The Portrait of Mrs Charbuque (32 page)

"Our hero's reputation grew far and wide, and he and his boon companion performed constantly and became enormously popular and exceedingly wealthy. Po had finally achieved his goal in life—to have throngs of people admire and respect him. Still, deep inside himself he felt a very small kernel of uneasiness about his situa-tion. He was never alone because as long as there was light, Shathu was with him, and yet he was also very lonely because the shadow was somewhat jealous and did not like the young man getting close to another real per-son. If Po met someone he liked and wanted to strike up a friendship, the shadow would spy on that person until he discovered some immorality or misdeed. Shathu delighted in divulging the secret, hurtful knowledge to Po, ruining his chance for human friendship.

"One night after a show, a young woman named Ami approached Po and asked him to sign her program. He signed it and struck up a conversation. They went out for dinner together and found they had much in common. She was not strikingly attractive, but Po instantly fell in love with her innocence and charm. As he walked her home through the dark city, where Shathu could only join them beneath the street lamps, she sang a song. Hers was truly a beautiful voice.

Po asked her if she would like to sing before his act on the following night. Ami was shy-but Po did everything in his power to convince her, and she finally accepted his invitation.

"The next morning when the sun rose, the shadow was livid that the young man had spent so much time with the girl. All day the dark form whispered into Po's ears rea-sons why Ami was no good for him. After lunch Shathu went to spy on her but found that she was an even-tempered, loving person to one and all. Still, he flew back to the young man and told him lies about her. Our hero refused to listen, and the shadow went mad with envy.

"That night Ami sang in front of a huge audience and was so admired, the spectators called for another song and another. The girl kept singing, and by the time her voice finally gave out, it was too late to begin The Boon Companion. Po was not concerned, even though Shathu whispered that the singer would ruin them. 'She is real,' said the young man, 'and we are not. It is only right that the crowd appreciate her more.'

"Later that evening after a walk through the city in the dark, the two new lovers came to a halt
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beneath a street lamp. As Po kissed the girl with the golden voice, he did not notice that projected on the wall behind them his shadow held hers by the throat. The kiss was long, exceed-ingly long. And it went on too long, for Po felt Ami go limp in his arms. When he pulled her away from him, he discovered she was dead."

Calvary Church

"Po turned on his own shadow and tried to avenge Ami's death, but how could he? Shathu laughed as the young man smashed his bleeding fists against the brick wall. A passerby saw Po acting violently and the body of the young woman lying dead at his feet and screamed 'Murder!'

And our hero fled into the night.

"The only place he could think to go for help that was dark enough to escape his shadow was the confessional booth at the local church. There he sat, waiting for the priest to appear on the other side of the small screen. Finally the priest came in the morning and blessed the young man, asking him what were his sins. Po told the old priest everything. The priest told him, T cannot help you, for you are possessed by an evil entity. You must travel up Ossinto Mountain and find the saint who lives in the caves there. It is said that she has the power to face down such wickedness.'

"Po spent the rest of the day hiding in the confes-sional. When night fell, he gathered supplies quickly and fled the city before daybreak when he would certainly be discovered and arrested for Ami's murder. Whenever he passed through an area of light, he could hear Shathu laughing at him. When the sun rose and Po had reached the base of the mountain, the shadow's laughter and insults raged constantly.

"Although he was weary from lack of sleep, the young man began the ascent. By afternoon he stood in the snow outside the saint's cave and called to her. The saint, whose heart was always open to pleas for help from those who sought her, emerged from the cave. She was radiant, dressed in a blue cloak the color of the sky. Light emanated from and encircled her head of long blond hair.

"While Shathu berated him, Po recounted his tale for the saint. When he had finished speaking, the saint told him, 'Don't you see, my poor friend, that you are troubled? This shadow is merely an invention of your mind. I know you didn't mean to, but it was really you who killed Ami. It was your jealousy of her beautiful voice, a voice you had desired since childhood.'

