Not Your Ordinary Housewife: How the man I loved led me into a world I had never imagined (6 page)

After dinner, Paul and I had some time alone. ‘I have to show you the Renoir. It’s in my room,’ he said.

‘Really?’

‘Yeah. It’s in the spare room, now that I’ve moved out. It’s under my bed—they didn’t want to hang it, in case it got stolen.’

We entered Paul’s old room and there, under his single bed, was the painting. It was a historical painting—Mary Queen of Scots being led to her execution. It wasn’t in Renoir’s typically light and saturated colours but it was signed, nonetheless.

However, I was sceptical, even after examining the signature. Renoir mainly did parties and portraits; I was not aware of him painting that kind of subject matter. I wondered about its provenance— how did Paul know it wasn’t a fake?

‘It just isn’t . . . and the provenance got lost in Prague. Anyway, these people didn’t need to buy fakes, because they could afford originals. You have no idea how rich they were.’

‘Okay, okay, I believe you,’ I said. ‘It’s just hard to believe. You know, I don’t actually like that Renoir much—I wouldn’t want it hanging in my house either.’

Paul laughed. ‘Yeah—that’s why I put it under my bed. I used to chuck my dirty undies and socks on it.’

Back at Uilenstede, we dissected the evening. Paul reckoned Saskia was trying to break us up and I agreed. ‘Well, maybe you should study in Canada,’ I suggested.

But Paul said he loved me so much he couldn’t bear to be without me: ‘I know we haven’t known each other long, but I don’t want to be with anyone else . . . ever.’ He’d often said that we were meant to be together, and I’d felt that too; I couldn’t imagine loving anybody else.

Still, he seemed to be way too young to be saying such things. But he argued that, while he was chronologically only nineteen, he’d done a lot of living and a lot of soul searching. ‘You think all that shit, like smuggling stuff out from behind the Iron Curtain, doesn’t give you a certain perspective on life?’

He’d definitely seen a lot more than the average person. I was, though, eight years older than him; I doubted this was going to work. It was a holiday romance: one day, I’d go back to my life in Melbourne and he’d go to art school and marry some nice Dutch girl, just like his mother wanted him to.

‘No, that’s not going to happen,’ he said emphatically. He was becoming emotional and had tears in his eyes. ‘I don’t know what I might do if you left me.’ I was shocked by Paul’s veiled reference to suicide. He continued: ‘I just can’t see a future without you in it. What I’d really love is if you’d say you’d marry me.’

Jesus. I was floored. I’d never been proposed to before. I was flattered, of course, but floored.

The fact was that our relationship histories were vastly different. Since early secondary school, I’d been pursued by boys. As a ‘nice Jewish girl’, I lost my virginity at eighteen to my ‘nice Jewish boyfriend’. We were together for three years, usually making love furtively in his 1960s Chrysler—at the drive-ins or outside my parents’ house. But I had been unfulfilled—the emotional component had been lacking. So I took up with an unconventional zoology student (who introduced me to Brautigan, Baudelaire and Buber) with whom I lived for three years; but he turned out to be obsessively jealous of other men and I felt constrained.

It was at that point that I decided to make up for lost time by becoming promiscuous. I picked and fucked whoever I fancied—at first from the Monash Uni left-wing crowd, and then from among Australia’s glass artists. I sometimes decided which propositions I would accept by the toss of a coin. I was no longer the demure virgin waiting for the boy to make the first move; instead, I revelled in my new-found sexuality, spurred on by my feminist friends.

After that, I had two more relationships, both non-monogamous. One lover I shared with his girlfriend (although I cared for him deeply, I was never jealous); the other was in Adelaide (a talented poet and painter, who referred to me as his ‘free spirit’). Over those years I would have lost count of my dozens of lovers if I hadn’t kept a tally but, by the time I left for Europe, I was unattached.

By contrast, Paul had never had a real relationship—perhaps a few hot dates, but no deeply committed partnership. Now he simply said he loved me a lot and didn’t want to lose me—I hoped this wasn’t just impetuosity. Still, he was prepared to emigrate to Australia if it meant he could be with me always, and he assured me this was not about him getting out of the army. He’d go to Canada for a bit, but long-term he wanted to come back to Melbourne with me. We could set up a studio together and do art. Maybe even have babies.

Marriage was something I’d probably always craved, without ever articulating it. I had Dory and Egon’s marriage as a model— solid and compatible, based on unquestioning devotion. With them there were never lies or affairs, and yet I guessed that neither was there a strong sexual component.

For me sex was important but in some ways it was always incidental. I craved an emotional connection, and that was what I felt I’d found in Paul. Moreover, he had a really convincing answer to every objection I raised. It was as if I was waiting to be persuaded; I let him take charge while he painted a romantic portrait of our life together.

Deep down, I wanted this—it would fill the emotional void created by Egon’s death and my estrangement from Dory. I had always thought marriage a bourgeois construct; but I knew I’d never felt like this about anyone before. Besides, if I said no, I stood to lose him forever—and I couldn’t bear that.

