Sleeping Embers of an Ordinary Mind (5 page)

There’s nothing in the world Toniah enjoys more than this: studying paintings, looking for connections, spinning a plausible story. She feels like a forensic scientist picking over the evidence set out by the Academy. She swivels in her chair in the centre of her cubicle and assesses the images encircling her—Bernard, Gauguin, Bernard, Gauguin.

The Vision after the Sermon
was Gauguin’s reply to Bernard’s breakthrough painting,
Breton Women in the Meadow.
That’s the way they worked; they shared their experiments and bounced ideas off one another, each trying to build on the other’s work. And so, in 1889, Gauguin and Bernard decided to paint the same subject, and the resulting canvases were
Christ in the Garden of Olives
by Gauguin and
Christ in Gethsemane
by Bernard.

Toniah sees a connection. She enlarges Bernard’s soldiers in his Gethsemane painting. She delves into the Louvre database and, in familiar territory, fifteenth-century Italian, she pulls up Paolo Uccello’s
The Battle of San Romano
—one canvas from the original triptych, the three constituents of which are still scattered across western Europe.

Fancy that, she thinks. The soldiers’ armour is exactly the same. She inspects the painting’s history, and there it is: acquired by the Louvre in 1863, when Bernard was living in Paris.

Toniah can feel a footnote coming on. Bernard must have studied, even copied, the Uccello before going to Pont-Aven. So maybe there’s some early-Italian influence in the mix, as well as the influence of his stained glass.

She sighs. It’s so easy in academia to keep doing this—keep adding refinement upon refinement about artists who are already known so well. Why is she getting excited about Paolo Uccello having an influence on Bernard?

She blinks off all the images. Sod Paolo Uccello. And sod Gauguin and Bernard, for that matter. It’s Uccello’s
daughter
she’s holding her breath for.

She feels a surge of euphoria, but it’s tainted by a stomach-churning sense of frustration that she didn’t get to Florence for the big news. She missed the conference and the thrilling announcement that an Antonia Uccello painting
may
have been discovered. The first ever, and it was found
not
, as one might have expected, in a private collection, but in the overflow storage of a provincial Tuscan museum. Toniah brings up the conference proceedings and enlarges the painting: a portrait of a woman, supposedly at prayer but caught as if in a daydream.

“Who are you?” she murmurs to the woman in the painting. “And what is your connection to the artist?”

“Talking to yourself, Toniah?” It’s Aurelia Tett. She cocks her head. “That
doesn’t
look like a Gauguin.”

Poppy leaps up when she hears the front door open. “Well, how did it go?” she calls towards the hallway. Toniah appears at the kitchen door, throws her jacket on a chair and smiles. “Let’s have a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you everything.”

All Poppy wants to hear is that Toniah loves her new job. Please. Only good news. To Poppy, it doesn’t feel like a real home with only Carmen, herself and Eva. And much as she loves Carmen’s company, it’s far more calming having her sister around. It would be so brilliant for Eva, too, if Toniah stays.

“Don’t worry. It all went fine. Though . . . a bit disconcerting at times,” says Toniah. Poppy’s stomach churns.

They take their drinks to the garden, where Eva is crouched on the ground inside the pen. She’s watching the hens sitting under the mulberry tree, their favourite place for dusting themselves with dry soil. They feel safe under a tree, safe from predator birds. It’s one of the reasons their hens are such good layers; they’re less anxious than hens in a run with no shade. And they’re crazy about the mulberries.

“Don’t get too close to them, Eva. You’ll start sneezing,” says Poppy.

“Five eggs today. I think they’re happy,” says Eva.

“It’s a wonder the eggs aren’t purple with all the fruit they’re eating,” says Toniah.

“So, go on,” says Poppy. “Tell all.”

“I met the VP. She made a big deal of me being partho.”

“You told them?”

“Why not? I thought it might sway the decision, and it seems it did. She’s put me on a big project, and it’s interesting.”

“So what’s disconcerting?”