"Po was horrified to hear the words of the saint. He could not bear the fact that he had strangled Ami. Without another word, he walked to the edge of the precipice and eaped to his death. The saint felt great sorrow at the young man's decision, for she knew she could have saved his soul.

Then, as she was about to return to her cave, she noticed that Po's shadow was still standing before her.

"Shathu came forward and wrapped his long dark fingers around the shadow neck of the saint.

The saint, feeling her life leaving her, called on her savior and was filled with a great cosmic energy. She glowed like a star, attempting to burn away the existence of the murderous dark form. When Shathu was on the verge of incineration, he called on his savior, and his pervasive gloom increased. A terrible battle between light and dark ensued.

"In the last rays of the setting sun, Shathu was victo-rious in extinguishing the flame that was the saint. Her body dropped dead upon the ground as darkness prevailed. Only two small sparks of her sacred fire escaped. They flew into the night sky, turning into brilliant snowflakes that fell on the town below."

Here, Mrs. Charbuque went silent. Some minutes passed before I realized she was finished.

Although she said nothing more, I bid her a good day and left without having to be told to go by Watkin.

I found it disconcerting when I left the beach house and stepped outside. Where I was used to leaving Mrs. Charbuque and stepping out into a crowded street, with the noise of traffic and the
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sight of huge buildings crowd-ing out the view of the sky, I found instead sand dunes and sea grass and utter tranquillity. I shook my head to get my bearings as I took the stone path and began to ascend the dunes.

By the time I was traveling through the hills of sand back toward the ferry dock, I was laughing out loud.

All I could imagine was some parent reading the tale of "The Boon Companion" to his child at night, using that sweet affected voice grown-ups sometimes use when addressing the young. If that story actually appeared in the book of fairy tales, I swore on the spot I would eat my hat. I made a mental note to check the volume, which was now in my possession, when I returned to the city.

If she had not acquired the story from the book, which was more than likely, then from where?

And what was her reason for telling it? Of course, there were bothersome parallels to her own fractured autobiography, but as for absolute connections, they were as elusive as real under-standing often is in dreams. For now, I crumpled the thing up in my thoughts and tossed it out onto the sea wind, for I did not need its confusing symbolism mucking up the vision I intended to paint. "A laudable attempt to bewilder me, Luciere," I said to a seagull whizzing by overhead, "but I have transcended your insane shenanigans."

The following morning I woke before the sunrise and left the La Grange, carrying my paint box, my easel, and, rolled up in three swaths of canvas, the pieces needed to construct a stretcher. I didn't want anyone to know where I was going, so I did not bother to arrange for a ride. Luckily even the night clerk had dozed off and was lean-ing back in his chair, snoring. I made my way to the Montauk Highway and headed east as Father Loomis had instructed. My baggage was cumbersome—the paint box alone, which held everything I would need, weighed at least thirty pounds—but I had lugged just such supplies around so often in my youth that my now much older body finally recalled the task and settled down to it.

Calvary Church was not large, but it was beautifully constructed with a small steeple and tall doors.

Panes of stained glass depicting biblical scenes lined the length of the structure, while the pews and altar were made from highly polished cherrywood. As the priest had said, the doors were unlocked. I entered the dim space. The sun was just then rising, and it set the colorful scenes along the right side of the church to glowing. An aroma of incense lingered in the dreary atmosphere. My mother had made me attend services when I was a child, and I remembered that distinctive smell of mystery, of ritual, of death. It was Sabott who turned me away from incorporated religion by saying, "At the heart of the ancient inception of it lie the quintessential questions and answers, but the present-day dogma it comes wrapped in can only weigh an artist down."

I strode up the aisle toward the altar and called out the name of Father Loomis. A few minutes later, he appeared from an inconspicuous doorway to the left of the altar. "Piambo," he said, smiling.

"I'm sorry to come so early, Father, but as I told you, I am trying to retain my privacy and needed to escape the inn before the other guests had risen."

