The Painting Page 4

  When Anika came out of the change room, Daniel was waiting for her. His dark blue swimming shorts reached almost to his knees and he had an orange and white striped beach towel draped over his shoulders: the casual look – he might have been modelling for a fashion shoot. She felt underdressed, the way she always did when visiting a beach. But Daniel looked only at her face; not a glance did he cast at her body, encased in the new black one-piece swimsuit that she thought was probably too revealing and had certainly been too expensive.

  After they’d marked out a bit of the beach between the flags as their territory, with their bags and towels defining the borders, Daniel asked Anika if she could swim. She told him about the baths of Budapest, the heated and unheated ones. The heated ones were too hot, you’d step out of those looking boiled, and they were filled with people playing chess, now wasn’t that an odd thing, you couldn’t do that in the surf, could you? But where she’d been taught to swim, the water was unheated so you had to keep moving, and moving fast or you’d freeze, and that’s why her father had taken her and Miklos there when they were young and had more-or-less thrown them in and told them to keep moving or they’d die. Daniel looked at her curiously, as if he knew from all her burbling against the background thudding of waves that she was prevaricating. As if he guessed she wanted to delay the moment when she entered the surf.

  The beach was without shade and the relentless sun beat down. The heat reflected back from the golden sand burned Anika’s feet. It was a relief to get into a few centimetres of water and feel it so cold, water eddying around her ankles. She loved that the coolness was just the contrast; that it was not cold really, not at the fag-end of summer after the coastline had been basking in heat all summer long. When you thought about it, there was little land between Sydney and South America all those thousands of kilometres away. To the east only tiny New Zealand stood between them and that land mass, and to the south they were exposed to the icy continent of Antarctica. Just thinking of all that emptiness made her halt.

  Sensing her reluctance, Daniel grabbed hold of her hand and led her into the shallows; he released her only when they were standing waist-deep in the water. Though it felt silky against her skin, around her feet it was more abrasive, like being exfoliated with a pumice stone, as grains of sand pushed and pulled around her ankles. Daniel dived under a wave. She was too late to follow and the water broke over her, knocking her off her feet. It was impossible to fight against the drag that pulled her under and she began to panic as her body was tossed around as if it weighed nothing. Fighting for breath, she resurfaced only when the wave was ready to let her go, only when it was ready to dump her in the shallows, along with a few shells and skeins of seaweed and a lot of sand.

  ‘I’ve never been surfing before,’ she spluttered.

  ‘Now you tell me.’ Daniel hauled her to her feet. His hair, plastered darkly over his forehead, dripped beads of water down his neck. ‘I would have stayed with you if I’d known.’ At once he began a lecture on how to body surf, while seizing her hand again. He led her further out beyond the line of breakers.

  She held hard to Daniel’s hand till realising that she was more likely to be dragged inshore than offshore. That gave her the confidence to let go. He swam further out and she followed him. Here the ocean rose and fell like the breathing of a living creature.

  ‘Catch this one,’ he said, as a bigger wave rolled towards them.

  She started stroking to shore. The wave lifted her up and carried her forward in a rush of water and adrenaline before gently dropping her near the beach. Here was Daniel again, his hand outstretched. ‘You’re a natural,’ he said. She laughed and flicked hair off her face. She knew she would never forget this day.

  After they got out of the water and had showered and changed, they bought fish and chips from the little shop opposite that Daniel referred to as a greasy spoon. They ate them while sauntering along the deserted northern arc of beach almost as far as the sandstone headland. There they sat in the shade, on sand still warm from the sun, and watched the waves rolling in from the Pacific. This is freedom, Anika decided; this is safety. On this beach there was no one watching them, no one reporting on them.

  ‘Once I’d hoped to be an artist,’ Daniel said, staring at the surf. ‘That was a long time ago. Then I realised that I’m not much good at it. The funny thing is that I can paint a pretty good copy of something but there’s no inspiration in it. Anyone with an analytical mind can parse a view into patches of light and shade and put those on to canvas. And the rules of perspective are easy once you swot them up. But brilliant paintings are a lot more than that.’ He looked at her and smiled, before adding, ‘What I can do though is appreciate the difference between competent and brilliant works of art.’

  ‘That’s a big positive, isn’t it?’

  ‘I guess it makes me good at what I do.’ He picked up a handful of sand, letting it sift through his fingers. ‘Why did you choose architecture, Anika?’

  ‘I love the way buildings create space and the space can make you happy,’ she said slowly. ‘And I love knowing how to put things together.’

  She’d been lucky to get into architecture in Australia, she knew. After her arrest in Budapest, the authorities had withdrawn their formal offer of a university place. She’d spent two days with the secret police, a memory that even now, five years later, made her heart thud and her palms grow sticky. When they’d let her go, she’d worked in the hairdressing salon where she’d had a weekend job for the last two years of secondary school.

  Daniel was looking at her, waiting for her to say more. She took a deep breath before saying, ‘One of our design tutors told us about good architecture offering gifts and surprises. When he said that I knew right away what he meant.’

