Yesterday`s flower - Michelle Tarynne (fun to read TXT) 📗

lifestyle suited her.

 

Erika knew her work was suffering. She was grown up enough to view her painting critically, and the truth was that some of the canvases she’d produced recently lacked depth and warmth. Lars, the hotelier, had popped in yesterday to see how she was progressing, and had rejected two of her paintings outright.

 

‘They’re just not the same quality, Erika,’ Lars had said. ‘I can’t quite put my finger on

it.’

 

‘Maybe if I change the skyline …’ Erika had suggested. ‘There’s something about it that doesn’t work, does it?’

 

Lars had looked at her. ‘Are you alright, Erika?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want to be personal or anything, but you’re looking tired.’

Erika sighed.

‘I’m fine, Lars. Thank you for asking.’

‘Jared away?’

‘He left this morning.’

‘Well, don’t be too sad. It’s only three weeks.’

 

Erika smiled. ‘I’m a big girl, Lars, I think I’ll manage,’ she said, remembering the last time that she’?d used that phrase, she’d been talking to Max about fetching the bo les.

 

♥

 

She decided to catch up on her sleep: to be in bed by nine every night while Jared was away, despite a few invites from his crowd. On the fifth or so refusal, the invitations

 

 

 

 

stopped, not that it worried her. She was on a full detox. No alcohol. No coffee … Okay, one in the morning, that was all. Lots of fresh fruit. Painting all day. A bike ride every evening up and down a few hills, past the Huguenot Monument usually. Sometimes she took her easel with her like she’d done in Langebaan, stopping at a scene that played with her imagination.

She rode past Le Domaine often, but hadn’t stopped to see Max.

 

And Erika was surprised that she didn’t feel lonely. Not at all. A week passed, and she felt fulfilled. Jared phoned or texted her every day: the sales trip was going well, he was lining up some opportunities and thought he might go to Florida for a wine fair in October. Maybe she could come with him. Boy, did they know how to party in Hong Kong. He didn’t have to sleep if he didn’t need to. The dim sum was to die for. Seriously. And he was going on a junk with some wine buyers and hoteliers. Did Erika like silk scarves? He’d seen some stunning ones. There was a stack of South Africans living there just dying for some decent SA wine. Wasn’t that great?

 

Erika barely got a word in edgewise, but it didn’t ma er. She didn’t have all that much to say, except that she missed him. Love you, he said casually as he signed off. He’d never said that to her face so she wondered if he meant it. Two weeks and he’d be back and she’d be able to tell for certain.

 

On Monday morning, she stayed at the gallery. Her assistant, Sally, had called in sick with flu, but Erika was happy to stay in and watch the tourists pass. She was surprised to see the bent figure of Pieter Blignaut peering in through the shop window.

Erika opened the door for him. ‘Hello, Pieter.’

 

‘Well, there you are young lady. I never see you here. Just stopped in to buy some droëwors at the biltong shop. You know what it is to have a craving ...’ Pieter bit into the sausage, and sucked on it with loud slurping noises. ‘Ekskuus, I don’t have all my teeth.’

‘Where’s Magda?’ Erika asked, looking down the street.

 

‘Ag, shopping at Pick n Pay. I told her the chutney she makes is much be er, but she says she’s not a preserve factory. Tired, jy weet? We’re ge ing on, and she hates all that chopping.’

 

‘Maybe I could help her some time?’ Erika offered. ‘But I don’t know how to make chutney.’

 

‘Well, there’s a solution. Magda tires so easily these days. Can I sit down, Erika, skat?’ Erika gestured for Pieter to come inside and he followed her willingly. She indicated a couch at the back of the gallery, and went upstairs to fetch him a glass of juice. He took it

with a tired smiled, and sipped thirstily.

‘What’s happened to Max these days?’ Pieter asked Erika.

 

Erika shrugged. ‘We don’t see each other much, Pieter. You know, with Jared ...’ Pieter nodded, obviously not expecting any further elucidation. ‘He seemed so happy

 

with you at Le Cadeau. I was pleased for him. He’s had a lot of responsibility since the passing of his parents. It’s not easy being an orphan, especially not with the family business to run. Not to mention Jared’s difficulties.’

 

‘I don’t really know what you mean, Pieter.’ Erika looked at him, an uncomfortable prickling rising from the back of her neck.

 

‘Nothing to worry about, Erika. I have a groot bek, and Magda says I should learn when to keep my mouth shut. It’s none of my business. And you should choose for yourself. Nothing I have to say on this subject is of any consequence.’ Pieter stood up and strolled around the gallery. He stopped at a landscape she’d painted of a vineyard in full

 

 

 

blossom.

 

‘Beautiful,’ Pieter said. ‘Max was right about your talent. Perhaps one day you’ll come and paint at Le Cadeau. Jared’s in the East, I understand. Magda makes a lekker snoek pie.’ The invitation came out a li le jumbled, as though Pieter was out of practice and Erika smiled, appreciating the man’s hospitality.

‘I’d love to,’ she said.

 

‘You would? Well, that would be very fine. You come tomorrow. Nine o’clock, so you’ve some time to paint. And you’re welcome any day. I’ll tell Magda to expect you.’?

 

♥

 

Erika woke the next morning to a sense of anticipation, as though she was about to embark on some sort of cultural adventure. At seven thirty, she heard Sally let herself in downstairs, her heels clicking on the laminate floor, then the sweep-sweep of a broom. Erika got dressed, checking her phone for any messages that may have come in overnight from Jared – nothing other than his standard goodnight, but it made her smile.