“First impressions, that’s all. It’s less academic than I’m used to. It feels a little cavalier—the attitude.”

“But it’s still research.”

“Sure, but the agenda—”

“Well, obviously, there’s an agenda. You knew that when you took the job.” Poppy bites her bottom lip.

Toniah touches her arm. She leaves her hand there. “So, tell me about this guy Ben. We walked to the tube station together.”

“He won’t be coming over again.”

“Why not? He seems sweet. Good-looking.”

“He wants a bit too much, you know. Wants to hang around and get involved. I told him—Eva and I are happy as we are. She doesn’t need a dad. Anyway, he’s a bit too serious for me. More your type.”

“Thanks a lot. I’m the boring older sister, am I?”

“You know what I mean. All the time I’ve known him, I’ve thought you’d be a better match. So . . .”

“So . . . ?”

“I don’t mind if you want to see him.”

Toniah is soaking in the bath, and she can hear her sister telling a story to Eva in the bedroom across the landing. By following the intonation and the back and forth between them, she’s trying to identify which storybook they’re sharing. It’s an old favourite, judging by the quick interplay of voices. As she narrows down the possibilities, she hears the front door being pushed open and then shut, the door bolt rattling in its sheath. Toniah towels herself, throws on a robe and hurries down the stairs. “Hi, Carmen. We saved you some food. It’s plated up in the fridge.”

Carmen has flopped on the sofa, but she’s so tiny that the sofa seems to be barely dented. She’s always so beautifully dressed, and the deep-blue dress against her black skin and against the yellow sofa instantly brings to mind a painting. Toniah can’t get away from Gauguin. His Polynesian Mary, exhausted after the birth of Jesus.
Te Tamari No Atua.

“Brilliant,” says Carmen. “I’m glad you didn’t wait. Sorry I didn’t message—I was running late.”

“A late property viewing?”

“No, it wasn’t work. I went to the clinic.”

“Oh? You feeling all right?”

“Not the medical centre. I went to the baby clinic.”

Footsteps on the staircase. “The baby clinic?” says Poppy as she appears in the kitchen.

“Yes. Don’t look so surprised, the pair of you. You should see yourselves. It’s about time, isn’t it? And you know how bloody broody I am.”

They sit around the kitchen table, and while stabbing at her salad, Carmen deals calmly with her interrogators. They’re thrilled, of course, but Toniah senses that Poppy is holding back. She’ll want to know about the financial implications. How much will the treatment cost? Will Carmen return to work full time? Will she be able to afford her rent, or will they need to rent out the smallest bedroom for a few months?

“What are your treatment options?” says Toniah.

“It’s likely to be a two-egg process, one more mature than the other. I told them I’ve joined a partho household.”

“So they didn’t discuss donor semen or artificial Y?” says Toniah.

“No. I just said I’d prefer to go partho.”

Poppy presses her hands flat between her knees and leans forward. “And what about the baby’s gestation, Carmen? Have you discussed that with the clinic?”

“That was one of their first questions. Needless to say, it’s cheaper if I carry the pregnancy, assuming it all goes smoothly. I don’t think I can afford an artificial womb—I don’t want a loan that’s bigger than absolutely necessary.”

“But if you have any pregnancy complications, you could be off work,” says Poppy tentatively. “You’d better check your maternity terms.” Toniah tries to catch her sister’s eye. Warn her, with a small frown, to ease off. “It could be a false economy,” says Poppy. “And . . . you’re so tiny, Carmen.”

“More’s the reason to go partho. I’m less likely to have a big baby.”

Poppy sits back and pushes a hand slowly through her hair. Toniah can see she’s trying to calm herself.

“Eva’s going to be excited,” says Toniah.

“That’s true,” says Poppy. The frown lines between her eyes begin to dissipate. “She’ll have chosen a name by the weekend.” Her face relaxes, a mirror to Carmen’s and Toniah’s easy cheerfulness.

“Just wondering, Carmen, did they ask any intrusive questions at the clinic?” says Toniah.

