Double Exposure (11 page)

Eighteen
Storing the light

Chris's story

Vincent Van Gogh cut off one of his ears as a demonstration of his love.

Most guys I know just buy a bunch of half-dead carnations from a roadside stall or a box of chocolates from the nearest service station. But Vincent was an artist, after all.

And as an artist, he was a genius. Nobody who knows seriously disputes that. A groundbreaker. Iconic, even.

Of course, the flip side is that by any reasonable measure of mental stability the guy was also certifiable. A total froot loop. And don't they make the best stories?

Cain likes to call me ‘the cynical twin' and I guess there's a grain of truth in the description. The thing is, sometimes, much as I love them, I can't help wondering if Van Gogh's boulevard cafes and starry nights might have made it onto a whole lot less cheap prints, tea-towels and drink coasters, if his story had been a little more … ordinary.

Because, in the end, it's the story that counts. Catch the public imagination and suddenly a naive painting of a vase of yellow flowers is worth thirty million plus and people are writing songs about you.

Well, Cain didn't need to cut his ear off – or buy cheap flowers – to demonstrate anything. Any idiot could see he was in love.

And T.J. was no idiot. She was just naturally cautious. For him, as well as herself. She didn't believe the dickweed was out of the picture. Not really. I think she wanted to believe, but experience told her otherwise. And experience is a damned effective teacher.

So, she was reluctant. To commit. To tie him into a situation he'd had no part in creating in the first place.

Not that it made the slightest difference. He was in love and that was the end of it.

‘It's like … I don't know. It just feels right.' He was standing behind me, watching me putting the finishing touches to Abby's hair. I was going for a sort of Impressionistic effect. Kind of wispy and flyaway – hair escaping a hastily tied ponytail and falling over her eyes like an almost invisible veil – and I was quite pleased with the result. ‘She needs someone apart from her mother to care about her. And Ty.'

‘And that someone's you.' I put the brush down and turned on my stool. ‘I'm happy for you, dude. Really I am. Just be careful, that's all.'

‘I will be. But I don't have a choice, Chris. You know that.'

‘Yeah, I know.'

It was time.

I stood up and moved towards the darkroom.

‘Come here.'

I spoke as I was opening the door. He started to follow me inside.

‘No. On second thoughts, you wait out there. The red light ruins the effect.'

When I came out, he was standing by the window, watching. I carried my burden to the easel I'd set up in the centre of the room, slotted it in and pulled off the covering sheet.

I stepped back from the easel, watching his reaction. At first his expression didn't change. For a couple of seconds he just stared. Then he looked directly at me, and finally I saw the emotion leak out.

‘Jesus, Chris … It's beautiful.'

‘I had a beautiful subject,' I replied, and looked back at the photo. T.J. full face and profile, both shot from a low angle and superimposed against a smooth sky, with just a hint of light cloud to break up the flat expanse and frame them. ‘I was playing with form,' I explained. ‘It's a double exposure. You take two negatives and combine them in the darkroom into the one image. If it works like it's supposed to, it helps draw out different dimensions of her personality.

‘Actually, in a way it was her idea. When I showed her the proofs, she couldn't decide between them, so she asked if there was any way of combining them and it started me thinking. She wanted to give you something. As a thank you.'

‘A thank you?' He moved across and stood directly in front of the easel. ‘When did you organise all this?'

‘She came over last week. I shot a couple of rolls down at Prince Alfred and she made the choices a couple of days later, after I developed them. I had the finished product blown up and Con framed it for me. For you. What do you think?'

He replied without tearing his gaze from her face.

‘Think? I don't think I
can
think.'

His head was shaking slowly from side to side and a tiny smile was beginning to creep up from the corners of his mouth.

‘I told her she should give it to you herself, but I think she lost her nerve.'

Finally, he turned to face me.

‘When are you going to call the gallery? Seriously, man. I don't want to see you pissing your opportunities away. You can give me all the bullshit arguments in the world, but everyone except you knows you're ready. What the hell are you waiting for?'

