So softly did someone tread the stairs,
that Jerome, sitting at his hallway table compiling a list of art
supplies and groceries required, was startled when he heard a knock
on his door. Thinking it odd, he sat in silence wondering who it
could be. The knock once again, firm, three taps. The silence was
resolute. He opened the door. It was either Bartholomew or Thaddeus
before him.
“Bartholomew?”
“Are you able to have a visitor? Mrs.
L. would like to check on the progress of the painting.”
Jerome looked down to the back lane and
saw a medium sized black car reflecting the fine layer of snow in its
waxed lustre. “Yes, yes of course.”
Bartholomew descended the stairs just
as quietly as his ascension and opened the rear passenger door.
Lucrezia stepped out, spoke a few words to him and then, looking over
the top of her sunglasses to Jerome, made her way up towards him.
“Forgive me for descending upon you
like this, but we we're in town and I was in the neighbourhood, so .
. . .”
“Not at all, come in,” he said
closing the door behind her. “Please excuse the mess. Have a seat.”
“Thank you. It's not messy,” she said taking off
her glasses while looking around the living room. “Just what I imagined, comfortable and bohemian.” She sat upon the
sofa and crossed her legs, her attractive calves on show.
“I've always liked the look of
nineteenth century painter's studios,” Jerome said. “Oriental
rugs everywhere, heavy antique furnishings, embroidered pillows, old
bookshelves, marble and terra cotta sculptures in the corners,
half-finished canvases on dark wood easels, Persian carpets draped
over tables.” He stood awkwardly above her thinking, although
dressed in a tailored suit jacket and skirt, she didn't look out of
place. “The house of the Victorian illustrator and painter, Marcus
Stone, has always been my ideal. Enormous windows and skylights with
extraordinary natural light diffusion. He lived on Melbury Road in
London near many other artists and sculptors, Fildes, Thornycroft,
Holman-Hunt, and directly behind Stone, Lord Leighton had a home and studio. Unfortunately
Stone's house has now been divided into flats selling for millions of
pounds each.” He shook his head. “Hard to imagine artists of
today living in such splendour. Victorian artists were like today's
rock musicians. Actually, one of the houses on the street is owned by
an old rock star. I'm sorry, rambling on about myself and old houses.
I've just made a small pot of coffee. Would you like a cup?”
Breathing in the aroma, she thought it
would be graceless to refuse. She nodded. “Yes, that would be nice.”
She looked around the room thinking it truly did exude a snug bohemian
comfort. Taking off her gloves, she noticed a booklet for a music CD
on the table beside her. Rough Draft, either the name of the
group or the album. She flipped the small pages and her eyes were
arrested by one song entitled S & M, and she read the
lyrics to the sounds of Jerome's preparations.
S&M
I'm a cappuccino cowgirl
Cinnamon sweet,
Living on tomorrow,
Riding the tweet.
(Chorus)
Like it, Pin it,
Tumble it dry,
Oh, the déjà strain
Of repetitive eye.
Ads, buzz,
Word of mouth,
My brand's my key tattoo
North by south.
I'm a social selfie
Ego Evangelist,
To my Sado paparazzi
I'm just a Solopsist.
(Chorus)
Dying for freedom,
Fighting for choice,
Texting out of treason,
Seeking a voice.
(Chorus)
More Apps than I can see,
More Apps than you can
take,
I'm A skeleton key
For the eye of escape.
Chorus
(outro)
More than I can see,
More than you can take,
I'm a skeleton key
For the eye of escape.
More than I can see,
More than you can take,
I'm a skeleton key
For the eye of escape.
Jerome noticed her reading
the booklet as he approached with the tray laden with mugs, cream, sugar and
the coffee carafe, but decided to ignore it as a conversation
starter.
He poured the coffee. “Do
you take cream, sugar?”
“A touch of cream please.”
“There you are,” he
said, handing her a cup. “Yes, when I explored Melbury Road in
London on foot a number of years ago, I remember wondering how a
developer was allowed to raise a concrete apartment block near the
beautiful Victorian villas.” As the words passed from his lips, he
realized she could interpret them as critical towards her husband's
profession as a real estate developer. “Lord Leighton's house fared
better,” he said trying to change the direction of his
conversation. “It's now a museum.” They both sipped their coffee.
