The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque (16 page)

"Yes," I said, "but there is a new wrinkle." I proceeded to apprise him of the involvement of Charbuque, his mes-sage to me and my fearful meeting with him at Palmer's the previous night.

Shenz sat forward, a look of excitement in his eyes. "We must find out who he is, where he is. He could very well be the key to discovering what his wife looks like."

"No doubt," I told him, "but I'm afraid that will be impossible."

"Impossible, but why?" asked my friend.

"Mrs. Charbuque told me only this afternoon that he is dead. A shipwreck, I believe."

"A razor-wielding spirit?" said Shenz. "Interesting. Listen, find out what ship it was that he was on.

I'll look into it."

I nodded. "If he doesn't kill me first."

"You might want to start carrying a weapon," he said. "This is getting dangerous. A pistol wouldn't be a bad idea."

"No, Shenz, a pistol would be a very bad idea," I said. "Thank you, but I'll keep my toes."

"Where are you with the painting?" he asked.

"Absolutely nowhere."

"You are in your second week. You've a mere two and a half weeks left," he said. "I'd better arrange a visit to the Man from the Equator."

"What will he do for me?" I asked.

"Focus your vision, perhaps."

"Perhaps," I said, and finished my coffee.

"You said you are meeting Samantha?" asked Shenz.

"She has been spying on Mrs. Charbuque's house for me today," I told him. "I'm to meet her at five on the steps of Saint James Church up at Madison and Seventy-first."

"There's a woman ready for canonization," said Shenz.

"By the way, how are the Hatstells?" I asked, circum-venting one of my colleague's lectures on why

I should marry Samantha.

"Walking, breathing endorsements for the childless life. I'll be finished with them in another week or so. I've probably spent my entire commission already on cakes and candy. The little one calls me Uncle

Satan, the older one, Grandfather Time. My opium consumption has doubled."

We each had another cup of coffee, and before we parted I reminded Shenz of the yearly show Sills had mentioned at the Academy of Design the following evening. We agreed to meet there.

Night had fallen by the time I reached the steps of Saint James Episcopal Church. The sidewalks had emptied somewhat, since it was the dinner hour, and the traffic in the streets had thinned. A wind had come up since I had left the cafe, and with it the temperature had dropped yet a few more degrees.

The church itself seemed deserted, and I sat down on the bottom marble step and lit a cigarette.

One of my favorite pastimes when roaming the city at night was to stare at the lighted windows lining the streets and wonder what dramas, comedies or tragedies, were playing just beyond those bright rectangles. At times, given the archi-tecture of a certain building, its neighborhood, a hint of something within visible from the street, I could even imagine the characters and their lives. My God, I could see their faces and what they were wearing. Here a nude, there a man in shirtsleeves bouncing a child on his knee, a fellow drinking his pail of beer, a gray-haired grand-mother in a rocking chair saying her rosary.

If these people, completely unknown to me, could show me their faces and forms, if I could readily see the nuanced figures of the characters I merely read about in novels, then why did Mrs.

Charbuque remain such a tantalizing blank?

I was interrupted in my reverie by the approach of a woman. She was of the same height and figure as Samantha, and I was about to rise and greet her, but at the last moment I saw a lock of blond hair showing from beneath her hat. She nodded to me and said, "Good evening," and I touched my fingers to my hat brim. "Hello," I said, and she passed down the street. As her fig-ure disappeared into the dark, I

thought to myself that it could very well have been Mrs. Charbuque spying on me, and concentrated on remembering her face.

A few gentlemen passed by and another woman, too short. Then I saw a familiar figure approaching from the north. I had only to think for a second before realizing how I knew this person. A big, burly woman in a large dark overcoat, she wore a kerchief tied around her head, and as she drew closer, I

made out the thick crude features of her face. When she drew even with me where I sat on the step, I

said, "Wolfe, is that you?"

"Piambo," she said, "who is Wolfe?"

I stood then and peered more closely. Finally the voice registered at the precise moment I realized her face was devoid of Wolfe's facial hair. "Samantha?" I said.