 

In her eagerness to paint at Le Cadeau, Erika arrived at eight forty-five, but Magda, who was si ing crocheting on the porch, got up immediately to welcome her.

 

‘Welkom. We are so pleased you decided to come,’ Magda said formally. ‘Pieter has been talking about nothing else.’

Erika smiled. ‘I’m fla ered.’

 

‘He’s even been around the farm this morning, finding places for you to paint.’ ‘Really?’ Erika said. ‘He didn’t need to do that.’

 

‘Oh, it’s an excuse for him to see the farm with a new eye. It’s lekker to see him so opgewonde.’

Erika picked up the tone, if not the exact meaning of her words.

 

‘He’s just on the telephone,’ Magda continued. ‘He’ll be out soon. Let me get you some tea. Rooibos okay?’

 

‘Thank you,’ Erika said, although she hadn’t yet got used to red bush tea, and actually didn’t like it much – she wasn’t keen on the smell. Nevertheless, when the tea arrived on a tray covered in an embroidered cloth with a hand-kni ed tea cosy in the shape of an English country co age, she took her cup and sipped gamely. She rather hoped, however, that Pieter might finish his call and rescue her from being plied with any more.

‘Have a soetkoekie?’ Magda held out a plate of biscuits.

 

So much for the detox. One couldn’t hurt. And actually the sweetness of it masked the bi erness of the tea.

 

When Pieter arrived, he lost no time in taking Erika out in an old beige pickup with a dent down the left side, a broken headlight and a passenger door that could only be opened from the outside, and then with extreme force. Magda had thoughtfully packed Erika a small flask of lemonade and some fruit to tide her over until Pieter picked her up for lunch. He showed Erika one or two scenic spots that she thought too panoramic to capture well enough on the canvas; the view that spoke to her looked down on the farmhouse, giving a bird’s eye glimpse of the dense thatch and high gables of the main building. Though Pieter’s hearing loss had prevented them from talking much during their drive, now that the old diesel truck’s drone had quietened they maintained a companiable silence, with Pieter nodding thoughtfully, his forefinger and thumb stroking his chin. Erika wasn’t sure whether to set up her easel or to stand contemplating with Pieter, but then he turned to her

 

 

 

and beamed.

‘I think this is the place, ja?’

 

Erika nodded taking in the old slave bell that would have summoned the workers from the three-aisled barnlike building to the left. The main house – built in the shape of a double-H, with a gallery linking the two sections – was flanked by an orchard. Erika asked what sort of fruit might grow there.

 

‘Figs, almonds, chestnuts and peaches,’ Pieter said. ‘I’ll take you there after lunch. Some of the trees outdate the buildings by a few years. My first wife used to draw there. She found the silence comforting.’

‘Christine?’ Erika said, remembering.

‘That’s right.’

 

Erika walked to the vehicle, pulling her hat and other belongings from the seat. Pieter had loaded a plastic chair onto the back of the pickup, and he hauled it off for her. Then he slammed the doors shut, waving cheerily, and told her he’d return at twelve thirty, unless she called him earlier.

 

The time passed quickly, with Erika sketching different views and impressions in her pad, not yet decided on what to paint first. There were so many angles she could chose: as a series, enough for several representations. Yet somehow the vision of Christine si ing alone in the orchard awoke something in Erika, and that is what began to form on the canvas: a woman not unlike herself, lying on a blanket with her legs kicked up behind her, a look of concentration on her face as a rabbit hopped past. The main building lined the right-hand side of the painting, and a younger version of Pieter stood in a doorway, his hands cupping a pipe that he was trying to light. Something about his expression showed he was watching the woman, but though tempted to approach her was holding back. Instead he was angled toward a li le girl of about three, who was digging in the herb garden with a small trowel.

 

As Erika painted, she was so absorbed in the scene that it didn’t occur to her to think what Magda or Pieter might say about what she was creating. It didn’t until Pieter drove up, and taking one glimpse at it, gulped, turning pale. Just how insensitive could she be? Flipping the canvas over, Erika showed Pieter some of her other sketches, but he was not to be distracted.

 

‘You’ve got her exactly right. Untouchable. I always thought Jared was a bit like that, but you’ve proved me wrong.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Erika said. ‘She’s caught my imagination.’

 

‘I can’t really blame you, my dear,’ Pieter said. ‘Christine had a habit of doing that. Now let’s go down to lunch. But if you don’t mind, Erika, I’d rather you didn’t show Magda. I don’t want to upset her.’

 

♥

 

Erika didn’t make the mistake of working on Christine’s painting, as she started to think of it, at Le Cadeau. She did, however, stop at the Huguenot Museum to see if she could find a photo of her. And surprisingly enough, there she found the image Max had mentioned: Christine and Pieter’s wedding photo, with Max’s grandfather Adam de Villiers.

 

And Max had been right: she did resemble Christine surprisingly closely. Dressed in Dior’s ‘new look’ with a full skirt, rounded soft shoulders, almost pinched waist and pointed bust, and crowned with a sophisticated beaded veil, Erika could easily have passed for Christine. But that was until she looked at Christine’s eyes, which were guarded,

 

 

despite the obvious joy of the wedding. And it was this look that made them different. Erika sat flapping through the wedding album looking for more images of Christine,

other expressions she could echo in the painting.

 

‘Do you see now