“I used to wonder if Leighton and Marcus Stone ever got along,
exchanged words over the backyard fence so to speak. Evening strolls
with a cigarette, or cigar, conversations about models, fading
pigments, natural light, their public.” Jerome put his coffee down
and leaned back in his side chair. “Marcus Stone died in his house.
I like to think he collapsed while working on a painting.”
“Ah, perhaps his ghost
wanders the hallways seeking revenge.” She smiled. “I hope I'm
not too forward in dropping by to have a peek at the painting? Am I
breaking protocol? Painter's protocol?”
“No, I'm pleased. I'd like
your opinion actually. I haven't seen anyone in a week so to have
your perspective would be great. Sometimes I get too close and can't
see it anymore.”
“Shall we?”
“Sure, it's upstairs, if
you'll follow me.”
“You lead, I'll follow.”
With a slightly higher heart
rate, and a flush to his cheeks, he mounted the stairs feeling her
eyes upon him. Their words had been like double entendres, sheer
curtains around a canopy bed with their bodies entwined. The image
made him nervous. She was married and he was in a relationship,
though Thérèse's memory loss had made him feel like an impostor,
informing her of what they had once shared, experienced, felt.
The large easel in the
middle of the room held the canvas beneath a white cotton shroud.
Jerome stood to the side, his hand on the sheet, waiting for Lucrezia
to position herself, and as the sheet slipped to the floor with a
whisper of surprize, she felt the colours hit her viscerally,
overpowering her breath like a strong gust of air. Head slightly
back, arms crossed, she approached the portrait, looking directly
into her painted eyes, following the curve of the brow, her chin, her
lips, remarking the pinkish hue to her cheeks, an ideal smoothness
beyond the reality of her morning reflections. “It's wonderful.
You've captured. . . my twin, a different life, a different age.”
“Maybe we all
have our theoretical twins following different paths in
other ages.” They shared an intense look before Jerome turned his
eyes away. “It should be ready by the end of the month. Just the
background and the lower portion of the chair are left.” He walked
over to the window. He didn't see Bartholomew or the car. “I hope I
didn't make your cheeks and your fingernails too . . . incarnadine,”
he said to the window. “Your beauty added subtleties to the eyes
and lips bringing a greater sense of vivid life compared to the
original Lucrezia Panciatichi who, due to the times, was portrayed as
rather . . . stolid. Spiritual, but stolid. There's more
sub-textual expression in the placement of her fingers than in her
face.”
She looked at the hands, the fingers parted over the armrest, the fingers resting on the small book. “You have a gift Jerome.
It's perfect.” She approached and stood beside him looking out the
window. “With your talent, you could have your ideal studio if you
wanted. Are you one of those who feel undeserving of success?” Not
waiting for a reply, she continued, “An old friend of mine from
University was like that. She was extremely smart, talented, and
wouldn't accept her gifts. When fortune came her way, she suspected
something like a trap, and reared up. Sometimes there's no trap,
sometimes life is all cheese, and one must accept it.” An awkward
silence surrounded them. “I'm sorry, now I'm sounding like one of
those motivational DVDs.”
“No, I understand. I do lack a . . . certain professional drive to succeed.”
Lucrezia wandered over to
his work table covered in the preparatory sketches, jars of brushes,
pencils, sharp-nibbed dip pens like miniature spears, erasers, books,
and rags. She noticed a slim volume with spots of red paint on the
cover, Alacrity and Karma on a Yacht off Palmyra by P. K.
Loveridge. The title made her recall a conversation between Declan
and Harry when they were relaxing at their home in the Caribbean.
Harry had been reading a book concerning the death of a wealthy
couple and the theft of their yacht off the small atoll of Palmyra in
the Pacific ocean, which led to a dinner conversation over the
dangers to rich people yachting around the world where pirates and
criminals were afloat. A lifestyle with too much freedom can be rife
with vulnerability had been their conclusion. She looked up and
noticed a woman staring at her from a reproduction of a painting
attached to a cork board, a nose similar to hers, aquiline, but the
eyes were sullen and dark with an unfathomable emotion. “Who
painted this portrait?” she asked turning around to him, pointing
her finger at the subject.