"How do you like my look?" she said. "Duenna of the night."

I was giddy with what Mrs. Charbuque had earlier that day called happy accident.

Leaning forward, I kissed the wrinkled face and came away with greasepaint on my lips.

An Apology

In the hansom cab on the ride downtown to my house, Samantha used the kerchief to wipe the makeup from her face. Seeing this paint removed gave me a great appre-ciation of the artistic flair with which it was applied, for mere strokes of the darker shades gave convincing indica-tions of thickness and weight to the flesh, prominence to the bone structure, and a frightening depth to the eyes. One minute she could have been Wolfe's sister, and the next she was her own beautiful self, her eyes sparkling with a kind of childish joy at the theatrics of having played a spy.

She then removed the overcoat to reveal a set of small couch pillows secured with twine, one to each shoulder. Around her middle, fastened with a belt, was a larger bed pillow. Once she was free of all her prosthetics, and the ugly old woman lay in a heap on the seat beside her, she reached back, gathered her hair together, and flipped it into a simple knot.

"A command performance," I said, and we laughed.

"That was fun, but I wouldn't want to be that poor woman every day. The coat and pillows kept me warm, but round about four o'clock I really started to feel the extra weight. I'm exhausted, and my feet are killing me," she said.

"When did you get there?" I asked.

"A little after noon," she said. "I saw you arrive and leave the house. You didn't stay long."

"Mrs. Charbuque and I had a bit of a falling-out. I'll tell you about it later, but first, did you see anything?"

"As far as I witnessed, no one came or went until you arrived. I slowly made my way up and down the block, trying not to seem too conspicuous. Occasionally I sat down on the steps across the street.

Aimless Old Wretch was the character I portrayed."

"And after I departed?" I asked.

"You passed directly by me on your way down the street and appeared to be having a heated argument with yourself under your breath," she said. "But a half hour after that, a bald fellow with a walking stick left the house, and I followed him."

"Did you see that he was blind? He's remarkable, wouldn't you say? Mr. Watkin is his name."

"Piambo," she said, and started laughing. It was that same type of mocking jollity I had heard from

Mrs. Charbuque earlier.

"I am hilarious today," I said, somewhat piqued.

"Forgive me. I hate to disillusion you, but if your Mr. Watkin is blind, I'm Evelyn Nesbit."

"What are you saying?" I asked.

"Please, Piambo, that old fellow is the worst actor I've ever seen. By comparison he makes Derim

Lourde seem worthy of playing Hamlet."

"But did you see his eyes? Deathly white, devoid of any color whatsoever."

"Yes, yes, a stage trick. Thin lenses made of glass, cast in a milky white with pinprick holes in them to allow the actor a limited range of vision. I first saw them used five years ago in a production of

The

Golem.

They are a favorite of directors of plays whose theme is supernatural. Fitted up under the lid, they are uncomfortable but effec-tive in giving that otherworldly look."

I was about to speak but found I had nothing to say.

"The man's conception of being blind is merely barg-ing here and there giving things a slight tap with his cane. Did you think he had memorized the entire city and accounted for where each pedestrian would be at any given moment, not to mention autos and streetcars and horses when crossing from one side to the other? Occasionally he will remember he is supposed to be blind and cock his head suddenly this way or that as if attempt-ing to listen to the dark world around him. A pathetic, melodramatic performance, for sure."

"My God," I said. "I was so convinced. It was those eyes. I'm paralyzed when something is amiss with the eyes."

"Don't feel bad," said Samantha. "Everyone on the street believed his performance as well, giving him a wide berth."

"Where did he go?" I asked.

"I passed close enough to touch him and then turned and followed him at a distance. He went into a small corner market and bought a rather expensive little con-tainer of nutmeg. Then he went down the street to a florist. Here is where I made my own mistake, though. I'm sure he noticed me when he left the market, and when I followed him to the florist, he turned, and I saw him look directly out at me through the window. I got nervous then and scurried back to Mrs.

