The Art of Deception

‘No … I … no not really. She’s a bit of a nonconformist. She’s … unusual. Pissed off with the world. Isn’t willing to believe that fate can sometimes deliver some tough times with the good.’

‘Do you miss her?’

‘Not really,’ Matt said hesitantly. ‘We didn’t get on. Anyway, she’s made a life for herself in California now. Ron’s a good bloke. Bit too American for my liking, but I think he looks after her.’

‘Do you really think they’ll never have kids?’

‘No, of course not! I mean, no. MC’s not really the family type. How come you’re so fascinated with my sister? Let’s drop her, okay?’

‘Don’t get short with me, Matt. I’m just curious. If I had a sister or a brother, I’d probably want to hang out with them all the time. I guess it’s because I don’t have one that the whole dynamic of having a sibling fascinates me. Surely it’s natural to want to know about you and your family.’

I had obviously hit a chord with Marie-Claire. We weren’t in a sober state for in-depth family discussions. I was trying to find reasons to like Matt’s mother, but despite her fascinating background, it wasn’t happening. I wondered how MC felt about her.

We arrived at Anne’s place. I fiddled with my key in the dark, swaying a little from too much vodka. Tonight I actually looked forward to Anne’s pull-out sofa bed, I was that tired, and was unable to analyse Matt’s irritability. I figured he’d come right in the morning. We kissed and he held me tight, as though delivering a silent apology for his reaction.

* * *

‘Why do you not draw your son?’ asks Yasmine between mouthfuls of her food. ‘She made a lot of great pictures,’ she says to the others at the table, pointing a fork speared with a morsel of grey meat in my direction.

My eyes flash. I don’t like talking about my art, but mostly I don’t like being the centre of attention.

‘I don’t know. I sometimes think I’ve forgotten what he really looks like,’ I reply. ‘I need to see him to be able to draw the essence of him. It’s harder than you think to draw my own son.’

I keep my voice neutral. Though I think it would break me to try and draw him, unable to wrest the detailed memories from my mind. The curve of his rosy cheek or the sweep of his fine hair. Those grey eyes that only started to turn green when I had to say goodbye, their colour enhanced by his tears.

‘She has drawn me, you know. She’s a real artist,’ Yasmine says to Fatima who nods with eyebrows raised and mouth turned down at the corners.

She’s vaguely impressed, or disinterested in my skills, I’m not sure which. A minuscule piece of bread crust sticks to Fatima’s lip, then falls onto Adnan’s head. She blows the crumbs from his crown as he sleeps. His fine fluffy hair puffs like gossamer. My throat tightens.

‘Perhaps you could start a business. Lulu’s Portraits,’ Yasmine continues, thinking out loud. ‘Yes, we could make a bit of money. Earn a few sous.’

‘We?’ I ask, amused. Lulu?

‘Yes, I will be your agent,’ she replies, presenting herself, flamenco fashion with a wave of her arm from head to chest, fingers splayed. ‘Of course you will give me a cut if I am to do your marketing and publicité.’

‘Caramba, Yasmine! You are to be my agent, remember? We have a business in cigarillos to organise,’ says Dolores huskily, eyes flashing.

I have no desire to fight over Yasmine’s attention, though I can see where this is going. Yasmine, with that look on her face that says she is the centre of our universe, demanding deference.

‘I am not going to sell my paintings, okay?’ I say, not wanting to darken any moods, but knowing that things like this can escalate alarmingly quickly into dissension in this place. Tiny issues can turn rapidly into thermo-nuclear reactions.

Chapter 5 (#ulink_325c5277-58a9-5913-b816-8385c3c5d7f7)

‘So, Madame Favre, here we are,’ says Dr Schutz, as if we’re on a bus that has pulled up to our stop.

I look around the sparse office, eyebrows raised with fake curiosity. I turn back to stare at the psychologist.

‘I’m really sorry, I thought I’d already told you. My name is not Madame Favre. I prefer to be called Mrs, or better still Ms Smithers. I don’t answer to Madame Favre any more. Sounds like a sordid joke in an opera. It was a sordid joke, Dr Schutz, the missus bit, if that’s what we’re here to talk about. I’m guessing you’re going to get me to talk about my relationship,’ I say, crossing my arms.

I fix my gaze on the name shield on the psychologist’s desk. Frau Doktor Dagmar Schutz.

The guards have already learned to use my maiden name, their various pronunciations amusing me each time.

I’m wary of shrinks, especially after all the interrogation I’ve been through. Each party tearing themselves apart to prove either I am or I am not mentally stable. And nobody able to make their minds up about anything.

