I would spend weeks on one canvas like that, until I discarded it in disappointment, in despair. I’d take it off the easel and put it to the wall, away from me. And then I’d start again on another. I’d try again. And I’d make a plan in my mind to visit Eric at the art shop, to find a new set of colours, of shades. Perhaps I’d tell Eric my problem.

ONE DAY I drove to Eric and the art store during Helena’s ballet class. It wasn’t far, it was on a nondescript street, next to some other shops — the Greek grocer, some others. This time I must have looked different, perhaps agitated, because Eric said, are you alright? Ah, yes, no, not really, I said. I laughed. I’m having such trouble, Eric, I said. Such trouble. I shook my head. Your painting? he said. Yes, yes. My painting, I said. Perhaps I’ll try something different. Eric laughed then. Ah, don’t believe you! he said. I know you.

He did, he did know me. What if I changed my brush, I said. Perhaps a finer one, a smaller one. He went, we went to the back, he showed me some brushes, some others. Eric was patient, he was good at his work. He looked at me searchingly, then. I think you’ll figure it out, he said. You will. Of course, in the end, he was right. He was right.

I went into the Greek grocer on my way home, on my way back to the ballet studio. There was an old woman there, I liked talking to her, her English was strongly accented, a little broken. She wore dark dresses — she was an old Mediterranean woman. Her husband would be there too, more idle, he’d be reading a newspaper in his language, its inscrutable alphabet. I mean, inscrutable to me. The shop had fruit and vegetables, I’d get apples and green peppers, and once I bought a crate of tomatoes, I don’t know what possessed me. Why so many, ma’am, Emily said when I brought them home. (Josias staggered in with the crate from the car.) Emily and I laughed about that long after, about the day I brought so many tomatoes home. I didn’t even know what to cook with them — so many — really. Finally I said to Emily, just put them in a stew, a big stew, every day, but in your stews especially (I meant, the servants’ stews) — and she did. I think she liked what she did with her stews for weeks after, I have an idea they were very good. But food didn’t concern me much, then.

I DESCRIBE THE peace of my days, but around us, distant from us, was no peace. What went on at night, for instance, in our backyard? Sometimes I’d be woken in the dark night hours, our house so still, by dogs barking. Our dogs? The neighbours’ dogs? I couldn’t tell. I’d lie then, listening. I thought I heard music, distant rhythmic music, from Josias’s room — but perhaps I imagined it. Occasionally there’d be a shout, even a scream, but I couldn’t be certain I hadn’t simply dreamed it. Perhaps my dreams and sleep were unquiet, that may be true.