The Last Girl Read Free

colour. The women were happy to pose on park benches or standing beneath the emerald canopy of old trees.
    One Friday evening I hurried to the library and took out a lavishly illustrated text on the development of Western art. Late into the night, I pored over the pictures in the dim light of the apartment. Centred in Daddi’s Triptych of 1348 is a rosy cheeked, fair-haired Madonna. The infant God nestles in the crook of her left arm. It is a painting of wonderful warmth and tenderness. It is not the shining gilt that draws the eye. Neither is it the image of Christ glorified, or Christ hanging grey from the cross, scarlet blood spurting from the wound, spraying his disciples. The dying Christ is pushed to the side. In the centre of this image, under the dark sky glittering with golden stars, before the beautifully worked red and yellow backdrop, is the simple picture of a woman looking down with gentle indulgence at the child nestled in her arms. While she cradles with her left arm, her right hand lifts and gently strokes the baby’s chest. And he, the young child, looks up with equal adoration at his mother. He lifts, too, his right hand, as if to caress the cheek of his mother. The apostles linger at the feet of the mother. Here, one says, looking straight out of the frame at us. Here, this is what you have to look at, this is what is important. Yes, this is to be the object of our worship, the mother and the child.

Chapter 4
    It was in the silence of a church, on a day when the sun cut particularly cleanly across the nave, illuminating as it did the head of Mary, the Mother of God, that I saw my last girl. The church of the Holy Mother of God stands on a hill towards the river. It is a little farther up the road from the beautiful, gothic St Anne’s and Bernadine’s. It is not so impressive, but when sitting at this desk not writing a word for days on end is sending me crazy, I go there to sit in the perfect stillness. To look at the way the light can slice the darkness. To admire the beauty of enclosed space. The quality of silence.
    For years I have tried to pray, but I cannot. The words simply do not come. I get to my knees and lift my eyes to the picture of our saviour, but I am unable to get beyond this point. Instead I kneel in silence.
    I thought my photographic obsession was burning out. I had not taken a picture for over a week and felt no desire to do so. That very morning I got up with something approaching energy and optimism. Whilst boiling water on the old stove for a coffee, I sat at my desk and opened my large jotter. For one whole hour I wrote. The words poured out with a vigour and freshness I had not felt for years. And then they dried up. It was like a fleeting, cool shower in the desert. The bright mood with which I had awoken dissolved in a flash.
    After boiling the kettle once more and sipping my way through a good too many coffees, I slammed the jotter shut. It is a mistake to try to force the words. Like a butterfly they flutter on, somewhere farther out of reach with each swoop of the net. I had pushed too hard. I should have been content with those words that I had got down, those thoughts that I had managed to frame with my clumsy scribbling. Angry and trembling with the effect of too much caffeine, I paced the small room. Through the wall that used to be a doorway into my second bedroom, my neighbour’s small child kept up a consistent high-pitched wail. I clenched my fist hard. I needed to walk.
    I pulled on a light jacket and slammed the door of my apartment behind me. The dirty windows prevented much light from entering the stairwell and I descended the stairs with customary care. The air outside was warm. My old neighbour, Grigalaviciene, was sitting on the bench outside the doors, knitting in the sunshine. She smiled and nodded and seemed about to create a space for me to sit by her. I paused and looked down at her. Her grey hair was thinning and her skin creased