The Color of Light (58 page)

“Mr. Sinclair, sir.” said Harker, picking out the first ten notes of
Moonlight on Bleecker Street.

“Thanks for lending me the Balthus book, Mr. Sinclair,” said Portia cautiously. She was visibly uncomfortable around him. “It’s perfect.”

“Please, call me Rafe,” he said. A small, self-deprecating smile. “I saw it on my bookshelf and thought of you. I hope it’s helpful.”

Clayton got to his feet. “Got something for you, Mister Sinclair,” he said. He held the curtain open for him. “If you would just come this way, sir, please.”

With a questioning look at Tessa, Rafe left the warmth of the studio. A few minutes later, the curtain was lifted open. A stranger stood in the doorway, just another art-student-slash-musician in torn jeans and a faded Pink Floyd concert t-shirt, his hair chunky and mussed, as if he had just rolled out of bed after a hard night of rocking. On his feet, a pair of scuffed Doc Martens.

There was a collective gasp as the students recognized him. Then Harker patted the seat beside him. “Take a load off, Mister Sinclair.”

He squeezed in between Gracie and Harker’s electric guitar. Gracie wiggled her tush, gave a sensuous laugh. Someone with a sense of humor passed him the brownies. Wisely, he declined.

Harker appeared to be returning to a conversation begun earlier. “So. Dude. You’ve never gotten stoned and listened to
Dark Side of the Moon.”

“No.”

“No Stones. No Clapton. No Dylan. No Doors.”

Rafe shook his head. “I don’t know much about modern music. Though I think Mick Jagger and I were dating the same model at some point during the Summer of Love.”

“No Beatles. No
Elvis.
You’re like a virgin. Christ in a barrel, I’m tingling. I’m gonna make you a rock history mix tape.” He whipped out his sketchbook, scribbled furious notes to himself.

“Say, Mr. Sinclair, sir,” said Clayton eagerly, leaning forward. “If I might ask you, sir…I have this little bet going with Ben. Exactly how many Nazis did you kill during the war? Did you keep count?”

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up. He might have answered, but suddenly the curtain was drawn aside, admitting Whit Turner’s square head. The students fell silent before the Chairman of the Painting Department.

“I have to cancel our meeting tonight,” he told Graham. “Tomorrow good?” Graham nodded his assent. Now Whit regarded the students squashed together on the couch. Seeing Rafe, he frowned, as if he knew him from somewhere but couldn’t quite place the face.

“This is my friend Udo,” Graham said offhandedly. “Visiting from Lithuania. He’s thinking about transferring here next year. He’s heard good things.”

“Oh,” said Whit. He addressed Rafe, slowly and loudly. “Do you speak English?”

“No,” Graham said. “We’re working on it.”

“Well. Tell him there are going to be a lot of changes around here.” Whit said. The curtain swished closed behind him.

The students collapsed on top of one another, helpless with suppressed laughter. Clayton had to clap his hand over Gracie’s mouth to keep her from giggling out loud and giving them all away.

Seeing him dressed like this, legs stretched out lazily before him, lounging on the couch with her friends, brought an unexpected tightness to Tessa’s throat. He looked heartbreakingly young. She realized she was being given a glimpse of what he must have been like fifty years ago, before Sofia, before Anastasia, before the war. He noticed she was watching him, and smiled. His eyes were very fair and blue today.

“Mr. Sinclair,” said Graham.

“It’s Udo,” he said, taking the cigarette Harker passed to him.

“Is the school really in trouble? Should we be worried?”

“No business,” he mumbled, sinking deeper into the couch. “Not tonight.”

“It’s our school, too,” said Ben. “We want to help. Is there anything we can do?”

“You can help by doing the best work you possibly can, then going out into the world and spreading the word.”

“Say,” said Portia. “What about a Goods and Services auction?” In response to the blank stares she received, she explained further. “My church has one every year. There’s a parishioner who is a psychiatrist, he donates a session, it’s auctioned off to the highest bidder. A parishioner who is a lawyer donates an hour. A woman who works for a television talk show donates tickets…you get the idea. Last year, I offered to paint a portrait in the style of Velasquez. It went for
thousands.”

