The Price of Fame. Rowena Cory Daniels

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СКАЧАТЬ dressed in their trendy outfits. The youth lay with his face turned up to the hot afternoon sun. How long he'd been there was anyone's guess. Dulcy and I checked him out - we guessed it was an overdose. Rather than drag him somewhere, Dulcy stayed to shade his face with her body while I called the police and an ambulance.

      We sat there with our feet in the gutter while the tourists walked by. It was weird. Here was this boy who could have been dying for all they knew, yet no one even looked at us.

      It took the ambulance seven minutes to arrive. We were still waiting half an hour later for the police; after another 10 minutes in the hot sun we gave up and went down to the beach for a swim. I never did find out what happened to the kid.

      Tilting my head to study the canvas, I imagined Fitzroy Street on a summer afternoon, the footpath crowded with tourists all dressed up to contrast with the figure in the foreground. But I didn't want to paint the boy. It was too easy to sympathise with him. I wanted to confront.

      Then I recalled the perfect person. I used to have trouble sleeping. Rather than go straight home after finishing work, I'd roam while the morning dew was still wet on the ground. My favourite walk was through Blessington Street Gardens. Not long after the break up with Joyce I'd been striding along, chewing over bitter memories, my heels crunching on the gravel when I rounded a corner and startled an old tramp. Thrusting off his blanket of newspapers, he'd staggered to his feet. When he saw it was only me, he'd glared and gone back to sleep. At the time I'd seen it as a warning. That tramp was me, if I didn't pull myself together.

      I wanted to capture the tramp's defiant indifference. I wasn't trying for pity. Pity was easy. The bitter old tramp sitting in the gutter, glaring out at the viewer would be a stronger image than a youth who had so much to lose.

      A thrill that was better than sex made my heart race. If I could pull this off, it would be the best thing I'd ever done. A long dormant surge of desire made me aware that my body was something other than a means to carry me around. This painting would give me purpose again. Today I'd skip sleep and get some references for the background.

      At around three that afternoon, Pangur Ban followed me down the steps. Again, music vibrated through the door of flat two. The sketchbook and camera urged me to keep going, but Joe had been good to me on my blackest days, so I knocked.

      The door opened. A teenage boy studied me insolently, hands thrust in his pockets. A long blond fringe hung in his calculating eyes. Joe was up to his old tricks.

      'Who is it?' Joe called from the living room.

      I pitched my voice to carry. 'Dropped in for that coffee you promised.'

      'Show him in, Luke.'

      The boy's lips parted in a satisfied smile, we could both hear the infatuation in Joe's voice. As I entered Luke gave me an appreciative up and down that was meant to be insulting. It worked.

      Joe waved a greeting and indicated a seat. He was watching daytime television, that particular brand of idiocy reserved for housewives and the unemployed. 'Turn the TV off, Luke.'

      The boy sprawled in front of the screen, ignoring us.

      I propped myself on the sofa arm and asked, 'So where's my commission?' The last short story Joe had sold had been based on something that happened in my cab.

      'They take ages to pay. But as soon as they do, tell you what, I'll buy you dinner.'

      'Dinner? You wouldn't make that much.'

      'More than enough, Playboy pays well.'

      Luke shifted and I sensed his interest, carefully concealed.

      Joe followed my gaze. 'Make us a coffee, Luke?'

      'Next ad.'

      Joe stretched and smiled faintly. 'Luke's hooked on the soapies. Used to watch them while his mum was away, instead of going to school. Take a seat, relax, O'Toole.'

      'Can't. Got the inspiration at last.'

      'Inspiration?' Joe teased. For Luke's benefit he added, 'O'Toole's an artist.'

      The boy gave me a cold look, then went back to the TV.

      'Heard from Michael?' I asked innocently.

      Luke's unconscious foot tapping ceased. Joe grimaced. 'Not since he came asking for money. I threw him out, remember?'

      I nodded, giving him a wink. Joe had the grace to grin. He'd given Michael 50 dollars, all he had on him at the time. Two days later someone walked into his flat and stole his TV. Michael knew where Joe kept the spare key.

      The adverts came on.

      'How about some coffee and biscuits, Luke,' Joe prodded. 'Any of those chocolate ones left?'

      'Nah.' The boy uncoiled coming to his feet. His movements were calculated to arouse. 'We ate them all last night. Remember?' He prowled off to the kitchen nook.

      A pleased smile lit Joe's face. 'We were watching Arsenic and Old Lace. Have you seen it? There's this really funny part where the little German doctor-'

      'There's no milk,' Luke said truculently from the archway.

      My hand itched. One good slap would wipe that look off his face.

      'Well, go and get some,' Joe told him.

      'No money.'

      Joe levered himself out of the chair. He'd been in a car accident as a teenager and, if he sat still too long, he stiffened up.

      While he went down the hall to get his wallet Luke studied me. 'Guess how old I am?'

      I shrugged. It was that or belt him.

      'I'm 13.'

      'Bullshit. If you're 13, then I'm 21!'

      He glared at me. He was shorter than Joe and fine boned with a remarkably pretty face. But I had looked into his eyes. He was an old 16.

      'Here.' Joe handed him his wallet.

      With a shrug Luke pushed away from the wall and went down the hall. The front door opened then slammed shut.

      'You gave him your wallet. Will he be back?' I was only half kidding.

      Joe pulled several folded twenties out of his pocket. 'If he runs off with ten bucks I'm well rid of him.'

      I laughed, allowed my weight to slide over the arm of the sofa, onto the seat and put my feet on the coffee table.

      'He's a good kid. He mightn't look it, but he is. He's been on his own since Christmas. His mum went off to find herself and found a new boyfriend instead, so Luke wasn't wanted. He's been sleeping on the streets but it's too cold for that now.' Joe shrugged. 'At least with me he's warm and fed. And if it wasn't me, it would be someone else.'

      'Can't stay long,' I warned, patting the bag with my sketchbook and camera. 'Gotta get some references.'

      'So tell me about this Inspiration.'

      I shook my head. 'Not ready СКАЧАТЬ