The tabloids were almost as thorough--they noted that his mother, Dominique Broussard, had died a similar death in Nice in 1967. They went right into it. So enlightening to read that strangulation is normally the fate of women and children. Only one detail escaped them, although it was plainly stated in the autopsy if anyone wished to think what it might mean--the killer had also broken the bone of Olivier Leibovitz's right metacarpal.
Hugh had not done this. I had not done this.
In all New York, there was only one person who would understand that this injury, inflicted at the time of death, had a direct connection to my brother's history.
Of course I did not know this straightaway. It was a Saturday morning when Olivier died, and it was not until Wednesday-- very fast for the Chief Medical Examiner, or so they told me at the precinct--that I picked up the coroner's report and brought it back to Mercer Street. I cooked Hugh sausages and mashed potatoes and then I began to read. It took a minute or two before I reached the metacarpal bone.
Marlene had been sitting very still and quiet reading Mayer's handbook of artist's materials, but she looked up so sharply it was clear she had been waiting for me to respond.
"What is it, baby?"
I slid the page through the toast crumbs, underlining with my nail the "metacarpal bone."
There was a small flicker in her mouth. Not a smile, but a meaningful contraction. She held my eyes, as she slowly folded the report.
"You don't need this," she said. I finally understood--she had the droit moral now. Olivier was dead.
Beside me Hugh continued chopping up his sausages, sawing them into careful sections one-quarter inch in width.
"I know it looks bad," she said. "It isn't bad, baby. It's just careful."
What she was saying was monstrous, but she was just sitting at the table, her hand resting on my hand, as tender as she always was.
"What looks bad?"
"That injury," she said, casting her eyes in my brother's direction. "The break?"
"Insurance," she said. This was the second time she almost smiled.
She had the fucking droit moral. God save us. I crossed the room, opened the trunk where she had kept her running things, her burglary tools if you want to know the truth. There was nothing left but smelly sneakers and a pair of shorts. "Where's your rope?"
What did I expect her to answer? Oh, I used the rope to climb into my fucked-up husband's room. When I had finished killing him I threw the thing away. Then I came home and snuggled into bed. What she actually said was: "God is in the details."
And thence solemnly stretched out her hand towards me.
"Nothing bad will happen now, baby. It's just I can be confident that our secret is secure."
"For God's sake," I nodded at my eating brother, "he was sound asleep. He was here."
"From an evidentiary point of view, that's sort of tricky. Anyway, no-one wants to open up that can of worms," she said. "Certainly not me."
I made a breathy, incredulous, limp-dick laugh.
"Baby, it's not anything I'll ever need to use. You're acting as if I plan to. I don't."
"And what did you imagine I would feel about this?"
"That maybe we could all go to the south of France. And be happy together. Hugh would love it. You know he would."
Hugh sat slurping at his tea. Who knows what he heard or thought?
Marlene came round the table and stood directly before me, a good nine inches shorter even in her heels. "Australia is still OK.
I don't have to go to France." I felt her gentle hand upon my arm and, looking down into her eyes, saw, in the flare of iris around her pupil, the rocks beneath the ocean, clouds of nebulae, a door to something completely fucking strange.
Then, at last, I was afraid. "No?" she asked.
I could not even move. "Butcher, I love you." I shivered.
She shook her head, her eyes swollen with big tears. "Whatever you think, I'll prove it isn't true." "No."
"You're a great painter." "I'll kill you."
She flinched, but then she touched my frozen cheek. "I'll look after you," she said. "I'll bring you breakfast in bed. I'll place your paintings anywhere you want them in the world. When you're old and sick, I'll care for you."
"You're a liar."
"Not about that, baby." Then, standing on her toes, Marlene Leibovitz kissed me on the mouth.
"It was only technical," she said. She waited for a moment as if I might miraculously change my mind then, sighing, she slid the autopsy into her purse. "You'll never find anyone like me," she said.
