KLIMT
By John Saul
You know Klimt
don't you?
Austrian artist, 1862-1918, cat lover
painter of women in gold
of The Kiss
you don't know The Kiss?
almost as well-known as The Scream
don't know The Scream?
oh well, so much for Gustav
big noise at the turn of the century
big beard, big painter's smock
ah, you say
that Klimt
Everything is ready for the weekend in Vienna
to get to know the man in the smock
everything
passports
tickets
hotel
the flight
sea-bands to calm your wrists
beside the gangway in the Thomas Cook 767
now bouncing, sliding through the skies
Alps below
we're slipping apart, you say
this could be our last time together
you never know with aircraft
Looking back it was you, not me, finally
who wanted the weekend in Vienna
unearthing photos of the man in his robe
of dark blue parachute material
Gustav, looking wild
that Rasputin of the easel who
paints women
looks comfortable with a chainsaw
loves women
sort of loves women
look at him, I heard you say, I hear you still
the man has got something
So the plane met the tarmac
the hotel door flew back
if you can call it a hotel
and there we are
walking the avenues, the public spaces
undimmed, your interest in foreign places
you're taking to Vienna,
while I'm more practical
see my phone gets charged
our Wienerschnitzel safely fried
don't worry
I will run the waiter's talk through a translation machine
I've got the app
and I'll wait
until your Freudian session on the couch is over
I'll be downstairs, full of hope
on the steps outside
It was you who couldn't wait
to leave the hotel in the distance
to turn off this stony boulevard and stand
before the house of Gustav Klimt
hand-in-hand
canned
on schnapps and lager
canned
since you are so sure these are our last moments, the last bars of our little two-piece band
You're just as sure that Klimt
bumpily successful while alive
is still around, not quite turned to dust
and well
then there's hope
infinite hope, for us as well
don't you think?
you don't? I do
ah funf, sieben, neun, this is it
number eleven Feldmühlgasse
having come this far
we'll knock and knock
to see that smock
Listen, those steps must be his sandals
and here he is, in voluminous blue
guten Tag, Herr Klimt
were you in your garden? I say switching on the translation machine
not exactly, the machine replies, I was resting from a bout of rowing on the lake
in your smock?
look, says the machine, are you from the press, because if you are don't say I'm not modern, I have a motorboat, and a telephone
but you are Herr Klimt, Gustav, Austrian artist, 1862-1918, cat lover, who put his gold into pictures rather than the bank?
1918? he splutters
Klimt stomps off as well as he can in sandals
muttering about poplar trees
cutting a path through jumping cats
circling his garden
a plot he draws inspiration from
wait
He beckons us to stand with him, beside tall sunflowers
declaring sunflowers eclipses of the sun
and saying, looking, looking
at the way you're standing
Ja ich bin er, I am he
painter of women adorned with stars and silk and sequins
moving, lying, standing, flowing, swimming, hair tangled in algae
women ready to weave, to undulate
enjoy finery, wear some gold
would you care to see the studio?
you not him
since 1910 I've only painted women
Oh well, banished to the role of onlooker
as Gustav
a cat cradled in one arm
stares again not at your face
but at the way you happen to be standing
pushes back your corn-bright hair
tugs fur-hats on and off
first blue fox-fur
then black beaver
then felt, then feathers
as our last moments go ticking by
that weekend
that summer in Vienna
and
On I look, foolish with hope
as he draws back a sleeve
to free his painting hand
as he transfers you, a brushstroke at a time
into a canvas
where you disappear below the surface
to reappear
among reeds and fishes
swimming with the algae
I'm sure it's you
almost lost in ferns and tendrils
wearing gold and silver
lost to drifting dreams
in underwater meadows
Another summer
I will take a train
smooth and quiet and continental
slipping through the night
I will go back to Vienna looking for you
hoping you will be there.
John Saul's work has appeared extensively in the UK and internationally, and is next due to appear in the prestigious US magazine, Gargoyle. He has four collections of short fiction published (three at Salt Publishing, UK), and The Times has described his work as "witty and playful," proof "the short story is not only alive but being reinvigorated in excitingly diverse ways." He is currently collaborating on an innovative project with words and music. and in 2014 excerpts from this were performed at the National Portrait Gallery and Write Idea Festival in London. Find more information at his website, www.johnsaul.co.uk.
© 2015