Learning to Dance by Susan Sallis

touched the mottled surface of the invading water and became another colour completely. The plain fact was that water held no colour that man could identify, and yet changed and amplified everything that shone through and into it. It was a mixture of two gases, yet was full of its own enormous and terrifying properties. Its weight as it had surged around the castle that morning – how on earth did anyone paint water’s weight?
    She grinned slightly and glanced at her watch; time, which had dragged unbearably since Jack’s … departure – she could not continue to call it desertion – was now completely out of hand. It was seven o’clock. An hour since she had sat in this chair and picked up the menu. And anyway, someonewas coming in behind her and coughing politely. Probably Nathaniel Jones. Or Bart Mann with her tea.
    She half-turned. It was Hausmann.
    He coughed again. ‘Look. Tell me to sod off if you like. It’s just – are you all right? I thought I’d better not chase after you. You sort of exploded. I didn’t know what to do. Especially when you didn’t turn up with the others this afternoon.’
    She stared at him. ‘Are you fishing for compliments or something?’
    ‘Don’t be stupid. I realize that the artwork triggered a memory that was unbearable—’
    ‘Not at all. If a work of art symbolizes a work of God, then it is probably God who has to take responsibility for my … my explosion, as you put it!’
    He held on to the back of the sofa as if she had slapped him.
    ‘I don’t believe in God.’
    ‘You probably do. Otherwise you would have said that you did not believe in his existence. You mean your faith has taken a knock.’ She half-turned away, not wanting to hear about his background or enter into a discussion, then turned back suddenly.
    ‘Tell me, why have you used oil for some of your stuff, watercolour for others? And what do you think about acrylic? Have you ever used egg tempura?’
    He still hung on to the back of the sofa. His heavily lidded eyes opened wider and then narrowed again, concentrating.
    ‘A hammer. You are like a hammer with your assumptions about my faith. And now you hammer questions at me.’ He walked around the sofa and sat down. ‘Yes, I have used egg whites and acrylics. And I have made colours from the earth.Tempura clings, but is as delicate as watercolours. More easily controlled. Acrylic is not so subtle, but on occasion there is nothing like it. Bold. It can make statements. Some of my earth pigments are good, some not so good. Does that help?’
    ‘You are saying everyone has differing opinions?’
    ‘Am I?’ He opened his eyes, bewildered. ‘Yes. Perhaps. It is what I say to my students all the time. But you are not a student. And you are not young. Why haven’t you tried this stuff for yourself?’
    She was taken aback. ‘I don’t know. I suppose … there were higher priorities. The boys. My mother. I’ve sketched at times. But I’ve never taken it further.’
    ‘Yes. Nat was telling me about your sons in Australia. I have to warn you he is very keen to accompany you there.’
    ‘Nat? Oh yes. Mr Jones. I had forgotten you were neighbours long ago.’
    His heavy eyelids drooped gloomily. ‘The past is always with us.’
    She smiled. ‘Surely that is why you paint your wonderful memories? So that after humankind has destroyed the world as we know it, your paintings will emerge from a lead-lined chamber and tell them what it was like.’ In spite of her ironic tone, she felt her eyes filling again, and blurted quickly, ‘What a beautiful place it was.’
    He waited, and she mumbled ‘Sorry,’ and fished for a tissue.
    He said, ‘Not many people see my stuff like that. Thank you.’
    ‘That’s all right. And I will experiment with tempura. I’d better go and swill my hands … change into a skirt, perhaps …’
    ‘I have to tell you something—’
    ‘Not now.’
    ‘Come to the Dove tonight with Nat—’
    ‘I don’t think so.