Prochownik's Dream Read Free Page B

their verandah. He pressed the bell and stood waiting.
    Marina opened the door. ‘Toni! How lovely to see you!’ She stepped forward eagerly and embraced him lightly, touching her hand to his arm, touching her lips to his cheek. She moved away and examined him. ‘It’s cruel the way the critics ignored your show.’
    â€˜It’s okay. It’s their loss.’
    â€˜Exactly. And you’ve got your new project. Good for you.’
    He handed the flowers to her.
    A gust of wind tore off a scatter of bright petals. Marina exclaimed and sheltered the flowers protectively in her arms. ‘You remembered! I love being given flowers. And Iceland poppies are my favourites.’ She was moved. ‘Thank you.’
    So the Iceland poppies had been for Marina after all. He had not remembered, but had imagined himself to be choosing the flowers at random.
    â€˜What is it?’ Marina asked. ‘Have I changed so much?’ She was older than he, by as much as ten years, slim and dark, her short hair freshly styled.
    â€˜No,’ he said. ‘You haven’t changed at all.’
    She smiled, enjoying the exacting quality of his attention.
    The passage was narrow and she walked ahead of him. The disconcerting sensation of stepping back into their world, the familiar, elusive, clarified smell of their lives, a smell of cleanliness and good order. Today she was being welcoming and encouraging. Previously she would have stood aside, her manner silent and interior, observing him with Robert. Marina had seemed to him in those days to be in Robert’s shadow. A faithful collaborator, content to be the apprentice of Robert Schwartz’s studio. Perhaps, after all, she had stood within the shadow of some private inhibition of her own, an uncertainty too intimate to be disclosed. And of course she was older now.
    She said over her shoulder, ‘Robert’s running late. He apologises. He rang to say he’ll be in a meeting. We’ll have a minute or two to catch up before he gets here.’
    He followed her through the archway at the end of the passage into a lofty rectangular room. It was cool in here, the light filtered through pale blinds. The faint background hum of an airconditioner. An old man was sitting by a wall of books on a set of folded library steps. His loose cotton robe had slipped from his shoulders. He was barefoot, craned forward unsteadily over the book that he was holding open on his knees.
    Marina stood beside a circular table in the centre of the room, the vivid poppies held against the white of her blouse, the tips of the fingers of her free hand touching the table beside her, steadying herself. She watched him, interested, her feet neatly together in smart Italian sandals.
    â€˜You have changed,’ he said.
    â€˜Yes. I’m older.’
    â€˜That’s not what I meant.’
    The table was set for lunch, a chair at each of the four places. On the table were breads, Greek dips, a green-glazed bowl of olives. There was the faint aroma of dill.
    â€˜What did you mean?’
    â€˜I suppose we’re bound to have changed,’ he said. ‘In some ways. All of us, I should think.’
    â€˜You’re being evasive.’ She laughed. ‘Come and meet Robert’s father.’
    The old man did not get up but stretched an arm around Marina’s waist and drew her to his side. It seemed to Toni to be a gesture of possession rather than of fondness. He was trembling, his head jerking and nodding. The lower lid of his left eye drooped, disclosing the livid weeping membrane. ‘I’ve come home to die,’ he said and laughed, his breath catching in his throat, his glance quick and amused. ‘I shan’t be around to bother you for much longer.’
    â€˜This is Theo Schwartz,’ Marina said. ‘Robert’s father. Toni is an old friend, Theo. He was one of Robert’s most gifted students.’
    He took the old