Again, she awaited my response while Hugh stared fiercely at his cup. "No?" she asked.
"No," I said.
She walked out the door without another word. Who knows where she went? Hugh and I flew out of JFK the following morning.
"Is Marlene coming?" he asked. "No," I said.
55
The pilot said, Ladies and Gentlemen, Boys and Girls--the voice of our father, a CHARACTER--he said it is DOWNHILL all the way to Sydney I asked my brother what would now be the fate of his ART he said it was lost forever, property of a Japanese he hoped the bastard died. When we were airborne he drank many small bottles of red wine and would not stop until the PRISSY BASTARD would no longer CATCH HIS EYE.
Very long night bouncing above the earth.
Then followed a ROUGH PATCH at various addresses in Sydney--Tempe, Marrickville, St. Peter's. Butcher was completely GUTTED, his life-work stolen by the PLAINTIFF and the JAPANESE.
I HAVE SEEN ALL THE DEEDS THAT ARE DONE
HERE UNDER THE SUN; THEY ARE ALL EMPTINESS AND CHASING THE WIND. He never knew
what he was painting.
For a month or two he MADE ART but then he heard on Sydney radio 2UE that the Plaintiff and Jean-Paul had sold all their holdings of Michael Boone to the Japanese. My brother had been a King but now he was a Pig, eviscerated. Turn the
beast on its side and start pulling out the intestines. Take great care not to break open the stomach or intestines. When you've got the stomach and intestines pulled out as much as you can, you will find it hanging up just below the liver. RIP. He threw fifteen yards of good canvas on the Tempe Tip.
The ONCE-FAMOUS Michael Boone then established a lawncutting enterprise. I was never happier with an occupation but my brother was his father's son, always in a rage with traffic jams on the Parramatta Road, cost of two-stroke fuel, lawns too wet for decent care. FOR IN SUCH WISDOM IS MUCH VEXATION, AND THE MORE A MAN KNOWS THE MORE HE HAS TO SUFFER.
My sleep was penetrated by his bare feet, shuffling around the flat, his mind in a muddle, heart at its ceaseless work, fat collecting around the kidneys. I did not forget that my own happiness had been purchased at dreadful expense to him. BUT ... MY TURN NOW. I wish I was a nicer man. I liked to cut the grass, spring blades, the sweet smell, thrips flying in the hazy light, monarch butterflies, others whose names I did not know.
For five summers we had NORMAL LIFE.
Then the letter arrived from OUR FORMER ENEMIES in Germany and everything was changed. We had BOMBED THE SHIT OUT OF THEM but no mention was made of that when writing to inform Butcher of RECENT DEVELOPMENTS.
The letter was from the MUSEUM LUDWIG ha-ha no batteries needed. They invited my brother to see his pictures hung inside their VERY IMPORTANT MUSEUM as he told me more than once. At the same time he feared it was a very CRUEL TRICK.
He was a great fat old fellow now, his head burned violently by the summer sun, mouth turned down, hands always in his pockets looking for small change he was always SKINT. But the night he opened the letter from the Museum Ludwig it was FUCK THE EXPENSE he would talk to them ON THE BLOWER man to man. Thus in the kitchen of our comfy flat in Tempe it was officially confirmed that he had been rescued from the SCRAP HEAP OF HISTORY. The Japanese had donated two of his paintings to the Museum Ludwig and these two canvases--last seen in Mercer Street, New York, NY 10013-- were now being given PRIDE OF PLACE. Well fuck me dead.
One minute we were broke--no money for anything but scrag end of lamb--but now we could afford air tickets to Germany, not just the two of us, but young Billy Bones as well, a great tall handsome bugger, no credit to the sire. Where did this money come from? MYOB.
My brother was then SAVED. You could also say REVERTED.
We travelled directly from Koln railway station and discovered his two best paintings facing each other across their own crypt in the Museum Ludwig.
