Goya'S Dog by Damian Tarnopolsky Page A

is it I can do for you, exactly?”
    Christ, thought Dacres, do you have to make it so bloody hard?
    There was an immense clang and the entire room shook. And before Dacres recovered, one of the black phones rang, he wasn’t sure if it was the same one as before. Hopeless, he thought about how hard it had been to get into this room and wondered if the effort could have been any less worthwhile. But when Burner replaced the receiver he eased back into his chair, looking newly calm and expansive. He even settled his hands behind his little head.
    â€œI’ll be honest with you, Dacres, the war’s changing everything. I find it hard to think about anything else just now. Not only the big questions, but what it means tactically for us right here today now. Did you make an appointment with Moira?”
    â€œI did try.”
    A phone rang again, but this time Burner ignored it. He swivelled to watch a gull outside glide in an idle circle and then disappear out of view.
    â€œYou mentioned portrait work, Mr. Burner. Galleries. I thought you said ‘Best place in the world for an artist.’ Didn’t you?”
    â€œYou boys do commercial work, don’t you, when times are slow?” Dacres shook his head.
    â€œIllustrations? What I’m trying to say is, I think your big show at my house was the big show. Take my point?”
    Just as Dacres sank bleakly into himself, Burner snapped his fingers and propelled himself forward. He checked his wristwatch then lifted up the leftmost phone: “Moira—four large sheets of paper please dear.” Then pointed a finger at Dacres. “I can give you a few names. I’ll have Moira type you up a letter of recommendation. With the current mood I can’t promise much. But we’ll get you started. Okay?”
    Dacres nodded, disappointed and concerned.
    Burner grinned. “That’s what happens, isn’t it? You’re somewhere on holiday and it’s wonderful, but living there, that’s a different story. Have you heard this one? Man dies and goes to heaven. Saint Peter says, ‘We’ve instituted a new system. You get a week up here and a week in hell, and at the end you decide where you want to stay.’”
    Don’t tell me a bloody joke, Dacres thought, a cold stone growing in his gut. He felt like he was waking up to things and didn’t much like it. He thought, I have to come up with a plan , but felt he didn’t have enough of a grasp of where he was. He tuned back in as Burner finished the story: “And the devil says, ‘Well, the last time you were only here on holiday.’ Here on holiday!”
    Dacres forced a smile.
    â€œHence the pitchforks. Instead of martinis. Because it … ah. The prime minister of the province told me that one.”
    â€œThe what?” asked Dacres.
    Burner was serious again. “Of course, it’s not going to be easy. No no no no no no no no no. But naturally I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”
    Dry-mouthed, Dacres made himself say, “Well I appreciate that, Mr. Burner.”
    â€œPlease. Call me Stanley.”
    Dacres stood to shake hands and Burner motioned him to sit again. His knee pinged.
    â€œHow is your daughter, by the way?” Dacres asked, but as he did so there was a doorknock, and Burner’s secretary appeared. She eyed Dacres, very suspicious, but Burner dismissed her and laid out the paper she’d brought in on the desk in front of Dacres.
    â€œNow then sir,” said Burner. “Why don’t you sketch something of me? I’ll show it around at the club. Best advertisement for you to show your worth. We’ll get commissions for you yet. I hope you don’t need me to sit perfectly still.”
    He picked up the rightmost phone this time and asked to be connected to Hamilton.
    Dacres stared at the paper and wondered what he was being punished for. There was a time when he’d carried