Almost before I realised it, I had agreed to marry him. He was utterly elated. Admittedly, I was ecstatic too, although a little overwhelmed. It was all happening so fast. I knew we loved each other deeply and I wanted to be in a monogamous relationship with him.

Much of our time in the student dorm was spent drawing in the Mondrian kitchen, as I called it. Paul would spread out his sketchbooks, his Indian ink bottle and metal quill pens. He liked the ‘warm’ line they produced and was very particular about nibs, whereas I had always used a rapidograph, a technical drawing pen. Together we would draw while listening to our favourite music: AC/DC, UB40 and Nina Hagen. As the best of The Beatles blared from his blaster, I sang along to the familiar lyrics. Experimenting with colour and collage, and with Paul cartooning by my side, I felt totally fulfilled.

We were doing a lot of photography, mainly of each other. I did a series of photos of him after using a black marker to write and draw on his body. The most successful of these was a close-up of his buttocks with the words dutch boy’s bum emblazoned across the right cheek.

Occasionally, his school friends visited. There was more bad news as we heard reports that Paul’s T-shirts were selling in such far-flung places as Sweden and Spain.

One afternoon, Paul had an idea. ‘I’ve always wondered how I’d look if I’d been born a female—why don’t you dress me up as a girl and take photos?’

I was a little puzzled. ‘Why would you wanna know what you look like as a girl? You’re a guy.’

‘Yeah, I know it’s weird, but trust me—they’ll be really great photos.’

I objected that there was no way he was going to look feminine— his chin, for example, was just too prominent. But he said that didn’t matter—they’d be arty photos. I could put make-up on him and dress him in my clothes.

I remained dubious: ‘I just don’t understand why you’d want me to do that.’

‘Trust me,’ he repeated.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘if it makes you happy . . . but it feels a little weird.’

And so I did as he asked. I made him up, using my eye-shadow and mascara. He had Cupid’s bow lips and my red lip gloss accentuated his smile. He wore a fishnet body stocking that he’d bought for me—on me it did up at the crotch, but on his masculine frame it came to his waist. The dress, also a gift, had the open zipper turned away from the camera so it appeared to fit his girth.

He was right—the photos were arty, a result of the ethereal lighting combined with his pouting facial expressions. He had recently dyed his hair black and the images were striking against the white walls.

Soon after, we were playing pool one evening in a dingy pub when we noticed some punks with a rat.

‘Hey,’ Paul said, ‘I’d love a pet rat. What do you reckon?’

‘Nah, I’ve had one before—when I was doing my science degree. All us third-year psych students were given one of those albino rats with red eyes and we had to train them using a Skinner box—you know, where they have to depress a lever to be fed.’

‘Come on, it’ll be fun. I love animals and this will be “different”. I miss my dog, you know.’

I relented. ‘Okay, but I don’t want to get stuck looking after it.’

And so one of the students in Paul’s dorm arranged for a white lab rat, complete with cage, to be delivered to our apartment.

‘I’m gonna call it Chaimie—from the toast “L’Chaim, to Life”—like in
Fiddler on the Roof
. It’s such a Jewish name,’ he cackled. ‘Hey, we can do some great photos with it. It’s a strong image.’

It was true. Chaimie was interesting to photograph, and Paul enjoyed taking it out on excursions.

Our relationship continued to encompass a mixture of art, sex and love. My devotion to him was unlimited: I had an inkling of his past suffering and my heart bled for him. He would tell me constantly how much he loved me—I was his saviour, his muse, his soul mate and his lover.

True to her word, Saskia bought Paul a ticket . . . to New York. She told him he’d have to find his own way to Montreal by bus since a direct flight wasn’t covered by her frequent flyer program. She was, however, unprepared for my decision to go with him.

We both loved New York. A friend had recommended the Carlton Arms on 3rd Avenue and 25th Street, which was a most amazing alternative artistic experience—something akin to the punk cafe in Amsterdam. The reception area boasted a mannequin wearing a welding mask and our room had pale-pink walls daubed with green and purple splodges. The bathroom, with its missing tiles and cockroaches, featured a dilapidated claw-foot bath. Behind the torn vertical blinds was our own fire escape. The place was inspiring and we were soon taking photos, in between visiting the Guggenheim and other galleries.

Paul arranged to stay with his father in Montreal and I was curious to meet him. Brian Demaine was a handsome man with a wicked sense of humour. Like Saskia, he had been a model—in his case, a ‘dressman’—before becoming an English tutor at McGill University. He lived with his two sons and his much younger girlfriend. Like Paul, he was a gifted storyteller and he regaled us with humorous anecdotes. Paul struggled hard to reach the serious side of his father’s nature, but failed miserably. It was only their second meeting and there were still many questions unanswered.

I had been reading upstairs in the spare bedroom of Brian’s bluestone terrace when Paul burst in. ‘That arsehole! Brian’s just said we have to move out because his mother’s coming to stay.’ Paul was upset. ‘Apparently he’s never told her about me and he’s using the pretext of her weak heart to deny me the opportunity of meeting my own grandmother.’

I was surprised by this news. Brian had mentioned her visit, but never that we wouldn’t be welcome. ‘But it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to meet her,’ I said.