J, THE SPEAKER, Michael Boone (Australia) b .1943-. Gift of the Dai Ichi Corporation IF YOU HAVE EVER SEEN A MAN DIE, Michael Boone (Australia) b .1943-. Gift of the Dai Ichi Corporation Being more knowledgable re LAWN MAINTENANCE I did not understand that this strike of lightning would now be repeated in other places, bless me, London, New York, Canberra, poor Mum, beyond her ken, her private prayers held up in public, a raging mystery for the world to see. The sad battered grass-cutter confronted his WORKS he had wild eyes and a wobbly smile.
"Jesus Christ," he said when he had read the plaque and saw the name of Marlene's PARTNER IN CRIME.
You have no idea, he said to me.
But old Slow Bones understood exactly. This was a love letter from Marlene. It was what she promised him the day he threatened her a violent death.
There was a CURATOR DOCTOR present at our viewing and when Butcher had found a hanky and blown his nose this chap politely asked would we like to see the Leibovitzes.
Butcher's answer was definite to the point of rude. N-O.
Well, said the Doctor, I thought you might enjoy the personal connection. We purchased a new Leibovitz from Mr. Mauri, your great collector.
Oh, said my brother. Oh, I see.
He stood staring at the Curator Doctor as if someone had sneaked up behind him and shoved a broomstick up his arse.
Lead on Macduff, he said.
Then we were off and galloping through the galleries, all of us large men, big feet, leather slapping the floors of the Museum Ludwig until we were arrived before a painting of a mechanical Charlie Chaplin which is said in French LE CHAPLIN MECANIQUE. I was concerned I was about to LET ONE OFF so stayed a certain distance but Butcher poked his sunburned nose right into it.
He asked when it had been purchased from Mauri.
No, said the Curator Doctor. Not that one. This one. This is our new acquisition.
And there behind us, bless me, was the dreadful thing my brother had put up on the roof in SoHo. Since then it had become LE GOLEM ELECTRIQUE. I held my tongue, but you should have seen my brother's face, like Melbourne weather, rain, sunshine, hail, smile, frown, scowl, blow the schnozzle, bless me, what will happen next?
How much?
Three point two said the Doctor slash Curator. Deutschmark?
Dollars.
There was a wooden bench before this painting and my brother now sat down. He was very still. And then finally he gave a laugh right through his shiny nose. He looked from one of us to the other as he could choose who would be worthy of what he might say next. Not one of us. He spoke to no-one in particular: Best thing Leibovitz ever did.
And then he walked towards the bar, a great fat lumpy man one short arm in his pocket, the other hand rubbing at his speckled freckled sun-baked head.
56
I want to be liked, to be remembered fondly, and I would be an idiot to stand before you naked, but what else have I ever done?
MoMA, the Museum Ludwig, the Tate--I can't list all the museums to which Mauri has donated my works, nor imagine the skuzzy deals these gifts were tied to. Enough to know I soon rose like a phoenix from the ashes of my Butcher life.
My saviour? A murderer. Actually, it's worse than that, because even though I had once walked away from her, I was still a Bones, and all the blacks and whites, so clear that morning in New York, were destined to be wet on wet, slow- drying, ambiguous, a shifting tide between beauty and horror. It swelled beneath my skin, filled my mouth.
In those polluted summer suburbs when Hugh and I were chained behind our filthy Victa mowers, I was still-in spite of all the death and deception--a prisoner of this tangled past. While I trimmed the floral fucking borders in Bankstown, I was reliving those days before the fall, when my baby and I looked at light together, drank Lagavulin on the rocks, walked hand in hand in the Museum of Modern Art, all those nights she pressed her lovely head in against my neck and I breathed the jasmine air around her brow.
A better person may have run in horror, but I loved her and I will not stop. There, I've said it plain. She is gone, not gone, out there somewhere, sending messages to me via Sotheby's and the Art Institute of Chicago. Is she taunting me or missing me?
How will I ever know? How do you know how much to pay if you don't know what it's worth?
The End