The Biographer (28 page)

Had that confident method of erasing a memory worked out according to plan?

She thought, I am sitting here in candlelight as my predecessors must have sat,
in a room in a stone house that is part of an isolated hamlet.What would you
see if you were to put this little group of buildings, where four people live
in close proximity, under a microscope? You would see an organism, a complete
ecosystem detached from the outside world.

Detached, yes, but also dependent on it in countless ways.

If you extended the breadth of the magnification, the surrounding countryside
would enter the picture, and you would see how the wider world connects with
this hamlet. Extend it further, much further still, and you might fit first
the country and eventually the whole planet under an overarching lens.

Did I deliberately set out to put the world at a distance? That is what everyone does, in a small way, when they construct walls around rooms inside their own houses. But I have gone beyond that, haven't I? I have tried to barricade myself against my own past.

You could see craters on the moon through Guy's telescope, or on a good day the
stones of the distant watchtower astride the ridge on the horizon. Through
high-powered telescopes astronomers could leave the boundaries of their small
world and venture out into the universe.They could write stories of the birth
of galaxies and witness the fallout from events that had happened billions
of human years ago.

And you didn't even have to be an astronomer. Everyone on the planet could do
this, in a more limited fashion. Every inhabitant in the world had a telescope,
their own built-in, individual version, and it was more versatile than a conventional
model.Through it they might try to visualise the future, but with no guarantee
of success.They could also revisit the past.

The mind was a miniature observatory, with the added capacity to look backwards
in time. Greer saw this clearly. Each mind was autonomous, able to construct
and deconstruct, write and rewrite the narratives of individual lives.

Your personal observatory, though, was restricted. It was subjective.It could only operate on a limited scale,your own private frequency, constrained by your existence as a human being.To believe you could barricade yourself in perpetuity against the fallout you had generated – well, that had to be a delusion.

If she were to steal a fearful glance through her own telescope Greer knew already and only too well what she would see out there. A mass of prowling, indistinct shapes. But there was something she had not realised until this night, sitting in candlelight in her study. It felt like a momentous scientific discovery, a moment of pure illumination.

Whether she looked backwards in time or whether she tried to look forwards, it made no difference. From either end of the telescope, the view was the same.

If you don't make a point of remembering a thing it doesn't lodge in your psyche. It does not become a memory. Eventually, it fades away.That is what this will do.

If she focused the lens of her mind's eye it could bring those shapes into sharp, into hardcore relief. Even though she had not done it, and could not bear the thought of doing it, she knew that this was true. It proved that the writer of those words was mistaken.

No matter how well you succeeded in banishing them from your mind, certain memories did not fade away.They might retreat. They might lie in wait. It was as if they had minds of their own.

It has been a long dark night of the soul.Thanks, you up there, whoever you are, for letting Mischa and me make it through against the odds.Thank you Lord,thank you God,Jesus,Allah, Buddha, Mohammed, Krishna, Confucius, and all the spirits of the Dreamtime, the Wandjina, and especially you,Venus, the goddess of love.

And my fairy godmother, the tooth fairy, and anyone else I've forgotten to thank.

At this moment in time, in this wondrous new year, let it be recorded: I am truly happy.

Oh yes, Greer could see that in the writing.The words fairly danced off the page, with their euphoric loops and whorls.

She deciphered them with a sense of wonder.The entry read like an overheated acceptance speech at the Oscars. Effusive thanks for making it through, dished out to every deity that sprang to mind, but no mention of those at whose expense she had made it.

Had there been any residual scruples? There was no evidence of them here, no acknowledgement of what had taken place less than a week earlier. No vestige of a qualm. Just an oblique reference to 'the immediate past'.The writer had stuck to her guns, maintained her stance of selectivity to the last.

The writing was oversized in its exuberance and the entry ran over a double page. It could easily be torn out. Greer held the two sheets of writing between her fingers. How light and fragile the pages were, and how combustible. She sat at her desk, staring at the pages as if to erase or nullify the words by force of will.

She looked at the walls of her study, shadowy and mysterious in the candlelight. She imagined those who had come before, tried to locate their phantom imprints in the air, to pin them down. What had been the nature of their transgressions? This room had not always been a study.What had it been?

