The Ephemera (10 page)

Flash
. A deeply shadowed tropical forest glade, an explosion of green. As the view moves through it, branches, lianas and broad leaves are pushed out of the way. The view tilts upwards into the high canopy of the trees and only feet away on a broad branch is a bird to which I cannot put a name, but is of such exquisite beauty that it makes me gasp. Its long elegant feathers, all colours, trail from the branch and the glorious comb on its head shimmers and waves as it cocks its head inquisitively in my direction. Without warning as if in reaction to some noise, it is gone in a rainbow cloud of feathers, leaving only the gently waving branch.

Flash
. A fountain in a meticulously tended garden. The centrepiece of the fountain is vague but appears to be serpentine in form. A fine mist hangs in the air. The view turns away from the fountain and approaches an arbour. Trees and trailing plants grow thickly providing almost complete shade although a few stray beams of sunlight do manage to get through to illuminate a life sized statue of a boy. Getting closer it turns out to be beautifully rendered in white marble, its head to one side, arms outstretched in a gesture that conveys both release and welcoming in equal parts. The gently curved face emphasises this with an expression which could be profound sadness or sublime happiness. The eyes cry hard mossy tears.

Flash
. Grey gravel at the base of the tiled wall, a different section of the exterior. The view focuses on one tile in particular. It looks like a bird. The soundtrack has suddenly returned. I can hear a bell tolling loudly and continuously nearby, and beneath it the sound of a woman sobbing.

Static.

~

Sunset is a transition of hot fluidity bathing the city in a slow wave of deepening light; a laval wash changing the cadence of life. I stand on the Ponte Santa Trinita feeling as much as watching the flow of the carmine tinted waters beneath my feet, as relentless and single-purposed as blood. Carrying over the water, sounds of conversation, laughter, music weave through the still warm air, heralding the awakening of the city's nightlife. Street lights are flickering on as a group approach the bridge from the shadowed streets to my left. There are six or seven of them, loud and garrulous. The city is a bright theatre for those who know how to use it but I can only stand in the shadows and observe. Soon others pass me in small groups, twos and threes, becoming a flow, a river, kinetic and purposeful. I am caught between these two streams, the calm at the centre of the turbulence. Between the inevitable progress of the waters and the life-force of the people of the city, I am becalmed. I cannot remember my purpose.

I came here charged with determination following Rose's last letter, the one in which she drew a red line under our stuttering relationship. My imagination dwelled on moments, words, expressions, inflamed them with suspicion. I arrived here, when it was too late,
knowing
that she would change her mind when she saw me face to face. I have become a master of the art of self-delusion.

Bestilled here I see some of the truth reflected around me in the faces and the wetly lapping waves, but still I continue to hope. Since my arrival I have been putting off the inevitable, going to the Galleria, torn between the need to see her and the dread of seeing her with someone else. Still unresolved, I let the flow of life sweep me into the lights of the city.

~

I approach the large doors of the Galleria with a half-felt relief that it has closed to the public for the evening. I should have realised it would be. There are one or two lighted windows, however, high in the marbled facade. Perhaps people working late. Maybe one of them is Rose. I force myself up the steps and find the heavy doors unlocked. Inside, a mosaic floor leads away down an echoing hallway, plaster walls studded with dark wooden doors. At the end a staircase rises into shadow. To my left a neat little man regards me from behind a desk.

"Hello." His accent is soupy but his intonation is clear. It is not a question, not 'Can I help you?' or 'What are you doing here?', just a casual greeting. He peers at me with needle-sharp eyes, light from his desk lamp glinting off the half lenses of his steel-rimmed glasses and the silver buttons of his precise grey uniform. His expression is inscrutable amid the leathery mapwork of his face.

"I am looking for Rose Christie," I begin, a little unsettled. "She works here." He continues to look at me, not speaking, so that I begin to wonder whether he has understood despite his initial greeting. As I open my mouth to repeat myself, he finally speaks.

"Si, Rosa." His voice has a swimming, hypnotic effect so that I have to concentrate hard on what he is saying to make the words register in my mind. "Not here. What you seek, not here. La Cappella dei Pazzi." He gets up out of his seat and leads the way towards the exit, "Come. With me, come." I am transfixed with astonishment both at his reaction to my request and at his use of the word 'pazzi' in connection with Rose. At the doors he turns. His face shows a measure of concern.

