Geoffrey sat nervously on the couch. He stared at the phone in his hand. He thought of Lucy.
It’s, what, 6am over there. Too early? She might be asleep. Should I wake her? Not a good time for a deep conversation. Sorry to wake you, but I thought I’d ring early to tell you I’ve been lying about eye surgery and everything and I’m really a weirdo with death visions but I’d love to keep seeing you because, well, to be frank, I think you’re the best thing there is about living.
Yeah, that’d work. Not.
But if I ring later she might not have time to talk.
He breathed in and dialled her number, and then hung up.
What do I say? How do I even broach the subject?
He looked about the room, and rose to make a cup of coffee. The noise of the coffee makermri distracted him. The finished froth compelled him back to his task.
He sat down again, and thought of Lucy. Her red hair, her smile, those shining eyes (on the few times he’d actually been able to see them). She’d look magnificent out there, in the western blue sky and white sands, her hair wet from the sea, sand mixed with freckles on her cheeks.
He sighed.
I have to do this, but how? Anything I say will be hopeless. She’ll just leave. If a woman said to me that she knows when I’ll die, I’d think she was nuts. And when I learnt she’d faked eye surgery to avoid seeing me, that’d be really nuts. And telling me she’d seen a psychiatrist who had died just when she predicted would send me packing.
He drank, and looked at his phone. It was hopeless.
I should end it. Let her get on with her life with a normal person.. Let her find a decent guy, not a nut like me.
I could say it was me, it’s my fault, give any old lame excuse and ward off any attempt to overcome the ‘issues’ and move away. She’d find someone. I mean, she’s gorgeous, men will line up. Someone far better than I will sweep her off her feet. She’d never know the bullet she dodged. After all, it’s only been, what, a week or so? That’s hardly any time at all, to be so taken by someone. There is no such thing as love at first sight, right?
There’s no such thing as seeing people on their death beds either.
His coffee was finished.
He really liked this girl. Really liked. He didn’t want to end it.
Fuck.
What do you do when you love someone? Set them free? Or lay out your faults and hope they are self-loathing enough to take you on? Only a masochist would stick with someone like me.
There was a dreg of liquid at the bottom of his cup. He put the cup to his lips and sucked. Nothing came out. He sucked again, harder. Still nothing. He looked in the cup as the ring of liquid formed again. Why does it do that?
Nest time, I’ll check out the lifespan of a prospective partner first, and if she’s got a long life, then okay, take it from there. That’d be the safe option. Plus I could request a whole genetic profile and family medical history to gauge the level of medical risk. Put it all into the algorithm, calculate the X factor and make an informed choice. That wouldn’t be creepy. Not at all.
He looked into the coffee cup with its taunting ring of liquid.
But, what I could do, is check out her life span. And if it’s good, then we’re on.
He dialled her number, and hung up again.
Jesus, Geoffrey. Here’s a woman you love and –
He leapt up.
Love? I’m a thirty year old accountant for chrissake. We don’t fall in love. We calculate, add up, balance the books. But hell yes, I really, really, like this woman. I have no idea what love is, but this feels damn fine. She’s got it all. Looks, humour, wit, sass, smarts. She’s a really solid person.
And I want to fuck it all up by sneaking a look at her life line? When she has expressly told me she doesn’t want to know?
He looked out the glass doors over his veranda to a vacant sky.
That’s the very thing I love about her, when she said life is to be lived, not known. That’s why she counts dugongs on distant shores and watches turtles hatch on dark pacific beaches. That’s why she risked me, why she laughed at the restaurant, why she took me home. Why she rings from the other side of the country.
He turned and looked at his phone again.
Fuck it, there is no choice.
He stabbed her numbers into the phone and waited, unbreathing as the dial tone repeated.
“Hi, Lucy here, or not here, leave me a message. Bye.”
His heart sank. He said, “Oh, er, hi, Luce, it’s Geoffrey. Umm, speak when you can.”
He noted the time: 6.45. She’d be long gone for the day. He fell into the couch and sighed.
The experience down the coast had shown him the possibility of controlling his visions, and he was keen to master them as soon as possible. Certainly before returning to work and most certainly before he met Lucy again, should she ever want to see him again.
Dave had proposed an MRI that afternoon, as an initial step in investigating his visions. The CT scan would take place tomorrow. In the meantime, an advertisement for a lecture at the Art Gallery had caught his eye, entitled The Way We See, at 10am. He’d fill in the morning with that then head out to St Vincent’s for the MRI. He doubted it would amount to much, but he was willing to try anything.
He was the youngest in the Gallery audience.
Everyone else was at least twice his age, and mostly female with expensive coiffures, pastel knits and floral scarves that stood out in the pure white of the room.
