I owe more to my uncle than my mother; perhaps something only Telemachus and I can say. Tuesdays were named after him, and he always came brilliantly polished, clad in tweed and heavy cotton. One week it would be green, matching a necktie patterned with peacock feathers. The week after it would be the brown of his spectacles and notepad. What never changed was his strain of tobacco. He liked the unflavoured variety, and would pack it in with the dexterity of a watchmaker. The plumes of smoke which spun up and around him fogged your mind. They gave his conversation an ethereal component, adding wisdom to anything he said gently, and certainty to anything that he interjected. He had nasty tricks in debate. He would use his arrogance to knock you off balance, making you speak fast, without pauses. Uncle Tony would then ask you something you could answer, sending you in a different direction. He would breathe out a puff of smoke, referencing something obscure. You would continue, but then he would point out your contradiction, exhaling again. Before you worked it out, he would ask you something simple. He could make a scholar doubt their own subject, and a mathematician trip over a sum.
Uncle Tony had an interesting way with me and my brother. He would lecture us; tell us something important, ask us what we had read, what artist we liked, he would tell us what universities are not worth going to,and which books were not worth reading. We used to sit cross-legged on the carpet in front of him. He taught us French at 5, and made us translate philosophy at 15. I am a classicist now myself, and he had me whipped so tightly together that my interviewers at Balliol did not know what to make of me. I spent a year working out how to study, and even with a year of no progress I was top of my class. I cannot quite understand why he did not have the same effect on my brother; a mathematician without a single influential paper. Ben has grown to be quite the opposite to me, and I dare say it is a little unbecoming. Uncle Tony treated us identically, but while I saw the grandeur and wisdom; Ben saw books and facts. Don’t get this wrong: until about fifteen he was absolutely enthralled by Uncle Tony, but that has been fading ever since.
Every week we would prepare our translation, study the artists, and question each other on the reading. On Wednesdays we would do all the school work, he the science, and me what was left. This freed the rest of the week’s evenings. Occasionally, Uncle Tony was forced to miss a Tuesday. He is a cultural historian, with a focus on the role that art plays in a society. He is also a great figure in the world of art valuation, so during the winter months we often had to wait an extra week to see him. The sessions after were always the liveliest.
I remember one time so vividly, and that week we had read the philosophy of the Pythagoreans, with Ben even studying beyond the reading list. Uncle Tony, as usual, made us stand and debate each other, while he watched from his chair. Ben is an emotional debater, and he his mood can change quickly. We began with the philosophy of the Pythagoreans, but then Ben steered us in a peculiar direction. He was speaking with a vulgar amount of smugness.
“The square root of two is irrational, what does this mean?”
I had seen this mentioned, so I knew the answer. “It’s a special type of number which cannot be expressed as the ratio of two wholes.” Uncle Tony smiled at my retort. Ben had not expected this, so he pushed again, now speaking with a tremble in his jaw.
“Name another.”
“Well, I suppose the square root of three.” I answered decisively.
Ben flung up his arms; and began to protest.
“Uncle Tony ask him to prove it. He doesn’t know that for sure. He spent no time understanding that. It could be wrong. It could be wrong for all he knows.” At first he was composed, but had started to plead as Uncle Tony’s expression did not change. Eventually, Uncle Tony raised a hand to stop him. And eventually he spoke.
“Well Ben, he has demonstrated that he can make accurate deductions. At this time, in this particular conversation, that is enough.” Ben squirmed. “Now, I encourage you to stick to the syllabus I give you; it includes everything someone at your level needs. If that is not enough, then I can give you more, but don’t stray from the beaten path, there is a reason you are on it.”
I am recalling this all now as it has been six months since I saw Uncle Tony, and about nine months since I saw my family. I have been away studying in Greece. Night in, night out I have managed to gain a little more from the culture here. I am working on a piece about the influence of Anagnorisis in literature, and here in the heart of it all I can properly enter the texts. Part of me is sad to depart, but I am also curious to see if time does heal old wounds, and a family meal will expose all.
At first I thought little had changed, the evening began with the usual attention to detail typical of my parents. Wine whose vintages marked memories, meals matched to occasions, flowers matched to preference. The spectacle of their events are all consuming, and it is all that we spoke about. Over dinner we reminisced, how funny, funny stories were, how different things are now. Nothing we spoke about concerned the future or any event of the near past. Hearing Uncle Tony speak of his first encounter with my mother was the only new thing I learned, and he told it excellently.
After dinner, my parents went to the balcony to look over the city. This left me, Ben, and Uncle Tony sitting in our old positions. We begun to recreate a Tuesday session; by discussing the significance of something, each eager to have the final word. But something was different now. It no longer felt like me and Ben against Uncle Tony. Ben was rather left out. But he sat listening and engaged, contributing when he knew the subject. At one point Uncle Tony, after a long period of absence, attempted to bring Ben in.
