The Portrait (22 page)

Jonas was at the far end, toward the stairs. He was screaming; harsh, jarring shouts she could barely understand. It took her a moment to make out the words, and when she did, they startled her so much she froze against the doorway, her heart thudding in her chest.

"They've taken her away! Christ, I knew they would. Those bastards—"

"Jonas, please . . ." Rico was hurrying toward him, almost sliding in his haste. "Jonas—"

"Where the hell is she, Rico? Do you have her? Goddammit, I'll kill you for that!" He lunged at Rico. There was the sickening sound of crunching bodies, the thud of a punch. Rico went sprawling to the floor.

"She's fine," he shouted, scrambling to his feet, blocking the hall so Jonas couldn't get by. "She's right here—
mon dieu
, Jonas—" He ducked Jonas's second punch and came up spitting, his golden hair flying into his face. "Look for yourself, you fool! She's just up the hall!"

"Jonas!" she called. "Jonas, I'm right here!"

He looked up, his eyes blazing, and even though he was looking straight at her, she had the feeling he didn't see her at all. He shook his head and glared at Childs. "You liar," he said. "Do you think I don't know you're trying to fool me? Do you think I don't know?"

"It's no lie," Rico protested. "It's Genie."

"You think I'll fall for such a trick? I can see right through her, you bastard! She's not real! You've taken her and you don't want me to know." Jonas was wild- eyed and raging. "Where is she? What have you done with her? Geenniiee!" He lunged at Childs again, but just as he made the move, there was a commotion on the stairs. Several artists from the building were clambering en masse to the landing, shouting and laughing.

Jonas whipped around, crying out when Rico took his chance and tackled him.

"What have you done with her, you bastard? Genie!" Jonas twisted from Childs's grasp, shouting at the top of his lungs. He crashed against the wall so hard his false hand went through it. Plaster flew. Then Childs was on him again, clinging to him, trying to hold him still.

The other artists didn't budge. They watched with unconcealed interest, as if it were an entertainment put on for their benefit. As if they'd seen its like before. For a moment Imogene almost expected to hear them lay down bets.

It was more than she could bear. It was inhumane, the way they watched him, like spectators at a cockfight. A sob caught in Imogene's throat as she picked up her skirts and ran toward them. "Jonas!" She called his name, nearly screaming it, heard the thud of bodies against the wall, the hard smack of a blow.

She wanted to touch him. She had the feeling he would hear her then, if she could only touch him, if she could only prove to him that she was here, that she was no illusion. She reached out, but before she could touch him he swung around, slamming Childs into the wall. She heard Rico's grunt of pain, heard the crack of his shoulder.

"Ah, God," he groaned.

"Where are you hiding her?" Jonas's shouting echoed into the rafters, reverberated against the walls. "Damn it, where is she?"

She couldn't get close, couldn't touch him. He was flailing too desperately to see her, yelling so loudly she knew he couldn't hear her call his name. Desperation rushed through her. Desperation and Worry that made her voice crack when she called to him, that had her nearly crying in an attempt to make him hear.

"Jonas, I'm here," she shouted. "It's me! I'm here!"

She tried to move closer, caught Rico's desperate glance and couldn't help him at all. Jonas lunged and jerked, trying to dislodge Childs, crashing into the walls.

"Geenniiee!" he screamed.

All she could do was scream back at him. All she could do was shout "I'm here," over and over again, until it was a ceaseless prayer in her head, a desperate litany. And then finally, when her voice was hoarse with shouting, when she was sure she couldn't calm him at all, he spun around. His eyes were dark with fear that faded the moment he saw her. Fear that simply melted away. He quieted. Suddenly. Completely.

"Genie," he said, and his voice as hoarse as hers, heavy with relief and something else.

Joy
, she thought. She heard joy.

"I thought you'd gone," he said, sinking to his knees, sliding from Childs's arms. Rico backed warily away. "I thought you'd gone."

