Godfrey The River Reflects

1. Auflage 2020
ISBN: 978-1-78864-919-3
Verlag: Cinnamon Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 302 Seiten

We become like the river reflected, both light and dark. Struggling artist Sylvia is offered an unusual commission by the mysterious Victor, acting on behalf of a secret sponsor, who wants to engage her for a year to produce art depicting the Holocaust. She accepts the project on trust and discovers an enigmatic thirteen-year-old girl Nina, who becomes her model and pupil. As the months pass, Sylvia begins to unravel the truth about Victor, the secret sponsor and Nina, while unearthing more about history and identity than she was ever prepared for. A family drama that champions the structures and beliefs that underpin a civilised society, The River Reflects faces the darkest shadows of human nature. With the Thames winding relentlessly through this compelling story, Sylvia, Victor, Nina and those around them progress from fear and isolation to seek love and fortitude and the redemptive power of the human spirit.

Mark Godfrey was born in Chiswick, London, in 1958, and brought up in west London and Cheshire. He graduated in English and American Literature and History from the University of Manchester. Mark lives in Greater Manchester, with his wife, an eminent art curator. They have two grown up children, a granddaughter and a grandson.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Godfrey, Mark

Leseproben

Chapter Two


I arrive early, stop outside for a smoke, then go inside and take a walk round the British Galleries. When the impulse to meet this ‘representative’ first struck it was partly because I’d already pencilled in the Victoria and Albert Museum as a meeting place. This is the backwards way round thinking that I long since ceased sharing with my highly sequential husband. When I told him the venue, minus the thought process leading to it, he surprised me by nodding his approval, but still felt the need to say ‘good choice’ in the manner he reserves for when he grants an endorsement while implying that it is his idea. But still, we’ve come a distance since the out-of-your-tiny-mind attitude he kicked off with. I plough through the rooms, desultorily and without interest, just about noting the familiar pieces along the way. It’s not that Alex has ruined it; in fact we parted well, as though the argument of the last couple of days hadn’t happened. But I’m preoccupied with the meeting and unable to shake off a nagging fear.  I have convinced myself that the tearooms of this vast museum are as safe a meeting place as any, the likelihood of an attack being close to zero. But that’s not it. My actual fear, the one I struggle to disclose even to myself, is that this mystery person is telling the truth, and I really have been shortlisted in a competition for a year’s commission. Some instinct tells me he isn’t bogus; my real fear isn’t him, but me: I may not measure up and I’ll blow the opportunity. Walking through the tearooms, a cup of coffee on a tray, more a prop than because I need the caffeine, I am looking for a smartly dressed man in shiny shoes. Failing to see anyone fitting the description, I settle into the Poynter room, my favourite, its blue Dutch tiles and dark wood panelling closing around me like a comfort wrap. The museum throngs and resounds in the background, a multitude of people and languages, milling together, some no doubt discovering the treasures for the first time, some rediscovering their favourites, all pursuing their interests, drawn by a fascination for civilisation, history and the human capacity for learning and accomplishment. It’s a world in artefacts. But something also saddens me when I come here, something that took me a while to understand but eventually came to me when staring at an eighteenth century silk gown in a fashion gallery and thinking of the person who would have worn it. I wondered what she would have been thinking as she put it on for the first time, imagining the giddy expectation as she prepared for her first appearance at court. And how did her life ahead look to her? And how quickly was it over? Set against the span of history, her life, though privileged, was small and fleeting. All around is the permanence of the dead. Maybe it’s not the man with the shiny shoes I’m waiting for. Maybe his appearance was a harmless coincidence. But it doesn’t matter, whoever it is will be in the museum by now, making their way towards me, and the mystery will soon be over. I imagine him, or maybe her, about to turn the corner and loom into view this very second. I count to three. No one appears.  