“Yes. When we discussed an artificial womb. Put me off a bit. They said they’d need next-of-kin details, and more than one, preferably. In case I died . . . or absconded.”

“You’re joking,” says Poppy.

“Seriously. It must have happened. So I told them I’m gay and I’m not in a settled relationship, so I’d have to give my sister’s name, and . . .”

“My name as a backup?” says Poppy.

Toniah is wide-eyed.

“Anyway, it won’t come to that. I’m carrying my own baby.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Suzhou, 2015

In the manicured grounds of the Garden Hotel in Suzhou, Chinese instrumental music twitters from speakers hidden aloft in the cherry blossoms.

“Why don’t we do this, Dad? Have music playing in our trees?”

“Maybe it’s only for the cherry blossom season.”

“It’s so sweet—kind of silly.”

“It’s very calming.”

Each specimen tree is labelled with its Latin name and the year of planting.

“According to the labels, all these trees were planted around forty years ago,” he says. “Did that coincide with the end of the Cultural Revolution? What were the dates, Toni?”

“Er . . . mid-1960s to mid-1970s.” She looks up at him. “Did you do
any
homework for this trip?”

“Didn’t I mention? I’m delegating history to you. I had to research Mr. Lu’s paintings and make all the travel arrangements.”

They pass by a young Chinese couple who are taking close-up photos of the deep-purple blossoms that sprout along the main branches of one curious tree.

“You’d think they’d be used to cherry blossoms,” says Toni. She takes her own phone from her pocket and, holding it waist-height, turns and surreptitiously takes a photo of the man and woman, who are still looking up with their phones held high.

“Come on, let’s not dawdle. We’ve got an hour before the Master of the Nets Garden closes,” says her dad. “You’re not too tired, are you?”

“No way. This might be the one time in my life I come to Suzhou.”

How amazing, knowing the name Suzhou, and knowing how to pronounce it, perfectly. Sue-Joe. It’s easy to remember—she
has
two friends Sue and Joe. They took her to Hyde Park with a bunch of other friends when they were trying to cheer her up. It suddenly seems ages since that trip. Hyde Park, with all its giant trees, now feels a little foreign amid all the pretty blossoms.

What’s cool is this: her favourite place in the whole world is Venice, and Suzhou is called the Venice of the East because of its canals and waterways. Two Venices on one planet. It doesn’t seem possible. Suzhou might even be the
better
Venice; it has famous gardens with the maddest names, which she memorized because she can’t rely on her dad to remember the must-see sights—the Master of the Nets Garden, the Humble Administrator’s Garden, the Lingering Garden on Tiger Hill, the Pavilion of Dark Blue Waves.

Why don’t we have any good names? she thinks. What have we got? Hyde Park, St. James’s Park, Green Park—a bit like saying Yellow Desert. Clapham Common, Kew Gardens. C-minus for poetic effort.

The high arched entrance to the hotel is set back from the main street, and in its shadow stand three taxi drivers smoking cigarettes. One of the drivers, evidently reluctant to go back behind the wheel, half-heartedly waves for her dad’s attention. She and her dad press on. Toni takes hold of her dad’s jacket sleeve as they reach a cycle path that’s choked with scooters and cycle taxis. It’s separated from the main road by a line of trees, their trunks painted white. Having dodged their way between the cycles, they wait for a break in the car traffic.

“Where’s that music coming from?” Toni peers down the road and laughs. A street-cleaning vehicle emitting electronic Muzak is edging towards them, its rotor brushes clearing the gutters. Her dad chuckles. “Sounds like a Chinese version of ‘Greensleeves.’”

“A singing street cleaner.”

They dart across the road towards the My Hero Chicken takeaway, which sits at the end of a block of gaudy shop frontages at street level, at odds with the traditional timber-framed architecture above.

“This way,” says her dad as he walks towards the cobbled alleyway at the side of My Hero Chicken.

Toni takes his hand. “Is it safe?”

