Espresso Tales - Alexander Hanchett Smith [10]
“That’s Tom Wilson’s gallery,” said Pat. “He’s been very good to Matthew. He’s given him advice and helped him. He’s a very nice man. And he can draw, too.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Domenica. “Very few artists can. They’ve stopped teaching people how to draw at the art colleges, with the result that very few of their graduates can represent the world they see about them. They can arrange it, of course – they can install the world – but they can’t represent it. At least not in any recognisable form. Do you think Mr Damien Hirst knows how to draw?”
“I have no idea,” said Pat, gazing at the knot of people who had spilled out onto the front steps of the gallery, glasses of wine in their hands. “He may – I don’t know. But Tom draws very well. He does portraits of people by drawing the things 18
Domenica Gets into Top Gear
they have. Bits and pieces that say something about their lives. Letters. Books. A favourite place. Things like that.”
“Very interesting,” said Domenica. “I wonder how my life would be represented? Perhaps by the bed in Scotland Street in which I happened to be born, and in which I propose, in the fullness of time, to die.”
“Or something from India? The house you lived in?”
Domenica thought for a moment. “Too sad. I have a picture of my late husband’s electricity factory in Cochin. But I can’t bring myself to look at it. I really can’t.”
“Do you miss him badly?” asked Pat.
“Not in the slightest,” said Domenica. “I regret the hurt I caused him. And I regret his untimely electrocution – not that any electrocution, I suppose, can be considered timely. But I do feel a certain nostalgia for India itself, particularly for Kerala. For frangipani trees. For the sight of a man washing an elephant in the road. For the sight of a group of little boys sitting in an old Ambassador car, down on its springs, pretending to drive it. For overstated advertisements for hair products in lurid purple and green. For white-washed churches where they set off fireworks on saints’ days. Little things like that.” She looked at Pat. “Do you think Tom Wilson would be able to draw those things for me?”
“I’m sure he could,” said Pat. “Ask him. There he is in the doorway. That’s him.”
“I can’t intrude,” said Domenica. “Perhaps later.”
They crossed the road, having decided that the opening at the gallery was too crowded to allow them a view of the fishing boats and pagodas.
“We can stop over there for coffee,” suggested Domenica, pointing to the café immediately opposite the gallery. “Do you go in there very much? I rather like it.”
Pat explained that she usually frequented Big Lou’s coffee house slightly further down the hill. It being a Saturday afternoon, Big Lou’s, of course, was closed. And on a Saturday afternoon in the Festival it was very closed, as Big Lou did not approve, in general, of Festival visitors: “Gey pretentious,” Pat had heard her muttering.
Domenica Gets into Top Gear
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“One must stick to what one knows,” observed Domenica. “I shall try Big Lou’s one day, but this is highly convenient for me and they have a very good range of olive oils. And as for their staff – well, you’ll see what I mean.”
They found a table at the back – the café was very crowded
– and Domenica glanced round at the other customers. A woman at a nearby table inclined her head slightly, and the man she was with nodded curtly in her direction.
“That couple over there,” whispered Domenica, returning the greeting. “They’re very friendly with that awful woman downstairs, Bertie’s mother. I think that they go to the floatarium together, or at least she does. I bumped into her on the stair one day and then I overheard their conversation while I was looking for my key – you know how sound travels