The Color of Light (9 page)

“It is we who are responsible for the soul of the school. Our goal is nothing less than to take back art from the hands of the twentieth century. Welcome to the American Academy of Classical Art.”

This time, the applause was deafening. The room rocked to its feet, clapping and stomping and hooting its unequivocal approval. Behind him, Giselle threw her clipboard on the floor and clapped.

Rafe took a step back, taken by surprise at the vehemence of their response. He smiled nervously, then blissfully, reveling in their support.

Leaning against the back wall with Bernard Blesser, Whit Turner grimly watched Raphael Sinclair basking in his moment.
Ha, ha, Sinclair. You got me.

“That bastard.” said Blesser incredulously. “Is he trying to sabotage you?”

Turner compressed his lips. He should have known Rafe wouldn’t go down without a fight. Maybe he could put off his announcement to a time when the students would be more receptive.

Still clapping, Giselle stepped forward and shouted over the din, “Thank you, Mr. Sinclair, for that stirring call to arms, and for reminding us why we’re all here. And now, with some exciting news, the head of the painting department, Whit Turner.”

Damn. Too late. Sinclair, you bastard, you set me up.

Turner pushed awkwardly through the crush of people, hating the feeling of their bodies fumbling against his. Rafe was trying to make his
way out, but his progress was slowed by students stopping him to shake his hand and slap his back. The two men almost touched, brushing past each other in the throng. Rafe let a sly, surreptitious smile lift the corner of his lips. As he moved towards the other end of the floor, he heard Whit’s even voice rise over the din.

It was common knowledge that the school was short a painting teacher. For the past six weeks there had been wild, speculative rumors circulating. Virtually everyone who was anyone in the pantheon of contemporary figurative painting had been discussed. Supposedly Whit was in secret talks with Julian Schnabel, Eric Fischl, David Salle, Wayne Thiebaud, Lucian Swain. Or perhaps some unknown master from the art academies deep in the former Soviet Union.

“Quiet, quiet everybody. Settle down. First things first. At this point, you should all have a pretty good idea of who you want as your adviser. Ask them before their dance card gets filled, or you could end up shut out. Okay, here’s the news you’ve all been waiting for. As you all know, we’re short a painting teacher. We’ve interviewed a lot of people, because we were searching for an artist who could bring you something new, skills nobody else can give you.”

There was an excited burst of chattering, then a hush. Turner waited a few seconds, let the momentum build, then launched his news. “April Huffman has agreed to teach painting this semester.”

There were audible gasps around the room. Over the noise, Whit continued. “April has an international reputation. She has a Masters in Fine Arts from Yale, where she studied under William Beckman. She showed at O.K. Solomon all through the Eighties. Until recently, she was teaching at NYU.”

Silence. For one crazy moment, Whit thought,
They’re going for it.

A hand went up in the crowd. “Yes, do you have a question?”

Someone with a deep Southern accent said, “Thank you, sir. Excuse me, sir, but isn’t she that artist who does blow jobs in car paint?”

He kept his voice level. “Her content is controversial, but I think you guys are mature enough to handle it. She’s a successful contemporary realist with a lot of real-world experience.”

The silence was broken by angry babbling that gathered into a threatening roar.

“Settle down, settle down, everybody…”

Rafe smiled triumphantly to himself as he ascended the stairs to the loft.

Safe to come out now.

The dark-haired girl he’d spoken with earlier had offered to stay and help straighten up. She tried to catch his eye, to signify that she was willing, but he had pretended not to notice, and she and her gargantuan neediness went out, unsatisfied, into the night.

All hell had broken loose after Whit made his announcement, instantly polarizing the artists into vehemently pro-April or savagely anti-April. With the able assistance of several drunken sculptors, the discussion got very heated, very quickly.

The wine was all gone, down to the last bottle. The damask tablecloth covering the bar had been cleared off, leaving a bare folding table in its stead. He found the Rothschild buried behind some books, turned it over. Not a drop.

Rafe removed a cigarette butt from a potted orchid on a Moroccan coffee table, examined it. Hand-rolled. He ran it under his nose, expecting marijuana, but it was plain loose tobacco. Artists. They liked to craft things, even something as simple as a cigarette.

