Tales from the Tower, Volume 2 (20 page)

She fetched it, but when she returned the food had been pushed to one end of the table and Otto's little jewelled paintings had been spread out for their admiration.

‘Do you like this?' Otto said, indicating an abstract in rich crimson and umber. ‘This I will show, I think.'

‘You're having an exhibition?' Eva sensed a story. ‘How marvellous.'

‘Yes, very soon. You will be first to know.'

‘Otto?' said Greer.

‘And this is mother,' he said, pointing to an old woman clutching an axe, like a Judy puppet with her stick, about to beat Mr Punch. Her clothes were primitive, her face a rictus of rage. Everyone laughed, and he leafed through others. The old woman figured in several – Greer was surprised to see how many. Here she stood before a burning house, flames like red hair bristling from the windows; in another she wore a white coat stained with blood and carried cutting implements – the paintings were nightmarish, but he hurried past them, saying with a smile, ‘Mother . . . mother again . . .' until he came to a painting of the orchard, all the trees dotted with picture-book fruit.

‘Oh, that's really lovely!'

‘Do you think?' Otto seemed suddenly uncertain.

‘Yes, beautiful, really, you're so gifted.'

He smiled. ‘Thank you. You are very kind.'

Greer noticed a painting of the green vase, with a tree sprouting from it, shedding leaves that turned to play money as they fell. Her face burned.

‘Oh, this is
gorgeous
!' Eva pounced on a funny little painting of a flying pig that he had promised to Greer for her labels and advertising. This one flew high above the farm, the town tucked into the hills in the distance.

‘You like it?'

‘I love it. How much?'

It's not for sale
, Greer thought,
it's my trademark
, but Otto mentioned a ridiculous figure for such a small work, and Eva pulled out a cheque book. ‘Sold!' she said jubilantly.

‘You see, Greer, I too can make the money.'

They visited the bank together the following day, and Greer was astonished to find the bank manager a changed man: where she had expected contempt, she found instead a clumsy bonhomie. It seemed that no one was immune to the artist's charm. She wanted to add Otto as a signatory to her account to grant him some financial independence, but found herself listening to a conversation about art, in which the bank manager paraded his knowledge, and Otto flattered and encouraged. Behind the cold façade was a connoisseur, apparently, and one eager to see Otto's paintings. The paperwork was dispatched within minutes – ‘Sign here, and here, and you'll need a debit card of course, and a cheque book? Credit card? Of course.' Nothing was too much trouble. And Otto, at his most winning, promised to bring his work in to the bank for a private showing before it went to the framer.

Outside in the sunshine, Greer didn't know whether to laugh or grind her teeth with rage. ‘Otto, how did you do it? That man's a supercilious, cold-hearted . . .'

‘No, no, he is fine. You'll see. Come on, now. Let us drink to our success.'

‘Our what?'

‘To my show.'

Greer had rarely been to the pub. Her parents had never drunk much, and it was not a place she could visit alone without causing a minor scandal. But Otto was obviously well known, and was greeted warmly by the publican and most of the drinkers. Greer noticed one of his paintings hanging in the bar.

‘Usual, Otto?'

‘Thank you. And for Greer, champagne. And one for you, my friend. One for all! Today we celebrate.'

‘Sure thing. So what's this in aid of?'

‘In aid of me, my friend. My new show. It will be big success, you'll see.'

The publican laughed, setting a pint of beer on the bar for Otto, and starting to pull beers for the other drinkers. Soon Otto was surrounded by well-wishers, and Greer found herself edged along the bar. She reached for her champagne as he proposed a toast, raising his pint pot and shouting, ‘To art!'

‘To art!' they cried, surely the strangest toast ever made in that small country pub.

An old man on her left, his nose crimson with grog blossoms, mumbled, ‘Who's Art?'

The barman totted up the bill and Otto took out the new credit card and slapped it onto the bar. ‘Can you make the tab?'

The barman nodded and scooped it up. ‘Cheers.'

Otto insisted the exhibition was a triumph. He had sold almost a third of his pictures, and many people had expres- sed an interest, especially in the flying pig, which he had painted again, changing it slightly. He'd sold one version to the bank manager for a hefty price, who insisted on calling it ‘Pigs Might Fly' and made a ponderous joke about farmers and overdrafts. Greer flushed, but Otto laughed immoderately.