As usual, I didn't have an answer. How do you explain a feeling when you don't understand it yourself? I wasn't scared. I wasn't even worried they wouldn't like my stuff. At least, not on any conscious level. There was just a vague, warning feeling buzzing away at the back of my skull that kept me from picking up the phone.

‘I was about to nuke a lasagna,' I said, turning away. ‘You up for it?'

I could feel him staring at my back, trying to marshal another argument, but he obviously decided against it.

‘Fine,' he said, and followed me out into the living area.

In the end, of course, the decision was taken out of both our hands.

By Abby.

*

Seven o'clock.

He opens the door. A young woman is standing with her back to him, looking at the featureless slab of warehouse wall across the road. She speaks without turning.

‘Terrific view. I'll bet it looks fantastic on a summer evening.'

‘Can I help you?'

‘Oh, I sincerely hope so.' As she turns to face him, suddenly he recognises her. ‘Hello, Chris. It
is
Chris, isn't it? I've made that mistake once before.'

‘Miss Fielding?'

‘Libby … Please. Miss Fielding sounds like somebody's Fourth Grade teacher.'

‘Libby … How did you …?'

‘Find you?'

‘Know where I lived. I didn't …'

From behind him, Abby places a hand on his shoulder and moves into the doorway beside him.

‘I went down to the gallery and invited her.' She touches his cheek in an almost maternal gesture. ‘It's past time, Chris, and we both know you weren't going to do it, so …'

‘Maxine's away until Wednesday, but I wasn't about to wait that long. Can I come in?' The question is rhetorical. Libby pushes past him into the living area.

With a sharp movement of her head, Abby directs him into the room.

‘Go on!'

She whispers the order and he capitulates.

‘Welcome,' he says. The conscripted host. ‘Coffee?'

Libby smiles. ‘If I'd wanted coffee, kid, I'd've gone to Starbucks. Now quit stalling, I've waited long enough and I want to know if the wait was worthwhile.'

‘It's this way.' Abby takes her by the arm and moves her towards the curtain. She opens it with a flourish and they disappear through the gap. Reluctantly, he follows.

‘
How
long?'

‘Seventeen months, give or take. I'd taken a lot of the photos beforehand, but I hadn't hit on the concept. Once I did …'

He gestures around the room.

‘Seventeen
months
? We have artists on the books who wouldn't finish three canvases in that time, and you manage …
this.
How do you …?'

‘I'm a bit manic. I work mostly at night. I'm not much of a morning person. I tend to sleep most of the day.'

‘When he's here,' Abby cuts in. She is standing next to the picture of the old man sleeping in the alley and suddenly she can feel the cold of the midnight street deep in her bones.

‘But the light.' Libby moves across to the picture of the old couple. It's so … perfect. Natural. How do you paint sunlight at night?'

‘From memory, I guess.' Chris sits on the stool next to the half-finished canvas in the centre of the space. ‘I read a story once, when I was a kid. Somewhere in the far north of Canada, a tribe of Inuit lived in a small village next to the sea. And the old man of the tribe would sit for hours at a time in the long Arctic day just staring. They all thought he was just senile, except for one small child.

‘“What are you doing out here alone?”' she asked him once, and the old man smiled.

‘“Just storing up the light,” he replied, and went on watching the sky.

‘And during the long winter darkness, when they all huddled around their lamps of seal-oil, sharing hunting tales and waiting impatiently for the distant coming of the day, the old man sat, peacefully staring at the igloo wall through closed lids and singing summer songs under his breath.

‘The little girl moved across to sit next to him and she saw that he was smiling. And as he opened his eyes for a moment to look down at her, she was certain she caught the reflection of distant sunlight.

‘I always liked that story.' He stands. ‘What do you think?'

Libby doesn't answer. Instead, she slips a small but powerful digital camera from a pocket of her jacket.

