River Spirit by Leila Aboulela

Author:Leila Aboulela
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Grove Atlantic
Published: 2023-02-28T16:46:53+00:00

13

Robert

Khartoum, September 1883

In the past year, he had sold five watercolors. One of them—Felucca on the Blue Nile—was already hanging in the Grosvenor Gallery in London. Two in private ownership. The Fort at Khartoum soon to be displayed in the gallery in Bath Street. Another, still unsold, was on the wall of the Art Club in Edinburgh awaiting the verdict of the Fine Art Committee. Still others were with his agent, as were sixty charcoal sketches, not for sale because he planned to develop them into oil on his return to Scotland. When he had sent the first painting to his agent, his accompanying letter was terse and tentative. He did not want to attach to the gesture much hope. It was easy to imagine the parcel lost or damaged on the way. Then came the enthusiastic response, the request for more. His agent also mentioned the possibility of negotiating for him a commission from the Glasgow Herald. In case of action against the Mahdi, Robert could accompany the troops, his illustrations accompanying the news articles written by the paper’s war correspondents.

Such an incentive to work, to keep going now that he had without a doubt turned a corner, and there was evidence that not only was he excelling, but there was also a demand for what he could produce. He worked late at night, insects gathering around the lantern, the breeze barely wafting through the window. He had become unfazed by these physical discomforts, the horrendous heat, having to constantly wipe his sweaty palms with a handkerchief. More challenging was looking after the canvas during the process and after completion. Protecting it from the dust that was everywhere, even beyond the haboob season and even with the shutters down and the windows sealed, it would come again, a film of dust covering every surface.

His paintings needed to be wrapped in layers of cloth. Twice, paintings in progress, perched on the easel (he did now possess an easel, made under his supervision by a local carpenter), were ruined by a haboob because he’d been unable to run home in time to save them. He was forced to start fresh, resentful of what he had lost, shouting orders for the room to be cleared of dust. He shared servants with his boss, Ramsay, a man and a woman who came round to his place whenever they could be spared. So “shared” was not exactly accurate; he made do with the surplus of their time. This was a haphazard arrangement, and he was considering having his own staff. Now that he was more social and outgoing, though not to the extent of having people over, unsolicited advice to do so often came his way. He was, to his surprise, considered by some as an eligible widower and though the number of suitable young women was low, he did find himself with admirers. It was the mothers of these young women who gave him domestic advice. You must never drink milk without boiling it first.

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