"No," she said. “I’m right here." She moved closer, reached out to touch his hair, to smooth it back from his face. "I'm right here."

He leaned into her, sighing, pressing his face against her stomach. She heard the sounds of the others going downstairs, talking among themselves, laughing as if it had all been a great show, a huge joke. She threaded her fingers through his hair and glanced up at Childs, who was rubbing his shoulder and watching, a strange expression on his face—startled curiosity, puzzled surprise.

"You're not important, eh,
chérie
?" he asked softly.

Chapter 19

J
onas woke the next morning safe in his bed, with no idea of how he'd got there. For a half second it didn't matter. For a moment he saw the cracked plaster of his ceiling and felt the relief of waking, the peace just before realization set in. Then the memory—or lack of it—came crashing down, crushing his soul, half illusions and craziness and disbelief. He struggled to remember; the old familiar dread came slamming back.
What have I done? Christ, what did I do?

It had happened again—the thought filled him with desperation, a terror so pure he shook with it. God, it had happened again, and he didn't know why, didn't know how to keep those good feelings from spiraling so completely out of control, from turning on him, from destroying him. And the worst part was he couldn't remember, at least not completely. There were just bits and pieces that floated back, like those from a particularly inexplicable nightmare, an alcoholic fog. There was a night—somewhere, a night— where he and Rico had gambled at The Red House. Yes, he remembered that, or parts of it anyway. But after that, there was nothing. After that, there was . . .

After that there was Genie.

Jonas closed his eyes. His heart raced in sudden panic and bleak desperation. He had done something to Genie. Christ, what? What unpardonable sin had he committed this time? He couldn't remember. God, he couldn't remember. There was a dark pit in his mind, hovering, waiting, and he knew it was where his memories were. His memories and his reason, hiding from him. Taunting him. Baiting him.

You're mad.
The voice whispered to him, a haunting murmur.
You're as mad as they've always said you were. . . .

No
. Jonas fought the thought, forced himself to push back the covers, tried to control his shaking. His false hand hit the edge of the bedstead, and he looked down at it in surprise, wondering why he hadn't taken it off for the night, trying again to remember getting into bed. The memory was truly gone; in its place was exhaustion and despair. Wearily, aching in every bone, every muscle, he undid the straps to his hand and let the appendage fall to the mattress, feeling too weary to pick it up, not caring enough to wear it.

Clumsily, slowly, Jonas got to his feet. He stumbled to the tapestry guarding the door and pushed it aside, blinking at the gray light coming through the studio windows. It was raining outside. Pouring. For a moment he stood there, staring at it, feeling the dampness ease into his heart, his soul. The autumn was gone. It was winter now. Coldness, bleakness. Months of weather to match his spirits.
Don't think of it.
But he couldn't help himself. He couldn't stop the images from crowding his mind: barren trees and frozen mud and colorless horizons. People died in the winter. They froze to death in their little shanties and were buried in the hard, cold ground. Nothing saved them. Not faith, not prayers. In the end God made fools of them all.

Just as He's made a fool of me.
The thought weighed upon him, heavy and unrelenting and merciless. Jonas shuffled to the window, sinking into a chair and staring out at the grayness, at the slashes of rain streaking the glass. Dead leaves caught in the wind, ripping from branches, spiraling crazily to the walk, leaving trees that were bare and dark against the wet stone of the buildings across the street. It was cold; he could feel it through the glass, and he thought he should start a fire to warm the studio. He couldn't summon the energy to do it, so instead he just sat there, cold and shivering, watching the sleeting rain and wishing . . . wishing what? Wishing he were normal? Wishing he weren't so damned lonely?

Wishing Genie were here with him?

He laughed mirthlessly. Genie was never coming back again, he knew. He'd driven her away, like the others. Like Rico, who abandoned him every year, searching for friends in Paris, friends who weren't so demanding, friends who didn't embarrass and scandalize and hurt. No doubt she felt the same way.