‘Do you mind if I take a few snaps? I need to show them to –'

‘No need.' Abby turns and runs across to the door of the darkroom and disappears inside, returning a few seconds later with a black A1 artist's folio. She hands it to Libby, who places it on a nearby bench, unzips it and throws the cover open.

Slowly she turns the pages, marvelling again at the maturity of the images and the subtlety of the symbolism embedded in the backgrounds, the atmosphere. The completeness of the vision in someone so young.

‘I was going to come down,' he says, sheepishly. ‘Things have been a bit hectic around here lately, but I was going to come.'

‘Eventually,' Abby puts in, running a fingertip over the face of an old man staring up at her from the open folio. She looks at Libby with an intensity that demands a response. ‘Well? What do you think? Is he a genius, or is he?'

‘I think …' Turning to Chris, she allows a slow smile to establish itself, before continuing. ‘I
think …
you'd better come down to Images on Thursday so that we can talk about your show. Maxine's going to have an orgasm. You will come, won't you? Because if I go back and –'

‘He'll be there,' Abby cuts in. ‘If I have to drag him.'

‘Then I guess I'll be there.' He holds out a hand and Libby shakes it.

‘I'll be counting the hours,' she says, and moves towards the door.

When they are alone, Abby climbs onto his lap and curls into a ball.

‘You mad with me?'

‘I don't get mad,' he replies, sliding his arms around her, ‘I get even.'

And with that he begins to tickle her, holding her as she struggles, until they both slide off the lounge and onto the bare floor. He rolls on top of her, pinning her to the ground, with his face centimetres above hers.

Gradually, the laughing subsides and she stops struggling.

‘Why me, Chris? I mean, out of everyone you could possibly have chosen …'

He looks down at her, brushing the hair away from her face. ‘I didn't choose you, remember? You came to me.'

‘I don't mean that. Why the photographs? Why the paintings? Why
me
?'

Another silence. He rolls away and lies looking up at the ceiling.

‘Why did Van Gogh paint sunflowers? He could have chosen roses or orchids, but he didn't. And why was Rossetti so obsessed with his Lizzie that he painted her face in half his pictures and filled whole rooms with drawings of her? She wasn't even all that beautiful. But you are, Ab. You are and you don't even know it.

‘Look, maybe the truth is that we don't have a say in anything. You couldn't stop your mother dying, and I couldn't choose my father. Maybe there's a reason we can't figure. Or maybe there's no reason to anything. All I know is you're here and I'm happy, and whatever the reason, this is about as good as it gets.'

Leaning on one elbow, he looks down at her.

‘What made you go to the gallery?'

She reaches out and slides her hand inside his shirt, resting it on his chest above the heart.

‘Because
you
weren't going to. And because you deserve it. Your talent deserves to be appreciated. You saw Libby in there. That wasn't one of your friends or your brother being kind. She's a professional. She sees stuff every day. But your work blew her away.'

She pauses, gathering resolution.

‘I did it because I wanted to see their reaction before I turn myself in.'

Before he can object, she places her free hand against his lips.

‘Shhh. We've been through it. You know I have to. On Thursday, after we've been to the gallery, I'm going to the cops. Come with me?'

He takes hold of her hand and kisses her fingers.

‘Try stopping me.'

She pushes his chin up gently, until his eyes are level with hers.

‘I never tried to stop you, Chris. I'm not about to start now.'

As he leans to kiss her, a car goes by in the street outside, gearing down for the red light at the corner.

Two o'clock.

She wakes to see him staring down at her. Behind him, the full moon shafts in through the skylight lending a halo effect to his hair.

‘What?' she asks.

‘What,
what
?'

‘What are you thinking?'

Lying back on the pillow, he stares straight up.

‘Fate,' he replies, cryptically.

She rolls over, allowing her hair to fall across his face. He smiles, kisses it, then rises to press his lips against hers.

When he lies back down, his hand remains in her hair, brushing it gently from her face, as he continues.