After redundancy
he’d turned to painting local scenes and there had always been a
cow in the picture, always the same breed. Residents who knew their
livestock remarked upon this, that the idyllic image drawn, with its
glossy dark red coat and pure white horns looked more like the
American Milking Devon – though originally derived from the British
North Devon, they were not to be found in the area. However, these
cows were somewhat handsomer, and any question over why the artist
had chosen the breed over any other was put down to aesthetics by all
but the Japanese businessman who one day offered the sum of fifty
thousand pounds for the purchase of one of these paintings. During an
unplanned visit to the south-west coast of England, the businessman
had entered the local art gallery of Roswell (the English coastal
town, with no connection at all to its American counterpart; with no
hint whatsoever of a UFO sighting).
In 1997 this was
a fair fortune and enough, almost, to set one up for life.
Champagne was
popped. Our artist, you see, had had the wonderful idea of hiring out
a room in the local art gallery for a month of the summer season and
filling it with his own work which he’d priced to levels of
extortion. He would only have to sell one painting …
Sat on the floor
of the circular room, stared down at by twenty-two versions of the
American Milking Devon – stuck in the corner of a pasture at night;
beside an old barn; holding up a line of early nineteen-fifties
sports cars on a gritty, country lane; the moon, stars, bright
sunshine and cool dusk – he felt them from distance, always in the
background, slowly chewing and always far away. In another picture
the sports cars had been replaced by a group of schoolchildren. In
another the same children were dancing round a maypole. A local fair,
a farmyard scene, harvest and haystacks and always the cow looking on
from far away.
In one picture
alone the cow had been at the forefront, pushing its wet nose up to
the artist. But this picture was no longer there for the Japanese
businessman had taken it.
His mother, the
artist’s mother, found him a week later at his flat. She’d heard
of the sale, she knew about his pictures. In truth the artist owed
her for a small loan he’d been promising to pay back but she hadn’t
been there for a handout, no. She’d gone there to advise him.
Divorced and then
redundant; living alone, the artist had turned to gambling, turned to
drink; he’d been irresponsible, unable to cope with such a large
amount of money.
She’d walked
over to where he lay, unconscious on the sofa. Called an ambulance.
“My son …”
But it had been
two days too late, and afterwards, almost as long as a year
afterwards, she’d found herself flying out to Tokyo.
From the airport
onwards she’d swum through a confusion of trains, taxis and rich
new buildings; strange young fashions; through a plethora of foreign
scents and the buzz of an alien race.
She had a card:
“Mr Suzuki,”
repeated the doorman.
“He’s
expecting me. We’ve been in contact. By telephone.”
The doorman spoke
to her in English, though unaware of this (for his accent was strong)
the artist’s mother nodded and smiled, nodded and waited until
eventually a man came down; not much taller or younger than herself
and they shook hands; the grey-haired old woman and the ageing
businessman, welcoming, smiling and bowing. “Won’t you come up?”
he said to her, and she understood perfectly for Mr. Suzuki’s
English was much better than the doorman’s.
To the artist’s
mother it was like a high class hotel but it was apartments and his
on the fourteenth floor. As they entered he gave her slippers to wear
and she thanked him, taking off her coat and counting four rooms in
total, three closed doors. In the main living space there was a
shallow dining table, calligraphy on the walls and a small television
next to a strangely archaic stereo for long players – an extensive
collection of the latter took up a whole wall from floor to ceiling
in a fine set of cabinets.
“Tea?” the
businessman asked. A record was playing which she recognised as jazz.
Old jazz from the forties or fifties. Her son’s picture hung
amongst the calligraphy.
“It stands
out,” the artist’s mother told him. They were sat by the table.
He had prepared a selection of snacks.
“It does,” he
agreed.
“And why that
one?”
“Ahhh …”
The businessman
stood and went over to the picture, pointing to top right corner.
“The cow is quite something, but the, up there …” He pointed to
a splodge of light. “You know,” he said, turning around and back
to her, “when I went to your country, it was quite by accident.”
The artist’s
mother fiddled with her chopsticks. “Not something you’d
planned.”
“Something …
what is the word … a feeling …” The businessman sat down again
opposite her, took up a piece of dried tofu while she sipped at her
tea. “Once arriving, in London, I had the idea of driving out to
the countryside. The city, it didn’t …” He smiled, thinking
back. “I drive. I drive and I drive.. And then I see the sign for
Roswell and, fate!” he remarked, eyes brightening. “You see, I
was there.”
“At Roswell?”
“Yes, yes. But
not your town. I mean I was there, in New Mexico. In 1947!”
“You mean when
that alien landed?”
The businessman
laughed. “Yes, yes, the alien.”
“So horrible,”
the artist’s mother shuddered. “Why did you have to go and do
that?”
“No, no. No
alien. Not true.”
“Of course, of
course,” she said. Then absently: “You know I saw it on the
television. Alien
autopsy,
they called it. And it reminded me of that cow cut in two.”
“Your son’s
…?”
“No, no,” she
laughed. “The one by that artist, Damien something or other.”
“Ahh, Damien
Hirst.”
“Was that his
name?”
“Mother and
Child Divided.
The cow and calf in … formaldehyde. Very famous.”
“Yes …”
There was silence
for a fair few minutes before he filled her cup, explaining: “I was
part of a team. Long time ago now. Aircraft. Experimental, new
models. That alien business. The UFO sighting. A misunderstanding. A
story.” The businessman opened his arms wide.
“I see.”
“Long time
ago.”
“And that’s
how you made your money? The aircraft?”
“Ha, ha. In a
way, yes.” He sat chewing, saying no more while awkwardly the
artist’s mother picked up a fresh piece of okra.
“Your home here
is very nice.”
The businessman
smiled again. “In Tokyo, the apartments are small. Not like the
houses in your country.”
“No, no. It’s
lovely. You’ve done well.”
He thanked her
humbly, made a short bow, then caught the artist’s mother looking
again at her son’s picture.
“He died, you
know.” She was clutching at her tea cup. “He’d been
celebrating.”
“Celebrating …”
The artist’s
mother had closed her eyes and in her mind she was moving over to the
picture; smashing at the glass – she was throwing her hot tea
against the bare, naked canvas.
“I’m sorry,”
she said, opening her eyes to the worried expression before her. She
made as if to stand, then sat back down, defeated.
