Eight Pieces on Prostitution Read Free

the painted feelings are those of someone else. Eve finds it comical and disturbing. She knows it would be rude to laugh.
    She glances through the
Canberra Times
after Vincent has gone, taking his painting with him, and sees something that makes her catch her breath. It’s one of Vincent’s landscapes! A photograph, not a terribly clear one. An exhibition of new work by well-known Canberra artist, and his name really is Vincent! For some reason, this makes Eve feel extraordinarily pleased. She takes a pair of scissors from the drawer where she keeps the condoms and carefully cuts out the notice.
    She tells no one about the gallery opening. When the day arrives, she finds herself leaving the studio at five, locking the door behind her. She unfolds the bit of newspaper on the passenger seat of her car.
    Vincent has taken Canberra’s monuments as one subject for his show. The new Parliament House is there, huge on one wall of the gallery. Eve’s eyes snap to it as she walks in. The old House has been transformed into a wedding cake, carrying scores of lighted candles. There are real candles on either side of the painting, so that it looks like a mockery of a sacred offering. And there’s a real wedding cake in front of it. Eve wonders if it’s just to look at, or if the guests will eat it afterwards. She looks for the small landscapes Vincent once lined up under the window of the studio, but they haven’t been included; neither has his portrait of her, and for this she is grateful.
    The Belconnen tip takes up most of another wall, larger than life, just as Eve remembers it, the rubbish heaving itself up out of the canvas. Seagulls wheel above her head with ugly, voracious cries; Eve is sure she hears them. She knows she ought to leave.
    A few guests are looking at the paintings, but most stand with their backs to them, drinking wine and talking to each other.
    Eve notices a picture of a wave towering above dry grassland. She walks across to take a closer look. In the foreground are horses pulling trotting sulkies. Their silks and harness, the jockeys’ taut, frozen ligaments, are desperately bright. The horses are glossy with sweat; and just behind them is this wall of water. A tidal wave a hundred and fifty kilometres inland, it’s already drowned picket fences, betting booths, grandstand and spectators. In a second, the horses leaping out of the picture will be swept away; only they never will.
    Over dead yellow grass at the bottom, Eve spots the letters VS. She puts out a finger to touch them. She can smell the paint, as if it’s only just been finished. She holds her finger a centimetre above the signature. She knows what the subject is. It’s the flooding of the lake: Lake Burley Griffin.
    Eve turns around and sees Vincent talking to a woman dressed in black.
    She walks forward, holding out her hand. ‘Hello.’
    Vincent flicks his head to the side. His expression is blank.
    â€˜I’m sorry, do I know you?’
    â€˜Sure you do. It’s me, Eve.’
    Vincent offers her a small frown of concentration. ‘You’re making a mistake, I’m afraid.’
    The woman in black looks amused.
    â€˜If you’ll excuse me -’ Vincent says.
    For a few moments, all Eve sees is the colour black retreating, Vincent’s suit, the woman’s dress and long, gloved hand.
    When a drink waiter appears at her elbow, she shakes her head and walks towards the door.
    Eve drives to the studio and, without turning on the lights, takes down the midnight curtains with their stars and moon. She rings Rose and leaves a message, saying something’s come up suddenly and she has to go away.
    Now she can walk outside any night and look at the real sky, she sits in her flat with the lights off and looks at her curtains. She must work out what to do. She has only a little money left, and no job, or prospect of one. For a whole week, she does nothing. She does not return