Читать книгу No Worst, There Is None - Eve McBride - Страница 10

A Monday Afternoon in July 1986

Thompson and Meredith

Later, when Meredith thinks about the superficiality of her day — that she was moving pieces of food by centimetres — while her daughter was being violated, she will feel sick with disgust. Her life on her daughter’s last day on earth was meaningless.

And after today, July and Christmas will never again be the same for Meredith, but for now she is the only one of the crew on the shoot for RARITY who feels Christmasy. It is muggy and dark outside. The air is heavy from the threatening storm. But the heat reminds her of Christmases in Australia when she was growing up. Steamy, debilitating heat. Yuletide heat. On Christmas Eve, her father’s parishioners would bring blankets and sit outside in the sultry summer air on the lawn of the church and everyone would light candles and sing traditional carols.

On Christmas morning in the close heat of the white clapboard church, her father, every year, talked of the importance of the birth of hope and grace and how that was what they were celebrating, not the secular festivities. Jesus was our Saviour, he said, because as the Son of God, in giving us his life, he gave us enlightened purpose. His arrival this day was a Supreme gift, the gift of a Saviour.

Rubbish and bunk, Meredith thought. The same, year after year. The words fused into a big, boring lecture. They were about duty, not Christian duty, to which she felt petulantly antagonistic, but duty to her father, to appear to listen and understand and believe. When she was young, all she could think of was the presents waiting for her and her older sister Abbey under the Norfolk pine decorated with tinsel and glass balls. As she got older, the words made her recoil because she found them duplicitous. Christian salvation was a misogynist myth and had nothing to do with the actual teachings of Jesus.

What she understood least about her parents was their lack of questioning. How could they trust so implicitly something as tenuous as Divine, immortal goodness when everything about the human condition indicated that it did not exist?

Still, she loved the lush time of year: that it was the end of school and the beginning of summer holidays and she and her sister had free days ahead. Her mother, Dora maintained all the traditions of an old-fashioned English Christmas with Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” and gift exchange, then roast goose and plum pudding after the Christmas-morning service. What was best of all was the afternoon trip to the beach to play in the surf and make sand sculptures. Sometimes, on Boxing Day, if her father could find the time, they’d go off camping.

Meredith is in a reverie, thinking about it. All those joyous Australian Christmases. Now she has to reproduce that spirit in July. She is grateful for the stifling heat.

This is a substantial pictorial Christmas spread. RARITY caters to an elite readership accustomed to luxury and excess.

They are unfortunately almost a month late getting started. The longtime lover of Lew Chan, the art director, has died of AIDS and Lew has taken the time to recover. Though Lew had nursed Kirk through obscene suffering for long months before his death, he has been distraught to the point of helplessness.

This is the third friend Meredith and Thompson have lost to AIDS. These days, most social gatherings have the pall of the mysterious new disease. Some people are seeing it as a scourge for a lifestyle. The Warnes see it as something terrifying, ruthless and haphazard.

When Kirk died, Meredith had thought, What a punishing way to die, although she did not believe for a moment in the hideous “God’s Punishment” theory of AIDS. But she must have some aggravating, insidious Christian tendrils within her because when she was in the middle of her affair with Allan, she had thought, “Will I ever be punished for this?”

This shoot, which is meant to be about joy and festivity, will be sombre, and Lew, who is persnickety and anxious to begin with, will be feeling pressured because of the delay and the overhang of his grotesque loss. The Warnes are prepared for a rough time.

The menu is one of the most elaborate Meredith has worked on:

Appetizers: mini feuilletés with stilton and pear, smoked salmon cornucopias with lemon cream and capers, buckwheat blinis with crème fraîche and caviar and wild mushroom duxelles in pâte à choux.

Soup: oyster cream soup.

Palate cleanser: champagne sorbet.