The thought filled him with sadness so stark he couldn't bear to feel it. He tried to concentrate on the swirling leaves instead, but the words kept intruding, increasing his misery and his pain with every repeat.
She's not coming back. She's not coming back
.

That voice was so loud he barely heard the footsteps in the hall or the tap on the door. When it finally did intrude—a relentless knock that pounded in his head —he couldn't bring himself to answer it. There was no one he wanted to see. Rico would only look at him with those sad, too-knowing eyes, and Genie was gone forever. And there was no one else. No one.

The rapping stopped. He waited for whoever it was to go away, waited for the tread of steps over the creaking floor. The sound didn't come, and he was just telling himself he'd missed it when the lever clicked and the door jerked open. It was Rico, he thought without turning around. No one else would dare—

"You're awake." It was Genie's voice, rushed and out of breath.

No, it couldn't be. It's a lie
. It was not her. It could not be her. Slowly he twisted to look.

She stiffened at the sight of him. He'd shocked her, he realized. He saw it in her face, in her frozen little smile, the attempt to school her expression. He wanted to take offense but he couldn't. She looked so flushed and radiant and wet. Rainwater dripped from her pink bonnet, darkened the matching wool of her mantle. She set aside a net bag of food and quickly lifted off her bonnet, shrugged out of the coat, hanging them both on the pegs by the door. She was wearing a pale green dress.

Reseda green.

Memories came flitting back, jagged puzzle pieces that barely fit together. Her body twisting beneath his, her rapid breath, the feel of her hair. White-shirted waiters and carriages and screaming in a hallway. The images were terrifying, humiliating, and he pushed them away, too afraid to give them life, too afraid to remember.

"I wanted to get back before you woke," she continued, an almost desperate rush to her words. "I'm sorry it took so long. I imagine you're hungry."

      
Christ, what had he done?
He shook his head. "No."

      
"No? But you haven't—"

      
"Why are you here?"

      
She blinked. Wariness slipped into her expression, a hint of despair that made him angry with himself, and that anger twisted inside him, mean-spirited and ugly. Because of it he wanted to be more hateful, to drive her away because he could not stand himself, and she was so perfect. So beautiful and innocent and young. So incredibly strong.

      
He turned back to the window before she had a chance to answer him. "Get the hell out."

      
He expected her to go. Expected to hear the click of the door.

      
Instead, all he heard was her soft—too-soft—voice. "No."

      
"No." Her answer startled him. The unexpectedness of it increased his anger.

      
"Decided to brave the monster, have you? How courageous you are." He heard the biting sarcasm in his words.

      
"Is that what you think you are?" she asked. Her voice was very calm, very even. "A monster?"

      
"What else would you call it?"

      
"I'd call you a genius."

      
"Ah, a genius." He laughed self-deprecatingly. "Don't lie to yourself, Genie. Geniuses don't scream like madmen or rape innocent women."

      
He heard her gasp—a short, startled sound. "Rape?" she asked. "You raped someone?"

      
He turned to look at her then, saw the paleness of her face, the blackness of her eyes within it. "Didn't I?" he countered bitterly. "Or did you strip your clothes off willingly for me?"

Her lips tightened; he saw the flex of her jaw, and he waited—again—for her to run. But she stood her ground, met his gaze. She wasn't afraid of him, and he wondered when she'd learned that. Certainly she had every reason to be afraid: The memories tangled in his head. He remembered screaming her name somewhere —ah, where? He pushed the half memory away. Suddenly he didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to know.

"I was willing," she said firmly. "And I'm not young. Or innocent."

He barked a laugh. "No, of course not."

"I'm twenty-six years old," she said, lifting her chin —as if she were braving a monster after all. "And I'm not ... a virgin."

"Not anymore. I made sure of that."

"Before then, even."

"Oh?" he asked scornfully. "Someone kissed you once, perhaps?"

"Is it so hard to believe?"

