My Tango With Barbara Strozzi

4 Bertha Strunk

I wasn’t surprised when Brian Adderley turned up at the Lichtheim studio for a check-up; that was a regular thing with their clients. Sometimes I used to wonder what I’d say when I saw him again. The time we’d spent together wasn’t the kind of thing you forget, and lying in bed beside Troy I’d find myself remembering nights with Brian.

So there he was. He looked very well and very prosperous. Not that he was fashionably dressed — he was as scruffy as ever — but he looked as if he could buy anything without asking the price first. ‘You look to be in good shape,’ he said, and kissed me on the cheeks.

‘So do you,’ I said, and after Karl did the check-up Brian and I went to The Blue Posts and sank a couple of pints. ‘I still owe you some Dubai money,’ he said.

‘No, you don’t. I didn’t mind posing for the paintings but I really couldn’t square it with Artemisia if I took money for it.’

‘You’ve got fancy scruples,’ he said.

‘Everybody draws the line somewhere, I think.’

‘Even I. Would you believe that since you left I haven’t been with any other woman?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘All right, I didn’t actually go cold turkey but it was like being alone. Can you believe that?’

‘Almost. At least it’s a nice compliment.’

‘So are you with anyone now?’

‘I’m married but I’m not with my husband any more.’

‘Why not?’

‘One beating was enough.’

‘How could you marry a man stupid enough to beat you?’

‘I’m not very clever myself. You may have noticed.’

‘You’ve got someone else?’

‘Sort of. It’s too soon to say.’

‘Who is he?’

‘No one you know. He’s a writer.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Phil Ockerman.’

‘The guy who wrote Hope of a Tree?’

‘Have you read it?’

‘Yes, and it was real crap. He uses words well enough but it was really just a put-together thing trying to pass for a novel. Have you read it?’

‘No. How are things between you and your wife?’

‘We’re divorced. She’s got the house and the kids and a lot of money and I’ve moved here. I’ve got a house in Cheyne Walk.’

‘You must have struck it rich.’

‘Von Augenblick doesn’t only have contacts in Dubai, he’s got the whole Middle East pretty well covered, and Judith & Co. go down a bomb with his clientele.’

We were quiet for a while, then a white-haired woman nearby leaned our way and said, ‘Actually, Hope of a Tree had quite a few good things in it. You can’t expect strong plots from Ockerman, his novels are mainly character-driven.’ Her face might not have been beautiful when she was young but looked very classy now and there was something in her voice — it was low and husky — that made me think she must have had an exciting past and a lot of lovers. I’d noticed her when she came in; she was taller than I and had a long slim black velvet bag slung from her shoulder. It knocked against the table when she sat down and it didn’t sound like an umbrella. She saw me looking at it and slid it partly out of the bag. It was a baseball bat. I thought of The Rainmaker and I couldn’t help smiling. Sometimes it’s nothing but baseball bats. A sign?

‘A Louisville Slugger,’ she said. ‘His name is Irv.’

‘“His”, not “Its”,’ said Brian. ‘Has that bat got a history?’

‘It has,’ she said. ‘But you wouldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t have believed it myself if I didn’t know that form and emptiness are the same.’

‘Not a lot of people know that,’ Brian said. ‘What’re you drinking? You need a refill.’

‘Directors,’ she said. ‘But just a half please. Vodka used to be my tipple but the ravages of time forced me to switch to beer, and even that puts me to sleep if I’m not careful.’

Brian went to the bar and got refills for all of us, then he said to the woman with the baseball bat, ‘Tell us the story, please. I’m Brian Adderley. This is Bertha Strunk.’

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘My name is Grace Kowalski. The bat is named after a friend who’s no longer with us. Some years back he and I and a few others were involved in some very strange goings-on. Do you believe in ghosts?’

‘Yes,’ said Brian.

‘Sometimes,’ I said.

‘I hang out with more ghosts than I do with live people,’ said Grace.

‘That’s part of getting old, I guess,’ said Brian.

‘It sure is,’ said Grace. ‘Do you believe in vampires?’

‘Metaphorically or literally?’ said Brian.

‘The kind that actually suck blood,’ said Grace.

‘Not yet,’ said Brian.

‘Likewise,’ I said.

‘Just asking,’ said Grace.

‘Do you?’ I said.

‘Takes all kinds,’ said Grace. ‘What do you do?’ she asked me.

‘I paint eyeballs for artificial eyes,’ I said.

‘And you?’ she said to Brian.

‘I’m a painter,’ he said. ‘Pictures on canvas. Are you retired?’

‘Not yet,’ said Grace. ‘I make jewellery and I sell it in my shop, All That Glisters, just up the street.’

I said, ‘I pass it every day on my way to work.’

‘Small world,’ said Grace. ‘No unknown places any more. Except perhaps in people.’

‘I’d like to do a portrait of you,’ said Brian. ‘Will you pose for me?’

‘I thought you’d never ask,’ said Grace. ‘But I don’t do nudity unless it’s essential to the plot.’

‘Sometimes a plot can take you unawares,’ said Brian, and raised his glass to her. He’ll flirt with whatever female comes into his field of vision. He and Grace exchanged phone numbers and Brian and I said goodbye and got up to leave.

‘See you,’ said Grace. ‘Have a good whatever.’

It was twilight when we came out into Berwick Street. ‘Where to?’ said Brian.

‘Cheyne Walk?’ I said.

‘Bertha, you read my mind,’ he said. He hailed a cab and off we went. Hearing him call me Bertha made me think of Phil with a little twinge of guilt. Not a big twinge, just a little one. Phil and I still didn’t really know where we were with each other, but with Brian I knew exactly where we were and I was comfortable with it. No commitment, no problems, just a good time in bed in a beautiful house. Was I being amoral? Well, you know what they say: there are parts of the human body that have no conscience.

But the part of my body that has got a conscience is my brain. And lying there beside Brian I was feeling guilty about what I’d done and hadn’t done with my life so far. Here I was, thirty-seven years old and painting artificial eyes. Back when Brian was my teacher he’d told me to loosen up and I’d done that, but not on canvas. Then my attempts to develop as an artist had gradually faded away while my talents as a mistress improved all the time. Was it too late to find out if I could be any kind of a painter other than an eyeball one? On the other hand, if I’d had any real talent I’d have done something with it by now. It’s not just a matter of talent — you’ve got to have the drive and the character to do something with it, whether it’s painting, snooker, or tennis. Brian was asleep and snoring. ‘Cheryl,’ he mumbled. That wasn’t his wife’s name.

After a while I fell asleep and dreamt that Grace Kowalski offered to lend me her bat. ‘He ain’t heavy,’ she said. ‘He’s my Irving.’ But it was heavy, I could hardly lift it. I woke up and the room wasn’t as dark as it had been. There were framed sketches on the wall. Me, nude. No clothes but I hadn’t felt as naked when I posed as I did now.