Afterwards he told Greer, ‘It is kitsch, this flying pig, but they do not see it. I paint it fifty times and still it sells. These people, they know nothing. Philistines! Art-lovers the worst . . . no, amateur painters – 
they
are the worst,' he said with relish.

‘Why do you bother with them then?'

‘Because they are useful, or they may be.'

But in spite of the failings of the townspeople, and the gallery, which was nothing more than a ‘pretentious craft shop', Otto pronounced himself well pleased.

Greer cast her eye down the catalogue and did some quick arithmetic. The gallery took half – 
half
, and for what? – then there were framing expenses, the cost of canvas, stretchers, and those wickedly expensive little blocks and tubes of paint . . . After they subtracted the cost of all that, there would be nothing, less than nothing, left. This was success? This was the life of art?

‘Always with you it is money!' he shouted. ‘This is bourgeois bullshit, this always worrying about money money money!'

‘I
have
to worry about money, Otto, or we won't eat.'

‘We have big farm full of things to eat. Don't give me that.'

But it's
my
farm
, she thought.
And it's my hard work. If we keep on like this you'll eat up everything I have.
She began to cry, silently, shamed by her weakness.

He snorted contemptuously. ‘It is always tears with you women. Tears and money. My mother is just the same. “You must work, Otichek. I cannot do all. Art does not fill our bellies, Otik . . . ”' He minced and mimicked savagely, then suddenly barked, ‘
All
from my show will go into your bank.
All
. You are happy now?' He slammed out of the room and she heard him thumping and banging around in his studio and finally the sound of the front door slamming.

Greer, replaying the exchange later, wondered if his mother was alive after all. Was her resurrection no more than a grammatical slip? Was she still in Europe, or out here? Did she know about Greer? But what did it matter, if Otto had left her?

Days passed, then weeks. Otto didn't return. The exhibition money did not appear in her account. People dropped by to see him, or called, and she made excuses. ‘He's gone away. No, I'm sorry, I can't say when he'll be back.' She let Spinner and Molly in again at night for company, as she had done in the past, and they were ecstatic, then hastily sober and polite, as if good manners might stave off banishment and keep them there by the fire forever with their beloved mistress.

Time seemed to slow and thicken. The days shortened and she felt again, as she had after her parents' death, that winter was her enemy, sucking warmth from her. She worked to stop her thoughts, oversaw the building of the smokehouse, did what she could herself to cut costs, but she had no enthusiasm for it anymore. The paperwork and red tape were maddening. Everything exhausted her, and she was off her food, feeling a faint nausea whenever she thought of eating. What was the matter with her?
You're tired
,
she told herself.
And you're sad. Work. Sleep. Forget.
And so she plodded through each day, hoping that she would look up from her books and see that blocky little figure standing in the door- way of her kitchen and they could start again, and talk.

The first postcard came in the same mail as the bank statement, which she opened at once. Casting her eye down the withdrawals for builders, concreters, plumbers, smoking equipment, she found a cluster of expenses from a city in France! And wait, there were more. For an instant her throat closed with panic – someone had stolen her bank details – and then she knew. Her account was almost empty, and here was confirmation, a postcard with a foreign stamp and the familiar extravagant hand.

My favourite painting in whole Louvre. I am reborn after visit to this my true home. Thank you Grir. Back on 30
th
. I have much to tell.

Greer felt a spurt of laughter catch in her throat, then turn to a sob. She cried tears of fury and fear and joy. He was coming home. But he had emptied her account. What would she do? He might have much to tell, but Greer had news of her own: she was pregnant.

Otto arrived one evening, luggage stuffed with books, prints, small sculptures, new camera equipment, brushes, paints, liqueurs, chocolates and other little luxuries. He was in high spirits, showing her his work, telling her stories about what he had seen and where he had been, what he had eaten, the wines he had drunk, and the promises of exhibitions in Paris, Milan and Bratislava. They would be rich! It was his big break. They would go together, travel the world! She listened, waiting for the right moment. But there was no right moment, and he seemed oblivious to her silence. Instead, she told him at dinner, abruptly, when his mouth was too full of food for him to talk.

‘Otto, I'm pregnant.'

He stopped chewing, frowned. ‘Oh, I'm sorry.'

She felt a sudden chill, then a wave of heat. ‘Why are you sorry? I'm not.'

‘Greer, don't be stupid. This cannot be.'

‘But—'