The Restoration Artist
Read The Restoration Artist Online
Authors: Lewis Desoto
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Contemporary, #Contemporary Fiction, #Literary Fiction, #Fiction, #General, #Literary
Restoration Artist
A N
OVEL
EWIS
D
E
S
OTO
I once saw a very beautiful picture. It was a landscape at evening. Through the landscape a road leads to a high mountain far far away. On the road walks a pilgrim. He has been walking for a good long while already and he is very tired. And now he meets a woman, or a figure in black
.
And the pilgrim asks her: Does the road go on then uphill all the way? And the answer is: Yes, to the very end. And he asks again: And will the journey take all day long? And the answer is: From morn till night, my friend
.
—FROM A LETTER BY
V
INCENT VAN
G
OGH
HAPTER 1
T
HIS WAS THE END OF THE WORLD, THE LAST PLACE.
I stood on the stone pier of the island’s small harbour as the rumble of the departing boat’s engine receded into the muffling fog. The dim silhouette of the masts disappeared first, then the green starboard light slowly shrank to a pinpoint of colour. The beat of the engine dwindled to a faint pulse, and after a while that too died away, leaving only the waves lapping at the pier, and finally, silence. I ran a hand across my face to wipe away the dampness, tasting the salty moisture on my lips, as salty as tears.
Behind me was Paris, France, the whole continent—what used to be my home. What used to be my life. I turned away.
Looking at my watch, I saw that it was almost evening. I unfastened the strap from my wrist and put the watch in my pants pocket. I would have no need of it any
more. As I bent to pick up my bag I thought I heard a voice from a distance, someone calling a name. Cocking my head I listened, then started up the damp cobblestones towards a yellow lamp shimmering
like a solitary candle in the gloom. At the lamppost, the path diverged in two directions. An arrow pointed to Notre-Dame de la Victoire on the right—a church, I assumed—and in the other direction to the Hôtel des Îles. Neither the hotel nor the church were visible in the fog. Turning left, I made my way towards the hotel. They were expecting me there.
The mist thinned slightly as the path rose and I soon caught sight of the glow of lighted windows, followed a minute later by the white facade of the hotel. I could see that it had two floors, the upper windows all shuttered except for one, where a light was on. The place reminded me of those modest family hotels that were found up and down the coast, vaguely Mediterranean in appearance.
Passing through the opening in the thick hedge that enclosed the garden, I made my way around the wet wrought-iron chairs upended on tables and opened the front door. The foyer was a white-painted room decorated with a nautical theme, pictures of Normandy schooners, netting and scallop shells artfully draped, a big iron anchor next to the door. Through another doorway I could see a small bar, wooden stools and a couple of shelves containing liquor bottles. A plump tabby cat lay asleep on the counter.
A young couple came forward to greet me. The man was tall and thin with a dark beard. His wife wore her long hair in a braid over one shoulder and her blue eyes lit up in a smile as she extended her hand.
“Monsieur Millar? We weren’t sure if we’d heard a boat in this fog. I’m Linda Guillaume and this is my husband, Victor.”
Victor Guillaume said, “Was the trip over all right? Would you like a drink, something to warm you up? It’s miserable weather tonight.”
“Thank you, I’ll just wash up first.”
“Give the man a moment, Victor,” Linda said, reaching for my bag. “Let me show you up. You’re the only guest right now, so I’ve given you a room with a fireplace and a view, although with this fog you might as well be looking at a white wall.”
“Is it often like this?”
“The weather on the island is what you might call ‘variable,’” Victor answered. “The fog stays for days sometimes. We accept what comes.” He shrugged. “When it clears up you’ll be amazed at the beauty of our island. Will you be staying long?”
“I’m not sure. A few days.” When I’d called from Saint-Alban on the radio-telephone and reserved a room, I’d told them that I was a painter, interested in the island landscape.
“There is a lighthouse at the north end and a pretty little village called LeBec on the opposite side. The views from the cliffs to the west are quite dramatic.”
My room was simply furnished: a fireplace already laid with logs, a double bed covered in a fluffy white quilt, a small table near the window, a chest of drawers, all of dark wood in the traditional Normandy style that I remembered so well from Claudine’s family home in Montmartin-sur-Mer.
“Should I light the fire for you?” Linda asked.
“No thanks, that’s fine.”
“Come down when you’re ready and I will make you a bite to eat.”
“I’m not very hungry.”
She drew the lace curtains against the fog. “It’s a long ride from the mainland. Some food will revive you. I’ll make you an omelette.”
I sensed that she was curious about me, but politeness prevented her from asking me anything further.
After washing my face and hands in the adjoining bathroom, I unpacked the few things I’d brought with me. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace I arranged the silver whistle, the paintbox with the boy’s name carved onto the lid, and a simple gold wedding band matching my own, but too small for any of my fingers.
I didn’t want to go downstairs and talk to anybody, but I did want a drink, and when I reached the landing and smelled food cooking I realized that I was hungry after all. An omelette and a salad of chopped endive were on the table. A
pichet
of red wine sat next to the bread basket. Perhaps sensing my frame of mind, my hosts served the food and then let me be. I ate half the omelette and drank all the wine.
A copy of the newspaper L’
Humanité
had been placed on the table next to me. The headlines were about the bombing of Hanoi in the ongoing Vietnam war and de Gaulle’s planned trip to the USSR. I pushed it away.
From the kitchen came the murmur of voices, the muted clatter of dishes, a radio playing “In a Sentimental Mood” by Duke Ellington. The cat lying on the bar counter regarded me languidly. The atmosphere was domestic, harmonious, but such things no longer touched me.
