The World Behind the Door (5 page)

      
"Maybe we can help each other," suggested Jinx. "Maybe while I am learning from you, you can learn from me."

      
"But you're just a child."

      
"Perhaps I am," she admitted. "But I knew what was wrong with your paintings, and I am sure you will know how to help me become a painter."

      
"Let me ask you a question," said Dali.

      
"Ask anything you want."

      
"Why do you want to become a painter?"

      
She considered her answer for a moment, then spoke: "Part of it is because art
lasts
. If I am a good painter, people will admire my work long after I am dead, and I find that comforting." Suddenly a guilty smile crossed her freckled face. "But I suppose the real reason is that painting makes me happy. Not just putting colors on a piece of canvas, but painting something that's meaningful to me, that would never have been painted quite that way by anyone else.
That
makes me happy."

      
"You are wise beyond your years, young Jinx," said Dali admiringly.

      
"Why do you paint, Salvador?"

      
"I am not totally sure," he replied. "I paint to make money, of course, and to become famous, but that is a given. I think the real reason I paint is perhaps the exact opposite of yours. You wish to capture the images of things that are unique to you; I wish to expunge them from my soul, and capture them on canvas, with everything the word 'capture' implies. Once there, they cannot invade my subconscious again. Or at least that is what my friend Freud would say."

      
"But I sense you also want to be the best," she said. "That you are unhappy with anything less than brilliance."

      
"Of course," agreed Dali, pacing restlessly around the studio. "With proper training,
anyone
can become a painter. But to become an
artist
. . ."

      
"You have it within you, Salvador," said Jinx. "I can tell that from what little I've seen of your work."

      
Dali stared at her long and hard, then sighed deeply. "Why am I listening to a girl who is barely into her teens?"

      
"Because no one else has told you what you need to hear," said Jinx with a smile.

      
"My friend Lorca, the writer, once told me what he thought I needed to hear," said Dali. "Do you know how I responded?"

      
"No."

      
"I shaved my head, buried my hair on the beach, and didn't speak to him again for years."

      
"You've gone out of your way to appear so strange and eccentric that everyone except Senor Lorca probably thought you'd start foaming at the mouth if they spoke to you frankly."

      
"Perhaps," said Dali, not without a trace of satisfaction. Suddenly he glanced nervously around the studio and out into the adjoining room. "What am I to do with you?"

      
"Teach me and learn from me."

      
He grimaced. "That is not what I meant. I have this . . . ah . . .
 
friend
. . ."

      
"Your mistress?" asked Jinx curiously.

      
"Not exactly," said Dali uncomfortably. "She is a married woman."

      
"Then what does it matter if she sees me here?"

      
"It could become awkward," said Dali. "We have an . . . understanding. As soon as I am more successful, she will leave her husband and marry me. But in the meantime . . ." He let the sentence linger in the air for a moment. "She has a temper, and she is
very
possessive."

      
"If she loves you," said Jinx, "why does she not leave her husband now?"

      
"You are just a child," answered Dali, suddenly very uncomfortable, because he could think of a number of reasons why Gala didn't leave her husband, each of them valid, and each very unflattering to Dali. "You do not understand."

      
"I understand
love
," she replied, "and if you ask me— "

      
"I didn't and I won't," interrupted Dali. "The subject is closed."

      
"What is her name?" she asked, ignoring his order.

      
"Gala."

      
"It is a pretty name."

      
"She is a pretty woman. In fact, she is a beautiful woman. There will come a time when I will include her face in every painting I do."

      
"That sounds very tedious."

      
"That is because you have not seen her," said Dali. "In the summer we would walk along the beach near her seaside villa at night, and every few steps I throw myself on the sand and kiss her feet."

      
"You must love her feet very much," said Jinx.

      
Dali sighed. "You make it sound ludicrous."

      
"
I
?" asked Jinx, unable to repress a smile of amusement.

      
Dali sighed. "All right.
I
make it sound ludicrous. But it isn't."

      
"Say that again."

      
"Why?" asked Dali, puzzled.

      
"Because that's the answer," said Jinx.

      
"What are you talking about?"

      
"The ludicrous doesn't appear ludicrous to you."

      
"So?"

      
"So think about it," she said.

      
He stared at her, puzzled. "You look like you think you've said something profound, but I have no idea what you're talking about."

      
"Then that's doubtless why you haven't painted it yet."

      
"Painted
what
?" he asked irritably.

      
"May I have some more tea, please?" she said sweetly, holding out her cup.

      
"You are making no more sense then the crazed world behind the door in the back of the closet!" snapped Dali, so annoyed that he couldn't hold the pot steady and spilled some tea on the floor after filling her cup to the brim. He put the pot in the kitchen before he made an even bigger mess, then returned to the studio.

      
"No more and no less," she said.

      
"All right," he said in frustration. "Now what does
that
mean?"