“It’s fine. I’ve checked the street map, and we’re a minute’s walk from the garden entrance. I think those are tourist stalls ahead.”

Toni stops and takes another photo. “I think it’s washing day,” she says. Ahead of them, above their heads, two sweatshirts—one red, one white—hang in T-shapes, a wooden pole threaded through the arms. The ends of the pole rest on the roof gutters on opposite sides of the alleyway.

“Could be a sign,” he says.

“A sign?”

“For a laundry. Maybe there’s a laundry service somewhere along here.”

“Are you joking?”

He shrugs. “I’m guessing. There’s no way of knowing.”

The stallholders are already packing away their souvenirs—decorated fans, silk scarves, bookmarks, landscape paintings with calligraphic inscriptions, baseball caps, T-shirts. They call out, trying to guess the nationality of the passersby. Toni waves back.

“Hey, Dad, they’re selling terracotta warriors—are they near here? Can we go and see them tomorrow?” Toni pleads.

He laughs. “Selling a terracotta warrior in Suzhou is a bit like selling a Leaning Tower of Pisa in London. I did actually check out the warriors: they’re hundreds of miles inland. Maybe a thousand miles.”

“So why are they selling them here?”

“Saving us the journey?”

The alleyway opens out into a stark, white-walled courtyard. Towards the far right corner stands a solitary black-barked tree in naked, terrified silhouette. Four yellow scooters are parked behind the tree; her dad takes a photograph. On the left, towering above them, is the ornate wooden gateway to the Master of the Nets Garden.

They buy tickets at a small kiosk inside the entrance and wander, as though stepping through a secret doorway, into a fairy tale. They hear a soundscape of flowing and falling water and stand transfixed, trying to assimilate a tight vista of craggy limestone rockeries, lush but controlled flora and narrow pathways, one of which leads over a zigzag stone bridge to a small pavilion. Toni and her dad approach the signpost by the bridge: “To the Waterside Pavilion of Washing Hat-Ribbons.” They look at one another with raised eyebrows.

“You’ll have to rename your garden shed, Dad.”

Whitewashed walls separate one section of the garden from another, but latticed openings provide teasing glimpses of far pavilions, shocking-pink cherry blossoms and bulging purple magnolia buds.

“Can I explore on my own?”

“Go on. But—” She’s already off.

Toni follows the brick path—inlaid with pebble mosaics of fish and chrysanthemums—crosses the bridge and starts to climb a craggy outcrop towards a viewing point. She notices that the miniature mountain is made from large limestone rocks cemented together. That’s a bit naff, she says to herself. And standing at the top, looking across the Master of the Nets Garden, she remembers their Shanghai hotel—the glass tanks with carefully lit lumps of grey rock. Why do they like making little landscapes? She recalls making her own gardens as a small child, in baking trays, and for a moment captures the smell of wet black soil. And she remembers her mum helping her to make a fence with spent matches and wire.

From this high point, Toni can see the garden’s white perimeter wall; it’s high, with no window openings. She can’t decide if the garden feels like an oasis or a prison. It depends what’s outside. Maybe, she wonders, the Master of the Nets was afraid of someone or something. Was he afraid of dangers that lay beyond the garden? Maybe this was the only safe place in Suzhou, and people were . . . Toni can feel another apocalypse taking shape.

Flesh-eating creatures, half-human, clamber over one another in a heaving mass—she has seen the movie—so that one, just
one
of them, can scramble high enough to leap over the wall and . . . That’s it. The Zombie Wars of Mainland China. The Master of the Nets was the last survivor in Suzhou, and at the end of the war, he set out across China—with only his walking stick and the clothes he wore—to find other survivors, to start the world all over again.

Picking her way down the cemented outcrop, she feels proud of herself; she’s imagined something seriously worth worrying about. It’s all a matter of perspective. There’s always someone worse off, unless you’re a zombie.

She steps through the circular opening to another courtyard within the garden, and when she looks back across the tiny lake, she sees her dad. He’s taking photographs.

