LITMIR.BIZ

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woman’s not going to leave me in peace, he thinks. He can feel it in his kidneys: the healthy kidney, the targeted kidney, and the small, shrivelled kidney; the little addendum.

      *

      During his studio visit nine days ago, Eddie Knuvelder had moved woodenly through Aaron Adendorff’s studio. Knuvelder is a big man with a heavy, dark head. He has a lush crop of hair, and his skin has the ruddiness associated with snowburn. The even distribution of fat, the hairless body, the slight oiliness of his skin are things that Aaron associates with a northern origin, with ancestors who come from the arctic tundra – hunters clothed in pelts pursuing seals and living on a diet of fish. People who crawl on their knees into dwellings made of whale-rib, and lined with bearskin. Possibly nomads. Eddie’s ancestors could also have been nomads, Aaron imagines – horsemen who traversed the steppes and domesticated wild horses; barbarian warlords hungry for a fight, but with an eye for aesthetic artefacts. Eddie has a heavy, Hun-like head and a cynical, reserved gaze; the line of his upper lip indicates something tyrannical in his personality, while the full, broad lower lip suggests a more hedonistic inclination. His lips are a more intense red than those of the average person – clearly a good blood supply to the mouth. He’s not a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, although Aaron has always felt, with Knuvelder, that he knows where he stands.

      In spite of the large barbarian head, and the suggestion of a nomadic (unchristianised) ancestral lineage, Eddie is always manicured, looking as if he gets the full treatment from a professional masseur every morning, as if aromatic oils are rubbed into his skin on a daily basis, his hair cut and conditioned regularly. His preference is for dark clothing – indigo blues and heavy reds – for raw silk and linen, and rich textures; much like a contemporary mercantile prince. A connoisseur right to his nerve ends, with a fine, discerning eye; and a cunning businessman into the bargain, sharp as flint. In the past few years, his gallery has become one of the most prestigious and influential in the country. To be included in Eddie Knuvelder’s stable is to carry the mark of distinction, of success, as a matter of course.

      For the past twenty years, Knuvelder has been Aaron’s gallerist. Knuvelder has marketed his work both locally and internationally. During this time, Aaron has held solo exhibitions every two or three years. As a result of his illness, however, he’s been unable to paint for several months, and didn’t exhibit anything in the previous year. It’s been a long time since he’s delivered new work to the gallery. As a result, his visibility as an artist has suffered a severe blow. Then Eddie arrived to look at the work Aaron had produced since getting back into the swing of things over the past few months. Also with a view to taking five artists along to an important exhibition in Berlin. Aaron wants to be one of the five. Knuvelder’s Berlin exhibition would once again bring him to the attention of critics, buyers and gallery-owners.

      But Knuvelder had remained stiff and uncommunicative as he moved through Aaron’s studio. He said nothing, and didn’t linger very long before any individual work. Aaron got the impression Knuvelder didn’t want to open himself up to the work. He wanted to see something different from what he was looking at. Clearly, he had another agenda. He didn’t want to allow the work to speak to him. In the few comments he did make, he referred to the work of other artists, younger artists. Why shoot yourself in the foot, was the only question he put to Aaron.

      If you’d only look, Aaron wanted to say to Knuvelder, if you’d only look, you’d see just how radical, how impossibly innovative the work really is.

      He’d formed the impression Knuvelder wanted to put the visit behind him as quickly as possible. Afterwards, during their lunch at a trendy restaurant, Knuvelder talked about everything and nothing at the same time. He explained how he wanted to open sister galleries in Berlin and New York. All the while sucking the marrow from the bones in the osso bucco. Meat-eater. Dipping the fleshy joints of his hairless hands into the small bowl of water. A papal gesture. Delicately wiping his full-blooded mouth with the serviette. On his right pinky, a ring carrying the family crest; he comes from an aristocratic family. Old money, no doubt. Sophisticated, cultured, subtle. He talked about almost everything except the most urgent issue: what he thought of Aaron’s new work. When Aaron referred to his next solo exhibition, Knuvelder waved the topic away with a gesture of his hand, saying the gallery dealt with all the practical arrangements, he didn’t concern himself with that side of things; Aaron should get in touch with one of his personal assistants – Wanda or Zelda.

      Just that one remark: Why shoot yourself in the foot?

      Throughout, Knuvelder avoided eye-contact. He was less hearty than usual. (Or was Aaron imagining this?) As he took his leave, he made vague promises. He would let Aaron know the moment he’d settled on his choices for the Berlin exhibition. Within the next few days. But Aaron is still waiting to hear from him.

      He should have pinned Knuvelder against the wall. Threatened him with a fucking Stanley-knife, shoved a broken bottle against his neck. Drop me, you bastard, and you’ll see your arse. He should have caressed Knuvelder’s fucking throat with a blunt blade. Whispered into his ear: betray me, let me down, and I’ll make your life a misery, you cunt.

      *

      And so Aaron waits to hear from Knuvelder. He works from nine to five now. A glorified office-worker. Now that his illness has forced him to leave behind all excesses, all intemperance and transgression – drinking, smoking, irregular hours – what’s left for him to do? Reflection, repentance, and regular hours.

      Before, Aaron’s eye was described as penetrating, unflinching. So many things in this harsh, forbidding world. So much to look at. This morning his thoughts are preoccupied with smoke and flames. Signorelli’s depiction of hell, Aragon’s monstrous bloody ferns in a brilliant blue space; a stylised comic-book head rolling down a slope, like a stone.

      This is how Mrs Sekete finds him in his studio. She stands in the doorway with a tea tray in her hands. He’d had a bad night. His head feels heavy, immovable, like the comical head on the slope. She understands everything, sees right through his frail defences.

      How are you? he asks unwillingly.

      The shared burden of existence.

      Earlier this week she’d had infected tonsils; tied a thick black scarf around her neck.

      Better, better, better! she says.

      Just as well, he thinks.

      As far as his kidney’s concerned: his mother also had three kidneys. She was a beautiful woman. Dark hair, high cheekbones, sensual mouth. He’s a baby, and she’s holding him, wearing a dress gathered at the hips, he can still remember its texture. Her hips are youthfully rounded, her body still soft from pregnancy and childbirth. His father takes the picture. Stefaans, his older brother, stands a small distance away, holding out something for the camera.

      In earlier times, Aaron used to go out into the streets at night. In search of discussion, revelation.

      *

      A few days later, as he’s reversing his car out of the garage, in the late afternoon, Bubbles Bothma, his new neighbour, comes around the corner. He’s on his way to the post office. Can she please go with him, she needs to get a few things at the Spar. And Lotto tickets. Her car’s still not back from the garage.

      “It must be a helluva thorough service,” he says.

      “Oh, it is,” she says. “Complete makeover.”

      (That he lets her lie to his face like this!)

      “Get in,” he says.

      She breathes with difficulty – she’s slightly asthmatic. Lights up a cigarette, but he forbids her from smoking in the car.

      “You have a lot of free time. Do you work?” he asks her. (He has often wondered why she’s home so much.)

      “Yes,” she says, “I work. Keep the pot boiling.”

      “What do you do?”

      “Oh,” she says, “this, that and the other. A little bit of this and a little bit of that.” She looks out the window.

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