  ‘Maybe that’s analytical too?’ Daniel said.

  ‘I suppose it is, in the sense that you have to figure out what works and what doesn’t and then you have to imagine what it’s like to move through the space and how to construct it.’ A breeze had sprung up and she tried not to shiver. She didn’t want to suggest moving yet.

  ‘Is anyone in your family an architect?’

  ‘My family’s business is a butchers’ shop.’ Carefully she checked out his reaction. His expression was unchanged. She added, ‘Budapest is a beautiful city, very inspiring.’

  ‘I’d love to visit. I had a few months off after graduation and hitched around Western Europe. I had a terrific time but to be honest, I couldn’t wait to get home to all this. There’s something about the light here that I love. You’re shivering, Anika.’

  ‘I’m freezing. I didn’t bring a jumper.’

  ‘I didn’t either.’ He looked concerned and for an instant she wondered if he were about to put an arm around her shoulders. Instead he said, ‘Should we head back?’

  Their footprints had been washed away, and there was a new line of detritus being deposited by the incoming tide. Shadows were starting to form in the small depressions above the high tide mark where the surface of the beach hadn’t been flattened by the previous tide. The Norfolk pines cast jagged patterns over the low dunes and on to the beach, and the waves were breaking over the edge of the swimming pool below the southern headland.

  On the drive home, they sat in a companionable silence until Daniel asked her to pick a tape out of the box. She pulled one out at random: Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. It wasn’t any old version but one that had been reimagined – and that seemed to summarise who Daniel was. She put the tape into the machine and shut her eyes as soothing sound washed over them.

  When they reached Rozelle it was twilight and the street lights were on. Tabilla was in her front yard talking to Mrs Thornton. They had their backs to the road and, in spite of the poor light, Anika’s aunt was showing their neighbour the new bloom on her beloved grevillea. It was a spidery red flower too large for the shrub. Neither woman looked
up as they puttered past.

  ‘Can you drop me just there?’ Anika asked Daniel, pointing to the house with the new brick wall. ‘I’ll introduce you to my aunt another time.’

  The last thing she wanted him to undergo was Mrs Thornton’s inspection and possibly her interrogation. Quite why, she didn’t understand. Perhaps it was the legacy of keeping oneself to oneself when it was common knowledge that anybody could be an informer. She wondered how many years it would take for her to abandon that distrust.

  ‘Thank you for a lovely day, Daniel.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Wednesday week for the valuation.’

  ‘Would you like to do something else before then? There’s a terrific pub at Watson’s Bay we could go to. The beer garden looks out over the harbour.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  This was an understatement. What she would have really liked to do was throw her arms around his neck and hug him, and she might have too – if it had been later in the evening and the street was deserted and she’d had a few glasses of wine to rid herself of her ghastly reserve. Or if she’d been a different person – the overtly warm and affectionate person that she longed to be.

  ‘I’ll collect you at five o’clock.’

  ‘Thanks. See you next Saturday.’ She jumped out of the car before he had time to turn the engine off, and waved as he carried along the one-way street and turned into the dogleg that would lead him into the two-way street system and back on to Victoria Road.

  It was only later that she wished she’d invited him in. For four years she’d lived in Australia. Perhaps it was time to move on from her past, time to ditch her suspicions. Mrs Thornton and her ilk were not her enemies but her friends. Neighbourhood Watch, they called themselves. They were a Neighbourhood Watch street.

  Then she thought of their neighbour in Budapest: the widow Balog who used to give Anika sweets and a pat on the head whenever she saw her. Mrs Balog was taken away one night when Anika was very young, no more than four or five; Miklos overheard their parents whispering together the next morning that she’d been taken by the secret police. Some weeks later she was returned. Her front teeth had gone and her face looked as if half of it had slid sideways. Even her gait was different, more a shuffle than a walk, and she had developed a nervous tic in one eye. Anika didn’t see much of her after that. She stayed in her apartment all day and came out only to buy food. If they met on the walkway Mrs Balog would nod at Anika but would never meet her eye. This made Anika frightened. ‘Am I a good girl?’ she began to ask her mother and Nyenye. They always said yes. But a kernel of fear had been planted in Anika’s mind. If Mrs Balog could be taken, maybe the secret police could one day take her mother or father or Miklos or her, or her beloved Nyenye or Nagyapa. And return them broken. Broken in spirit and in body, like Mrs Balog.

  The paranoia that was everywhere when Anika was growing up was justified. Though you couldn’t see the surveillance, people knew it was there. In a war, soldiers wore uniforms and the enemy could be easily identified. But in a totalitarian regime like theirs, the enemy could have been anyone. It was necessary always to be careful and always to trust no one.

  Maybe distrust like hers was a scar that she would never be rid of.

  Chapter 5

  Late Monday afternoon, not long after Anika got home from work hot and tired, there was a knock on the front door. Anika opened it to a late-middle-aged woman she hadn’t seen before. The woman’s face was asymmetrical, the nose twisted slightly to one side, and she had beautiful deep-set brown eyes and that fine olive skin that aged well even in this climate. At the sight of Anika, her mouth formed an O, like a goldfish gaping in a fishbowl.