He settled himself towards the rear of the room on the plain wooden chairs. A woman next to him leant over and whispered, “Good to see a young face at these events.”
He smiled back. She had about thirteen years left.
“The speaker is a wonderful art historian called Lily,” she said. “She’s about your age. If you’re interested, I can introduce you.” She nudged his arm and winked.
Geoffrey smiled again, not quite sure how to respond. The woman continued,
“Of course, if you want the other, there’s Danny who runs the program.” She tapped his arm with the back of her hand and peered over her spectacles at him. He knew he had to respond.
“Thanks,” he said.
“I mean, I don’t mind either way,” said the woman. At that moment the lecturer approached the rostrum. She wore a black bob, minimal make up and deep red lipstick. A brown bomber jacket hid most of a light blouse beneath which she sported black jeans.
Geoffrey thought he was safe, but felt the squeeze of her hand on his forearm.
“See?” she said. “Told you she was a beauty.”
Geoffrey nodded.
“Just let me know,” whispered the woman as the lecturer introduced herself.
Her name was Lily. A couple of housekeeping matters – toilets out to the right, thirty minutes of talk followed by questions, mobile phones off please – then she opened with a pronouncement.
“How we see art, reflects how we see the world, and vice versa.”
She spoke at length about the history of art, the means of perception, the influence of light, culture, politics, medicine and illness, all the while pulling up examples of famous works on to the screen beside her: the Ancient Greeks and Romans, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, Baroque, the French Revolution, the Impressionists, Van Gogh, Picasso and the modernists, abstraction and surrealism.
“Then we come to this,” she said, as another painting appeared on the screen.
“I always include this,” she said.
Geoffrey peered over the heads in front of him at the famous brunette with her infamous smile.
‘We’ve all seen this,” said Lily, “but so few can say what we’ve actually seen. Reputed to be Lisa del Giacondo a Renaissance Italian noble woman, we know her as the Mona Lisa. But what do we see in this picture?”
Geoffrey stared at it as he had done numerous times. He’d always thought it odd that the backdrop was a series of jagged mountains and an icy lake. Why not a castle, or a house, or some green Tuscan fields? There was only a small bridge to one side. And the items behind her left shoulder – what were they, mountains, a stack of books? – made her look like she had wings. Little wonder she was smiling so knowingly. She was secretly a bat.
While Lily spoke, he looked at the portrait again and decided Lucy had a better smile. He felt a bit ashamed. He wanted to see her.
The Mona Lisa had disappeared, and the screen was blank. Lily said to the group, “Who can tell me what is behind the Mona Lisa? What was the background?”
The group was silent.
“Any guesses? Did anyone see a house or a castle?”
Geoffrey raised his hand.
Lily said, “Yes, the gentleman at the back, what did you see?”
“Jagged mountains, a lake, a winding road and a bridge. No castle though.”
“Very good,” said Lily.
“It looks like she’s sitting on a stone bench of some kind,” said Geoffrey. “You can see a bit of the low wall behind her on the right.”
A number of people had turned around to look at him. He kept his gaze on Lily though. She was destined for a long life.
She flashed up the painting again and pointed to the stonework. “Here?” she said.
Geoffrey nodded, and said “And what’s that on her right? A stack of books?”
Lily zoomed in on the picture and scrutinised the image. “You’re the first person ever to ask me that,’ she said. “And I’m not quite sure. They look like books. I wonder what da Vinci was trying to tell us with that.”
“That she could read?” said one person. “Or her husband could?”
“She’s holding a book,” said Geoffrey.
Lily moved the image to focus on the woman’s hands.
“I’ve never noticed that,” she said. “And that’s the point. There are a number of ways to see even a painting as famous as this one. No end of scholars will tell you about the importance of her posture, and the use of the imaginary landscape, or the atmospheric nature of the scene, and all that was relevant back in the 1500’s. But today we focus on the smile and her eyes. No one really looks at the background. We see according to the accepted mysteries of our day.”
“So if we want to see what’s really going on,” said Geoffrey, “do we look at the figure or the surroundings?”
Lily looked over to him, and said,
“We should give this gentleman a round of applause. He has picked up the fundamental question. By knowing how we see, we can free ourselves to choose. No one but us – we – can tell us how to look at the world, or a piece of art. It’s your choice, whether you see the smile on the woman’s face, or the imagined world behind her.”
Holding Geoffrey’s gaze, Lily asked all the audience, “You don’t need to answer this question, but when you look at the world, what do you choose to see?”
The woman next to Geoffrey nudged his elbow and whispered, “Go for it, young man.”
Geoffrey’s phone rang. Lily smiled at him. He rose, and muttering an apology, skipped out of the room. He looked at the number.
It was Lucy.
* * * * *
Image care of The Free Birds via Unsplash.
