All the Days And Nights. Niven Govinden

work rate and success of other artists. In my younger days, those that felt like being under an apprenticeship of sorts, such talk would drive me from the table, so sensitive was I to the perception of my work and how it measured up to others’. Now there is something pleasant about its buzz. I swat it toward and away from me as if playing with a fly. As insects are a reminder of the summer seasons, so too is Ben’s talk, reminding me of the existence of other artists in the world. Jealousy can be just as deeply felt at this age as any other. You of all people understand how jealous I can become. What kills this is ultimately down to personal resources. Energy is finite, and you have to decide how to spend it wisely. Working on canvases taller than either of us, the strength to push a rolling ladder, or climb up the scaffold, can take everything I have. Time spent mulling over professional jealousies would deplete everything.

      – Are you going to show me the canvases? It’s half the reason I came here.

      – What happened to my welfare? You were concerned about so many things.

      – That was on my list too.

      – Wouldn’t you rather say hello to the donkey first?

      – I’ll feed the old boy his favorites before I go. Let’s see some paintings.

      – Nothing’s ready, Ben. I’m not prepared.

      – That’s not what I’ve been hearing from other parties. They suggested you have several ready to go. That it’s been the case for almost a year.

      – And how do you get to hear from other parties, I wonder? This house might not be clapboard like your place in Provincetown, but the walls are just as thin. I can hear when the telephone rings, as hard as they try for me not to.

      – Like I said, there are other ways besides the telephone. He sends letters from the post office. Collects mine from there too.

      I think about where you must keep those letters. I would never search your room, but something tells me that they are not in the house, that you probably throw them away as soon as they have been read, the way you do with other more mundane correspondence that reaches the house. Maybe even in the trashcan outside the post office and store. You are agents, of a kind. Your friendship works independently of me, which is how things should be. So why does it jar so, this desire to know what you have been writing?

      – Show me. Just the ones you’re happy with. Bring them out. Take me to the studio. Anything.

      I try to visualize what Ben will see; what the paintings will make him say, how he will feel. I think of your responses when each of the last pieces was finished. The sigh that came from your mouth; something that could be read as a mixture of wonder and satisfaction. Equally, of disappointment. It is not Ben’s dissatisfaction that holds me back. I will drag him by the wrist to the studio if I am guaranteed that reaction. It is something that I already feel about my work of the past few years. Disappointment I can understand. I live with it, working daily on canvases that resolutely do not bend to my will, capturing the light differently to what I see. My fear is that he will love it. That he will see the larger works and feel that you are in the room; that the real essence of you, your quietness and sense of wonder about the world, has been made permanent. It will make me question what is deficient in his eyes, and again, in mine. What is it that Ben sees, what insight does he have, what has he shared with you that makes sense of these pictures. That I am capable of capturing something I no longer recognize.

      – We’ll have to eat some fruit first, otherwise Vishni will be angry with us.

      Vishni stands on the kitchen steps holding a bowl of quartered peaches and a jug of cream. Who knows how long she has been there, studying us in our reverie, both light-headed from the wine, induced to sloth from the crisp potatoes. Neither of us seems aware until the moment that our plates have also been cleared away and dirty glasses replaced with fresh ones. I am incapable of seeing anything, I want to tell Ben. Vishni is the one who sees. But I do not want him to leave thinking I am in a depression, because that will only come back to you from another letter left at the post office. Instead I do as I’m told and eat the dessert placed before me, listening as Vishni scolds Ben that he is not eating enough.

      – TRY EITHER OF THOSE jackets on the chair. Perhaps the darker one. It looks like it will be a better fit across the shoulders. Yes? It’s comfortable? Right, let me see your shirt. Stand by the window there, please. It doesn’t work together. There’s too much fuss with those stripes. Sorry, Ben. It’s a beautiful shirt, just too distracting. It doesn’t work … How about something a little softer … there’s a blue here, or white. The white would be perfect, I think. Unless you would be happier in a color? There’s a purple T-shirt on the shelf but it will drain your complexion. What was that phrase you used to tell us they drummed into you at art school: ‘We add, not subtract’? There you go; algebra in action. You’re about the same size so it shouldn’t feel tight on the collar. Oh, whatever you prefer, but maybe the top button open, and also the one after that. Let me see. Two buttons are definitely better than one … but not three. That’ll be too much.

      We are in the room behind the kitchen where Vishni does the laundry twice a week. I cannot bear to take Ben into your room, so pulling the clothes nearest to hand is safer. Your scent is not here, the overwhelming smell of detergent banishing all ghosts. We have swum together in the past, shared a bed for sleeping purposes more than once, making Ben not embarrassed to change in front of me. He has posed before, of course, many years ago, shortly after we first met and before the appearance of you. Ben’s painting was one of the first that got me noticed, but you know all about that; what attention does. It is this past history combined with his taste for Provincetown nudist beaches that has schooled him in his lack of self-consciousness. I am sifting through the pile of clothes that Vishni has ironed, looking for further options, so at first I miss an opportunity to note the differences in his body to yours, bar the firmness of his stomach suggesting his continuing loyalty to calisthenics. As he turns around, I see more: the muscular V of his back, the square-packed shoulders and how, despite being as tall and rangy as you are, there is neatness to his frame. He seems so compact. Time is etched on his face, of course, and clings with honor to his neck, but the body is a monument to someone decades younger. He remains smooth and mostly hairless, the other marked contrast to you. Something about his physicality and yours marks you as family, one from either end of blond’s spectrum. Ben is dressed, still in his Italian trousers, but the rest is yours, a white T-shirt instead of the shirt, and your navy fishing jumper. I don’t know how this is chosen, but somehow we both gravitate toward it, hanging from the door hook. You have worn it for years. Sacred clothing. I think about the darker recesses of the studio, areas where the light does not reach: in the corner opposite the sink, where one frame leans against another; the shelved recess that houses the paint. I think about Ben standing there and how, with his face turned away from me, it could almost be … We are both aware of it. His posture changes in your clothes. Now he slouches against the wall, hands in pockets barely wide enough to hold credit cards. Nothing about this is caricature. He is not making a joke as he curves his shoulders inward, lips pursed, arms loose and gangly as if an overgrown boy. He wrinkles his nose.

      – This stinks.

      – He went fishing last week. You were the one who pulled it down. When he hangs it up there Vishni knows not to wash it. It’s one of the quirks he has.

      – Doesn’t he just! What was he fishing? Are there still trout in the river?

      – Brown trout. He has to go where the river passes town these days. Further away from the hills as less seem to travel upstream. He did pretty good last week, though. We were eating for a couple of days.

      – Worth coming back for? It’s been a while since we went fishing.

      – Worth coming back for. You know he’ll be only too pleased to take you.

      – Maggots running everywhere, plenty of beer drunk, but not much fish, as I recall.

      – He’s better at it, these days. Has the patience, I should say. You’ve got a good month or so ahead of you, if you want to take him up on the offer.

      – So his letters suggest. Our boy’s become quite the country