He could hear the caterer piling her sheet pans on top of one another and the chink of glasses being placed on the counter in the kitchen. He wondered if the cannoli was still around. Perhaps she needed a hand.

There was a noise in the telephone alcove near the stairs, the smallest of sounds, the rustling of fabric, a sigh. Click of the phone being placed back on the receiver. The acrid scent of disappointment rolled over him before he knew who it belonged to, calling him, followed immediately by another scent, her scent, blackberries and musk.

Just a little closer.

A mane of red-gold hair came into view. Faded jeans, a macramé shirt. The girl, Tessa, standing in a circle of light. She was studying a small sculpture displayed beside the stark black rotary phone, a clique of feminine figures carved from a single block of watery green stone. The little women, perhaps eight inches high, were huddled together in a corner, heads almost
touching, whispering, conspiring. As he watched, she reached out to run her fingers over the lustrous surfaces, to stroke their small perfect bodies.

“It’s called
The Gossips,”
he said.

The girl jerked back, choked out an exclamation of surprise, and snatched her hand away from the sculpture. The wineglass she was holding dropped out of her hand, smashed to pieces and skittered with a silvery sound across the polished floor. The stem and part of the bottom rolled to a rest near his shoe.

“Camille Claudel,” he continued, smiling wryly. “She worked in Rodin’s studio as one of his vast army of assistants, then became his lover.” He stooped to pick up a piece of glass. “It drove her mad. Those women were probably whispering about her.”

She was holding her hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath. He indulged himself in the small pleasure of watching her breasts go up and down inside her macramé sweater, allowed his eyes to dwell on the glass bead cosseted in the hollow of her throat.

“Holy cow, how do you do that?”

“My fault. I should have made more noise, let you know I was nearby.” He smiled again. “Dropped a glass or something.”

“I’m so sorry. I’ll take care of it,” she said quickly, and embarrassed, she went down on her knees before him, gingerly picking up the pieces and putting them on a tray of dirty glasses that she was collecting.

“Where’s Graciela?”

“She had to leave early. She waitresses at Ferrara’s. Someone didn’t show up tonight and they called her.”

He took another step forward, into the light. “It’s Tessa, isn’t it?” Then, casually, “What a lovely name. How did you come by it?”

“Old family name,” she said, tantalizing him.

“You’re Lucian Swain’s assistant, aren’t you,” It was a statement, not a question. “You’re the one who saved his life.”

She gave a self-deprecating little lift of the shoulders. “I was there. It could have been anybody. ”

“You don’t really believe that. There were others. Everyone else left.”

She was pretending to be cool about it. “Okay, it could have been anybody who actually cared about him.”

“He’s better now, I hear. Back to painting. Back to himself.” She was nodding, gingerly picking up broken glass. “He must be incredibly grateful. Probably needs you now more than ever.” It was cruel, he knew. He wanted her reaction.

A small, involuntary sigh. Her shoulders folded like cards, she pressed her hands flat on his gleaming floor.

He could physically feel the lacerations Swain was opening inside of her; the ache of her pain, the weight of her anxiety, the relentless gnawing of self-doubt. It filled him with delicious excitement and exquisite sorrow, all at the same time.

Gently now. “You know, Giselle hears about jobs all the time. Maybe something interesting will come up.”

Angels must have voices like his, she thought dully, as soothing as a mother’s lullaby, like a warm hand on your cheek. She reached for a shard of glass under the telephone console.

He heard her gasp. She sat back on her knees, holding up her right hand. White skin, blue veins. A thin red line snaked across her wrist. He stared at it, mesmerized, as a streak of blood skidded down her arm.

The smell was intoxicating, rich and salty and winey, galloping through his brain, arousing a tidal surge of desire. Didn’t she know? Hadn’t she heard the rumors? Did it cross her mind that she was in an isolated alcove in the vampire’s lair, bleeding at his feet? Was it some sort of trick?

Three moves, that’s all it would take, three simple moves. Lift her up, the blood skipping down her pale flesh his appetizer. Bury his face in her hair. Find her throat. Feel her struggle.

Just be human now.

“Are.” He licked his lips, swallowed. “Are you all right?”

