It was a sad summer I had, the year of my thirtieth birthday. I loved getting presents and letters and celebrating my birthday deep into the night with my friends. Instead, I retreated to my parent’s house for the summer. My lover had rented out our house and gone to work on his paintings in Ireland, taking the earnings of his exhibition and the rent with him. I got to mind the cats, and over the summer learned their language. I read his daily letters in smudgy handwriting. I looked at my face in the newspaper when my exhibition was announced and felt proud of myself. My father was ecstatic, and brutally dismissed my regrets that my ‘fascist’ wasn’t there to celebrate with me. He would be back anyway for the opening.
What did I need him for? I had my music, my art, many admirers. I had my mother and father, who were all-understanding. And I was beginning to make enemies, which meant my name was beginning to be heard in the art world.
I was being a good sport. I started jogging in the early mornings, eyeing the flab on my legs, pounding out images over the asphalt, the grass, while hanging my own paintings, looking meagre, in the lush trees. I pounded my way through his absence. I had to understand the goodness of being me.
I took a bottle of vodka to bed with me. One glass had been the peak of my drinking, but it was my birthday and I was going to celebrate with alcohol.
Summer life was overrated.
Come cat, come back to me black cat. Have you seen him looking for me? My black cat comes, came back black. His tail round the street corner in the dark, his voice the only visible one. Lets himself be picked up and brought home. Together they came, my lover and cat, black hair and yellow eyes.
He was back, wrapped in splendid egotism. He had a red phase, he told me, and that was all. No need to disturb him. But I did.
The house needed some care after the summer so I went down on my hands and knees to work away with a brush in the hallway instead of going to a rehearsal as planned. I couldn’t live with the caked-in footsteps and the smell of tomcats. He came out of his studio, screaming that I should be at a rehearsal, shouting that he could hear me using the brush and did I not realize that he was going to get rich with this series of red paintings he was working on? His voice echoed roughly against the clean tiles. Of course my lover was right; I should have gone out with my fiddle to make a bit of money while he was creating his fame and fortune. I felt guilty, splashing lots of water on the tiles. I did not love him enough, did not respect, admire enough, I kept thinking while I scrubbed the dirty steps one by one. I fixed him a great meal to make him forget. We threw the brush out of the window, had our meal and used the table for sex. It was the meal that got me pregnant.
Now let me play something for you, a lullaby maybe?
He took a studio outside the house and decided to give up his job for a more lucrative freelance existence. I would have to work harder now that I would have my child to support and a babysitter when I was away. Responsibilities rained on our disorganized lives. I found a new agent, the kind that rings at six in the morning for a replacement job and uses the same cold and formal tone to greet you, discuss your fees and provide you with details about the repertoire you’re supposed to play. The money was good.
Gael helped me choose clothes that would hide my bump at the first night of my exhibition. And he spoke warmly of my work, although he talked more about his own. We smiled for a magazine photographer. I had the feeling I was looking through smokecoloured glass and could see my breath on it but couldn’t wipe it off. My paintings on the wall didn’t matter anymore. There was only the silence between me and everyone else in the room.