It was a small space. It had probably been a child's bedroom.

Ripping out those pages would be a cowardly act. Such vandalism would not destroy the past. And it was an insult even to think of trying to explain, or excuse.Why was she trying to explain it anyway?

At this moment in time, in this wondrous new year, let it be recorded: I am truly happy.

What could you say to that? She laid down her pen and locked the notebook back in the drawer.

Greer and Mischa had stayed on in the country town hotel for two more days. They were recovering, and not just from the aftermath of New Year's Eve. Both evenings they ate with people they had met that night, first in a big group in a local pizzeria and then at a smaller backyard barbecue. It was an intense pleasure to sit at a table and eat and drink, talk and laugh with ordinary people. It had all the freshness and charm of a new experience.

'They remembered you very well,'Tony had repeated at dinner. 'I got the feeling they'd reminisced about meeting the two of you a lot over the years.They were taken up with the romance of it all, how you were on the run from past lives and lovers.' He turned to Mischa.'They followed your later career with great interest.'

Part of the enjoyment had been the knowledge that the two of them were passing through and would never see these nice people with whom, to be honest, they hadn't much in common, again in their lives.

'How on earth did you find them?' Greer had asked in amazement. Mischa seemed to have moved on. He was intent on making a wavy line of cracked pepper on his plate with the blade of his knife.

'Ah.They found me. One of their kids, who wasn't even born back then, was a student at a Sydney art school. He saw my website and then his dad emailed me.'

Greer was not worried. Neither she nor Mischa would have let slip anything incriminating about the immediate past in Sydney. Neither of them could face thinking about that, let alone speaking of it.

Tony went on,'They said you'd had some pretty riotous times together.'

Greer said,'Oh, we did. It was quite wild and woolly. So much so that I can't remember too much about it.'

Mischa looked up from his plate and engaged her in the eye. 'I remember all about it. It involved mainly drinking. They said when the revolution comes and all painters are banned, at least I can make survival food on a fire.'

For the five months preceding that barbecue Mischa and Greer had lived like a couple of hermits in the city. They were closeted together: Mischa working at a manic pace that seemed to Greer increasingly violent and disturbed, and Greer growing more distraught. They had occupied the same tiny flat, but they hardly, it seemed in retrospect, exchanged more than a few words each day.

For the last four months they hadn't even shared a bed. Mischa had dossed down on the lumpy couch in the same room he painted in. He had stopped smoking soon after their arrival, of his own accord. Just given it up one day without a word.

There were hookers, drug dealers and plenty of other artists outside on the pockmarked
pavements of Darlinghurst. It was a countercultural quarter of inner Sydney
they had gravitated to, full of Art Deco flats and cramped Victorian terraces,
the front doors opening directly on to hilly, narrow lanes lined with plane
trees.

Winter had yielded to spring and then the searing heat of December, the first month of summer. But in all that time Greer hadn't seen another person set foot in their little flat, with the sole exception of Marlene, the craggy-faced drag queen who lived in a studio across the landing and befriended Greer.

If it hadn't been for Marlene, a woman imprisoned in a tall man's body, and their afternoon breakfasts in pavement cafés or heart-to-hearts perched on the bed in Marlene's overpowering bed-sitter, Greer thought she might quite likely have gone mad. Marlene's gaudy room, strewn with peacock feathers,stilettos and g-stringed jockstraps,with glitzy Viennese mirrors and '30s Berlin cabaret posters on the walls, had been her only refuge.

They had one other visitor, but as fate would have it Greer had been shut away with Marlene when she arrived. Verity turned up out of the blue, only a couple of days before Christmas. Mischa's reaction was such that she cut her visit very short. She was out of there in next to no time. Greer wouldn't have known a thing about it if she hadn't opened Marlene's door just as Verity was emerging from the flat. She had dived behind Marlene's broad back, and Verity had continued on her way down the stairs.

Verity did have time, however, to see the paintings.They were hard to avoid, being all over the sitting room floor and in deep piles around Mischa's sofa. She would have drawn her own conclusions from those.

Even Josie, when she eventually flew in with her suitcases, had no occasion to
step inside the flat.There had been nothing for her to pick up there, because
Greer had bought nothing. Of the two sisters, Josie was the practical one,
the forward planner. Greer had been in no doubt that Josie would arrive well
prepared.