I look away, look back again, and there he is. It’s unmistakeable; it’s the same raincoat, the same shoes. As he sees me—harder for him, scanning a whole room, than for me, covering the entrances—he smiles with such unexpected familiarity, a mix of knowingness and beneficence, that my mind goes into reverse and I doubt, after all, if it can be the same man. He quickens his step as he walks, almost glides, towards me. He moves with such grace, and when he reaches me he extends an arm. I take his hand and he makes no attempt to squeeze mine, just holds his in the air allowing me the sensation of caressing, rather than shaking, until he withdraws it, smiles again, and meets my eye. ‘Victor,’ he says. ‘Sylvia,’ I say. ‘I know,’ he says, raising an eyebrow, almost conspiratorially. He’s relishing the moment, and my doubts fully resolve: I was expecting someone sinister and I’m presented with someone of impeccable charm. Close up, it has to be said, he is older than I had imagined. I might previously have believed him to be in his mid-thirties, not that I’d really thought about it, but Victor is, as far as I can tell, a youthful looking fifty year old. He removes his coat and declines my polite but nervous suggestion that he gets himself a drink. He sits and looks around the room. ‘Good choice,’ he says. I shudder at the echo of Alex’s phrase. ‘Don’t look alarmed, I have good feelings about our meeting.’ He smiles. There’s something reassuring about how he says this. Presumptuous, maybe, but what the hell? Here I am, I have surrendered to the intrigue, I may as well play my part for all it’s worth. I tell him that his methods are scary, that my husband went ballistic and I shouldn’t be here. ‘But you are here, aren’t you,’ he says, with a faint but pointed narrowing of the eyes. He doesn’t say it to catch me out; he says it as if to imply that I quite enjoy the adventure. I smile back at him, and my nerves settle. ‘You have a number of questions, of course. This is what I propose.’ He leans forward, thrusting his arms out, cufflinks now exposed from beneath the sleeves of his suit jacket, his shirt pure white and smooth. ‘I will give you some background, some explanation, some idea of how the process will proceed, and if I miss anything, you ask. How’s that?’ I nod acceptance. It seems so logical, so well prepared of him, so considerate. ‘First, please accept my apologies for staking out your house.’ I should look annoyed but my response is shrugged indifference. ‘No, it was bad,’ he says, ‘very bad form indeed. But it’s a risk we take to find the right person.’ I half expect him to continue his justification, but a change in his manner tells me that line is ended. ‘We,’ he says, ‘are our sponsor and myself. Our sponsor is a person who wishes to remain unknown. Suffice to say we are talking about someone of standing, of means, and someone who knows about art. Some considerable effort has been expended to reach this point, and a great many artists have disqualified themselves by being too modish, too trivial, too abstract, too figurative, too stuck in one medium, too political, not political enough, too whimsical, too frightening, too vacuous, too egotistical, too self-regarding, too crude, too subtle, too drunk and so on.’ He waves a hand to suggest these are top-of-the-head examples from an extended catalogue of disqualifications. ‘Surprised you have anyone left,’ I say. ‘I think we surprised ourselves,’ he says, in all seriousness, ‘for a while we thought there was no one in whom we could trust.’ He looks at me, a trace of uncertainty on his face, a flicker of something almost vulnerable. ‘It’s true,’ he says, reading my expression, ‘you are all we have.’ I want to laugh. He’s being so serious and the situation is so ridiculous. I’m flattered—I think—and horrified. I look at his face and into his eyes and catch a glimpse behind the charm. I don’t know what it is, but it seems to arise from some recess of his brain, and manifests in the faintest tremor on his upper lip. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so melodramatic.’ I tell him it’s okay, and ask, ‘But why me?’ He leans back and looks at me, almost into me. It seems he’s on the verge of something. A revelation? Something he isn’t meant to tell me but now wants to? There’s an expectation, but it’s cut off when he says he’ll get that drink after all. A glass of wine, he says, and asks me if I’d like one. ‘Join me.’ The charm is back on. By the time he returns with a bottle and two glasses, I have been sitting self-consciously, darting looks around the room at the other snackers, drinkers and diners, wondering what the answer to the question will be. I think back to feeling flattered, but flattered by who? By some deluded madman and his accomplice? I’m past thinking he’s a danger, but I’m not past suspecting him of being plain crazy. He places the glasses in the centre of the table and seems to be creating some ceremony out of the pouring of the wine. Eventually it is clear he’s taking care to measure out exactly equal amounts. Satisfied, he pushes one of the glasses towards me. ‘To business,’ he says, raising a glass. I pick mine up and raise it to chink his, wondering whether the toasting of a transaction, still nearer the beginning than the end, is quite the right thing to do. ‘You have the right psychological profile.’ It’s a statement that could be a compliment but, right now, out of the blue, sounds weird. I gulp more of the wine than I intend. ‘I had better explain,’ he says. ‘We have studied your art, your website, your life history, including your family background,...