"Come, now. Please." Entranced, I follow him out into the street. At first I have to run to catch up with him, as he bustles quickly around a corner. I am still amazed at him. Is he going to take me to Rose rather than give directions to a foreigner with no knowledge of the labyrinthine innards of the city? Struggling to keep up with him I try to find out more but his only reply is to urge me ever onwards. We scuttle along streets and narrow alleys which suddenly open out into broad piazzas, up and down short winding flights of steps. As we penetrate deeper into the heart of the city, the sounds of living are pushed into the background until we are left with only the clacking of our own feet on the stony ground.

Turning sharply to the left we enter an arched tunnel mouth, almost completely dark, and I can barely make out the grey figure of the porter ahead of me. We pass through in what seems like minutes, but as we emerge into the gravelled courtyard beyond I am amazed to see that though we had entered the tunnel maybe an hour after sunset, the sun is already high in the sky causing the tiles on the walls of the church building directly ahead to shimmer like molten glass. La Cappella dei Pazzi.

At the porter's beckoning I approach. Up close the tiles are dazzling, beautiful and garish; simplistic, each conveying its own definitive message; and in concert an overall feeling of vital translucency. Looking at individual designs I can see dogs, cats, buildings, stick men, women and children, families, houses, crosses, stars, flowers and trees, the moon in a hundred phases, the sun also, eclipses and novae. The colours are bold and primary. The variations are limitless and the tiles cover the entire exterior of the chapel, even the roof and spire. There are no windows. Reaching out my hand I find that the tiles are warm to the touch.

"Micheli. Hurry, please." The porter is beckoning again, this time towards the doorway of the chapel. The plain arch frames a wooden door, shiny with green paint, which stands ajar. He motions for me to enter. "Now you will see." As I penetrate the cool dark and the door swings behind me I wonder: Micheli? How did he know my name?

~

The flagstones stretch out in front of me, flat and hard beneath my feet. The temperature is much lower than outside and I fail to suppress a shiver as I walk forward. There is no sound, neither of my breathing nor of my footfalls, as I progress down what I assume to be an aisle although I cannot see anything to the sides. I continue walking, one foot after the other and time passes.

Eventually the curtain I have been expecting comes into view and I stop before it. It is of a thick velvety material the colour of old wine. I grasp the edge, feeling the ancient cloth luxuriant in my fingers, and pull it aside.

Flash
. A wide lawn stretches in front of a large house, paving winds from the door of the house down past a stately pond. The lawn is surrounded by beautiful borders of carefully nurtured bedding plants and shrubs, a number of small fruit trees provide shade. A man comes out of the house and surveys the scene, happy, obviously pleased with his garden. As he walks down the path everything behind him withers and decays, weeds run rampant over the lawn, the fruit falls rotten to the ground before the trees themselves crack and topple. The man walks on oblivious. The weeds have choked the lawn completely and large patches of brown earth appear, the pond grows still and stagnates, a miasmal scum spreading over the surface. Only when the man reaches the end of the path does he turn.

Flash
. A coal fire blazes in a grate. An old ornate fireplace surrounds it, the mantel littered with ornaments and objects: a glass carriage clock, a set of tiny nested Russian dolls, a pile of bills and a brass letter opener, a crystal vase holding a few ageing daffodils, and a scattered pile of Polaroid photographs. In each of the shots a man is positioned as if with another person who has vanished from the frame. As if in slow motion the pictures topple from the mantel and float onto the fire. They buckle and blister before being consumed.

Flash
. A brass birdcage on a high stand, covered by a torn cloth, thin with age. A group of men stand beneath it craning their necks to see inside. Through the rents in the cloth tantalising glimpses are had of bright plumage, and a crested silhouette is discernable. A breath of wind tugs the cloth away to reveal the exotic bird which I recognise from Rose's fourth disk. The cage door is opened and the bird flies gracefully out of the window.

Flash
. There is a flat rock at the place where two wide rivers meet and then diverge again. One of the rivers is slow but forceful, its waters dark and calming. The other is a bright torrent, teeming with fish, dragonflies swooping gracefully through clouds of midges. Birds wade in its less turbulent shallows amid a swathe of reeds and river flowers. An otter drags itself onto the flat rock. It has been swimming for a while along the edge of the slow river and it is weary. It must decide whether to brave the tiring, busy waters to its left or to return to the calm and gentle repose of the river to the right. Understanding, I will its choice, and it dives under, flicking its tail as it goes. A few drops of sparkling liquid hang like crystals in the air.