He must love it here, she thinks. She can imagine the kind of photographs he’s taking, because she knows he sees things that no one else notices. That’s what her dad always says: the artist sees things that
normal
people are in too big a hurry to see. That’s his job, he says: to help people to see better.

Toni sits on a smooth boulder, folds her arms and watches him. His photographs, she decides, will mainly be close-ups—for example, photographs of the floor. He likes photographing floors. Not the predictable things like the fish mosaics; that’s what everyone else will photograph. No, he’ll find some random arrangement of pebbles with a discarded cigarette butt. And he’ll definitely photograph the latticed openings in the plain white walls . . . with something jutting into the picture—a bare branch or three angled tree trunks. He won’t be able to resist taking a snap of the old couple chatting in the Waterside Pavilion of Washing Hat-Ribbons. She noticed them holding hands and whispering to one another. Her dad won’t ask their permission; he rarely does. He claims he’s not being nosy or rude. He calls these photos “celebrations of passing intimate moments.” Not that she believes everything her dad tells her.

She decides to explore the far reaches of the garden, follows a path through a stand of young green bamboo. She finds, to her complete bewilderment, the best thing
ever
to photograph. How unbelievable, she thinks, that she found it before her dad. She steps closer and inspects the bamboo. Chinese characters have been carved into the tall, woody stems. The characters are so clear—pale brown against the smooth, hard green. Absolutely bloody amazing. She takes out her phone and takes seven photographs. This is
the
most fabulous thing in the entire Master of the Nets Garden, and
she
found it.

He likes her photographs of the bamboo graffiti.

“What do you think the writing says?” asks Toni.

“Peoples’ names? ‘Toni was here,’” he says.

“It could be a line of poetry.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, this garden is special . . . and Chinese people are more respectful. They wouldn’t
do
gormless graffiti.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Anyway, these might be political slogans.”

“Or secret messages.”

“Well, it’s interesting, isn’t it? If you exhibited this photograph in a gallery in London or New York,” he says, enlarging a section of bamboo on her smartphone screen, “people would ask exactly these kind of questions. Assuming they couldn’t read Mandarin. As the photographer”—he turns and raises his eyebrows at her—“
you’d
have to decide whether you wanted people to guess what the characters say, or whether you should translate the words and then use the translation as a title for the photograph.”

Her dad says bizarre things like this all the time. It’s like he’s trying to make her brain think like his artist’s brain. She doesn’t know what he’s on about half the time, and she’s learned to just say hmm—without even rolling her eyes.

“Hmm. Well, I’d like a painting of the bamboo graffiti. Make me one, hey?”

“Why paint it? Make a big print from the photo.”

“You copy other peoples’ paintings. Why not copy my photograph?”

He pulls a face as though he’s smelling milk, suspecting it’s gone sour. There’s clearly some big artsy conflict going on in his head.

“Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Good. And I’ll tell everyone that the characters are coded messages.”

He laughs and puts his arm around her. “Come on, they’ll be closing soon. We don’t want to get locked in.”

Coded messages,
Dominic muses as they leave the garden. The ways kids think . . . He recalls, momentarily, his own childhood excitement over a secret spy headquarters hidden at the back of a tailor’s shop, at a time when a coded message involved winding a strip of paper around a pencil.

There’s a more adult interpretation of
coded message
, one that’s taken on a mutated meaning. He feels a shiver of recognition as he hears again the police officer who asked Dominic to formally identify the body.
It’s not a child-friendly environment.
He was home with Toni at the time—she’d stayed home from school—and although he knew the morgue was an inappropriate place to take a child, the police officer correctly intuited that Dominic needed everything spelled out. He was in shock. And down at the morgue—the memory is always at the edge of his consciousness—a white sheet covered Connie’s body; her neck and face were uncovered. He couldn’t believe there was anything wrong with her. The morgue assistant left him alone, and Dominic wishes now that he hadn’t lifted the sheet.