  ‘Are you looking for Tabilla?’

  The woman’s mouth now formed a straight line and her face puckered as if she’d sucked at a sour lemon.

  ‘I’m her niece.’ Anika sugared her smile to take that sour expression off the woman’s face. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘No appointment. I was just driving by and thought I’d drop in. It’s been years since I saw her last. I wondered if she’s still dressmaking.’

  ‘She still makes clothes. Are you looking to have something made? You can come in and wait. She should be back soon.’

  The woman shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’d better get on. It was just an impulse thing. I thought she might make me a dress.’

  ‘Who shall I say called?’

  ‘I’m Sarah. Your aunt will know who I am. I saw a lot of her at one time.’

  ‘Were you a client?’

  ‘Yes, you could say that. She used to make all of my clothes.’

  Anika glanced at what she was wearing. A black knitted top over a pair of black pants whose dark colour concealed to some extent her enormous hips. Built for child bearing, Anika’s mother would have said, and not for wearing trousers. Around her neck was a heavy gold chain and from her earlobes dangled gold earrings so long they would rattle against the chain if she leaned forward.

  ‘You are from Hungary?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I’m originally from Middle Europe.’

  Anika found this odd. No one she knew ever said they were Middle European. They would give a country or say Central Europe. But then she remembered this was a German way of saying Central Europe. She too might be thought as from Mitteleuropa. Perhaps this woman was from more than one country; one of those people who stayed in one place while the boundaries around them shifted, countries and empires expanding and contracting. Like Anika’s distant cousins: in Hungary one day and Transylvania the next. Or maybe Sarah was one of the diasporas who moved from place to place as wars raged around them.

  ‘Which part of Middle Europe?’

  ‘Austria.’ Sarah’s expression became defensive and at once Anika regretted her probing.

  There was such a fine line between genuine interest that made a person feel valued, and voyeuristic curiosity that might easily be construed as prying. Anika knew from Sarah’s expression that she’d overstepped the mark and it was easy to guess why. Sarah would have come here from a concentration camp or a displaced persons camp or both. Anika’s heart went out to her but words were hard to find. ‘Are you sure you won’t come in? I was just about to make some tea but I can make coffee if you prefer.’

  ‘Perhaps I will pop in after all. Just for a couple of minutes to use your bathroom – would you mind? I’ve been driving around half the afternoon and I’ve got to make it home through all that heavy traffic.’

  ‘Of course, do come in. It’s at the top of the stairs. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything.’

  The woman was a while upstairs and when she came down again Anika asked if she’d changed her mind about a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to dash.’

  She preceded Anika down the hall towards the front door, and paused to peer into Tabilla’s sewing room. Flossie was modelling Mrs Barling’s going-away outfit, an orange linen dress with exaggerated square shoulders.

  Sarah took a deep breath before saying, ‘Do give your aunt my regards. By the way, I’ve changed my mind about getting a dress made. I seem to live in trousers these days.’

  Anika opened the front door and for several seconds they stood on the path outside. Sarah looked as if she was about to say something more but at that moment Mrs Thornton’s front door opened and there she was attacking her spotless verandah with a broom. ‘Good evening, love,’ she said. ‘Didn’t see you at first. I don’t want to cover you and your visitor with dust.’

  ‘I must go.’ Sarah was out the front gate so quickly that neither Mrs Thornton nor Anika had time to draw breath.

  Ten minutes after Mrs Thornton ran out of small talk and Anika had managed to get inside to the kitchen, Tabilla burst through the front door, her hair mussed up by the breeze an
d her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Someone dropped by to see you,’ Anika said, after her aunt had put down her things. ‘You’ve only just missed her.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Sarah. She said you used to make a lot of her clothes.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I hope she doesn’t want any sewing done.’

  ‘I don’t think so. She said she was just passing by. She sends you her regards.’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘Separates. Non-iron.’

  Tabilla turned, grinning. ‘Did you notice her waist?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s hard to get off-the-peg pants for a small waist and big beam. Someone else must be sewing for her. Doing alterations if she’s buying off-the-peg. She used to look gorgeous in dresses gathered into that slender waist.’

  ‘I didn’t notice the slender waist.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want to sew for her again. She’s quite a difficult woman.’

  After dinner Anika went upstairs to her room. The portrait of the auburn-haired lady was bathed in moonlight that washed out most of the colours. When Anika turned on the overhead light and drew the curtains, the vibrant colours in the painting reappeared. Your little bit of Europe, was how Tabilla had described the portrait. And perhaps she was right.

  Chapter 6

  It was midweek in the office of Barry Oreopoulous and Associates and unusually there was no whistling or singing. Barry arrived late and in a bad mood. He meandered around, looking over people’s shoulders at what they had on their drawing boards but seeing – and saying – nothing. His bowtie had migrated sideways, giving him a dissolute air. The tail of his shirt had come out of his trousers and his curly hair was standing on end as if it wanted to distance itself from whatever was going on inside his large domed skull.