Flash
. Lying on the ground I can feel gravel pressing into my face. I raise my head slowly to face the wall of tiles. The glare hurts my eyes until I get used to it and here I see them. Two tiles. One depicts an exquisite bird in flight. The other, a stylised otter, a smudge of brown with black dots for eyes, swimming in a scintillating azure stream.

~

Madness can be a small thing, a cobweb veil obscuring what we know to be right. In the Cappella dei Pazzi we were allowed for a time to lift the veil. To see clearly. When Rose moved here I cursed the distance, but the distance was there long before she set foot on Italian soil. I remain a master of the art of self-delusion but at least, deep down, I know I am doing it.

~

Most of my stories are set in Scotland or elsewhere in the UK, and I really wanted to set a story somewhere more exotic. So I chose Florence, where I'd never been. The rest of the story grew out of the alienness of the setting, and I think my lack of familiarity with the place probably heightened that feeling (without, hopefully, getting anything wrong). I've still never been to Florence to find out.

Softly Under Glass

The Grace-girl's portfolio lay open on the table between their espresso cups.

"So am I right or am I right?" Maria was saying. Hugo wasn't sure. Personally he found the images rather bleak and disturbing, although he could not say why since they were somewhat indistinct in this reduced format. He realised that he could not even tell what medium had been used to create them.

"I don't know, Maria." He flicked through the folio. "I'd have to see the originals under decent light. How were these done? Some kind of photo-montage? Or is it a computer thing." The way he sneered this made obvious his views of the role of electronic media in the world of art.

"None of the above," said Maria. "Or maybe all of the above. I don't know. The artist is vague about her techniques. She
says
they are paintings but I've seen the originals and I'll be damned if I can see any brush strokes." She sipped her coffee and watched for his reaction. Hugo turned the pages again, pretending to consider. He didn't like these pictures; they were odd, they made him feel uncomfortable. All the same, personal tastes notwithstanding, he was in the business of giving the public what they wanted; or more exactly, what people like Maria and himself persuaded them that they wanted. Maria had a good sense of the mood of the art world and a knack of discovering just the right person for the times. As an agent she was prolific, and as a barometer she was rarely wrong. Maybe this girl's work did have that shock/sadness quality that was currently in vogue. Hugo knew that if he passed up this offer, someone else would be given the option.

"You'd better arrange a meeting then," he said as casually as he could manage.

"Fine. Friday at eleven." Maria's smile was enigmatic. It smacked of manipulation.

~

Alison Grace was by no means the embodiment of her name. She shuffled into the gallery like so much grey flotsam dragged along in Maria's purposeful wake. Her clothes were smart, but muted in colour, and hung on her tiny bony frame as if it consisted entirely of wire hangers. Her hair, clean and perfunctorily cut, framed a pale angular face in which the heavily lidded eyes were cast at the floor. Hugo rose to meet the women, smiling. He felt that measure of superiority, familiar to him when meeting artists, as he straightened the cuffs of his mauve suit, which he wore today over a commanding green roll-neck. Maria made introductions and he extended his hand exposing a glint of Rolex gold. The artist's hand was warm and dry, and gripped more firmly than he expected. Those heavy lids fluttered up to reveal intense green eyes which immediately captured his own gaze and held it. Her voice was a soft sound punctuated by
tuts
and
clicks
, and it put Hugo in mind of feathers and brittle bones.

"Glad to meet you Mister de Villiers." She said it with an upward inflection, like a question. "I'm honoured that you have taken an interest in my work." The woman's unsettling presence, belied by her appearance, caused the glaze of Hugo's composure to crack just a fraction. He looked to Maria for help, but was met only by an amused half-smile. He forced his attention back to the artist.
Ridiculous
. Why should he feel threatened by
this
? Almost immediately he felt his accustomed feeling of superiority return. He smiled his standard radiant smile.

"Gallerie de Villiers is always eager to promote original works." He waved his arm in an expansive arc. The woman's face remained impassive, showing no sign of being impressed.

"Sarah." Hugo, a little annoyed, looked over to his assistant. "Miss Grace's pieces arrived this morning, yes?"

"Yes, Mister de Villiers. They've been unpacked and are waiting in the rear office."

