36 292
Adam Thorpe
36
‘Ten out of ten out of ten,’
said Jasper. He sounded
relieved. It must be
annoying for the other
visitors, because his voice
was loud. And he was
wearing Hawaii reggae surf
shorts all but hidden under
a long yellow-orange plaid
shirt and a mauve keffiyeh
wrapped round his neck.
His outfit made Van Dyck
look really monochrome.
The
grieving,
sandy-
haired feller was leaning
on his hand, temple
against his knuckles, big
white puffed-up cuff, chin
slightly double, and staring
straight into her. Out of
the painting and into her
eyes. She was the ghost of
his darling wife. She had
just walked in. Hello, my
strawberry-haired nymph.
The other guy in profile
couldn’t see her because
she was a ghost visible
only to the gaze of love.
‘Rothko,’ said Jasper. ‘That
letter. Pure dark Rothko. Or
Malevich’s black square.
Right?’
‘It’s not a letter. It’s
sketches. Jazz, it’s got
drawings
on.
Figure
drawings. Upside-down.
Two statues. Two sad
women.
A
memorial!
That’s it! Look! For her
grave!’
Jasper was already walking
off into the next room. She
felt literal and stupid and
trivial, but at the same
time she knew she’d seen
more. The sandy-haired
feller in his slashed black
tunic knew she was right,
and he would never tell.
Jazz would look much
better in that gear, she
thought.
Snow. Cold and water. The
train jerks and slows. It
has problems because she
is on it, nowt to do with