'They were happy to talk about New Year's Eve in Queensland, about Port Douglas,
her divorce papers, you name it. I say "they" but it's mainly her, of course. Safely out of the danger zone she becomes almost
garrulous. Well, anyhow, compared to how she gets when you approach the no-go
area.'

Tony was doing his housekeeping, stripped down to a pair of boxer shorts, stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head. On the front of the shorts was a red apple with a large bite out of it. He was staring at the ceiling and speaking into his dictaphone.The second recorder was at his side.

'He enjoyed playing with the fire, didn't overcook like people usually do.At dinner I said the fish tasted incredible, which it did – juicy and fresh with a wonderful smoky, herby flavour. I was rewarded with a child-like beaming smile of pure pride. It was quite sweet how he took the whole cooking stuff so seriously. It's probably because it gives him something constructive to do with his hands. Simple yet macho, no fiddling around with measurements and recipes.That would definitely not be the go.

'We stood out there together side by side like a pair of old drinking buddies. I was nearly stupid enough to quip that we were like one of those men's groups where they make campfires in the woods and reconnect with their masculine side. Howl at the moon, and all that stuff.

'I did say nearly.The fire must've made me reckless.Or maybe it was the beer, or even the moon. It was a clear night and a big moon up there. Serendipitous. After I'd broached the subject of Greer's strong feelings I figured it was as good a time as any to raise the Elsa ship from the seabed. I figured it was best to be direct.'

He threw a switch on the other recorder, and listened to himself say, 'So getting out of Prague was a smart move, relationships-wise.'

There was a grunt on the tape. 'It was a smart move everything-wise.'

'Mind if I ask a delicate question?'

Another laugh. 'Try it. I am just capable of being delicate.'

'You left the country pretty smartly after the death threat you assumed – very reasonably, I'd say – was from Elsa's husband, Pavel Montag.' Another grunt. 'There was that, and the political situation, and the whole damn thing with Elsa. Her instability and possessiveness. But in the absence of such a serious threat, would you ever have got around to leaving?'

There was a pause.Tony interposed,'He shunted some things around the grill, then made direct eye contact.'

Mischa's voice said,'Yes.I had to leave anyhow.'

'I guess in that situation there was a whole bunch of reasons to choose from, right?'

Tony hit the off button.'That was a dumb thing to say. I could tell he wasn't about to hand over any free points. So I made a daring executive decision. Nearly made me break out in a rash.'

He flicked it back on. 'Did you know she – Elsa – was supposed to have gone away and had a child after you left?'

A pause.'Supposed?'

'It was rumoured. Strongly.'

'Later I heard about that rumour.'

'Do you mind if I ask if it could have been yours?'

'You can ask that.'

'OK then, Mischa, could it have been your child?'

'How do I know? The mother would know better than me.'

'She denied everything. Screamed at me. Broke down in tears, wouldn't listen or say anything on the subject. But enough people told me about it that I had to ask you.They said she'd been pressuring you to marry and have a child. It hadn't happened with Pavel. She suspected he was sterile. That seems to have been pretty much confirmed later on, in his other marriages.'

Tony had paused at that point. There was nothing on the tape but the sound of cooking food sizzling and spitting.

'You've always been very open, right, about not wanting to be tied down with kids. I guess Greer accepted that.' Another silence followed.

'People who knew you said what Elsa was doing was blatant moral blackmail. I should tell you they said it was a daughter.They all said the word was she had a baby girl.'

Mischa had not responded. Tony looked at the second hand of his watch. It had moved more than three-quarters of the way round the face before he heard his own voice again.'I guess I have to ask this,though.Did you know she was pregnant before you left?'

'That was not a conversation I wanted to have.'

'You mean, you refused to talk about it?'

'I mean, she knew my feelings on the subject.'

'So she knew better than to bring it up?'

'What does she say?'

'She doesn't, you see. She gets hysterical, claims it didn't happen.The thing is, Mischa, I don't think I believe her.'

'Just write what you like then.'

'I want to get things right.'

