‘Calves and lambs. What farm boy ever baulked at blood?’
‘In my experience this kind of blood puts men off.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘You haven’t done it with blood?’
‘No.’
‘It doesn’t bother you?’
Even if it had I was quivering so much I’d have gone ahead whether blood or acid.
‘Sweet boy.’ She cradled my face. ‘The good thing is, I can’t get potted with it.’ She kissed me, a peck on the mouth. Another peck. Each kiss got longer until it was one long kiss that kept going while she slipped her tampon out and scrunched a pocket tissue around it for my non-viewing.
The plastic bag from the rubbish bin made an undersheet beneath Tilda. Period blood smells the same as any other kind: rust, soil and briny water.
Chapter 18
Art smells like turpentine. Like garages and machinery sheds. It dries into pictures, but turpentine, that’s what art is to me. Old baked-bean and tuna-fish cans filled with the stuff. It keeps the painter’s brush clean and makes the paint go further.
The smell fumes up through the nook’s floorboard cracks, burns my eyes, makes my nose run like winter. My pacing circuit may creak and disturb Tilda’s concentration but my pages—my testimony, for want of a better word—get wrinkled in spots from my turpentine tears. Not real tears—I am the opposite of miserable. The testimony is liberating. There’s a jaunt in me, a skip in my mental stride. The swagger I once had is getting another life. It’s the perfect state to be in to write about our high spirits the next morning in Amsterdam.
Sex, a café breakfast, then more sex—that was the plan. ‘Congressing’ was what Tilda preferred to call it. Sex was too impersonal a word for our activities. Making love was too ordinary, a term everybody used. Whereas congressing made us sound like a two-person nation. A parliament of us, all to ourselves.
Our congressing left us with some cleaning to do. The plastic bag had ripped, Tilda’s muddy red had streaked through. Expellings are not just something men have. Tilda began having what she called ‘explosions’; sets of them ten seconds apart, not my ten minutes or half an hour. A clear fluid bubbled and frothed as if I had popped something inside her. It became runny and mixed with her bleeding.
We scrubbed the sheet with wet toilet paper but the mattress was left brown through the middle. There were other stains on it, older stains from other people, but ours was a size we thought too large to leave; we’d be forced to pay for new bedding. Half the morning we dowsed it with bleach bought from a supermarket around the corner. It paled the evidence but took all of Tilda’s perfume to spray away the ammonia stink. I found a shower curtain at the same supermarket that would do for plastic for our next session. We left the window open a fraction to help drying and stepped out into the midday rain.
Tilda wanted to take me to church. The Rijksmuseum, that is. St Rembrandt. St Vermeer. She jigged along the footpath so excited to be my guide she knocked into people, or danced around them. Once in through the church doors she went into worship mode, closing her eyes sometimes, as if prayerful. ‘This is The Night Watch,’ she said. ‘You bear witness to The Night Watch. You don’t simply look at it.’
I swaggered that I admired Vermeer’s Milkmaid for the cloudy perfection of the woman’s skin. Rembrandt was still decoration to me, so I kept quiet on him. I walked ahead of Tilda, bored and mischievous. I ambled past pictures without taking any notice, or went up close to read the label with the painter’s birth and death dates on it. Sometimes I read them out loud, which irritated her. She shushed me and told me to stand back and witness. Witness and behave like a good boy. I wouldn’t call it a tiff exactly. She was embarrassed by me, yes, but I sensed she was amused by my hide. ‘The paint is all cracked in these pictures,’ I said to tease.
‘Don’t be gauche. The paint’s cracked because it’s old.’
Pictures just hang there. They do not change or move. Why would I watch them when she, Tilda Robson, was on display? I could put my hand down the back pockets of her jeans and feel the real thing. Art had nothing I could touch.
Chapter 19
I am not a thief, I am not a vandal, I am not a murderer, though Tilda has at various times accused me of each. The thief-and-vandal part I will deal with first. These two were never really serious claims, but in the spirit of the honesty box I do have this admission: somewhere in this house there is thief-and-vandal evidence. I don’t know where exactly—it has been ages since I cared. For all I know Tilda keeps it souvenired in her own private architrave, a treasured speck of art history.
I have no guilt whatsoever: the speck was obtained by accident. It happened while we were in the Van Gogh Museum the next day.
Ah, Van Gogh! Even I saw there was a clever mind behind the childishness of his stuff—the blunt black outlines that made the paint seem colouring-in; four flicks of black and there you had an amateur-looking crow; dabs of puckered yellow making a fat cliché sun. Each worth a fortune these days but back then, nothing. Just the visual rantings of a no-count man.
Tilda got goose bumps staring at them. I felt jealous, which was ridiculous: who can feel jealousy over something not living? Besides, they gave me goose bumps too. Here were the world’s most famous sunflowers. Here were the wheat fields I had seen in books since a kid. They called me forward like the priest of all paintings to worship their surfaces. The paint was so thick in places I wondered how it held together and didn’t fall off in chunks from gravity. Van Gogh had once stood before them as I was now doing, his hand reaching to the canvas churning paint into something buttery. I was like another him, my eyes beholding what he beheld; my own fingers just an arm span away from joining me to him through the time warp of paint.
And suddenly I was touching it. I shut my eyes and my hands roamed over the rough skin of a picture.
‘Don’t,’ Tilda panicked. She pulled my shirttail but I wasn’t listening. I was with Van Gogh. I was Van Gogh. ‘Watch out. Watch out.’
A tubby bald man in a green official jacket ordered me not to touch. ‘No touching. No touching. Get away.’ He waved his arm stiffly against his side to signal me back to an appropriate distance. I did as he said, but somewhere in the time warp a piece of paint got caught in my finger webbing. Not a big piece. More a flake, a dot. I could feel it wedged there but the guard was lecturing me on the etiquette of not handling paintings and I couldn’t try to stick it back with him watching. He emphasised the words ‘forbidden to touch’ with a heavy stomp of his shoe.
I felt the flake digging into my flesh but was too scared to offer it up with an apology. I just moved along to the next painting. I expected any second the guard, having seen the damage, would yell halt! Damage being too strong a word: if he squinted he might see a tiny bare patch. I moved along nodding and mumbling my admiration for the museum’s collection.
Tilda had tucked her head down and with that metronome plait of hers going quick-time ducked and shouldered past other patrons to get clear of me. I could see her peeping from behind a hedge of tourists, her face straining against letting out laughter. I puckered my mouth in a whistleless whistle and strolled in the direction of the gallery exit.
The best course of action, the right and proper thing to do, was to go to the front desk and say, ‘I found this.’ Then I could walk out free of blame. I’m sure the museum had scientists who dealt with paint flakes. If it wasn’t for the guard I might have done that. But he kept watching me. I was afraid of being arrested. How long would I get in jail for art defacing? I’d be sued for millions of dollars—the family farm would have to be sold for lawyers. So I kept walking, my pucker directing the air from my silent whistle up over the ridge of my nose, onto my brow and hairline where fear-sweat was beading.