Travelling Light Read Free

Grandma’s studio. A couple of young cousins were scampering in and out, taking everyone’s coats, and we were gradually swept into the large, airy room, beautifully decorated by Grandma’s acolytes. I fixed my sights on her and steered us forward, giving Jonny’s arm a quick squeeze to calm him. In the background some low music was playing – not classical, but something specially chosen, bearing Grandma’s personal stamp. We walked towards her. She had dressed with her usual studied nonchalance; her white hair lightly arranged in casual curls around her watchful, gracious face and clear, teasing eyes.
    “This is Jonny,” I said. “Jonny, Grandma.”
    “How nice of you to come,” Grandma said. “So this is Jonny. Finnish-speaking, I believe?” She smiled at him benignly. “How will you cope in an ossified old family where no one speaks anything but Swedish? And how are things, are you two married or not? All done and dusted?”
    “Done but not dusted,” said Jonny boldly. Grandma laughed and I knew she liked him.
    “Well, where’s your present?”
    She stared at the picture of San Gimignano for a long time, remarked that we’d gone to a great deal of trouble, and flashed a quick smile. “I drew that same view,” she said, “but better.” Then, with a little gesture that was dismissive but also showed a secret understanding, she moved on.
    The large table on which Grandma posed her models dominated the room. It was covered with her brocade from Barcelona and richly spread with everything from olives to cream cakes. Young family members ran about with vases they’d filled with water earlier that morning, while people stood about in groups having frenetic conversations and everyone was served a glass of champagne. Grandma sailed above all this like in a painting by Chagall, dispensing a sort of general benediction as she moved about the room dropping small pronouncements here and there. But I noticed she took care not to introduce anyone by name. Not the slightest suggestion of failing memory – just introduce yourselves, dear friends. Oh, to be as free as Grandma!
    A mass of screaming children persisted in running back and forth across the studio, but this didn’t seem to irritate Grandma in the least. She just let the mothers take charge of whoever it was they had brought into the world. Jonny and I sat down at a crowded table only to realise a moment too late that we’d chosen badly. This was a table for what Grandma calls the intellectuals, who associate exclusively with one another. I couldn’t figure out what they were talking about. Despairing of something to say, and after a long silence, I finally turned to a gentleman with a goatee and remarked that the evening light in the studio was unusually beautiful. To my relief, he started talking about the significance of light and then moved on to the theory of perception. It took me ages to work out that he was an art critic.
    Luckily all he seemed to want was a listener, so I nodded thoughtfully and said yes of course, and how true, and occasionally glanced at Jonny, who was sitting across from me looking miserable. He’d got stuck beside one of those geniuses who never say a word to help you out. Even so, I was quite proud of having brought my Jonny into a family with artistic roots, who really knew how to carry off a party on this scale.
    Eventually he extricated himself and came over and hissed in my ear, “Can we go home now?”
    “Of course,” I said. “Soon.”
    It was then that they came in, three gentlemen of uncertain appearance. They looked somehow dishevelled – or, more accurately, stained or smudged. They certainly weren’t bohemians. They did have long hair, but in a more middle-aged way. They made a grand entrance, bowing low to Grandma and kissing her hand. She led them to an empty table at the far end near the window and made sure each got a glass of champagne. Pretty soon one of them dropped his glass on the floor. He was