“So Benjamin, has any art taken your fancy recently?”
“No, not really,” he said politely. “But I have started a life drawing class.”
“Is that so?” Goaded Uncle Tony, “No art has taken you? Well that is preposterous. I tell you what Benjamin, you must have a look at the recent works of Ohgane. We are seeing the genesis of a new movement.”
“Isn’t that work there signed Ohgane? The one above the mantle piece.” Ben asked. Tony lent a small portion of his body forward, “It is indeed Benjamin, but his work now is different. It has more provenance, it is more inspired. Like our other old friend, Ohgane spent some time with the sources, and it touched him dearly.” It was good that Ben was involved in the conversation so I walked to the shelf and picked up Ohgane’s catalogue raisonné. As they spoke I flipped to the work Uncle Tony was referencing. It is an image of a lady, who is sat poised against a textured orange background. The composition mirrors that of the Venus, while the strength of the oil and the strength of the light mirror that of Caravaggio. Her form is intentionally distorted and obscured, in reference to some of the works of Freud. You cannot make out her face, and most people fail to realise she is even in the painting. The catalogue had the picture printed across two pages, and I turned it carefully around. Ben pushed his glasses up his nose, and studied it.
“It doesn’t speak to me,” said Ben hesitantly.
“Well does the composition not remind you of something?” I asked.
“No… I don’t think that it does.” He said looking me in the eye.
Tony sighed. “Well Benjamin its a reference to Venus.” He raised his voice slightly. “Now explain to me why you do not like it.”
Ben looked at the painting again. “It’s just not to my taste, but it does have the essence of another painting that I like.”
Uncle Tony scoffed. “Benjamin, you have not explained yourself in the slightest. A man in your profession ought to be good at explaining, if nothing else.”
Ben turned to him directly. “Okay sure. The orange is far too saturated. The main body of it, presumably a figure of some kind, is unappealing. Some of the thicker gestural lines are nice, but I don’t like the fuzzy smaller ones. If I were painting it, I would’ve used less lines, its too dense, and—”
“—Stop there you are embarrassing yourself.” Uncle Tony looked away, and to me.
“Why? You asked for my opinion and I gave it to you,” said Ben curtly.
“Because I expect eloquence.” Bens face contorted. “Considering all that you have read, all the people you have dined with. How you can look at such a work as this, and say something so uneducated?”
This even shocked me a little, and Ben was taken aback. He looked at something across the room, and went to say something definitive, but he did not. “I don’t want to speak about this anymore,” he said and then withdrew. The start of a ghastly long silence was beginning, but was interrupted by the swing of the door, as my parents returned. Oblivious to everything, they spoke joyously of the view into the city, and what we would drink tonight. Uncle Tony began to light his pipe, pulling his matches from his blazer and opening them with the same hand. My father reclined into the sofa, stretching his legs out onto the carpet. I began to smoke myself. My father, whose voice has grown more muscular with age, began to speak.
“Boys. It is so pleasant to have you back, even if it is just a fleeting visit. Life can get so busy, as I am sure you now know better than me. At my age so little changes. Maybe I will go somewhere and bring back an ornament, or meet a friend who will tell me some gossip of the past. It is only small changes now for me,” he sipped his wine, “like buying an old Ohgane from Uncle Tony.”
Ben looked away from the room, but I looked at Tony. He had rolled his head back, pipe in mouth, breathing deeply. “Patrick, my dear, have you asked Benjamin what he thinks of Ohange?” He said that he had not. We were all looking at Ben now; he was clenching his teeth. My father was confused, “Is everything okay Ben?”
“Oh Patrick, do ask him what he thinks.”
“Stop it Tony,” Ben erupted. “If my opinion on it was so horrible, why bring it up? Why bother? And I don’t care to hear your ramblings on it again either.” This shocked my parents and silenced everyone.
Tony puffed a three clouds in quick succession. “Benjamin some of my ramblings have been cited in books.”
“And no fucker with sense reads them.”
Ben stood up. “Do you know what I thought of just now?” He said walking to the side of the room. “All these years, all that you’ve written, all that you’ve debated.” He picked a notepad from a side table and walked toward Tony. “Three books you’ve published Tony, and how many works have you valued?” He was a few steps away. “You don’t think that you should learn to draw a picture?” He then tossed the open notebook toward him. We all watched as it landed on a coffee table and span. Tony looked up from it.
“Draw a picture?” He chuckled. “My dear boy, I am a historian, and a critic, not an artist.” Ben was angry before, but now he just looked arrogant. He was standing over Tony, just a reach away from him.
“Give it a go Tony, who knows, you might even be good at it.” Tony’s brow narrowed and he blew out a thick cloud of smoke into Ben’s face.
I had not once seen him do this.