your opinion?’ asks Sally.
‘I think they’re beautiful.’
‘I knew it. I knew the man in the street would appreciate them. If only men in the street went into galleries. Which one would you like to buy?’
Sally asks with innocent confidence, and Graeme hasn’t the heart to refuse, perhaps not the inclination either, although he hasn’t had time to consider. He hasn’t a lot of money with him, he explains, but he likes the small one with the colourful, geometric pattern and slender neck. ‘Long handle dipper,’ says Sally. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We’ll pick up the supermarket receipt in the kitchen and that’ll be the price for you. You’ll find it’s even got a faint fragrance of its own. It’s in the drying of it, and the soil type, just like wine.’
She would gladly relate the full history of each piece, but Graeme says he really must get going. His wife has a meeting after tea. Sally wraps the gourd in bubble paper, leads him back to the kitchen table and takes the receipt from among the remaining groceries in the bag. It’s $61.32, and Sally rounds it down. She comes out to see him leave, shading her eyes in the low sun with a large hand. ‘If you want the bricks as well, just get in touch,’ she says. ‘And tell all the other men in the street where to find true art. My stuff will be worth a fortune in time.’ She waves to him as he leaves.
At tea he tells his wife the bricks are no good, but that he bought a gourd at the place in Powys Street. ‘A what?’ she says. ‘You bought a what?’
‘An ornamental gourd. A work of art.’ Rather than describe it, he fetches it from the hall table and puts it beside her fettuccine. She picks it up with her free hand, and gives it the sudden fierce and brief attention that is typical of her.
‘I like it,’ she says. ‘It’s wonderfully light and smooth. The patterns are in keeping with the thing’s shape and the colours are optimistic. How much was it?’
‘Thirty dollars,’ he says.
‘Good one. I like it a lot.’
She has no curiosity concerning Sally Army, because she is preoccupied with the meeting that night to organise the conference on fluoridation. She asks his advice as to the best composition for a planning committee, and they discuss the value of co-ordinators for the various jobs. Graeme gives his opinion that effective planning is like scaffolding, essential for success, but forgotten afterwards. He warns her not to expect any gratitude. ‘Would you like to come tonight?’ she asks him, but he doesn’t fall for that.
When his wife leaves for the meeting, Graeme takes the gourd into his study and places it by a lump of kauri gum he discovered in the Hokianga bush. The pressing cloud finally breathes a drifting drizzle into the twilight, and the neighbour’s spaniel yaps at phantoms. Cicero sits silently with his back to his master. Graeme tells himself he will soon work on his academic paper concerning the fluctuation of precious metal content in coinage as a general economic indicator in late Republican times. Already the day’s activities have been leached of feeling and are pale, receding ciphers. He is mildly alarmed to feel no vital involvement with anything that’s happened. The gourd still pleases him, but its provenance is already insecure. Is there a Sally Army of such resolute and admirable artistic commitment to the place of gourds in the world, or has he made a mundane purchase at the Trade Aid store, and all the rest surreal?
Cicero goes to his bowl and regards it without making any noise, or even looking at his master. Their moods may well be similar, but that’s no consolation to either of them. Graeme cuts the last of the Doggie Woggie Giant Roll for Cicero, and sits at the table to read the fine print on the dog food wrapper. ‘You’re a spoilt boy, aren’t you,’ says Graeme. ‘You’re a lucky rascal, that’s what you are.’
Cicero doesn’t bother to reply.
SLEEPING IN THE
‘I think they’re beautiful.’
‘I knew it. I knew the man in the street would appreciate them. If only men in the street went into galleries. Which one would you like to buy?’
Sally asks with innocent confidence, and Graeme hasn’t the heart to refuse, perhaps not the inclination either, although he hasn’t had time to consider. He hasn’t a lot of money with him, he explains, but he likes the small one with the colourful, geometric pattern and slender neck. ‘Long handle dipper,’ says Sally. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. We’ll pick up the supermarket receipt in the kitchen and that’ll be the price for you. You’ll find it’s even got a faint fragrance of its own. It’s in the drying of it, and the soil type, just like wine.’
She would gladly relate the full history of each piece, but Graeme says he really must get going. His wife has a meeting after tea. Sally wraps the gourd in bubble paper, leads him back to the kitchen table and takes the receipt from among the remaining groceries in the bag. It’s $61.32, and Sally rounds it down. She comes out to see him leave, shading her eyes in the low sun with a large hand. ‘If you want the bricks as well, just get in touch,’ she says. ‘And tell all the other men in the street where to find true art. My stuff will be worth a fortune in time.’ She waves to him as he leaves.
At tea he tells his wife the bricks are no good, but that he bought a gourd at the place in Powys Street. ‘A what?’ she says. ‘You bought a what?’
‘An ornamental gourd. A work of art.’ Rather than describe it, he fetches it from the hall table and puts it beside her fettuccine. She picks it up with her free hand, and gives it the sudden fierce and brief attention that is typical of her.
‘I like it,’ she says. ‘It’s wonderfully light and smooth. The patterns are in keeping with the thing’s shape and the colours are optimistic. How much was it?’
‘Thirty dollars,’ he says.
‘Good one. I like it a lot.’
She has no curiosity concerning Sally Army, because she is preoccupied with the meeting that night to organise the conference on fluoridation. She asks his advice as to the best composition for a planning committee, and they discuss the value of co-ordinators for the various jobs. Graeme gives his opinion that effective planning is like scaffolding, essential for success, but forgotten afterwards. He warns her not to expect any gratitude. ‘Would you like to come tonight?’ she asks him, but he doesn’t fall for that.
When his wife leaves for the meeting, Graeme takes the gourd into his study and places it by a lump of kauri gum he discovered in the Hokianga bush. The pressing cloud finally breathes a drifting drizzle into the twilight, and the neighbour’s spaniel yaps at phantoms. Cicero sits silently with his back to his master. Graeme tells himself he will soon work on his academic paper concerning the fluctuation of precious metal content in coinage as a general economic indicator in late Republican times. Already the day’s activities have been leached of feeling and are pale, receding ciphers. He is mildly alarmed to feel no vital involvement with anything that’s happened. The gourd still pleases him, but its provenance is already insecure. Is there a Sally Army of such resolute and admirable artistic commitment to the place of gourds in the world, or has he made a mundane purchase at the Trade Aid store, and all the rest surreal?
Cicero goes to his bowl and regards it without making any noise, or even looking at his master. Their moods may well be similar, but that’s no consolation to either of them. Graeme cuts the last of the Doggie Woggie Giant Roll for Cicero, and sits at the table to read the fine print on the dog food wrapper. ‘You’re a spoilt boy, aren’t you,’ says Graeme. ‘You’re a lucky rascal, that’s what you are.’
Cicero doesn’t bother to reply.
SLEEPING IN THE
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