Entrée: roast goose with chestnut-and-sage-sausage stuffing, red currant/port reduction, glazed carrots and parsnips, caramelized Brussels sprouts with roasted garlic, butternut squash gratin with pecan dust, mashed potatoes with nutmeg and cream.

Salad: watercress and arugula with lemon shallot dressing.

Dessert: ginger plum pudding, saffron crème brûlée.

It will take at least the week to prepare, style, and shoot the food. Meredith and Thompson will both work closely with Lew and Cindy, the prop stylist who will spend the morning in the studio staging the scene, an elegant dining room in a townhouse.

Mornings for Meredith will mean buying and cooking the food. In the afternoon, for the actual shooting, she will arrange all of it on the designated props and decorate it. Monday, they will do appetizers, which are the most finicky; Tuesday, the soup and sorbet and salad (an easy day); Wednesday, the vegetables and possibly one goose for composite photographs; Thursday, probably another goose and the stuffing for stand-alone shots; Friday, the desserts, although Meredith has already made the plum pudding at home.

The kitchen and studio for Artful Sustenance take up half a floor in a refurbished, four-storey warehouse. It is in a new commercial centre down on the harbour where a number of old factories have been transformed for the business community and Meredith and Thompson get good rent because the complex is out of the downtown area. The kitchen, with vast windows overlooking the lake, has two commercial-size ovens and a large double-doored refrigerator as well as both stainless-steel and butcher-block tables on which to work. It is well-equipped with all the accoutrements of food styling: spices and herbs and vinegars and oils, quality pots and pans, and a set of the best super-sharp German knives. Tweezers are crucial. But so are eyedroppers; spritz bottles; blue sticky tack; straws, X-acto knives; several sizes of scissors; pins; Krazy Glue; cotton swabs; cotton pads; three kinds of tape, Scotch, masking and duct; acrylic glaze; and any other accessories — emergency or otherwise — she imagines might be required. Sometimes the least likely device will save a shot.

Arriving in the kitchen late in the morning, she starts in on the four appetizers. It is intricate work. Because she loves to cook, this is the most creative part for her — beginning from scratch and coming up with beautiful results. It is both sculpture and painting. It is her task to make the food look “good enough to eat,” but actually be edible. There is a difference. One is artifice, the other naturalism. The two must form a complement.

She works quickly, instinctively, and deliberately. While she does, she thinks of Lizbett’s going to sleepover camp in a couple of weeks and how much she is going to miss her. Without her, the house goes silent and feels empty. Lizbett animates it and the family. She is part clown, part performer, part storyteller. She and Meredith have had a special bond, an unusually intimate companionship since Lizbett could talk. There is a synchronicity.

As for Darcy, sweet, moody, inward, tender-hearted Darcy, she is Meredith’s beloved. She makes her heart ache because she always feels as if her daughter harbours sad thoughts and is simply unreachable. Darcy is perpetually curious, but she is also anxious, preoccupied, a little hand-wringer. Her dark eyes are pensive and her brow always knit in a little furrow. And she seems vulnerable. Lizbett is forthright, resilient. She challenges everything that confronts her. Meredith cannot imagine anything untoward ever coming to Lizbett.

It is mid-afternoon and Meredith is behind. She puts all the food on a trolley and wheels it onto the set where the crew is waiting. Lew yells at her to hurry. He is blasting “Synchronicity” by The Police, which she asks him to turn down. Her ears are ringing from the Bruce Springsteen and Phil Collins of the morning.

A dark, highly polished Georgian buffet is decorated with ornate silver candelabra at either end, each surrounded by gilt wreaths. Four strategically placed silver platters rest on the shiny surface in between.

Now comes the part Meredith dislikes: the tedious, meticulous placing of the food, every centimetre of space crucial. Lew hovers relentlessly, tyrannically, wanting this piece closer, this piece overlapping, this piece removed, this piece added, these pieces in a different pattern.