Tony stopped the tape again there. 'He shrugged and downed his beer. He's of
the old school. He wasn't about to tell me she was neurotic and devious and
chronically smothering.You have to admire him for that. Most guys his age would've
just said she was a bitch.'

He picked up the master tape and strolled around the room speaking into it. 'Did she or didn't she? It could be like, say, she's already told him, he gets the death threat, and he takes the heaven-sent opportunity to get the hell out of there. Maybe she's told Pavel, or Pavel finds out somehow.

'
Or
, and what I'm leaning towards is this, she doesn't get around to telling him. She's been putting it off, she knows only too well what his reaction would be. Then, after hearing from Pavel, he exits from her life in a hurry, and she's lost her chance.

'Whatever, she goes to another city, has the kid and gives it up for adoption. Or finds an orphanage. And that's when she loses it, in both senses of the word. She has her first breakdown.'

He put the dictaphone down, then picked it up again.

'He was quite cool and impassive throughout this, but with one exception.When I said it was rumoured to be a baby girl I sneaked a look at his face in the firelight, and I think I saw a tiny reaction there, a little twitch of the mouth, like that ghosting on his new pictures. Maybe, and I think just
maybe
, he was struck, like for the first time, by the completely revolutionary idea that he might have a grown-up daughter. Momentarily struck dumb with it.'

He passed a hand over his face. 'And just maybe not entirely displeased in spite of himself? In spite of it flying in the face of everything he's always said? Secretly, that is. He was never going to let on to me. He didn't say or do anything at all for quite a stretch. Just stood there staring into the fire and poking at it, and moving the veggies around. But there was a kind of relaxing, like a softening of his features – I wasn't imagining it.

'With any other guy, and I mean
any
other guy, I'd never in a million years dream of broaching such a sensitive subject just before we were about to sit down for a cosy meal together. But Mischa, well, it's like she says, he's not an ordinary guy in any respects. A few minutes after that little exchange, in which he gets confirmation that he's most likely got a daughter running around somewhere, here we are, a homey little trio, sitting round the kitchen table making carefully oblique references to the cathartic little interlude in the tropics when they began to have sex again.'

He paused before adding,'It's not exactly admirable,his attitude, he's not going to win the Nobel Prize for ethics – well, neither is she, for that matter, no fucking way – but you have to admit it's pragmatic. There's nothing he can do about it now, is how he sees it. It's water under the bridge.'

Tony switched everything off and went into the bathroom to clean his teeth. He
unscrewed the tube, squeezed some brilliant blue gel on to an electric toothbrush
and set to work on the outside top row. Halfway along he stopped and wiped
some splashes off his chin, returned to the other room and retrieved the recorder.

'What's really, really interesting will be if he decides to try and track her down. He's got more of a chance than me. But it wouldn't be easy, it mightn't work out, and the very idea could be anathema to him. I wouldn't want to predict which way he'll turn on this.Well,that makes two of them, doesn't it?'

Greer and Mischa had pulled themselves together after what Tony identified as their cathartic little interlude in the tropics. They pushed on further north, beyond Capricorn, and dug in for an extended period in languid, luminous Port Douglas, just below the sixteenth parallel.

There in the tranquil aftermath of Sydney Mischa threw himself back into productive work while Greer made a few futile attempts of her own. She wasn't unduly worried at that stage. At that stage an extended holiday was all she felt capable of. She thought of that time as the honeymoon she'd never had.

Their landlord bought Mischa's second painting, which set the ball rolling. There was a lot of disposable income floating around in that corner of Far North Queensland. Many pictures were sold on the spot, as they were painted. Private commissions came in. There was never enough surplus to send down to Melbourne.Verity never did get her follow-up exhibition.

'We were irresponsible,' Greer had admitted to Tony, aware of Mischa's glad eye
on her. And full of the joys of spring, she did not say, and the bliss of being
young and in love and highly sexed. Newfound freedom was a big part of that,
she did decide to add. Verity, through no fault of her own, had become a symbol
of apron strings and the unlamented past.

But it was a notably bad move, Greer conceded aloud, to put an already smouldering Verity so drastically offside,to let her down again with such cavalier disregard. Tony verified this.It was adding insult to injury.He said Verity had felt herself shoved offside with a capital O.