The First Day Page 15

  He stood up, shuffled to his room. He turned to face me. I didn’t mean anything by it, Samuel, he said.

  He disappeared into his room, closing the door quietly behind him. I stood where I was, by the fridge, felt my head spinning, the dull emptiness thudding. I realised how drunk I was. Schoenberg played on, a soundtrack repeating, an unravelling melody always approaching itself and then falling away. Philip returns, the man I had met—twice now—replaced by the boy, the boy who had played with me, laughed with me, tickled me. I drink quickly, then open another. I am in my mother’s bedroom. I drink until Schoenberg is finished.

  I woke late, almost ten; my mouth dry, wasted, my head concrete. I heard Orr in the living room; the previous night’s conversation came back to me in pieces. I couldn’t remember exactly what I said, but the aftertaste was bitter. I lay on my bed until I heard him go out.

  I finally left the apartment, a little after midday, and walked, on a hunch, to the church. It was a small, redbrick building, settled between a cheap grocer’s and a nameless glass-fronted shop offering, in tall, blunt capitals, TATTOOS REMOVED. The church’s signage was smaller, but still eye-catching—IGLESIA PENTECOSTAL DE JESUS CRISTO EL LIBERTADOR—painted by hand on a blue wooden board. I tried the door, and it opened. I stepped into the small lobby, frosted glass and fake wood panelling, like the waiting area of a cheap dentist, and through another door into the sanctuary. Orr was sitting at the back. A young woman, in her early twenties at most, was dusting the chairs, moving slowly along the rows, side to side towards the front. She was laughing, presumably at something Orr had just said.

  Who’s that? Orr asked.

  The woman looked at me. Who are you? Her accent thick, heavy.

  I’m Samuel Orr, I said.

  No, I’m Samuel Orr, said my father, standing up.

  The woman laughed, though surely, I thought, she didn’t understand. She was laughing simply to please my father. I looked at his face, and saw a pride there, a satisfaction, almost sexual.

  This is my son, Ceci. Sam, this is Ceci.

  She jerked her head up in acknowledgement, saying nothing.

  Do you want to get some lunch, Dad?

  My father shuffled towards me. Okay Ceci. Until next time. You be good.

  I’m always good, señor. Maybe you be good for once, eh? She laughed.

  I’m too old to be good, said Orr.

  We ordered food in a Vietnamese café, huddled together at a shared table beside an old Chinese couple who ate without speaking. The slurps and clinks of their meal amused Orr, who was clearly on good form.

  I’m sorry about last night, I said.

  Don’t worry about it.

  The tiny woman who worked behind the counter brought over our sandwiches. Who is this? she said.

  This is my son, Sam, said Orr.

  She inclined herself slightly towards me, in what I supposed was a greeting. I attempted to return the gesture.

  You look like your father.

  Brilliant, I said.

  Are you happy here? I asked my father, when she returned to the counter.

  I like the food.

  I mean in New York.

  Orr took a bite, and I waited, watching him.

  You haven’t asked me that since about a year after I arrived, he said. He raised his hand. That’s not a complaint. Just an observation. Do I like it here? Yes. I do. I like Bushwick, I like the iglesia, I like spending time with Guest and his kids. Sometimes I worry that I am too much in your space.

  I did not answer. He went on.

  I know it is different for you. That you do not have the freedom you would have if I was not here. But then I think, he said, that you would tell me. You are not a coward.

  I smiled. He left the word hanging. Smart bastard.

  I’m not sure you would know if I am or am not, I said finally.

  The old couple beside us stood up and put on their coats. As they left, Orr shuffled along the bench, extending himself. Colonising, I thought, unwillingly.

  You are not a coward, he said. Experiencing fear does not make you a coward.

  You think I experience fear?

  Don’t we all? he said.

  What are you scared of? I asked him.

  He smiled, amused. Maybe I have not tasted life enough. I am nearly eighty years old.

  Do you worry you might have it wrong?

  Life?

  God. The universe.