Thompson is pacing. He is irritable and restless, anxious to get going with his camera. Thompson calls Lew the queen of control. “The queen of queens,” Lew says.

Working with Lew, orchestrating the food so exhaustingly to get a flawless frame always makes Meredith feel she has sold out; that she should be putting this kind of perfectionist dedication into her own paintings. Once she did that full-time: opulent, intimate, super-realistic still lifes that sold well. When they were first married, she and Thompson were bent on living a true and natural artistic life: he to his photography, she to her painting. And they managed for a time, each of them having a couple of successful exhibitions. But want got the better of ideals. They wanted a house; they wanted to travel; they wanted to be able to give their children a comfortable life, not the edgy, uncertain life of artists.

Meredith heard about an opening in the creative department of a large advertising firm and Thompson began to find successful commercial work and they were off to a measure of affluence they both desired. A year after the birth of Darcy, they took a fairly easy risk — because they were both known — and started their own company.

Six years later, Meredith is still using tweezers to reorganize food on platters. Often, when she is doing this, she thinks of the teenage mothers whose children she minds at the settlement house. They do not have the food or the resources or the wherewithal to think or even care about the aesthetics and ritual of eating. She wonders if she should somehow be cooking for the young girls or at least teaching them how to shop and cook economically. They are hungry for food and direction in their lives. The readers of RARITY have surfeits of both.

Finally the crew is ready for Thompson and he whoops with relief and exhilaration. Though he appreciates Meredith’s work and knows what he does depends on her artful compositions, he hates the waiting. All he wants is to partner with his camera. He loves his camera, a Swedish 500 ELX Hasselblad. He loves that it is an extension of his creative eye.

Photography is about capturing reality as opposed to reproducing it. He sees every photograph, however inanimate, as a kind of portrait. The food is his focus, as expression is to a face. That the food is arranged on beautiful objects is really only about what face says. And what he has to consider is how an initial glance from a viewer will perceive the whole. In this instance, it must be captivating enough to draw that viewer’s eye into the detail, to “drool over” the display of food and search out the recipes.

The camera is his voice and it is as eloquent as it is loquacious.

He keeps the mood light in the studio. He doesn’t feel his art or his craft are compromised by what he ultimately thinks is mundane work. True, it doesn’t have the grit of his previous work, the derelict areas of the waterfront. But he likes what he does enough to keep doing it: the careful, magical transposing of food into print. He loves how the contrast of light and dark makes shapes mysterious, creates depth, and how angles manipulate the eye. He controls all that and it always excites him. Even the simplest, most mundane of dishes.

And he especially likes the lack of financial pressure they feel. But he senses a restless and critical mood in Meredith. He knows she thinks that what they do is superficial and indulgent in the realm of world problems. He disagrees. He feels that life would be bleak without the aesthetics of nourishment and he’s glad to be an interpreter of that.

Shortly before 4:00 p.m., Lizbett calls the studio from the payphone at the museum, just to let her mother know she is still going to the library. Meredith tries to talk her out of it.

Sometime after 4:00 p.m. Meredith walks over to the kitchen windows and sees the black, turbulent sky. The lake looks angry. Directly below, torrential rain is flooding the brick walkways. She hears the thunder; starts at the immediate flare of lightning. And her heart sinks. Why did she ever consent to allow Lizbett to go to the library in such weather? Why hadn’t she made herself available to pick her up and drive her home?

The shoot finally ends a little after 6:00 p.m. Meredith phones home and Brygida tells her Lizbett hasn’t appeared yet, which is odd, since she usually calls if she’s going to be delayed or has changed her plans, although allowing for browsing time and travel time, she’s not really late.

“She’s probably gone to a friend’s house or has taken a bit longer at the library,” says Meredith. She suggests Brygida look in their address book for the numbers of her best friends — there’s a list — and give them a call.

After they have cleaned up, the art director asks, “Who wants to go out for a bite to eat?” Meredith and Thompson both do.