Trafika Europe 9/10 - UK in Europe

Adam Thorpe

‘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

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