  He laughed. What have I lost if I have? I sinned, I was forgiven.

  Is it that simple?

  Forgiveness is everything, he said. There is not a person I have met—anywhere, anytime, any kind of person—who would not be relieved by forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving themselves, being forgiven.

  I don’t need God for that, I said.

  I do, said Orr.

  We walked through Prospect Park afterwards, Orr’s hand in my arm. Birds flitted overhead, their screeches mingled with kids’ shouting and crying. The sun was weak, and described everything—trees, grass, the circling paths—with an impressibility, the sense that a strong enough hand could rework it. The brutal pace of the surrounding streets was temporarily substituted; it was like being in another city, a kinder city. Still I was alert, scouring the park for my inevitable brother.

  We rested on a bench near the zoo. Monkey howls echoed in the distance.

  I need to talk to you, I said to him.

  Is that not what we’re doing?

  Philip is in New York.

  He did not start, did not express surprise. He turned his face slowly towards me.

  He showed up at the museum, I said.

  When?

  Two weeks ago. Three different occasions.

  You didn’t know he was here? He hadn’t been in touch?

  He just appeared.

  Orr half smiled. Like a ghost, he said. What does he want?

  I don’t know. I told him I didn’t want to speak to him. Maybe nothing.

  Orr turned away from me. In the distance a dog chased a child on a bike across a piece of wasteland, the dust rising up into a sun-filled gauze. I wondered exactly what he could see of it.

  There is no nothing, he said. I got a call from Magee. About a month ago.

  The monkey howls sounded closer.

  Magee?

  The mechanic I worked with. Philip showed up there. Looking for me. Five, six weeks ago.

  Did he tell him where you were?

  He told him I was in New York. Living with you. But he got cautious when Philip started asking questions. Felt something was a bit off. He called me to tell me.

  He didn’t give him the address?

  I don’t think he even has it. But no, he said he only told him I was here. In the city.

  Did he say why he was looking for you?

  No. What did he say to you?

  I told him what had happened. He listened, quietly, looking suddenly older. I wondered what pictures he returned to, how similar or different they were to mine. Forty yards behind us a fence rattled violently, and I turned to see a macaque, teeth bared, beating its fist heavily on the chain-link. I bared my teeth back and he paused for a second and then returned to his pointless struggle with more force.

  I went back to the paintings. I could sit no longer at my desk, the floors beneath me teeming with the unknown. I asked Balthasar for a few days back on the floor, ostensibly for research. He raised his eyebrows but made it happen. So for a week I moved between the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, from Goya to Courbet. It was quiet in the outer wings in the first few days; still, I was visible.

  I cannot say what I wanted to happen. Did I want a confrontation? There is a pleasure in shame, is there not, albeit a vicious one; the brutal, satisfying confirmation that we are unworthy of our satisfactions. A longing took me over, for something I would even now find hard to identify. When nothing is named, confusion grows and with it comes anguish. The pulse thickened, my blood drawn towards the outside. It was not revenge, I sw
ear, but it was not not revenge. How much sharper the thirst of the swimmer.

  I stood alone, in front of Courbet’s Woman with a Parrot. I had always loved the bird, the rough, bold strokes, flashes of colour. The gallery was still, silent; I briefly closed my eyes. The hand on my shoulder was a jolt, and I turned, startled. Philip lifted his hand off theatrically, but he was standing close, too close, and I took a step back, almost falling into the painting. His face was curled into a forced smile. I stepped to the side to allow me away from the wall without having to move towards him.

  You weren’t expecting me? he said. Sorry for my absence, the world makes its demands. But now I need your help. I want to see my father.

  His hand twitched, and he tapped the ground nervously with the heel of his right foot. His eyes were clear, though, precise.

  What for? I asked.

  You must believe me.

  What must I believe?

  I need to see him.

  He’s an old man, I said. He has had enough. A thought came to me. You know he’s blind?

  He was blind long before his eyes went, he said drily. He owes me. Or I owe him. Either way.

