Slow Man - Coetzee J. M. (книги хорошего качества .TXT) 📗

TWENTY-THREE

'SHE CANNOT HAVE it,' says Marijana. 'No. Is impossible.'

He could not agree more. It is impossible. One is caught stealing a silver chain that is not even silver, no more silver than what one can get in the Chinese market for one dollar fifty, and what happens? One is rewarded with six hundred dollars worth of gear. Where is the justice in that? What will Drago say when he learns of it?

Blanka the black sheep of the family. Drago the shining light, the angel with the sword, defender of the family's honour. Commander Drago Jokic, R.A.N.

'Lock the stuff away in a cupboard,' he says to Marijana. He is in high spirits. He and she are on the phone again, like old friends, old gossips. 'That is what I would do. Bring it out as an incentive, piece by piece, if she will agree to go to school and so forth. But you will have to hurry. It will all be out of fashion in a month's time.'

Marijana does not respond. He cannot remember her ever responding to his humour. Is he too frivolous for her taste? Does she find him too light, too lightweight, too much of a joker? Or is she simply not sure enough of her English to bandy words? It is just a game, he should tell her. Badinage it is called in some quarters. You should join in. It's not hard to play, it doesn't require a change of soul.

Marijana's soul: solid, matter-of-fact. Miroslav less earthbound. Miroslav, who spent a year of his life putting together a duck out of cogs and springs, and appeared with his pet on Croatian television, must surely have a sense of humour. Drago too, with his wild, constrained laughter. Drago tossed between father and mother. A good tennis player, Marijana says. Back and forth. Three Balkan types. Three Balkan souls. But since when has he been an expert on lightness, or on the Balkans? 'Many Croatians,' says Peoples of the Balkans, 'will deny that Croatia belongs to the Balkans. Croatia is part of the Catholic West, they will say.'

'Always fighting,' Marijana is saying on the telephone.

'Fighting? Who is fighting?'

'Drago and his father. Drago say he want to come stay in your store room.'

'In my store room?'

'I say no. I say Mr Rayment is good man, he have enough trouble from Jokics.'

'Mr Rayment is not a good man, he is just trying to help. Drago can't take up residence in my store room or anyone else's, that is nonsense. But if relations are strained between him and his father, and if he has your blessing, tell him he is welcome to come back and stay here for a few days. What does he like to eat for supper? Pizza? Tell him I'll have them deliver a giant pizza every evening, just for him. Two giant pizzas, if he likes. He's a growing boy.'

That is how it happens. In a flash, in a flesh. If there were any clouds, they have fled.

'They are what we call albumen prints,' he tells Drago. 'The paper is coated with diluted egg white in which silver chloride crystals are suspended. Then it is exposed to light under the glass negative. Then it is chemically fixed. It was a way of printing that had only just been invented in Fauchery's day. Look, here is a pre-albumen print to compare it with, on paper that has been soaked rather than coated – soaked in a solution of silver salts. Can you see how much more full and luminous the Fauchery is? That is because of the depth of the albumen coating. Less than a millimetre of depth, but that millimetre makes all the difference. Take a look through the microscope.'

He wants to make himself interesting to Drago, that is to say, to an intelligent representative of the coming era, but it is not easy. What has he to offer? A broken bicycle. A truncated limb, probably more repellent than attractive. And a cabinet full of old pictures. In sum, not much. Not much with which to attach a boy to him as a mystical godson.

But Drago, excellent son of an excellent mother and – who is to say? – perhaps of an excellent father too, is nothing if not polite. Obediently he peers through the microscope, taking note of the millimetre of dried hen's egg that is claimed to make all the difference.

'You were a photographer yourself, weren't you, Mr Rayment?'

'Yes, I ran a studio in Unley. For a while I also gave evening classes in photography. But I was never – how shall I put it? – an artist of the camera. I was always more of a technician.'

Is that something to apologise for, not being an artist? Why should he apologise? Why should young Drago expect him to be an artist – young Drago, whose goal in life is to be a technician of warfare?

'Fauchery wasn't an artist himself' he says, 'at least not until he came to Australia. He came out from Paris during the gold rush of the 1850s. Did some amateur gold-digging himself, in Victoria, to get a taste of it, but mainly took photographs.' He gestures towards the group of women at the door of the wattle hut. 'That was when he discovered his talent. Perfected his technique too. Took full command of his medium. As any great photographer needs to do.'

'My mum wanted to be an artist, back in Croatia.'

'Really!'

'Yeah. She went to art school. Then after art school she went into restoration, you know, restoring old frescoes and things like that.'

'How interesting! I did not know that about her. Restoration is a skilled profession. You might even call it an art in its own right, except that it is frowned on to be original. First rule of restoration: follow the intention of the artist. Never try to improve on him. Your mother must have found it hard to give up her art work and move to nursing. Does she still paint?'

'She has still got, you know, the brushes and equipment and stuff. But she hasn't got time any more.'

'No, I'm sure she hasn't. Still, she is a first-rate nurse. She brings honour to the profession. I hope you know that.'

Drago nods. 'Where did you get these photographs, Mr Rayment?'

'Collected them over many years. Went to antique shops, went to auction sales, bought old albums, bought up boxes full of old pictures, junk for the most part, but every now and again there would be something worth saving. When a picture was in poor condition, I did the restoring myself. Not nearly as difficult as restoring frescoes, but specialised work nonetheless. That was my hobby for years. That was how I spent my spare time. If your time is not worth much in itself, at least you can put it to a good use. So I told myself. On my death I will donate the collection. It will become public property. Part of our historical record.' And he throws up his hands in an odd, unintended gesture. Astonishingly, he is close to tears. Why? Because he dares to mention his own death to this boy, this forerunner of the generation that will take over his world and trample on it? Perhaps. But more likely it is because of our. Our record, yours and mine. Because just possibly this image before them, this distribution of particles of silver that records the way the sunlight fell, one day in 1855, on the faces of two long-dead Irishwomen, an image in whose making he, the little boy from Lourdes, had no part and in which Drago, son of Dubrovnik, has had no part either, may, like a mystical charm – I was here, I lived, I suffered - have the power to draw them together.

'Anyway,' he says, 'if you get bored, if you have nothing else to do, feel free to look through the rest of the pictures. Just don't remove them from their sleeves. And make sure you put them back in order.'

An hour later, as he is preparing for bed, Drago puts his head around the door. 'Got a computer, Mr Rayment?'

'Yes. You will find it on the floor under the desk. I don't use it much.'

Soon Drago is back. 'Can't find the connection, Mr Rayment. For the modem.'