Then, with his thoughts banging against one another, he retrieved one of the picture boards and walked back to the bench. He cleared a space, positioned the board, sifted through his oddments for sea colours and sunset colours, selected tiles, glass, mother-of-pearl chips, some pieces of stone; he dragged his stool to the bench and sat himself down. And soon he was choosing and chipping, placing and gluing, working freehand to create a picture, impressionistic and colourful. He cut the chips in crescents and ellipses, and set them into a brilliant sunset of waves and swirls. A whirling Van Gogh sky emerged in yellows, oranges, reds, and pearly whites. And rising up and mingling with it were the peaks and eddies of a stormy sea — blues, greens, greys, and a peachy yellow — in the centre of which he built a lighthouse. Every so often he went to the sink to make up a fresh batch of glue. He did not drink; he did not use the toilet. His mind was quiet, his heart was still, his picture grew.

He finished just before dawn. He had created a stormy seascape at sunset with a lighthouse. It was unlike anything he had ever done before. He made himself fresh coffee and went up to the roof. It was a vibrant dawn; the sky was lit with the colours of his painting.

He watched the sun rise. He had survived the night.

12 LIFE’S RAFFLE

12

LIFE’S RAFFLE

Sylvie and Galina had arranged to spend the whole day together, starting with brunch at Galina’s local café. They had planned a walk through the cemetery to read the headstones — they’re like letters, or rather telegrams, Galina had said with a giggle — before visiting a gallery where one of her real estate colleagues was showing his work. But with her book about to go into production, and a number of last-minute queries to settle, her publishers had insisted she come to company headquarters and deal with the issues face-to-face.

‘My publishers are located practically in the bush,’ Galina said the previous evening when she telephoned Sylvie with her apologies. ‘And they are paying for me to take a taxi — both ways. I cannot guess what it will cost.’

When Melbourne Meets Leningrad was shaping up to be a hit. Not only because the Soviet Union was front-page news, but the idea of two cities getting to know each other through their landmarks and customs had excited interest, not only with Galina’s Australian publisher, but also abroad. The book had already been sold into several territories, and a series of city-meets-city books had now been given the go-ahead. Galina’s publishers stood to make a pile of money from her first book. Of course they could shell out for a taxi, Sylvie was thinking. Both ways.