"No problem, my boy. I rise every day with the sun. Come, I'll show you your studio."

The old carriage house out behind the church was an ideal spot, a large empty space with plenty of light. A good blaze in the fireplace would effectively heat the area against the November temperatures, which of late had been rather bitter until late into the morning. Luckily there was also a cot in the corner that I could rest on and a small table. The old man showed me where the woodpile was and told me not to hesitate to call him if I needed any-thing. He invited me to join him in the church for a glass of wine when I was done working in the evening, and then he left me to my own devices.

After building a nice fire, I set to work immediately, setting up my easel and unrolling the canvas. On the small tabletop, I began constructing a stretcher from the lengths of wood I had
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carried from New

York. This was one aspect of the job I could do in my sleep. Although I carried a small one in my box, I

hardly ever even used a square to check the angles. Once the basic frame was com-pleted, I stretched the canvas over it and cut it to fit with a razor. In mere minutes I had the material folded and nailed in place and had hammered the keys into the back corners to keep the painting surface as taut as possible.

It was no later than nine o'clock by the time the rectangle was primed and drying on the easel. I sat down on the cot and smoked a cigarette, feeling very pleased with my work and my new studio.

While the canvas dried, I set to remaking a sketch of the figure of Mrs. Charbuque. The image came clearly to me, and the charcoal pencil moved over the paper with the ease of flowing water. The drawing did not take very long to complete. When it was finished, I stared at it for longer than it took to create it.

I knew then that I needed some time to consider it more fully. Putting on my coat and hat, I left the studio and took the path that led back through the trees toward the bay.

At the water's edge, I found a section of a tree trunk, driftwood that had long before rolled ashore and dried in the sun. There I sat for hours in the cold, staring out across the bay. I found it surprising that the mystery of Mrs. Charbuque, the constant threat of her husband, and the enigmatic part that Watkin played in the whole charade no longer interested me much. In the sublime presence of Nature, I was able to circumvent that sideshow and find the elements of my life I cared most about. I spent a good bit of time remembering Shenz and Sabott, and even longer thinking about Samantha. Now the commission had become simply a professional arrangement that I would execute in my usual accom-plished manner.

Damn the money and damn my artistic insecurities. I realized it was not worth bartering away the present for a future no one could foretell.

Her Bewitching Form

For the first time in weeks, I worked with intensity and clarity, approaching the portrait of Mrs.

Charbuque with utter poise. I lost myself in the process, executing every painterly technique with the greatest unconsidered facility. With each pale explosion of color on canvas, her bewitching form slowly cohered as it had out of smoke in my dream of Sabott. Even though I followed the same methods I had during my first attempt, it all seemed new to me, startlingly fresh and alive.

Nothing was mundane, from the depiction of the fingernails to the pupils of her eyes. Every strand of hair was rendered with a genuine sense of joy and accomplishment.

My days started early, before sunrise. Each morning I struck out in a different direction to throw off any inter-ested onlookers, but I always doubled back and made for the church. After stoking the fire, I

would smoke a ciga-rette and begin work. Usually around ten o'clock Father Loomis would come to visit and see how I was getting on. He brought coffee, and we would sit and chat for a half hour or so.

He was thrilled to witness each day's progress and offered just the right amount of praise and speculation. I would work for a few more hours until lunch, when I walked to the bay and ate the sandwiches prepared for me the previous night by the cook at the inn. And when day was done, and the sun was leaving the sky, I would go over to the church, sit in the sacristy with Loomis, and have a glass of wine.

The schedule suited me perfectly and pushed the thought of trouble from my mind. On the third day of the week, though, when I returned to the La Grange in the evening for dinner, the clerk told me that two gentlemen had called that day looking for me. When I asked him to describe them, he said, "The first, this morning, was blind. An older fellow. Very polite."

"Did he leave a message?" I asked.

"He said he would return to speak to you."