Charbuque's. It had been in my mind all along that he might have been a decoy and that perhaps she would slip out while I was following him. I stayed in the vicinity of the house until a little before five, but he did not return."

"You're a wonder," I said. "I can't thank you enough. But no more of this. I have a feeling Watkin can be dan-gerous, and I now suspect, with what you have discovered, that it was him at the theater last night. Why, though, I have no idea."

When we arrived at my house, I had Samantha stand on the steps while I searched for a possible intruder. The darkness I passed through on the way to the light switch in the parlor was ominous, and then what a relief to be able to see. The modern age had its advantages, to be sure.

I slid along the wall on the way to the bedroom and then leaped around the corner to surprise any would-be assailant. The room was empty, as was the closet.

By the time I reached the huge shadowed expanse of the studio, my heart was pounding.

Nothing is worse than feeling like prey in your own home. I switched on the light and gasped slightly. There was no stranger there to confront me, but there was something strange. Sitting on the table that held my painting equipment was an enormous vase of flowers. The sudden vivid col-ors were what drew a reaction from me. A large faux Chinese vase held an array of blossoms—red carnations, yellow roses, acanthus, ivy, and lavender. It was an odd assortment—either hastily chosen or fraught with meaning, I could not tell.

Leaning against the container was a small violet-colored envelope. As I approached, I was swamped by the lovely aroma of the arrangement.

I lifted the envelope and held it tentatively for a moment, recalling the feel of the straight razor against my throat. Then I tore up the flap to find a card, whose front was blank. Opening it released a few flakes of dried snow, which fell slowly to the floor. On the inner fold was written: Dearest Piambo, Please forgive my foolish joke. I will be waiting for you tomorrow.

Love, Luciere

Of course, my attention was drawn directly to the word "Love," for this seemed to me to be the most bizarre development of the entire ridiculous pageant that had been my dealings with Mrs.

Charbuque. I sensed a gen-uine contrition and deep emotion from the few words that made up the message, and was contemplating this in rela-tion to everything else when I heard something behind me. I

spun around to find Samantha standing there hold-ing her coat and pillows and soiled kerchief. I don't know why, but I blushed as if she had caught me at something dishonest or illicit.

As I have said, it was difficult for me to hide anything from Samantha. She gave me a cynical
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smile and said, "A secret admirer?"

I wanted to slip the card into my pocket unnoticed, but it was too late for that. Instead I tried to convince her that my embarrassment was really befuddlement at this odd turn of affairs.

"A message of apology from Mrs. Charbuque," I said, and threw the open card on the table.

"First she abuses me, and then she sends me flowers. Does she take me for a fool? I tell you, I'm beginning to despise this woman."

"No doubt," Samantha said, and then turned and left the room.

Later we made love, but through it all, I felt as if someone was watching me. I half expected Watkin to pop his head out from beneath the bed and critique my perform-ance with the words

"Strictly nutmeg and mold, Mr. Piambo." The entire session was perfunctory and some-what unsatisfactory for both of us.

We lay side by side afterward, and I told Samantha about the monkey arm. She did not share my now trumped-up outrage, reacting rather blankly to the whole story.

When she fell asleep, I crept out of bed and returned to the studio. There I reread the card several times and sat staring at the flowers while smoking a cigarette. I imag-ined the room with the high ceilings, the two windows, and the screen, darkened as it would be at that late hour, but this time I was behind the sacred boundary, looking at Mrs. Charbuque sitting naked, bathed in a slanting beam of moonlight. She turned and saw me and, in that soft lunar glow, held out her arms toward me. I clearly saw her face, and she was beautiful.

I blinked and looked back at the flowers, but when I concentrated again on the image in my imagination, it was the same. Now she was motioning for me to come to her. I got up and ran across the room to fetch charcoal and paper. Returning to my seat, I closed my eyes just as she stood to embrace me. Then the pencil touched the paper, and I drew without thinking.

Nothing is Safe

When I awoke the next morning Samantha was gone. I vaguely remembered her having told me that she had an audition at the Garden Theatre for a part that would follow her present one in A Brief

Engagement.