The Light of Amsterdam (26 page)

He increasingly liked the idea of writing something about Van Gogh who had single-handedly become an art industry and whose populist appeal had pushed him outside the snobbish parameters of art criticism. To academics he was the equivalent of
The Sound of Music
or an airport novel and he doubted whether anyone had recently deigned to sharpen their analytical sword on such a romanticised and commercialised subject. In art and art criticism obscurity was the password to the inner sanctums and he could think of no other area where the dividing line between talent and gibberish was so often uncertainly vague. If he was cynical, and he tried not to be, then this was the shadowlands in which the clever or even the wilfully exploitative might pitch their tent. The idea of making Van Gogh and Gauguin the subject of his proposed article was growing on him and seemed to be a smart piece of radicalism, so as he arranged with Jack that they would meet in the café in precisely one hour, he felt a surge of enthusiasm and a feeling that things might happen.

Because his time was limited he had already identified the paintings that were completed in the period when the two painters shared the Yellow House and so he set out in a methodical way to look at these, writing short notes in the little book he had brought with him. It really felt as if he was engaged in research and that despite its spontaneous and desperate origins, it could possibly amount to something and perhaps the talk with Stan, or rather the talk from Stan, might well have been in his best interests in awakening a new flourish of creative thought and work. But as the time wore on he became increasingly conscious that Jack was somewhere else and, as soon as that idea intruded, the genetic hardwiring of parenthood programmed his brain into reflex thoughts of potential risk, of Jack absconding, of kidnapping, of self-harm, of anything that would stir an accusatory sense of guilt at his supposed dereliction of duty. So quickly cramming in a few final paintings he pocketed his notebook and hurried to the café where he saw his son already ensconced with a Coke and his headphones in place, his legs stretched under the table and resting on the chair opposite. He was tearing a little sachet of sugar and puddling it with his finger, oblivious to his approach. There was no telling how long he'd been there but he guessed he hadn't spent much time looking at paintings and he felt annoyed and then just sad. Ignoring him he went to the counter and bought a coffee and a muffin then sat at the table beside him. Jack looked at him but didn't nod or remove his headphones and for an irritated second he thought of taking his coffee and muffin to another table, possibly one that looked out over the Museumplein, and comforting himself with the sight of young people caring about something enough to wave a flag. But as he hesitated Jack removed his headphones to ask him how much the muffin cost and without answering he pushed it across the table towards him and stared into his coffee.

‘So what did you think of the paintings?' he asked, wishing he had brought some sugar to ease the unexpected bitterness of the coffee.

‘They're
OK
. But I don't think he's that good a painter.'

‘No?'

‘He's
OK
but some of the stuff doesn't look that good.'

‘Lots of other people thought that,' he said, watching his son prise the muffin apart into bits he could place in his mouth, then just as he was about to launch into the predictable and weary only-sold-one-painting patter he stopped himself. ‘So who do you think's a good painter then, Jack?'

‘Me?'

‘Yes, you do
GCSE
art in school so there must be someone you think is good.'

He watched as Jack funnelled the last segment of the muffin into his mouth. Some crumbs fell to the table and mingled with the sugar. ‘I don't know,' he said, shrugging a little.

‘There must be someone you like.' It suddenly felt important that his son should say a name – almost any name would do so long as he expressed an opinion – and as he sipped his coffee he watched Jack's finger puddle in the sugar again.

‘Roy Lichtenstein,' he said without any sense of enthusiasm.

‘Roy Lichtenstein, right. Pop art. So you like Lichtenstein?'

Jack nodded as one of his hands started to fidget with the earpiece in what looked like a preliminary to putting it back in place.

‘What else do you like, Jack?'

‘Painters?'

‘No, just anything. What do you like?'

‘Why are you asking?'

‘Because I'm interested.' And because he wanted to know where his son found some glimpse of joy and because he found it intensely comforting to think that there might be things in the world that pleased him and helped him be alive. But he saw the reluctance in his son's face to play this game where things would have to be revealed instead of shrouded in the protective fog of mystery. ‘And if you don't tell me a few things I'm going to bore you to death by talking about Lichtenstein. So which of his paintings do you like?'

‘
Whaam!
'

‘It's my favourite, too. “I pressed the fire control . . . and ahead of me rockets blazed through the sky.” Classic.'

‘Music.'

‘Did you listen to the Dylan stuff I taped for you?'

‘No. We don't have a cassette player any more.'

‘What happened to the one that used to be in the front room?'

‘I sold it on eBay. Nobody uses cassette tapes any more. But I downloaded some tracks,' he said, as if that was compensation for selling something that didn't belong to him.

‘Isn't that illegal?'

‘The whole world does it. They're not going to be able to send the whole world to jail.' The familiar tone of exasperation puffed across the table like mushroom spores.

‘I suppose they've worked that out and will pick on a few individuals.'

‘Comics,' Jack said.

‘Comics?'

‘I like comics.'

‘What type?'

‘Japanese manga.'

‘So when did you get interested in these?'

‘About a year ago.' He stared at his fingerprint in the sugar. ‘Just after you left.'

From outside came the muffled sound of voices chanting. He lifted his cup to his lips but didn't drink as he pondered what to say.

‘Van Gogh went through a period where he was very influenced by Japanese things. You can see it in some of the paintings.' He set the cup down clumsily so that it rattled against the saucer. ‘Are you angry that I left?'

‘No.'

Jack shuffled a little on his chair, his body seeming to shrink into stiff angular lines while his eyes stayed fixed on the table.

‘You'd be entitled to be angry. I screwed up.'

‘Why did you?' he asked, his eyes fixing on him and blinking with something which he wasn't sure was anger or nervousness.

