Marina came up and she and Toni held each other lightly, their eyes meeting, then they stepped apart.

Theo lay on his side with his mouth open, a clear plastic tube going down the black hole of his throat, an oxygen mask clamped over his nose with an obscene pink garter around the back of his head, his wispy hair waving back and forth in the cold stream of the airconditioning. Theo's eyes were closed and his skin was the colour of stone, one skinny arm out of the covers, a drip insert coming out of the back of his hand. Except for the noise of his breathing he looked dead.

Robert stood at his shoulder. ‘We might go and get a coffee. You want a few minutes alone with him?' He looked at Toni, giving him an awkward sideways grin. ‘You might like to say goodbye.' He shrugged and turned quickly and walked across to where Marina was waiting for him, and they went out through the curtain.

Toni took Theo's hand and held it. The hand was cold and still. No sign of the jumping nerves. ‘I'm sorry to see you go, Theo.' But his voice sounded insincere and he was self-conscious with it, as if he were acting the role of saying goodbye to a dying friend. It was easier to speak his thoughts silently. But what if Theo could still hear? As if in response to this thought, Theo gave a shudder and his hand closed around Toni's fingers. For a brief second it was unnerving, as if Theo were taking hold of him, then Toni realised it was probably a final contraction of the nerves, a lifetime of nervous reactions echoed in this last mockery of friendship's clasp. He thought of saying something about Theo rejoining his Marguerite, but the thought was too sentimental to utter. Remembering Theo telling him old men talk too much not because they fear to die, but because they hate knowing their experiences and their knowledge are going to die with them, the fruits of their struggles going for nothing. He leaned and touched his lips to Theo's forehead. The skin was cold and slightly damp. He straightened. Theo's blatant borrowing, his bold plagiarism of the French printmakers, an example that had broken a deadlock in him and made him see that he had to become the familiar of his own nakedness if he were to be an authentic painter of the human likeness. He turned away and went in search of Robert and Marina and a coffee.