      
"It means that if you know how to make your way through my world it makes perfect sense, and if you would listen to me, you would see that
I
make perfect sense too."

      
Dali glared at the young redhead, half-admiring her calm and air of certainty, half enraged by it.

      
"You seem very sure of yourself, young lady."

      
"Thank you."

      
"Thank you for what?"

      
"For calling me a young lady," replied Jinx, brushing a wisp of hair back from her face. "No one's ever done that before."

      
"Could we get back to the subject, please?" said Dali, trying to hold his exasperation in check.

      
"Certainly."

      
He paused and his face went blank. "Suddenly I'm totally confused. What
was
the subject?"

      
"The answer to your problem." She paused. "Your problem as a painter, not your problem with Gala's feet."

      
"I have no problem with her feet."

      
"With the rest of her, then."

      
"Leave her out of this and tell me the answer to my problem as an artist," he said, picking up his wine glass and downing its contents with a single swallow, then grimacing at the terrible taste.

      
"I already told you," explained Jinx patiently, "but you weren't paying attention."

      
Dali began pacing back and forth in front of her.

      
"Tell me again."

      
"You said it yourself," replied Jinx.

      
He stopped in his tracks. For just a moment it seemed he was about to scream at her, or perhaps even take a swing at her, but through an enormous effort of will he forced himself to become calm.

      
"
What
did I say?"

      
"That the ludicrous doesn't appear ludicrous to you," she answered.

      
Dali was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. "So you are saying that I should paint the ludicrous?" he said at last. "That I paint the things I see in my dreams—or the world behind the door in the closet?"

      
"It would be unique, wouldn't it?"

      
"It would be ridiculous!"

      
"Only if you thought you were painting something ridiculous," she said. "May I give you an example?"

      
"Please do."

      
"All right," said Jinx. She lowered her head in thought for a few seconds, then looked up. "Imagine a roly-poly animal with six legs and three eyes, the size of a small dog, but more closely resembling a pig. Pretend it is blue, and that it is somewhat cross-eyed. That's ridiculous, is it not?"

      
"Certainly."

      
"Now imagine the same animal, its breasts filled with milk, mournfully nudging the corpse of its dead baby. Is it still ridiculous?"

      
"No, it is not."

      
"But it is the same animal," said Jinx. "You see? If the artist does not think it is ridiculous, he will not paint its image in such a way that it appears ridiculous."

      
Dali sat down heavily and remained motionless for almost a full minute. Finally he looked up at Jinx.

      
"You have a point," he admitted. Then: "How many other artists have entered your world?"

      
"The only entrance is in your closet, Salvador," she replied. "How many artists have you ushered through the door?"

      
"I never even knew it existed until tonight."

      
"Then you know the answer."

      
"So I am the only one to see it?" he persisted.

      
"Except for the people who live there," said Jinx. "Just as I am the only one from the other side of the door to see
your
world." Suddenly she giggled. "They will think me quite mad when I finally paint it."

      
Dali said nothing, and after a moment Jinx spoke again.

      
"What is the matter, Salvador?"

      
"I am still considering it," he said.

      
"Teaching me to paint?" she replied. "We have an agreement."

      
"I will teach you to paint," he said distractedly. "I am considering what you said."

      
"Why?" she asked. "You know I'm right."

      
"Are you this bold at home, young lady?" he asked.

      
"I prefer to think of it as self-confidence."

      
"I assume that is an affirmative?"

      
"Yes."

      
"Has anyone told you that you are an exceptionally precocious young lady."

      
"I do not know that word," said Jinx. "Is it a good thing or a bad thing to be?"

      
"That all depends."

      
"On what?"

      
"On whether or not my painting improves," said Dali.

      
"Then you're going to follow my advice?" she asked happily.

      
He drew himself up to his full height. "I am going explore your suggestion," he replied with dignity.

      
"Same thing," said Jinx.

      
Dali seemed about to lose his temper. Then, instead, he smiled.

      
"Same thing," he agreed.

 

 

 

Chapter 6: Effect and Cause

 

      
Three days had passed, days in which Jinx worked on her sketchbook and Dali on a painting. Neither showed the other what they had done, preferring that the other see only the finished creation.

      
The young girl had filled almost every page in her sketchbook. What she lacked in skill and polish, she made up for in enthusiasm. Everything fascinated her: the walls and ceiling, the floors, the sink in the kitchen, the tile on the floor of the bathroom, the dogs and cats that wandered into sight as she looked out the widow. None of her finished sketches pleased her, but the mere act of sketching gave her enormous pleasure. She thought she could see improvement, however minimal, from one day to the next, and that kept her spirits up.

      
She slept in a spare room. It may have been designed as a guest room when the architect designed it, but it was filled to overflowing with paints, canvases, sketchbooks, easels, chalk, pencils, all the tools of the artist's trade. She was surprised not to be sharing the room with a bowl filled with fruit and a nude model.