She lifted her head, looked up at him for help. For the first time, he found himself staring directly into Tessa’s eyes, and all the rest of what he was going to say blew right out of his head.

Sofia’s eyes, accusing him across half a century, staring at him from a stranger’s face.

His lips parted, showing even white teeth. He took a shaky step backward. “Oh my God,” he whispered. “It’s not possible.”

“No, no,” she said, misunderstanding. “I’m okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he said. “It will never be okay.”

She looked at him strangely. He gazed stupidly down at her, still on her knees.

Pull yourself together.
With visible effort, he composed himself. “God, I’m sorry. I, uh, have a thing about blood. Let me have a look.”

He helped her to her feet, took her hand in his, turned it over. “It’s not deep. It’s just long,” he informed her after examining her injured wrist. “Fortunately, there’s no glass in there. Let’s get you sorted out.”

He led her to the kitchen, where he opened a cabinet to find an empty Band-Aid box. He whipped open a drawer and took out several white linen napkins. Carefully, he wound the napkins around her hand, then secured them with masking tape. She was close enough to breathe in his cologne, sandalwood, smell of distant seas.

“Which hand do you draw with?”

“This one,” she said. Blood seeped through the linen, staining it red.

“You have to press on it for awhile, that will stop the bleeding. Like this.” He took her hand in his, laid his palm across her wrist, bore down. The beat of her pulse shook him, pounded through him like hoof beats.

A twinge of desire coiled through her as he closed his hand around hers. While he held her hand, she could see the muscles working under his well-cut suit, and she wondered what he was built like under his fine white shirt. Her mouth opened with the surprise of it, and she stared up at his face, as cool and as beautiful as the marble angel in his foyer, as they stood there together in his immaculate kitchen.

The caterer was finished. She approached them hesitantly, spoke in rapid Irish brogue. He directed her towards an envelope on the counter. She bid them goodbye, at least Tessa thought it sounded like goodbye. One of the waitresses threw her a look as she followed her friends out the door.

They were alone. Suddenly, Tessa felt uneasy.

“I should go. I’ve done enough damage for one evening.”

His eyes penetrated her, held her motionless. She felt something clandestine bloom inside her, like one of those flowers that only opens at night. He lowered his gaze, let go of her arm.

“I think it’s stopped bleeding.” He took a tactful step back. “Let me call you a car.”

“No, no. I live just a few blocks away. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s nearly midnight,” he said with finality. “You never know what’s prowling around out there this late at night. Take the car.” He disappeared. She heard his voice speaking to a dispatcher, and then he was back. “They’ll be here in a few minutes.”

“Well
—
thanks,” she said. “I think I got all the glasses. Sorry about the mess.” He waved it away.

He followed her down the stairs and through the foyer to the entryway. She halted in front of the drawing of the Madonna and Child just as the last log in the fireplace popped, crumbled into ashes with a whoosh.

“Is it a real Raphael?”

He looked at her speculatively, then shook his head. “No. It’s a copy. Done a long time ago by someone very dear to me.”

“It’s incredible.” She stepped closer to it, regarded the perfectly placed pen lines in the crosshatching, the confident draughtsmanship, the delicate rendering in the shadows. He watched her hair tremble like a living thing, the dying fire outlining it in gold.

There was a soft honk outside.

“Thanks for everything, Mr. Sinclair,” she said, “it was a swell party.”

“No, thank
you.
You did a first-rate job with those folding chairs.” He found himself trying to keep her there a little longer. “Hey! Starving artist! Do you want any leftover hors d’ouevres? There’s a refrigerator full of them.”

She smiled at his offer, shook her head. The door clicked closed behind her.

He collapsed into one of the handsome Morris chairs facing each other in front of the fire. Good God, that had been a multiple choice test written in hell. There’s a pretty and vulnerable girl bleeding copiously in your apartment. You’re a vampire. Do you: A. Ravish her. B. Ravish her and drink her blood. C. Bandage her up, offer her snacks, put her in a car and send her home. D. All of the above.

An ember had rolled against the fire screen, and using the poker, he knocked it deeper into the fireplace. He gazed up at the Madonna and Child, the loving sparkle in the mother’s eyes, the capering of the sweet baby boy.