“Oh, that's a painting by
Alexandre Cabanel, his Albayde. He was an Academic painter,
anti-impressionist at the time, old school but a brilliant painter
and teacher nevertheless. I saw a retrospective on his work a few
years ago in Montpellier. I think it was the first since his death in
the late 1880s.” Jerome walked over to a corner bookshelf and
withdrew a large glossy softcover catalogue. “Here, you can borrow
this and look it over.”
She flipped it open and
seeing a self-portrait of the painter when young, thought he looked
like Jerome. “He looks like you, though you don't have his severe
and intimidating expression.”
“Umm, yes, people have
said as much. I wonder if he ever smiled? The painting, Albayde,
was inspired by Victor Hugo's poetry collection, Les Orientales.
The fantasy and the colour of Orientalism was such a great theme in
Romantic painting and literature. What do you think of her eyes? ”
She looked more closely.
“Mesmerizing and menacing at the same time. I wonder what the model
thought of Cabanel? Was she angry? Desirous? Do models fall for their
painters like patients for their psychiatrists?”
“Ah, well, that I don't
know. I can't say it's happened with me.”
Leaning over the table, she
rubbed shoulders with Jerome.“Too bad for Mr. Loveridge's book,”
she said pointing to slim volume on the table.
“Oh, yeah, but the
author's a friend of mine, Pavor Kristof Loveridge. He won't mind. He
recently returned from Italy and proposed marriage to his girlfriend
of many years and they're to marry in the spring. She's a librarian
at the Religious Library at McGill.” Seeing the chance to bring up
the cause of Duncan Strand and his business dilemma, he elaborated.
“It'll be a small wedding at the McGill chapel. I'll be best man
and a new friend of ours will be the groomsman. An interesting guy
named Duncan Strand, a bookseller who used to work for some shop
called Grange Stuart before opening his own called Lafcadio
& Co. But the funny thing is, he's also running an old family
business in the same building, selling all types of rope. Well, for a
few more weeks anyway. A company has bought the land and is going
tear it down and build condominiums. He has to close both his shops.
Reopening a secondhand bookshop in today's world isn't feasible
according to him. Bookshops are closing due to high rents and low
demand.” Jerome related this information in his most casual manner
while arranging the sketches on the table, avoiding eye contact.
“Duncan
Strand?” she said. “I know the name. He did work for my
husband many years ago. A catalogue of old books.” She walked back
to her portrait and stared once more at her mythical twin. “That's
unfortunate. I think my husband's company is involved in that
development. Perhaps I could have a word with him. See if something
can't be done to help our Mr. Strand.”
Jerome looked at her
wondering if he should press her with questions about the catalogue
and see if she'd bring up the Dark Room, but decided against
doing so. Pleased with her response, he joined her before the
portrait and thought he'd help portray Duncan as a sympathetic type. "It's a small world. It's a shame he has to close the bookshop. I had dinner with him
and his wife, Amelia, a translator, and he told me how much he loved
visiting second hand bookshops for he never knew what might be on the
shelves. Each visit would be a little adventure in promise,
possibility, discovery. He went on about the joy of finding books with unusual inscriptions. He had many stories about inscriptions
but I remember the one about a copy of Tom Jones, where the
owner had written their name and underneath, Christmas present
from himself and the date. Something poignant about that. Made me
think of a lonely man at Christmas, reading Tom Jones for
consolation.”
“That's very sad, yes.”
“Except for his book
choice. I imagine Tom Jones must have kept his spirits up.”
She laughed and laid her
hand on his shoulder.
Turning his head towards
her, his lips only inches away from her fingers, he reached over and
gently pulled her hand towards him and kissed her delicate fingers
and her palm, and she turned to him, drawing his head down to her
parted blouse, and then all sense of the outer world with its
defences and barricades dissolved around them as they embraced with
mournful undertones under the gaze of the portrait, her twin, neither
stolid, nor too spiritual, and under the gaze from afar, of Albayde,
sullen and all-knowing.
© ralph patrick mackay
No comments:
Post a Comment