“What about Wylie Slaughter?” said Graham. “He really likes what we’re doing here. We could ask him to donate a painting. And if he likes the school so much, maybe some of his groovy artist friends will donate something, too.”

“Before the auction, a really great party. Like the Naked Masquerade,” Portia planned. “Only this time, everything is white…white lights, white walls, white food…like a blank canvas.”

“The students could contribute works, too,” said Ben. “Original compositions, copies from old masters…It’s a great chance to show the world what we do here.”

“We need a catchy name. What would we call it?”

“Old Masters and New Masters.”

“Still Life with Vampire.”

“Nudes and Naked Ladies,” said Tessa.

Rafe was sitting up, listening intently. “I like it,” he said thoughtfully. “We could do it in the spring, maybe the end of April. Sort of a bookend to the Naked Masquerade. I’ll get Giselle on it tomorrow. She loves a good party.”

“To the Nudes and Naked Ladies Benefit and Auction,” said Harker, raising his plastic cup.

“Udo doesn’t have any wine,” said Graham.

Hastily, Tessa filled a glass and handed it to Rafe. They smiled at each other through the forest of arms as the others raised their voices and their glasses.

“To art that matters.”

Much later that evening. The studio floor was empty, the lights lowered. “Do you like me better this way?” he whispered as he unbuttoned her blouse.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back, pulling the faded black t-shirt up over his head. He was bare-chested underneath. “I kind of like the overcoat and fedora thing.”

“Where did you get these clothes?” he said, unzipping the short leather skirt, slipping it down her legs.

“Ram left them for me. What do you think? Do I look like I belong at
Anastasia?”

She sat back against the dark wooden slats of the chair, wearing only a lacy black bra, a pair of panties, stockings.

Rafe knelt between her knees. “Oh, yes. But I think I like you better…” He began to carefully roll one black stocking down her thigh. “…like this.”

3

R
afe woke with a start. Two-thirty, said the numbers on the dial. Tessa slept on beside him. He sat up in bed, trying to figure out what had awakened him, when he heard a noise on the landing outside his door. Pulling on his robe, he went to investigate.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. The lower level was almost entirely dark, save for a soft glow from the clock in the kitchen. A tremor of fear passed through him. And then a shadowy figure darted out ahead of him on the floor below.

The figure was the size of a small child. Gripping the banister, Rafe made his way down the stairs.

“Who are you?” he said into the dark. “Are you lost?”

The shadowy child was a master of camouflage; it hid behind curtains, behind furniture, going from nook to nook and room to room, hopscotching its way across the main level.

He found the door that led to the cellar opened wide; after a moment of trepidation, he followed it down. Despite the fact that he was an actual monster, his heart knocked against his chest; he was unreasonably frightened.

The basement was dark and lined with pipes. Suddenly, the furnace whooshed on, an evil orange glare crackling and snapping behind the grate. The dim firelight revealed the ghostly outlines of unused furniture stored along the walls, shrouded in white; it revealed the small figure, standing in the middle of the floor.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said gently. “I want to help you.”

The small figure shifted from one foot to the other.

From the shadows along the walls, a figure emerged. Man-sized, this time. Another materialized between the shrouded furniture. Then another. And another. And another. With every passing moment the shadowy figures multiplied. Dozens of them, then hundreds, advancing on him, their mouths gaping wide with broken, jagged teeth.

Terrified, his knees buckling under him, he backed away towards the main staircase, but they were waiting for him there, too. The first one leaped upon him, screaming. He was almost overwhelmed by a powerful stench, the smell of the grave. He smashed it howling against the wall with one blow of his arm, the second one, too. The third one came from behind, crushing him to the ground. The rest of the ghostly figures followed, throwing themselves upon him until he was buried under a churning mountain slide of cold, bony bodies.

“You were shouting,” Janina said.

Rafe touched his face, found it slick with sweat. His body ached, as if he had been running.

She yawned. “Bad dream?” She walked her fingers up his thigh. “You know, I have a degree in chasing away bad dreams.”

His mouth was dry, he was shaking, his heart was full of dread. He wanted a drink, he wanted a cigarette, he wanted Tessa.

Rafe leapt out of bed, stalked to the bureau, found his wallet in his trousers. “Here,” he said, pushing three crisp bills into her hands. “Go home.”