Linda Guillaume glanced in through the doorway every so often and when she saw I was no longer eating she came in to collect my plate.
“If you would like a dessert there is an apple Charlotte.” I shook my head and she said, “Some cheese?”
“No, thank you. I’m not very hungry tonight. The omelette was very good, though.”
“I’ll bring you a coffee.”
“And a bit more wine, please.”
“A glass?”
“Another
pichet
, please.”
A fire was crackling in the grate when I returned to my room. I opened the window a couple of inches but left the shutters closed against the clammy darkness. There was a bottle of Jameson whiskey in my bag and I sipped from it while I got ready for bed.
When I’d undressed I crouched naked in front of the fire a minute, holding the whistle in my hand, warming it, then I raised it to my lips, tasting the silver on my tongue. With the softest of breaths I blew two notes, the boy’s name, as familiar as my own voice,
Pier-o, Pier-o
.
Then, clutching the whistle in my fist, I climbed between the sheets for what would be the last time, and shut off the light.
HAPTER 2
I
N THE MORNING WHEN
I
OPENED THE SHUTTERS, A
wall of fog still obscured the island. Not bothering to shave, I went downstairs, where a pot of fresh coffee and newly baked bread with apricot preserves were set out at a table. My hosts were not in sight, although I could hear the radio in the kitchen playing The Beatles’ “Michelle.” Claudine had liked that tune, maybe because some of the words were in French and we could sing them together.
I drank a half cup of coffee and then went out into the white mist. A cobweb glittered with dewdrops between the gateposts and I brushed through it, turning onto a narrow path that meandered upwards, away from where I’d disembarked last night. The mist enveloped me, damp and cloying and tasting of the sea, but the path was visible for a couple of metres ahead and I followed it slowly.
The silence as I walked was broken only by the sound of my own breathing and the regular thud of my footsteps on the path. Curtains of mist drifted in folds around me, revealing here
and there patches of yellow-flowered gorse bushes. When stone buildings with blue window shutters loomed up on my left I veered away, avoiding the possibility of human contact. The silhouettes of dark yew trees appeared then vanished as I trudged on. The fog grew thicker, pressing in, obscuring the vague shapes around me until I moved only in a featureless grey light.
I slowed my pace. Here and there on the path clumps of goat droppings lay scattered like black marbles, the only sign that life existed in this void. It was as if the world had disappeared.
Beyond the veil of fog to my left I could just hear the ocean. Soon I entered a forest of pines, their black branches crowding in, the light dimming even further, and my footsteps were now soft on the carpet of leaves underfoot. I turned up the collar of my jacket against the dampness and fastened the buttons all the way up to my neck, continuing with my head down and my hands thrust into my pockets, one palm enclosing the silver whistle.
The path suddenly ended at a battered wooden sign reading, D
ANGER!
P
RÉCIPICE
. Beyond lay a patch of meadow. I could hear the murmurs of the invisible sea again.
Behind me, from within the mist came a faint metallic clanking. When I turned and cocked my head to listen, the sound stopped immediately. A strange sensation made the back of my neck tingle and I had the acute feeling that someone else was near, standing in the fog and listening, just as I was. Then, it seemed as if another presence moved very close to me, creating a subtle disturbance of the atmosphere. There was a pause, then a ripple in the fog, and I knew myself alone once more.
I walked on, crossing the narrow meadow, and arrived at the cliff edge. Somewhere below, unseen waves broke with muffled booms against the rocks. Through a break in the fog I glimpsed the grey Atlantic. Shuffling forward to the edge of the cliff, I stood swaying with the tips of my shoes resting on the very limit of the precipice. The land ended here.
I didn’t need to look down. I knew what waited below.
I reached into my pocket, my fingers touching Claudine’s ring, and brought out the whistle I had bought for Piero so long ago, in another lifetime, when the world seemed a brighter place. I weighed it in my palm, then put it to my lips. I inhaled and blew, and a high shrill blast pierced the stillness.
There was no echo, nor any answer.
Now I allowed myself to look down into the emptiness. A wave of dizziness swayed my body. I took a deep breath and looked up into the white mist. I could feel the tears on my face and yet a great calm was settling over me.
Just at that moment, from behind me came that metallic sound again. I looked back over my shoulder and saw a goat emerging from the shrouded trees, a large ram with long fleece the same off-white as the fog. Around its neck a copper bell clanked. The ram came towards me, stopped and raised its head, displaying a pair of heavy curved horns. And then, beyond the ram, a figure moved in the trees.
I didn’t call out. The mist parted, and in that brief instant of revelation, I saw a boy, standing motionless, like a statue, one arm raised towards me.
I knew that shape, I knew that gesture, that face. Slowly I raised my own hand, his name on my lips. Then the ram charged. I staggered back. The soil at the edge of the cliff crumbled
beneath my shoes and gave way and I was suddenly falling, spinning backwards into the void.
T
HE SEA STOPPED MOVING
, the waves froze in place. The land and the sea and the sky were a desolate plain, vast in a pale haze. A single heart pulsed with an irregular beat, loud at first then fading. There was no time but now, there was no place but here. There was no life but my own.
My face was damp. I raised a hand to wipe my mouth and my fingers came away moist and red with blood. I stared at the red stains and knew neither the blood nor the hand as mine. I tried to lift my head but fell back, weighted with an immense fatigue, listening to the beating of a faraway heart.
A dark shape swooped overhead, darker than darkness, with the leathery sound of immense flapping wings.
A terrible sense of despair and abandonment washed over me. Where was I? Then I remembered. I remembered the end of hope.
