Cairo by Chris Womersley Page A

you think is better?’
    â€˜Are those the same things?’
    She ducked her head as if to concede my point, but said nothing.
    For me — unschooled as I was — there was no question which was the superior work. The abstract painting on the easel seemed to me amateurish and ill-conceived, a jumble of shapes without meaning. The portrait of the woman, on the other hand, bristled with sullen energy. Its clumsiness was its very blood and skin. I suspected, however, that I was on dangerous ground when it came to expressing a preference.
    â€˜I like them both,’ I said.
    â€˜I can see you are very diplomatic, Tom. It’s a good quality in a person.’ She regarded me, and in that light her eyes were like green marbles. ‘The portrait is by a man named Chaim Soutine. It’s called
Woman with Arms Folded
.’
    â€˜Is he a friend of yours?’
    She laughed, but not unkindly. ‘Not quite. It’s an, um, experiment, that’s all. What do you think of it?’
    â€˜I think it’s amazing. Beautiful.’
    I inspected the painting more closely. Its surface was cracked and the canvas was torn at its edges. ‘It looks old.’
    She gave a gratified snort. ‘Well, you can have it when we’ve finished with it.’
    â€˜What do you mean?’
    â€˜Oh, nothing. Nothing.’
    I surveyed the studio again. ‘What about that abstract painting on the easel. Edward’s one. What’s that called?’
    Gertrude made a scornful gurgle in her throat. ‘Who knows. The actual work is not so important these days.’
    She put Buster on the ground and lit a cigarette with a match. Smoke plumed from her nostrils. ‘What matters is those artist statements. As long as you have one of those. Say it’s about — I don’t know — consumerism or your childhood abuse at the hands of evil nuns, and you will be fine. Mention intertextuality. The claim of what the work is about is more important than the work. Be a one-armed lesbian. Be a one-armed
Palestinian
lesbian. Make sure you’re oppressed in some way — it’s more authentic. Better still, get someone else to make the work for you. That way, you don’t even have to get your hands dirty.’
    It was a disdainful way to talk about her husband’s work, and I felt uncomfortable. I glanced away, but when I turned back Gertrude looked ghastly. She had reached out to grasp the doorjamb and was bent over as if likely to collapse.
    â€˜Are you alright?’ I asked, stepping forwards.
    She nodded and grimaced. The episode passed after a few seconds. She stood up straight, threw her half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it under her heel.
    â€˜I have a condition known as … Oh, it doesn’t matter what it’s called. A long and complicated name. Sometimes it catches up with me, that’s all.’
    â€˜Is it serious? My uncle is a doctor. He lives in Melbourne. I could ask him to take a look at you.’
    â€˜Oh, no. That’s alright. There’s a specialist I’ve been seeing. There’s some new treatment, they tell me. I’ll be alright.’ Her voice disintegrated into her trademark nervous giggle.
    â€˜Well, if you’re sure.’
    She nodded again, caught her breath. ‘You’re new in town?’ she asked.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Tell me, Tom. Are you really a person who can keep secrets?’
    I made no answer. Gertrude stared at the Soutine portrait on the bench. Her eyelids drooped and she seemed, momentarily, to forget me.
    Then Edward was behind her in the doorway, thin arms flapping about. ‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ he said to me. ‘
Gertrude!
He should not be in here. This room is meant to stay locked at all times.’
    â€˜Oh, darling. You scared the life out of me. Tom here was very keen to see your work. What’s this one called again?’
    Edward glared at me