"Fine." He took the artist lightly by the arm. "Come, let us discuss how best to display your work." The pair followed closely by Maria headed towards the back of the building. Over his shoulder he said, "Oh, and Sarah? Coffee."

~

By mid-afternoon the gallery was closed. The walls of the prime exhibition area had been cleared and were now home to the twelve pictures. The discussions over the mounting sequence between Hugo, Alison and Maria were earnest, bordering on argument, and were joined in equal voice by Sarah and even the receptionist, Eloise.

Hugo paced back and forth, becoming irascible as his authoritatively voiced contributions were heeded less and less. Alison Grace stood back quietly in contemplation as Maria, Sarah and Eloise raised their voices to stress their own versions of the right, the
only
, way to display this collection.

These pictures certainly engendered opinion. Hugo had to admit that they had power. Only a fraction of it had come over in the photographs Maria had showed him, but standing here he could not deny that there was some poignancy of subject and composition, some subtlety of technique in each that was at once enthralling and beautiful and disturbing, such that in a few cases he could not look at them for more than a few seconds. And even now looking at the entire collection he could not see how these pictures were created, although certainly they were all products of the same method. Each, simply framed and bordered in white, had the textural appearance of parchment with the clarity of a photographic image. The central images appeared in each case to have been arranged in front of a video picture. This backing image was distorted in some way so that the original subject all but lost its identity: either by enlargement so that only a small segment was visible, or by blurring due to motion, or in some cases by overlaying different aspects of the same image on each other. The backgrounds were tantalisingly incomplete and carried an implicit link to the central images, a hint at meaning. But these central images themselves were even more enigmatic. They were photographic in quality but of impossible constructions. No, they were not photographs, not even of sculptures; and neither were they photo-montages or computer composites. The artist denied using any of these techniques although she did admit to the use of video to provide the backgrounds.

Each picture, although uniform in style, evoked a unique emotional response in Hugo; and an entirely different set of responses, it seemed, in the others.
This one
: an alabaster hand cups a pile of coins. Some glitter brightly, gold and silver; others dulled, tarnished and chipped; still others in rusting pieces, turning to a fine metallic powder which slips through the clutching fingers and cascades onto a polished silver tray beneath. The tray reflects the images of a group of people but the growing pile of powder is quickly covering them over. The background is black and white, apparently in the process of losing definition. A large pyramid shape is dissolving into monochrome static. In its centre the form of a stylised ellipse can just be made out holding a vertically off-centre circle within it. Lines or rays appear to be radiating from the shape.

Hugo found that he had a certain fascination with this picture although at the same time he found it ultimately frustrating. Maria and Eloise seemed to feel the same way about it although Sarah spent only a few moments at it before moving on.

This one
: A sylph-like female figure kneels on an old mattress, naked, her skin has a pearly sheen. Her head is raised and turned in order to look behind her in the direction of the background which is a wall of human flesh, a composite image of all manner of sexual configurations in which the defining edges are smeared, joining to form a single heaving body. She has beautiful wings of silver feathers but they are tarnishing and falling away. One hand is handcuffed to the mattress; beside the other is a silver key. She could free herself but she is rapt in the images behind her.

Maria was very taken with this piece, and to a lesser extent, so was Eloise. Hugo hated this picture, and said as much, but found excuses to return to it. In truth he could not deny that it was beautiful, capturing a note of transcendent eroticism which was hypnotic.

This one
: A man sits in a room, a book is open on his lap. He is cowering in the chair, apparently screaming. The reason for this appears to be the eyes. Staring, unblinking eyes watch the man from all around the room. From the walls, from the swirls in the pattern on the Persian rug on the floor, from the end of the door knob, from the centre of each bloom in a vase of daisies, from each numeral on the mantle clock, from the studs in the arms of his leather wingback chair, from the open pages of the discarded book in his lap, and outstretched before him in horror, from the palms and fingertips of his own hands. The blurred, sepia-toned image behind this depicts what could be a figure running, a dark arc where its head would be, as if looking round frantically.

For some reason this one unsettled Hugo most, striking a chord of familiarity deep within him, the others seemed only marginally affected by it.

Hugo asked Alison about the motivation that led her to create these, and she told him that they were portraits, after a fashion. She would not elaborate further.

The arguments went on. Eventually it became clear that they were not going to arrive at any decision. Maria sighed with exasperation,

"There is no balance here. We need a central piece around which to base the exhibition, but none of us seem to be able to choose the same one."