  Owes you what?

  He shook his head, as at an infuriating child. Nothing is free, he said. Everything must be paid for.

  There was no smile, no irony; even the indulgence of self-righteousness was absent. He looked, in truth, pained, his face contracted. His hands moved imperceptibly, as though he was channelling all his energy into stopping them shaking. I thought, for a moment, that he was about to cry.

  This is ridiculous, I said. I’m not having this conversation. I moved to walk away.

  He reached out and grabbed my arm. I attempted to shake it off, but he held firm.

  Justice, he said.

  I stared at him.

  He repeated: Justice.

  With my free hand I pointed to my face.

  A Korean family walked into the gallery. The son, six or seven years old, stared at us. I composed myself, again began to walk away, but he held my arm tight, would not let go. The father of the boy, younger than both Philip and I, saw what was happening. Philip stared at him, and he said nothing, taking his son’s hand and walking him, with his wife and daughter, quickly into the next gallery.

  He let go. I was young, Sam. I am sorry. You have nothing to fear from me.

  And my father? Your father?

  He shook his head.

  Go home, I said.

  Don’t misunderstand me, Sam. I am not asking, I am telling.

  I turned and began to stride towards the door.

  Do not walk away from me, Sam.

  I kept walking, towards the adjoining gallery. I am almost through the gap when I hear the sound, the tear. I turn to see Philip walk in the opposite direction, dropping something into his pocket. Courbet’s painting is sliced neatly down the middle, a clean, brutal cut. The woman, lying back, is in two pieces, a magician’s trick gone wrong. Her smile, now that the canvas hangs sagging, appears more like a rictus of pain, the parrot staring at her in disbelief.

  The museum director was a man in his late fifties called Rollins. He was trim, precise; he had an easy authority. I’d always liked him. Beside him was a younger woman—the head of human resources, called Carzola, who I didn’t really know—and two other men who were introduced and whose names I immediately forgot. I sat across the table from them, and beside me Balthasar, nervously moving his hands in and out of each other like koi in a pond. He kept looking to me then away again, a disappointed parent.

  I was not nervous. This surprised me. I had settled into what happened as though it were a kind of fate, as though it were somehow predestined. I was aware that this thought brought me, with some irony, into what I imagined was my father’s world-view: Moirai, effect, the mysterious workings of God. As the thought played itself out, I was struck that I had it wrong. Orr did not seem tied to a fixed universe.

  Rollins passed a sheet of paper across the desk. On it was a description of what had happened the previous day. Read this and tell me if there’s anything you contest, he said.

  I lifted the paper and read. No one spoke. After two minutes I handed it back.

  Close enough, I said.

  You told us yesterday that the man was your brother, Rollins said.

  Half-brother, I interrupted.

  Half-brother? Carzola repeated.

  We have the same father.

  And you had seen him previously in the museum?

  Three times before yesterday, yes.

  And outside the museum?

  No. Before he turned up a couple of weeks ago I hadn’t seen him in thirty-five years.

  You had an argument, Rollins said.

  Yes.

  What was it about?

  It’s hard to say.

  Samuel, I’m not sure if you’re aware of how serious this is.

  I am aware.

  Carzola leaned forward. It is important that you tell us everything. Your brother destroyed a Courbet, worth many millions of dollars . . .

  Half-brother, I said.

  This drew a smile from Rollins. Half-smile. What kind of relationship do you have with your half-brother? he asked.

  I pointed to my face. I watched Rollins take it in. There was a surprising satisfaction in his horror. Carzola had not understood. What do you mean? she asked.

  He gave me this, I said. When I was three years old. That was the last time I saw him.

  The man at the end of the table, who until this point had been silent, spoke. Are you in danger?

  I felt it again, that distilled shock that had haunted my childhood, a memory fighting its way to the surface.

  I don’t believe so. I don’t know.

  Rollins nodded. Okay, Sam. Thanks for your time. There is a procedure we have to go through, an investigation. In the short term you’ll be put on paid leave.