‘Screw up?'

‘Cheat on Mum.'

He was glad his cup was empty: the coffee had seemed to get stronger the more he drank. He glanced over Jack's shoulder where a mother was negotiating her child's reluctant legs into a highchair. He held the cup again this time in both hands, hoping in vain to feel even the memory of its heat. The child was struggling against its impending loss of freedom but the father momentarily distracted him with the rattle of a toy and in a second he was being strapped in and further mollified by the offer of what looked like a biscuit. It wasn't where he wanted to have this conversation. It seemed as if some event in the museum was ending and more families were arriving with the children carrying balloons and there was a rising tide of sound punctuated by the clatter of trays and the squeak of chairs being rearranged.

‘I know I owe you an answer to that question and I'll do my best to give you it but I don't think this is a good place. Let's go somewhere else, somewhere we can talk.'

Jack didn't answer but stood up, carefully stowed his earphones and lifted the bag which contained his leather jacket with the blackness of the leather shining through the thinness of the plastic. When they got outside the protest had disappeared and instead couples walked dogs and groups of friends posed for photographs. On the temporary ice rink that had been created in the Museumplein figures were skating as if in a winter scene by Bruegel. But the painting that replaced it in his mind was that of the old man crying, as he remembered the blueness of his tunic, the yellow of the chair, and then he tried desperately to think of what he was going to say.

Nine

In the hotel room she carefully unwrapped the nativity scene and arranged the figures on the table by the window. He teased her about not waiting until Christmas before playing with her present but she didn't answer and concentrated on finding the best place for each figure. She liked the wise men best, their hands outstretched with the gifts they had brought. How strange those gifts must have seemed in the poverty of a stable. It was almost time and her nervousness made her fumble with the final figures, then she glanced down into the square and scanned the people hurrying on their way. Her hand trembled a little as she placed the last figure. She was pleased with the presents she had bought for her family and already they had been wrapped and labelled – she had used different-coloured paper for each of her three children and her sons' families. The only remaining present was for her husband and she couldn't see past that afternoon or fully comprehend its future consequences to consider what such a present might be.

Faithfulness had never been demanding for her either as an obligation or as a commitment. She had never been with another man emotionally let alone physically and she couldn't believe that would ever change. There had been the sales rep a few years ago who had tried to flirt with her, complimented her a little too freely, but it had only made her feel awkward and she never knew whether his attentions were prompted by genuine feelings or part of his sales ploy. It had been flattering the first time but she'd been glad when he had moved on to another area. She turned from the window and looked at her husband who lolled on the edge of the bed while flicking through the television stations, his attention held by each for only a few seconds. It felt as if she was falling helplessly through a dream without the respite of wakening or the prospect of stepping into the clarity of a new day. She didn't trust herself to speak. He had found a rugby game on the television and he leant backwards supported by both his arms as he watched it. The room felt too warm again.

She tidied away a few tourist leaflets and an empty bottle of water. If she ever came back to Amsterdam she would buy flowers in the market for her room. Perhaps come in the summer and have so much choice. Tall stems of blue delphiniums – that's what she would have. She thought of Anka with her blue eyes. Thought of her standing amidst the flowers of the market with her arms open and the sun burnishing her blonde hair, remembered the laughter she had overheard and how it had stopped on her arrival. Now, too, she would step inside and make things the way she wanted them to be rather than wait for ever, the slave of uncertain time and circumstance. This was the moment and she couldn't put off speaking any longer, so going back to the window she brushed back the curtain with her hand and picked out faces in the square below.

‘Richard, I'm just going out for a moment – there's something I'd like to take back home. For presents.'

‘I thought you'd got everything already,' he said without taking his eyes off the screen.

‘It's just a couple of boxes of handmade chocolates. I won't be long.'

‘Are you sure? Why not just get them at the airport tomorrow?'

‘I'd rather be sure I've got them.'

‘Do you want me to come with you?' he asked, looking at her for the first time.

‘No need – you stay and watch your rugby. I'll not be long.'

She picked up her coat and bag from the chair then hesitated.

‘Don't be getting kidnapped or running off with a sailor,' he said, his face breaking into a smile.

She felt a sweep of love pass through her and a new and sharper uncertainty. She had to pass him to leave.

‘There's not much chance of that. You can't get rid of me that easy,' she said and kissed him lightly on the forehead. He took her arms and for a second it felt as if he would pull her forward on to the bed but she stiffened her back and told him once more she wouldn't be long. At the door she turned again and spoke the words she had tried to rehearse but had failed to shape in any way that satisfied her, so now she simply let them stumble out to find their own freedom.

‘Richard. I'm coming back because I love you. And I'm going because there's something I'd like you to have and it's all right and I want you to have it and then we can go back home and don't need to talk about it.'

She opened the door before the confusion on his face could find expression in words. As she quickly closed it she could hear him calling her name but she hurried on and took the lift. The Japanese couple were in it again, also going down to the foyer. They smiled at her and she returned it, hoping that they would think the flush on her face and the quickness of her breathing was caused by rushing. There was the same elaborate politeness over who should exit first until she gestured insistently and as she left she briefly caught her reflection, a blurred, slightly untidy woman whose coat collar was partly turned up and whose hair needed attention. She went to the ladies' – it seemed important to look her best – and brushed her hair and retouched her make-up. There was a young woman standing at the mirrored wall and she glanced furtively at her combing her hair with long sweeping strokes that made it look as if a light breeze had crept under it to gently lift the ends. She wanted to splash her face but stopped herself and turned to leave just as the young woman dropped the comb in her bag and gave her hair a final smooth with the palms of her hands.