Hugo started to say that this was what he had been saying all along, when Alison spoke. "Then I shall have to start work on a new piece."

Hugo made to protest that the gallery could not be held indefinitely, but she cut him short. "I will have it here by Monday morning." She turned to Sarah, "Will you arrange a cab for me." Sarah made the call and then escorted the lady to the door. When the girl returned she was clutching a piece of paper bearing the artist's address.

"She wants me to sit for the picture," she said.

~

The artist delivered the picture as promised. Sarah helped her bring it in and unwrapped it herself with eager hands before carrying it over and placing it against the wall. Stepping back to view it properly she shared a thrilled look with Alison Grace. The others stood rapt, silent for long moments. The picture was truly striking.

Foreground was a woman, tall and naked standing ankle deep in a pool of water. Her arms extended vertically above her head entwining round each other, fingers splayed, stretching into slender branches, dividing and spreading to form a leafy canopy which hung down to the water level. The trailing ends of the branches floated on the surface of the pool. The canopy was not so dense as to completely obscure the woman, rather the branches cast alluring patterns of light and shade on her limbs and torso; only her face was completely masked. Nestling within the leaves were heavy fruit, apparently ruddy with ripeness. Under closer inspection though their skins were seen to be transparent, each enclosing a huddled embryo in a clear, viscous fluid. The video background was a grainy picture of a human zygote in an advanced stage of division.

Sarah hugged herself. "I never knew," she said quietly. Her face was aglow with wonder and when she exchanged another thrilled glance with the artist her eyes were bright, brimming with secrets.

Hugo was almost overwhelmed by the strength of the picture. It was bold and to the point; despite its graceful beauty, it shone with an almost palpable quality of life and well-being. He was the first to break the awed silence.

"Yes. Oh, yes," he whispered. "This is the one."

Amongst the others, Sarah's picture was a natural focus, and the sequence of the rest seemed to resolve itself naturally.

~

That night, Hugo dreamt. As the dream began he recognised it as a recurring one, but as always he could not remember how it ended.

In his dream he was standing before an enormous mirror. He stood for a long time admiring himself. His clothes, his hair, his face: everything looked good. There was no mistaking him; he was a figure of distinction.

Then his face began to melt away.

~

Three flights up. In this heat. Hugo paused to wipe the film of sweat from his face and neck with a paisley patterned handkerchief, damp from frequent use, and then resumed his upward labour in the direction of the girl's studio. He paused again outside her door, long enough to smooth his slightly ruffled appearance before ringing the bell.

The exhibition had fared better than Hugo could ever have expected. Word of mouth had spread quickly leading to daily attendances which bordered on the amazing. Five weeks later and the numbers showed no sign of dropping off. Sarah's picture had proved very popular and had sold immediately. Nearly half of the others were spoken for as well. Maria wanted Hugo to extend the exhibition and he was in no position to argue, so they tried to persuade Alison Grace to produce more of her unique art. She had seemed reluctant, protesting that it was difficult to find suitable subjects. After the results of Sarah's sitting they had all offered themselves, but she had turned down Maria and Eloise flat. She had looked long at Hugo however, as if weighing him up, before eventually assenting.

Waiting for the door to be answered, Hugo preened himself. He knew he was looking good, from the careful arrangement of his hair, to the even bronze shade of his skin, to carefully selected couture. He felt a tremor of anticipation. Maria had hardly spoken to him since Alison had chosen him. Eloise vented her own frustration on Sarah, although Sarah was doing a good job of ignoring her.

Hugo was discovering a quiet affection for Sarah since the advent of their association with Alison Grace. She was by far the more capable and conscientious of the two gallery assistants, and had a pleasant demeanour with the clients. He was beginning to find that he enjoyed having her around.

Now that he was aware of what they represented, Hugo privately considered the existing pictures obvious and vulgar, although he had the diplomacy not to say so publicly while the crowds were still queuing outside his door. In the cases of most of the pictures the artist showed herself to be an astute judge of character, and he guessed that she must have picked up on some kind of biological indication of Sarah's pregnancy to create her portrait. Even if Sarah had not been aware herself, Alison Grace was obviously attuned to reading the signs and had successfully conveyed them symbolically on her strange canvas. Again Hugo felt anticipation ripple through him. If an emotional portrait of someone like Sarah could evoke such regard, then what would a likeness of Hugo?