Prochownik's Dream by Alex Miller Read Free Book Online

landing stage came into view, a canopied barge moored next to it. The barge was decorated like a fairground boat that might ply the make-believe waterways of Luna Park or Disneyland, The Tunnel of Love or The Pirates Cave . BREAM ISLAND PUNT in blue lettering along the side of its canopy.
    He took hold of the rope and tied up alongside the barge.
    Marina cut the motor.
    He secured the boat and climbed out onto the landing stage, taking the picnic basket from her and standing to read the sign. Bream Island Environmental Sculpture Park and Art Space. All native plants and animals are protected .
    â€˜It’s like playing truant.’ she said beside him.
    The smell of the dry incandescent bush in his nostrils.
    Her features were uplit by the reflected sunlight within the shadows of her hat’s brim. In this modelling of her features, something of the burnished softground of an etching needle. In art, beauty is everything , his father had told him. The artist’s enterprise is to refuse the world’s ugliness .
    â€˜I bet you never played truant,’ he said.
    She laughed. ‘Come on, let’s go and see the space.’
    She walked ahead of him, climbing the levee that was set with redgum sleepers for steps, rising diagonally across the face of the bank.
    He followed her, admiring the free swing of the grey dress against her legs—the dress she had chosen to wear for her truant day. Taking it from her wardrobe this morning and holding it against herself, considering how she would look. Robert sitting on the edge of their bed admiring her. She telling him, They said on the radio it’s going to be hot.
    She waited for him on the crown of the levee. ‘Look! It’s amazing. An island of native bush preserved in the middle of the city.’
    Below them a sweep of dry grass and tall eucalypts. A plein-air vision trembling in the golden summer heat.
    â€˜We never went to the bush when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘I don’t think Mum and Dad knew the way.’
    They walked along the top of the levee.
    â€˜What time do you have to pick Nada up?’ she asked.
    â€˜Three-thirty.’
    â€˜Good, we’ll have time for our picnic.’
    They followed the track down into the hollow of the island. Electric barbeques with tables and bench sets, and here and there among the trees the environmental sculptures. Constructions of local stone and timber suggesting the work of shamans, something to do with the sanctity of wilderness.
    She reached out with her straw hat, pointing. Ahead, through the trees, a pale building reclined along the verge of the timberline.
    A few minutes later they came up to the building and she unlocked the door with one of the keys on the orange float. She waited and he went in and set the picnic basket on the floor.
    It was a large empty space with narrow vertical windows looking out on to the surrounding bush. There was the smell of fresh paint.
    She stood beside him. After a minute she asked, ‘So what do you think? Can you see your work here?’
    â€˜It’s a good space,’ he said. He was not enthusiastic.
    She walked away from him, impatient. ‘So you haven’t really got a project?’
    He watched her standing on her own in the middle of the expanse of vacant floor, the hard light from the windows behind her, isolating her. The human figure, isolated and vulnerable. He said playfully, ‘ You could be my installation.’
    She swung around, making a sweeping gesture at the space with her extended arm, the broad brim of the hat, her skirt swinging around with her. ‘Come on, Toni! What do you really think? Be serious!’ She stood, considering him. ‘It’s the silence of the critics, isn’t it? God knows it’s hard enough when they do notice us.’
    â€˜It’s not the silence of the critics,’ he said. ‘Nada’s got more idea of what she’s doing at the moment than I