He shrugged. Her words wounded him for some reason he couldn't fathom. He felt the sting of irritation and was unsure whether it was because he didn't understand himself or because he hated the idea that she had made love to someone else. The thought annoyed him further; again he felt the tug of mean-spiritedness, the need to push her away. He knew how cruel his words were before he said them and didn't care, wanted to hurt himself by pushing her away and punish her for letting him.

"Is it hard to believe that you kissed someone? No. But I'll warrant you haven't had a man between your legs before. I haven't seen that kind of innocence since I was thirteen."

She took a step back as if he'd slapped her. Jonas waited to feel the touch of satisfaction and was startled when he only felt more depressed, more angry. He jerked back to the window, back to the stark New York winter, to barrenness, and told himself she would leave now. She would leave because he'd hurt her, because he'd crushed her the way hopelessness was crushing him.

Leave
, he thought.
Leave before I hurt you more
. And then, to guarantee it, he said, "Better watch out, Genie, the monster has teeth. I told you to get the hell out of here."

He heard nothing. Not a single sound. Not a step or a sigh. It was so quiet he wondered if this were all an illusion, if maybe she wasn't here at all, if he'd imagined the whole thing.

"His name was Nicholas," she said softly. "I thought I loved him."

"How sweet," he said cynically.

She went on as if she hadn't heard him. "But he—he loved someone else."

A pause. He sensed her pain hovering between them, filling the air, and he refused to let himself feel it. If he felt it he would cry. If he felt it, he would get down on his knees and beg her never to leave him. And then he would be the one who got hurt. Because she would leave him. The moment she realized what a burden he was, she would go, the way they all did. In a way he wanted that. In a way he wanted her to leave so he could sink deeper and deeper into that darkness that waited for him, so he didn't have to make any effort to elude it. If she left, he could go back to bed and stay there, give in to sleep and restless dreams and forgetfulness.

"Life is like that," he said. He meant to stop with that, just that clean, cynical statement, a hurtful declaration. But despite himself, the other words spilled out, the words he'd never meant to say—and especially not to her. "What do you want—a guarantee? There aren't any. People say they love you and then they leave. They say they'll stay no matter what happens. But they don't." He paused, feeling the pain well up so strongly inside him that he spoke the last in a whisper. "They never do."

There was silence again. So much of it, and so long, that his words seemed to reverberate within it, a ceaseless rhythm, a painful reminder.
"They never do."
Not his mother or his father, not his sister or his brother Charles. Not Rico. No one.

Then he heard her step behind him, felt her hand on his shoulder. A calming touch, a steady one. So tranquil it hurt him—physically hurt him—even as it soothed him, even as he felt her strength pouring into him.

"I won't leave," she said. "Not as long as you need me here."

The unsaid words floated between them, twisting out of his reach, sucked away by that awful blackness.
"People say they love you and then they leave,"
he'd said, and he wondered if her answer held the first part too, if she thought that she loved him but was too afraid to say. He wished she'd said it, though he knew he wouldn't believe her. Hell, he didn't believe her now. He never believed anyone.

Because of that he didn't give her an answer. Because of that he said nothing. But even so he felt himself stiffen beneath her touch, a too-revealing response, one that gave him away. He stared at the window, trying to ignore the feel of her hand on his shoulder, the strong, gentle heat, the only warmth at all on this cold, dark, rainy day. Christ, he felt cold to his very center. Cold and barren.

And suddenly he was glad she hadn't said "I love you." Glad because he couldn't have said it back, because his heart was heavy and empty and he didn't know if he could care about anything anymore.

She waited a few moments, and then she eased away, leaving a chill at his back. He heard her moving around the studio, and the comforting sound of her movements only made him more miserable. He thought he heard her humming, and he closed his eyes and listened to her, growing more desolate with every wavering note. She reminded him of all the things he would never have: a wife, a family, a normal life— God, a normal life. Was there such a thing? He thought of all the people he knew, of the way they talked. Planning for two weeks from now, a year, five. . . . They talked about the future as if it were a guarantee.