Her eyebrows went up, her mouth made a round O. “You want me to leave? Now? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yes, please. I’ll call your agency. If you wouldn’t mind waiting downstairs.”

Ever the gentleman, he saw her to the door. Then he bolted the iron gate behind her, went upstairs, and crawled back into bed, where he lay awake for the rest of the night.

4

T
hat evening, after closing the April issue, Anastasia took the staff to Odeon. Vintage 1920s fans hung from the pressed-tin ceilings, rotating slowly through the thick air, perfumed heavily with the smells of classic French bistro cooking. The walls were washed a tobacco-stained yellow. Old-fashioned venetian blinds with tapes and wide wooden slats shielded the celebrities dining inside from the stares of passersby.

The wait staff all seemed to know Anastasia, fawning over her while leading them to a large round table in the middle of the room. She ordered a round of Bellinis for everyone, champagne cocktails with a jolt of peach puree at the bottom. And that was before they sat down.

A waiter came, made suggestions, took orders. After the Bellinis, there were appetizers, little plates with exotic baby lettuces swimming in balsamic vinegar, smoked octopus, red slices of beef or duck, more drinks. Ram was sitting happily before a deep dish with nine cupped indentations in it, blissfully inhaling the aromatics of garlic and brown butter. As Tessa watched, he speared up something wiggly with a special fork, gobbled it down. He presented one to her, twinkled winningly. “Here, honey. Want to try one?”

“Escargot,”
advised Gaby. “Snails. Definitely not kosher.”

Tessa leaned far back into her seat, as far away from the garlicky smell as she could get. Tried hard not to look as grossed out as she felt.

“I know,” he said. “I can’t believe I eat them, either. Say, Crumpet. I’ve been wondering. Does Raphael Sinclair mind that you’re a great big
slut?
”

She sighed. “Ram,” she began.

But he’d already turned his attention to Anastasia and the beauty editor, who were discussing the impending reshoot of the lipsticks for
The New Nudes.
“I thought we were done with this,” the editor was saying, sounding faintly exasperated. “There’s no time to get it reshot.”

“Nothing is done until Leo says it is,” said Anastasia dismissively. “And Leo thinks that picture is
boring.”
To be called boring was the most heinous crime imaginable at
Anastasia
magazine. Boring made the numbers go down. Boring got your big story demoted to a paragraph in the front of the book. Boring got you fired.

Ram was smiling politely. When he noticed Tessa watching, he tied an imaginary noose and pretended to hang himself.

Tessa liked Ram. Despite his fierce appearance and his outrageous declamations, he turned out to be surprisingly, well, normal. She’d never met an art director before, as a matter of fact, she still wasn’t sure exactly what they did, but it was clear that whatever it was, he was very good at it.

Gaby sat before an exuberantly ornate Versace dessert plate, contemplating an undersized cylinder of chocolate cake. With a certain kind of awe, Tessa had already witnessed the diminutive designer demolish a blackened hunk of hanger steak that would satisfy a heavyweight boxer.

“How long have you known Ram?” said Tessa.

“Since junior high,” she replied. She sank her fork into the cake, releasing a volcanic gush of molten chocolate.

“What was he like?”

Now Gaby looked at her. “Do you mean, was he gay in the ninth grade? Then the answer is yes.”

“No, I mean,” Tessa hesitated, wondering how much she knew. “Was he different before he was, he was…”

“Before Anastasia turned him into a vampire?”

Tessa nodded, relieved. Gaby turned her attention back to her cake. “Maybe he was a little shy. But he was always this good.” Under her breath.
“She
just didn’t take the time to notice.”

Anastasia sat at the head of the table; it wasn’t that her seat was different, or faced a particular direction; wherever she sat would have been the head of the table. All attention was turned to her, all decisions deferred naturally to her. Seated between Thea and Ram, she was pushing some
frisée and monkfish in a veal and balsamic vinegar reduction sauce around her dinner plate, sunglasses firmly in place.

“Tessa, my dear,” she exclaimed, leaning towards her across the table. “I have heard from Lucian. They went to the Greek Islands for their honeymoon. Did you know?”

Tessa felt a small, buried part of herself curl up and die a little. Anastasia, sensing her pain, luxuriated in it. “There is already trouble,” she promised. “They are seeing a therapist.”