  What will happen to the painting? I asked.

  It will be fixed, Rollins said. As though it never happened.

  Orr inclined his head, a smile, rueful. Justice, he repeated, chewing over the word like a piece of food. I am telling him, again, what I said to Philip, what he said to me. We are back in the sandwich shop, escaping the claustrophobia of the apartment. Safety in numbers.

  And then he sliced the painting?

  I had turned and walked away. He’d already tried to stop me twice. Why do you want me to go through this again?

  Orr shook his head, dismissing my protest. Humour me, he said.

  Yes, and then I heard the canvas tear and turned back and he was walking away.

  You didn’t tell me what painting it was.

  It was a Courbet. Woman with a Parrot.

  Of a woman?

  With a parrot, yes.

  What is she doing with the parrot?

  She’s just lying there. It’s perched on her hand.

  Is she naked?

  Yes.

  Is she beautiful?

  What do you mean?

  You work in an art gallery and don’t know what beautiful is?

  It’s a museum. And yes I do.

  Well is she beautiful?

  I suppose she is.

  He eats his sandwich with evident satisfaction.

  Describe her to me, he says.

  I’d need to be looking at it.

  So look at it.

  I picked up my mobile but set it down immediately.

  She’s lying on her back, I said, a kind of awkward angle. She’s in a room but it almost feels like a tent because of the way the curtain is pulled back. Outside there are these dark, green trees, and just a small amount of sky, turning orange. There’s a light from above, somewhere in the room you can’t see. It’s falling on her, making her skin soft, this beautiful cream-white colour. Her curves are beautiful too. Her breasts are there, obviously, but you actually notice her belly more, a sort of tiny mound, a roundness. And her thighs are thick, powerful. Her hair is splayed out on the white sheet she’s lying
on, going in all directions, thick brown wavy hair, lighter at the ends. And she has one arm stretched up, where the parrot is perched, looking down at her.

  Orr sat transfixed, eyes shut firmly to the world. I stopped talking and watched him, his breathing, his body pushing the air in and out, inside him somewhere this picture I had been building. I wondered again at what he saw, what Courbet’s painting looked like to a man who had never seen it, who had heard only my rough description.

  It’s beautiful, he said.

  Yes.

  And they can fix it?

  So they say.

  We sat a little longer. I finished eating, watched the other customers. Orr seemed briefly lost in a world of his own.

  I broke into his silence. What do you think he wants?

  Violence, he said. Well. He thinks he wants violence. But it’s not violence he wants. He wants something else. He thinks violence will give it to him.

  What does he want?

  What everybody wants, he said. Peace.

  For a week I was at home. My father and I circled one another, rarely in the same room. A dull tension crept in, something undefined pulling at us, injecting a sharpness into our interactions. It was as though, I sensed, by telling him what Philip had said and done, I had acted as his representative. I felt Orr’s eyes follow me around the apartment, aware that my blurred outline was, to him, no different from any other.

  I could not shake Philip as I walked the streets, every alleyway hiding him, every corner an opening. It did not matter that he did not appear, he was inside me. It was an unexpected relief to return to work; the Met now, thanks to the increased security, the one place I felt at least marginally safe. The guards regarded me cautiously, though none mentioned the incident directly. I checked in with Balthasar every day, to hear if anything unusual had happened.

  On my third day back I was called in to see Rollins. I sat opposite him. He held up a letter.

  This arrived, addressed to you, he said. Do you mind if I open it?

  Go ahead, I said.

  He pulled out a piece of paper:

  O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me. Thou knowest my downsitting and mine uprising, thou understandest my thought afar off. Thou compassest my path and my lying down, and art acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word in my tongue, but, lo, O Lord, thou knowest it altogether. Thou hast beset me behind and before, and laid thine hand upon me. Such knowledge is too wonderful for me; it is high, I cannot attain unto it. Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me; even the night shall be light about me. Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day: the darkness and the light are both alike to thee. For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother’s womb.