‘Okay, Mz Smizzers,’ says Dr Schutz over-patiently. ‘You have requested that our interviews be conducted in English from now on, though I am not sure why. I thought you were Swiss?’

I’m surprised her English is so precise, except for the mispronounced ‘th’s. She speaks fluently, with an American accent, but I don’t ask her how long she lived in the States.

‘My French might be better than yours, Dr Schutz. But my mother tongue is English. I prefer not to be misunderstood in a language that is not my own. There has been plenty of misinterpretation over the past few years. And unfortunately, I never sought Swiss citizenship.’

Dr Schutz tilts her head to one side. I imagine she’d like nothing better than for me to break down in tears and spill all my thoughts and secrets. I’ve done enough crying for now. But I know she’s a shrewd one, and she’d be used to belligerence in this place.

‘I’ve heard that you are doing good things among the women on the block,’ she says, trying a different tack. ‘You have volunteered to teach them a little English. Do you think this might help to keep the peace among all these women who speak different languages?’

She looks up from her file at me, and I feel the flicker of a smile on my own lips. My pride has not been completely broken.

‘And the guards are talking about your paintings. Frau Müller is interested to have your copies of Erlach’s art sold at the next Schlossmärit. You must realise that all this is helping your case to show that you are ready to integrate into society when you are free. However, it doesn’t help your case that you are so sullen with me every time we meet. You may be forgetting that it is possible my reports have an influence on your requests to be able to see your son.’

I check myself. I sometimes forget that Dr Schutz is not an emissary sent from Natasha to confirm that I am crazy and report back to the evil mistress. I have always assumed that her evaluations are of a negative nature, to persuade those in power that it would be better for JP to be raised by his grandparents. But I now realise she is working for my benefit. I must prove myself worthy.

‘Maybe it would help if you can tell me exactly who you are angry with? Is it your husband?’

‘I was, yes. I was angry with him for deceiving me, for betraying my trust. But he’s no longer here to defend himself, and all I have is his wicked mother trying to keep me here.’

I feel the blackness of resentment smothering me again. It clouds my judgement, makes me bitter.

‘But it was obvious from the circumstances that there was anger on both sides. Mrs Smithers – Lucille – I really think you need to talk about it. To help you. I want to help you.’

I uncross my arms, push the chair back, and look at Dr Schutz with renewed curiosity. Leaning on my knee with one elbow, I tear at a tag on my thumbnail with my teeth. That will hurt later. I’m displaying guilty body language, so I sit up quickly. I hear the judge’s voice in my head. Coupable. Guilty.

‘This is a country of rules – right, Dr Schutz? I don’t know how easy it is to disobey those rules, but Madame Favre seems to be doing just that. She is keeping my son away from me and nearly always has an excuse to stop me from speaking to him on the phone. There are others in here, Dolores for example, who gets to speak to her children twice a day if she wants, and those are long-distance calls to Central America. My weekly phone call pales in comparison.’

I stop, and take a breath. A trapped bee buzzes against the pane behind Dr Schutz’s desk. She rises to let it out. The bee hums out into the sunshine and she leaves the window open, as if the chill autumn air might persuade the bee to reconsider the warmth of her office.

‘I think she would have found a way to keep him from me even if he was still a breastfeeding infant. If I make my call on Friday and she says “JP can’t talk to you now, he’s out playing” or “he went shopping with Poppa and they’re not back yet” or, worst of all “he doesn’t want to talk to you” that’s it, that’s my one chance. She doesn’t answer if I call again. But the thing is, I’m holding up my end of the deal, and she’s not. And nobody seems to be controlling that, in this land where you love your rules and red tape. In this bullshit country where I’ve been locked up for something I promise you I didn’t do, she has the last word. Because she’s Swiss. But that’s a joke. She tells you she’s Swiss, until it’s convenient and exotic to tell you she’s Russian. That’s bullshit too. She hasn’t even set foot inside the boundaries of her motherland, or her mother’s motherland. It’s bullshit. And yes, if you were wondering, I am still really, very angry about that. Can you tell?’

My eyes narrow at the open window. Dr Schutz sits patiently while my breathing calms.

‘Do you think it is Mrs Favre’s fault that your husband died?’

‘Of course not. I’m angry about the situation now, about not being able to see my son. I don’t need to analyse the reasons why my husband behaved as he did for all those years. Maybe that’s her fault. I don’t know.’

* * *

Seven years ago

On a bright Sunday in June we drove down to the marina and took Matt’s boat out for a sail. It wasn’t all talk at the bar. He really did have that yacht. Certainly not the equivalent of a Ferrari on water, but a handsome little sloop nonetheless.